#for a given value of 'obscure'

[thiswaycomessomethingwicked]

I started following you long ago for the lotr works and your work about renaissance Venice that are all greats and already complimented you so sorry If I pop up totaly random again, but I'm amazed by your Marsilio Ficino posts, because I've been into 15th century Lureantian Florence for ages and although at some point I started to read everything else, now I'm returned to my old habits and is so so nice to see anyone interested on Ficino and his boyband the Neoplatonic Academy!

On an exclusive pairing term I'm interested in all thes possible relationships between anyone who lived in 15th century Florence, having been an arts management/culture economics major I'm more into painters/artists/sort off, in particular Sandro Botticelli and his relationship with the Medicis, with Poliziano, Leonardo, but I'm also a Lorenzo/Poliziano/Pico truther, etc. I have to say that with time my appreciation for the Medicis decresed and now I'm more interested in other rich families, patron dynasties and drama annexes including the Pazzi ofc, and with them anything else that went wrong with the 1478 conspiracy.

And Giovanni Cavalcanti/Marsilio Ficino, so many memories from uni years! (I'm Italian so this is our standard study program eheh). I just remember how MF was down so bad for his platonic bro :')

I wanted to write to you a better paragraphs but my brain at the moment is all "yay Pazzi ooooh murder wooo so much philosophy, now I'm going to read a 1919 essay on Jstor about a sodomy process occurred in 1501 of an obscure venetian totally random poet".

Have a nice week and good Ficinanti lectures! <3 (and with all your amazing, wondersful, show stopping lotr fic!) ;D

Ficino and his Boyband is a) a great band name in and of itself and b) accurate because he was forever haranguing them to play music with him since we all know beautiful music, alongside staring at hot men, is a prime way to help get closer to God and the Truth etc.

He even has Luigi Pulci for his Dastardly Band Rival

Lorenzo: can I like both of you?

Ficino: absolutely not. you have to choose. and it should be me.

Lorenzo: mmmmm no.

but yeah! I love when people pop up who are also into all things Ficinian! My brief past life in academia was all social history of early modern Europe - and while I did meddle with things like translation and state and social identity in colonial New Spain (what is now Mexico) and political/state identity in reformation England, my real love was always the Italian city states. Each and every one of them a fun and exciting hot mess. (And particularly queerness and the state in 15th and 16th c...there might be a thematic trend here)

I had an ex describe Florence from 1430-1510 as "a bunch of toddlers piled on a tricycle going downhill at top speed with no breaks" and I think that's accurate.

-

in particular Sandro Botticelli and his relationship with the Medicis, with Poliziano, Leonardo

I just have this image of Botticelli in the background yelling commentary at people who are like "that's nice Sandro". For some reason that's how my brain imagines both him and Poliziano.

Foreground: Ficino & Lorenzo arguing about church taxes or something, or Ficino & Pico arguing about Platonic Concepts of Love or whatever

Background: Poliziano and Botticelli sharing a pack of cigarettes making scathing soto vocce commentary on what is happening.

In the wings: Giovanni trying to convince his boyfriend not to do anything too stupid, or at the very least Don't Write It Down & Have It Printed, while Luigi Pulci is like "this is Marsilio we're talking about here. He loves writing things down and having them printed then becoming very annoyed when the Church arrives to knock-knock-knock on his parish door."

-

So I'm working on a Ficino book and I have this mental image in my head of him and Giovanni on a rooftop. It's like 2am. They're trying to get Ficino's father Who Is Now A Demon/Revenant For Reasons into a bag. They look over and see Leonardo da Vinci on the roof with them in a strange contraption.

They all stare at each other.

Giovanni: hey Leo.

Leonardo: hey Giovanni. Nice night for it Marsilio.

Marsilio: . . ...

Leonardo: is that...is that your father with glowing red eyes?

Marsilio: my father is dead, Leo. You know this.

Leonardo:

Leonardo: ok.

Leonardo:

Leonardo: have you told him that? he doesn't look dead.

Marsilio: go away, Leo.

Giovanni: are those.

Giovanni:

Giovanni: are those wings? like....are those wooden wings? are you....are you going to try and fly?

Leonardo: um. yes?

Giovanni:

Giovanni: ok.

Leonardo: this is a uh...this is a moment where we all pretend we didn't see each other isn't it? This is one of those moments, right?

Marsilio: yes. yes it is. Bye Leonardo.

On the street 9 year old Machiavelli escorting his drunk dad home from the tavern: NICE UNDEAD FATHER YOU HAVE THERE FICINO.

Marsilio: oh my god shut the fuck up

Anyway - please enjoy this scene that has been rotting in my head for a fortnight now.

-

I'm also a Lorenzo/Poliziano/Pico truther

always and forever I am with you as a Lorenzo/Poliziano/Pico truther. You don't bury two men in the same grave* unless there are Reasons!

(*you do, in fact, sometimes do that. But I'm ignoring this)

I remember when I was doing grad work at uni Pico and Poliziano were The Hot Thing to gossip about in the staff room. Like I had profs, after a bottle or two of wine, being like "well, Piero poisoned them because of politics, sure, but also mostly because they were probably shacked up with his father at some point and he felt weird about it"

As always, there is the Formal Historian Opinion and the I've Had Two Bottles of Wine and/or My Writer's Hat Is On Opinion. Two, sometimes radically different, things.

Anyway - I'm here for Poliziano/Lorenzo/Pico. At the very least it was Ploziano/Lorenzo then later Poliziano/Pico and maybe there was one really messy Carnival week when it was Pico/Lorenzo. Also maybe Pico/Marsilio but they never, ever talked about it ever again. Marsilio would have felt so ashamed and guilty and Pico would be like "it's kind of like fucking an older brother/uncle and I don't want to think about it" and Giovanni is like "Excuse Me I am your Soul Husband, Marsilio" and Marsilio is like "you have four daughters with your mistress - we have Complications in our relationship ok?"

god everyone was a WRECK

-

I just remember how MF was down so bad for his platonic bro :')

They were married! In their souls! I don't subscribe to it being a one-sided thing. I know some historians and writers have argued that it was one-sided with Ficino being desperate for Giovanni who didn't return the same level of feelings. But I don't really subscribe to that for various reasons.

Now, how their relationship manifested between them, in terms of physical and non-physical love, who knows.

Ficino entered the priesthood in his forties and I believe it was a natural progression for him in terms of his own philosophical journey. It was also a bit of a God Found Me moment. Like a real calling, versus "third son and I need an occupation" which was the case for obviously 95% of the clergy. We know Ficino took his role as priest very seriously and undertook all his duties with diligence and dedication. He kept accounts, did all the smaller administrative tasks that a lot of priests would shove off onto the shoulders of someone else. Nothing was too small or humble for Ficino's attention.

Given that aspect of who he was, and his seriousness with which he undertook his own philosophical teachings and practices, I presume he took all of his vows earnestly and seriously, not least the vow of celibacy. Or he would have tried very, very hard.

Obviously, celibacy in the Catholic Church has a long, complicated history and even in Ficino's lifetime there were still some mutterings about it. Though he was absolutely not one of the people going "hm, maybe priests should be able to have a wife or something."

Ficino's relationship with sex and physical desire was clearly complicated. Made worse, likely, by the fact that the object(s) of his desire were fellow men and we all know what that means in the year of our lord 1470-something.

That said, physical desire was very much intertwined with God, Beauty and Truth in his ladder of love/salvation. It's something he struggled to reconcile - the fact that he firmly believed perception and engagement with Beauty by the Mind, Soul and Spirit of a person is how we are to become closer to God and a person comes to find and know true Beauty through desire. It's one of the foundations over which he and Pico quarreled as it relates to the Platonic understanding of the ladder of love.

Pico felt Ficino's insistence that physical desire be part of salvation was too risky and would lead to sodomy/sinful things while Ficino couldn't perceive a world in which Beauty was understood or discovered through means that were entirely non-corporeal.

It's all a little pear shaped.

The mind tries to reach God through beauty, which is determined by desire.

For a man who was so very cerebral and spiritual - who bled into the mystic and ecstatic traditions of Catholic spirituality - he was at the same time incredibly earthy and corporeal. I suspect his being quite aware of his own body and its urges is what drove a lot of this push/pull that we see in his writing.

There are plenty of letters where he writes Giovanni in a manner that suggests they have certainly partaken of physical displays of love with one another. There's that one where he writes about how he and Giovanni don't need tongues and hands to show love to one another implying, of course, that they have done such things.

He wrote to Bernardo Bembo that Bernardo must have the eyes of a lynx for he perceived that Giovanni and Marsilio were soul-married (or whatever) long before they themselves were aware of it. Which makes me laugh because of what a perfect fucking fanfic set-up that is. Like what? Next you're telling me, Marsilio, that you and Giovanni were travelling once and Oh No There Was Only Bed**.

Bernardo: GET A ROOM.

Marsilio: ?????

Giovanni: ?????

Bernardo: I swear to God and the good mother Mary you two are gagging for each other and need to just fuck about it or something.

Poliziano, in the background: I've been saying that for yeeeaaaars.

(**never mind that everyone shared beds back then so it would have been very normal and they just would have been like "why would there be more than one bed?? you can fit so many people in one bed and we all have minimal furniture. It's 1473.")

-

now I'm going to read a 1919 essay on Jstor about a sodomy process occurred in 1501 of an obscure venetian totally random poet

oh my god, Venetian sodomy stories break my heart because Venice went so hard on punishment in a way Florence just...didn't.

This is what happens when you put a city on a lagoon! It makes everyone paranoid that if they offend God he will sink them under the waves.

Granted, it was quite something in the 17th century when the Ten ordered a review of the Venetian merchant fleet, have heard that there was Much Sodomy & Other Vile Things Occurring and found that yeah, everyone has been fucking each other on boats for centuries now.

And the Ten were like: :O whaaaat and God didn't strike us down??????

Pokemon meme: The Ten Hurt Themselves in Their Confusion.

-

I remember reading one account of a man (I want to say he was a cittadini merchant) who began an affair with his rower. It was a long term thing, the rower even married a (probably illegitimate) niece or something of the merchant. They were very much clearly Lifers.

Anyway - got found out and the two were rounded up and the cittadini guy told his rower, 'Look, just say I forced you. Say it was unwilling on your part and I was making you do it' etc. because he figured as a member of the cittadini class he had a better chance of getting off the hook than his lover who was as a no one.

His lover was reluctant to do that but agreed to the rouse - however, the Ten were on a serious crackdown that year and hauled him in for torture anyway. Despite his being a "victim" and therefore, traditionally, not seen as being as much to "blame" for the sinful acts etc.

During the torture, the rower ended up confirming that no, it was not forced. Yes, he was very much into it. The big kicker was that one of them ended up admitting that they switched "roles" so both topped and both bottomed, which was obviously a big deal in terms of perception of masculinity and culpability in these cases.

Sadly, they both ended up on the pyre and were burned to death between the pillars of the Lion of San Marco and Poseidon in the palazzo di San Marco.

(nb: the details are sketched out loosely here, it's been a while since I read that case so I could be misremembering exactly how things played out)

-

Every time I see pics of tourists between those pillars I'm like, "Do you know how many men were burned to death for sodomy right where you're standing? And how many members of government were hanged for treason (or "treason") and their bodies left so their colleagues got to walk by them on their way into work? I bet there's a ghost in your picture."

It's a bit of a mood killer for tourists, apparently.

annnnyway. Venice and sodomy laws! Heartbreaking!

-

Despite that, the city did have a thriving sodomy scene which is hilarious. Though, as the famous saying went, It takes only seven days for the sun to set on a Venetian law and they must recreate it.

Love that bit in Sanudo's diary where he's like: The Ten, in their wisdom, issued another promulgation reminding everyone that sodomy is illegal and it was read aloud in the Rialto and everyone in the market laughed.

--

ok, my turn to apologize for making this WAY too long. I just - I have the worms they are in my brain and they are going !!!!!!!! about all things relating to Ficino and also 15th and 16th century Venice.

<3 <3 <3 <3

[libraford]

The thing about JD Vances 'cat lady comment' that gets a little obscured by 'you have angered the cat ladies' is that when asked about it he clarified.

And doubled down.

That it wasn't about cat ladies, but the fact that that they are childless, and the sense that someone who has no children cannot possibly have a stake in the future of this country.

I found out this year that I cannot have children. Not on purpose, not by accident, not by science and not by miracle. There is a fibroid the size of a grapefruit in my uterus that has given my reproductive organs so much trauma that there's no possibility of carrying a child to term. The only way to remove it is with a hysterectomy.

For me, this decision was easy. But when my gynecologist spoke to me about it, they gave me a box of tissues, expecting it to take a lot more emotional bargaining. They were surprised that the decision was so easy for me.

I don't want children. I never have. I never 'wanted them someday.' I will probably not adopt.

But I understand how many people do- and why the news of infertility would make someone upset.

When assigning a value to someone based on their status of parenthood, you are including people who want, desperately, to have children but for whatever reason cannot.

To say that I, or anyone without children, could be apathetic about the future of the country is saying the quiet part out loud. Perhaps he was unconcerned until he had children of his own. But the thing is, you don't have to have a family legacy in order to want good things for the future.

You just have to have a heart.

Which I've got.

[traffys]

can we talk about how till looked first?

how when till is looking, ivan has his eyes closed? we only have IVAN’S perspective. how many times did till look and ivan simply didn’t know? ivan is almost unreliable given how little he values and thinks of himself.

i’ve talked before about how ivan was his own obstacle in some ways to the potential of their relationship. his perception became his reality and he’s convinced himself that till will not miss him. that till does not care.

but: that’s not necessarily the full truth, is it?

till’s point of view being obscured from us is intentional. we’re not meant to know his thoughts about ivan and their relationship.

yet.

till is the most expressive of the group. he wears his heart on his sleeve. but we’ve only seen hints of ivan’s effect on him.

and while i’m not opposed to it being left up to interpretation, i think vivinos is thoughtful enough about this that we’re meant to question the gap. that we’re meant to analyze what we’ve been given and take note of what we find. it makes me so curious for what’s to come.

[fatehbaz]

In just eight blocks of sidewalk in quiet neighborhood, walking through the not-quite-rain of a sunshower, today I encountered four missing shoe soles. Little pieces of plastic and rubber, detached from pedestrians' shoes, now lonely on the concrete, with the weeds.

No such thing, really, as a "weed", though. "Weed" is not a botanical term. Instead, describes perceived pests, at the discretion of the observer. At the discretion of the authority. Designated as weed by the one with power over that land. The agronomist, the rancher, the plantation manager. The weed wastes space that could otherwise be given to a monoculture cash crop, an "economically significant" plant. The weed interferes with the productivity of the plot of land. The weed interrupts the extraction. The weed diminishes the value. The weed doesn't belong in this place.

People are made to be weeds, too.

Some cities will designate you as a weed, and then they'll take action to pull you out. They'll uproot you. But it's not always explicit, like "we're outlawing loitering" or "we're outlawing taking a nap in the park" or "we're defunding the library". Sometimes it's quite clever, it's written into the physical landscape. Self-congratulatory "progressive" cities learn to co-opt language, to obscure the violence, to use and abuse space.

Thinking about things you might encounter, you might perceive, after you've been destitute, broken, lived at a homeless shelter, for years. Little signs of other peoples' misery. Indicators of desperation that some might overlook. And the way that environment shapes, and is shaped by, these miseries.

A friend asks "why is there always an unusual amount of scuffed detached missing shoe soles on this particular stretch of sidewalk? There are hardly any homes around here, it's all asphalt and empty lots, so where are all these be-shoed people coming from?" Because even though this is a wide expanse without either home residences or any kind of commercial or recreation space someone would want to visit, these blocks are the straight-line direct path between a low-income apartment complex and the cluster of corporate big box stores, and there's no bus line that runs between the two areas. "But don't the vast majority of customers of shopping malls and box stores drive vehicles, hence the obscenely massive parking lots?" Sure, customers drive, but guess who actually has to work at those places? An underclass of people living at that apartment complex with harsh restrictions and cheap amenities, who can't afford car insurance or who might be too physically disabled to bike. And so that apartment complex is a de facto "company town", the residents are essentially in confinement. It is written into that landscape. It can be read. "Why is there always debris, wrappers, coins, etc. in this particular quiet couple of blocks of the boulevard?" Because these blocks are between a thrift store and a same-day drop-in clinic, so many impoverished people will routinely be walking between these two locations. They attend their appointment, and then have forty-five minutes to kill before the bus comes back around, so why not check out the thrift store? The city and county collaborated and placed all the low-income assistance offices on the far side of town, which conveniently forces the poor and disabled to both stay away from the luxurious downtown district and also to waste their time making a four-hour commute, catching various connecting buses or else riding the bikepath, across the city just to attend a ten-minute-long appointment.

Then this spatial layout, this city's physical environment, will shape the physical body. This violence writes itself into the flesh. The way the denim is chafed and discolored on the left shoulder of someone's jacket from carrying a small backpack around by foot, day after day after day. The way someone's heart rate increases when they see a white and black vehicle in the periphery of their vision, subconsciously recollecting institutionalization and institutional abuse, or fearing what a ticket fee would mean for their budget (they might not be able to afford rent). The way someone develops a painful limp, maybe occasionally depends on a cane, because they had to walk great distances every day to get to work and their shoe sole fell off on the sidewalk, but they can't replace the shoes because their employer is underpaying them, and they're forced to stand all day at work anyway, and they already had some modest nerve damage in their foot because they've been rationing their insulin and can't afford their prescriptions, and federal medical insurance keeps denying them because their physical letters in the mail always show up too late or not at all, and groceries are too expensive so it's hard to get good nutrition to heal, but the diabetic nerve damage has by now damaged their digestive tract too so they have a strictly limited bland diet and can't enjoy the simple pleasure of a home-cooked meal (if they can even afford a home, at this point), and all those "little" miseries add up, and now they're hungry, and in pain, because they were forced to walk kinda funny for a long time over all those decaying sidewalks with all those other weeds.

[brittle-doughie]

Hello!! Im new to this blog and I really wanna interact ;3

So, I kinda remembering this request....

So I was thinking,

What if the (other) Ancients (and maybe even legendaries) also break/took off pieces of their body to make the desert and gave it to Y/N too?

You can do this if you want of course!! :3 (I hope Tumblr doesn't eat my request AGAIN)

Dessert Report (The Ancient Cookies)

Warning: Cookie Cannibalism

Customer: Pure Vanilla Cookie

Treat Gift: A cake slice dabbled with vanilla frosting.

Result: Portions of hair missing, hat has to be angled to hide the missing parts.

Pure Vanilla entered the cake shop one afternoon after leaving with White Lily Cookie the other day. He talked about seeing White Lily’s gift to Y/N Cookie and thought it was a wonderful idea. Questions raised about his odd hat angled were dodged or given no answer, unusual for the Ancient.

What Y/N Cookie doesn’t know won’t hurt them, right? They would still be close to Pure Vanilla no matter what, right?

Customer: Hollyberry Cookie

Treat Gift: Berry cluster cookies.

Result: Parts of the arms missing, outfit helps to obscure the cracks.

Hollyberry was among the first of the Ancients to give a tasty delight to her very good friend, Y/N Cookie. But just any dessert wouldn’t do for Hollyberry’s liking. It had to mean something, that it truly came from the bottom of her heart. She had an idea…

Y/N Cookie will surely love it…..

They would surely love her….

Customer: Dark Cacao Cookie

Treat Gift: Box of chocolates made from pure cacao.

Result: Missing small extremities such as parts of the hands or legs. Like with Hollyberry, his outfit can cover up the missing portions.

Loyalty, something that is earned and deeply valued to Dark Cacao Cookie. Y/N Cookie’s loyalty to him as an ally means a lot to the king. Dark Cacao Cookie felt like he needed to return the favor to Y/N Cookie, to show how much he valued their relationship.

No length is too great for the sake of those you care about, as he entered the cake shop with the chocolates showed…

Customer: Golden Cheese Cookie

Treat Gift: An array of cheeses with a cheesecake made by Golden Cheese herself.

Result: Portions of the arms and legs missing. Bandages are used to hide the missing parts, excused as just her protecting her dough from getting too stale.

Golden Cheese was never the same after the fall of her kingdom. She held onto anything she held dear, fearing they’ll crumble to dust before her eyes. Y/N Cookie was one major example, she treated them as if she’s known them all her life..and someone she wishes to know for the rest of her life.

She wants to live knowing that a part of her will always remain within Y/N Cookie forever when she floated through that cake shop door…

Customer: White Lily Cookie

Treat Gift: Lily Cobbler.

Result: The loss of the lower arms, part of the waist, and small portions of the head and hair. The cobbler had traces of a powder-like substance emanating from it.

White Lily Cookie cared about Y/N Cookie. She cared about them very much. She feels like they understand her more the average cookie, it’s no surprise why she’ll often seek their company. When she spotted them enjoying a gifted treat one day, she had a wonderful idea on how she wanted to express her feelings to them.

It was quite the extensive process, but she was able to complete her gift. The loss of her parts can grow back, it would all be worth it when Y/N Cookie enjoyed the cobbler, with White Lily knowing that a part of her will always be with Y/N Cookie.

White Lily went further than Golden Cheese though. More than just physical pieces of dessert that will eventually disappear in time. White Lily placed a little more thought into her treat…

Life Powder, what makes up a cookie’s soul…

A part of her will always be with Y/N Cookie…

[most-datable-datable-bracket]

ROUND 5 MATCH 6

Claude propaganda:

"To say Claude has trust issues is an understatement—you have to spend half the game earning his. (Claude isn't even his real name!) Once you have it, though, he's absolutely ride or die for you until the stars go out. He is so full of heart and ambition: He wants both sides of his heritage to get along, he wants to open borders and eliminate xenophobia and promote equality between commonfolk, and deep down, I think he craves a partner to stand with him at that new dawn, or an equal who sees his vision for the future and will fight for it just as hard. Nobody believed in him when he was a kid, but if you put your faith in him, he'll return it tenfold. Some people don't like that he's calculating, or has to leave the player character at the end of the game to go back to his homeland, but both are necessary elements for his goals to change things. He will always come back, and everyone who bets against him and his love for his companions is wrong with a big fat W. #KhalidForMostDatablePrez"

"Claude is a fun little onion of facades. He calls himself the embodiment of distrust, he acts like he's carefree and without worries, an unscrupulous schemer--and so many in universe buy into that hook line and sinker. He's used to others viewing him with suspicion and uses it as armor to obscure his not-so-dark truth: that he cares immensely, that he values minimizing the loss of life, and that above all he has so much hope that people will fundamentally choose to do better given the choice.

His front guards a center that his conflict filled world would be happy to tear apart. As the child of people from two nations in constant conflict--one of which is explicitly isolationist and dehumanizes those outside its church's reach--he hasn't really had a place where he can be without his facade. As a child he thought he could run, but when confronted with the fact that this hatred existed no matter where he ran, he chose to instead try to create a more just and kind world.

His inability to let others in beyond his facade at first may lead to a sense of distance, but isn't it then all the more satisfying when you're allowed in? All he wants is a little trust, a little faith, and--like what he wants to give everyone--a chance to be better.

And like that you got a charming young lad with a fun personality that your grandma would be thrilled to have stay forever."

Josephine propaganda:

“you get to have a full Disney princess style romance with her, she is the most precious, the most sweet, I love her so much 🥺”

“Josephine's one of the "behind the scenes" companion for the protagonist and she advises them on diplomacy-related matters.

Her personal quest and romance is fairy-tale worthy: she gets threatened with assassination, you help her restore her family's fortune, you get threatened by her best friend to not break her heart, she doesn't dare to hope you mean anything serious when flirting until you spell it out for her, after which Josie agrees to a deeper relationship... And immediately after that she finds out her family has engaged her to a random noble without her knowledge!! You publicly challenge the suitor to a one-on-one duel to win her hand, she finds out and interrupts the duel because she's worried of the Inquisitor throwing literally the entire plot away and risk life in combat for her... To which of course you can confess that they're doing it because they love Josephine, and they get the cutest cutscene with Josie jumping in the Inquisitor's arms and them spinning her around before kissing each other <3 The betrothed steps away because he sees true love between the two. She and the Inquisitor stay together through the end game and after it, gaining a "second home" with her and her family.

She really believes in the Inquisitor's cause and from the very first conversations with her, she asks questions about your background and tries to make you feel welcomed (especially appreciated if the Inquisitor isn't human since people are less trusting of them). She's politically smart but dislikes violence, overall very sweet but still strong... Josie tends to overwork herself (she's a perfectionist) and at first she tries to keep a professional air at all times but if you encourage her, she will rant to you and spill all the tea about nobles lol.”

[soma5400]

A day like every other

This piece comes with a story I wrote which I’ll place below. It’s a somber one so be warned

I hope you all enjoy

☁️✨🌙✨☁️ ☁️✨🌙✨☁️ ☁️✨🌙✨☁️ ☁️✨🌙✨☁️ ☁️✨🌙✨☁️

A dimly lit room was swirling with beautifully colored lights, each one a different color of the rainbow. As the colors moved throughout the space; star like lights twinkled overhead. Below, barely lit by the rooms glow two figures sat side by side. A gentle hum of music was all that was heard for a moment, before broken by a voice. "Stanely? I think I finally understand what you meant about this room." The other figure let out a gentle hum of acknowledgement and the voice continued " At first I was confused, after all, here we are in this beautiful room that brought me such joy, and yet you wanted to leave. It simply didn't make sense. But I've given it much thought. I think I understand." A moment of silence came as the figure attempted to gather the words into speech. " This room is beautiful, yes. It brings me joy, of course. However its much the same as looking at a beautiful painting, or at a particularly beautiful stary night sky. These things bring joy, but its brief. You could find yourself sitting back and going 'ah yes, that painting. It was beautiful wasn't it?' but it would loose its emotional strength after a time. The beauty comes from the fact that moments like this end, doesn't it Stanely?"

The scene shifts as the voice continued to speak. Bright sun shune overhead as a man sat silently on a bench built for two. Eyes gazing into the distance as if waiting for something; or someone. The hum of music had since faded leaving only the voice speaking atop the scene. " You'll find yourself looking back at the memories during difficult moments. Small beacon of beauty carried with you; priceless in its value." Beside the bench, flowers moved lazily in the wind; the only sign of movement as the man sat still and silent. " You see, I could make hundreds of rooms identical to this one. Build a room to reside in for every day of my life, but that wouldn't make me happy would it? I could replicate a beautiful painting a hundred times over, it looses it's value. No longer is it this rare and beautiful thing bringing joy. The value comes in the fact that everything ends. A beautiful moment gets placed within your memory and you continue forward. This is a beautiful moment Stanely. it will end though. I could recreate the room, I could recreate every piece of it in a desperate attempt to relive the happiness. Something I don't believe I could replicate is you Stanely. We've too many memories together. You're priceless, and although everything might end. Im glad I was able to spend these moments with you." On the bench the man still sits as a sand storm blows in clouding the view until everything is obscured. " I'll look back on this moment fondly stanely. " As the sand settles a building is revealed half sunken into the ground door lazily swaying in the wind. As if beckoning someone to take a walk through it's halls

[crushedbyhyperbole]

Cherry Pie Kiss

Slice Three

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: You're cornered and chased by Bartholomew's minions. Separated from Sam and Cas, you and Dean make a run for it. Lust finds you both when you're finally safe. Dean rocks your world.

Words: 3.4k

A/N: This is smutty part 3 of what's now looking like a longer series since I've settled on a cute, fluffy and smutty part 4. At this point I don't think I'll ever be sated in my need for this man but Im so not sorry about it 😂

I do hope you enjoy part 3. If you haven't read parts 1 and 2 check out the Cherry Pie Kiss Masterlist. As always, I value your comments and feedback. Drop a dime and let me know what you think.

Warnings: Smut. Canon-typical action/adventure. Running for your lives. Bit of angst.

*** 18+ Minors Do Not Read or Interact ***

Dean Winchester.  You hate him.  His stubbornness and stoic grace.  His tenacity and faith that, no matter what, you guys will get it done if you stick together.  The way his eyes pierce you down to your soul when he stares.  At least that’s what you try to tell yourself, hoping that others will believe it too.  Truth is, you’re just as stubborn as he is, holding onto this façade when hatred is so far from what you feel.

Dean sits behind Baby’s wheel, having stormed away from the Gas’n’Sip in frustration.  His eyes follow your every move and your body language as you and Sam try to convince Cas, for the umpteenth time, to come with you.  Dean had taken it personally when Cas had refused, and after several attempts at reasoning, bargaining, and begging, Dean had given up, choosing to sit out any further attempts at persuasion.

You look over at the black Impala with its radiant chrome and glossy darkness.  The man inside looks away out to road not wanting the hurt, so plain on his face, to be seen.

“I’ll be back in a sec,” you say to Sam, touching his forearm gently as he continues to reason with the fallen Angel.

You feel compelled to at least try to comfort Dean.  Since you two had talked that night in the dingy room-only motel out in Crocker, you had maintained a stable yet strained connection.  You had still been pissed at him for using you and Sam as bait so you had sent him back to his room with another kiss and the promise of “when I’m ready”.  Since then, you two had never been alone for more than a few minutes; there was always Sam, or witnesses, or monsters.

Dean’s head snaps your way when you pull the door open, his face schooled into that smooth mask he wears when he’s hurt but unwilling to be vulnerable.  Cas’s decision has really hit him hard.

Sliding in the passenger side, you angle yourself towards him and reach to take one of his hands which is picking at the fingernails of his other.  Ordinarily, you wouldn’t risk such a gesture but with Sam a couple of hundred meters away and the height of the dash to obscure it, you’re not worried.

Dean allows the contact, his head hanging.  “Cas made his choice.”  His voice is low and gravelly with emotion.

“Doesn’t mean he can’t change his mind.”  You reason, trying not to throw fuel on the fire.

“He knows where I am if he does.”  He states, matter of fact.  “I’m not wasting another breath on him.”

“He’s your best friend.”

“You’re my best friend.”  Dean looks at you and squeezes your hand which is entwined with his, resting on his thigh.  “You and Sam.”

“I’m just some girl you want to fuck.”  You chuckle, and Deans lips quirk a subtle smirk briefly before he replies.

The words don’t come out, however.  Dean catches movement at the side of the Gas’N’Sip, and he drops your hand to turn over the engine, thrusting the heel of his other hand on Baby’s horn as he does so.

Sam and Cas look in your direction and then see the four figures walking quickly and with purpose, coming between them and the Impala.  Shit!  Angels.  Bartholomew’s minions, no doubt.  How have they found you again?

“Son of a bitch!”  Dean hisses, cranking the car into drive, kicking up stones in the gravel lot as the wheels spin, gaining traction to take you to Sam and Cas.

You fumble your seatbelt, sliding on the seat and right into Dean with a grunt as he swerves to avoid a blacked-out Escalade that grinds to a halt between you and your friends.

Sam and Cas are already on the move, running fast towards the gold Lincoln pimpmobile Cas had somehow acquired, Sam waving Dean off as they scramble into the car and peel out of the lot before the Angels could reach them.  You, however, are stuck.  With the Escalade and four fallen angels between you and the lot exit, Dean turns the wheel, locking it out and put his foot on the gas, spinning the car around with an horrific noise from the tyres.  At the back of the lot is a chainlink fence with a gate that leads to a dirt road which split in two, one branch heading to the highway, the other into scrubland that precedes a dense-looking woodland.  You can lose them in the trees.

Dean winces as he ploughs baby through the chainlink gate, lamenting the damage that is sure to be done, and turns the car towards the highway.

“We can lose them in the trees,” you cry, point to the woods.

“Baby doesn’t have the ground clearance for it,” Dean says roughly, manoeuvring the car through a side-on skid with the heel of his hand on the wheel and his other hand gripping the side of the seat to stop himself from sliding as the car spins.  Once straight, he slams his food on the gas and burns rubber onto the tarmac, heading in the opposite direction to Sam and Cas.

You know he’s right about the car.  The Escalade is 4x4 and sits high which gives it the advantage off road in the woods when the trail inevitably turns to a glorified hiking path.  You’re not even sure the highway is a much better option given that Baby is an older, classic car, but you know Dean keeps her in tip-top shape and she’s got a lot of power under her hood.  That being said, the Escalade could be seen in the rearview, weaving through traffic to catch up to you.

The shrill ring of your phone makes you jump as you try to focus on the road and on what’s behind.  You need to be a second set of eyes for Dean while he’s pushing Baby to create some distance from the Escalade.

“Hey, Sam!”  You sigh with relief, reading his name on your display, putting him on speaker.

“This is Castiel,” the former Angel’s flat tone carries from the phone.  “Sam is driving.  He said I’m too slow.”

You grin big.  That’s a classic Winchester brother thing to do.  From the corner of your eye you see Dean smirk.

“Just tell them we’re headed west and haven’t been followed.”  Sam sighed with mild frustration.

“Damn it’s good to hear your voice, Sammy!”  Dean spoke loudly in that extra deep tone he uses when he is running on adrenalin.  You know he left Cas out because he is still hurt, but you also know he’s glad Cas is safe too.

“We’re headed in the opposite direction,” you explain.  “The vehicle followed us and we’re trying to shake them but they’re keeping up.”

“Pretty soon we’ll run out of traffic, and on the open road we’ll never lose them.”  Dean frowns as he hunts in the rearview for your pursuers.

“Maybe you can head into the wilderness, hole up and set traps.”  Sam offers.  “We can turn around and try to catch up.”

“No!”  Dean snaps.  “You’re both safe.  I want you to stay that way.  Get someplace and lay low.  We’ll get this done and I’ll call you, ok?”

“Dean…”  Cas begins to speak but Dean is having none of it.

“I said No!  Okay?  For once, just do what I say.  We’ve got this.”

You hang up the phone without waiting for a response.  You can see how worked up Dean is, his brain running overtime as he tries to figure out a plan while he’s trying to evade Bartholomew’s lackies on a road full of other cars.

The satellite map on your phone shows a complex set of junctions several miles up ahead where this road meets and crosses with two interstates, branching off in multiple places to service a small city surrounded by a cluster of smaller towns.  It looks promising and Dean agrees.

The junction of the roads has raised on and off ramps that weave in and around the support structures of the main interstate, with frontage roads servicing the branches at intervals.  Traffic is heavy and Dean follows a newer model black Cady onto the interstate by one of the on-ramps, only to cut across the lanes harshly and slip onto a skewed off-ramp, hoping the Escalade will follow the newer Cady.  Slowing down at the end of the off-ramp, he turns to take the frontage road in the opposite direction, heading slowly up the on-ramp for the interstate carriage way going back in the direction from which you had come, so as not to rejoin too soon and be spotted on the other side.

You check all around as soon as you crest the on-ramp back onto the road, praying you don’t see the black government-style vehicle.  Dean doesn’t wait to find out, he puts his foot down and puts a few eighteen wheelers between you and whatever is behind you.

“I think we’re clear,” you say after about fifteen minutes of hypervigilance.

“Don’t jinx it, sweetheart.”  Dean keeps his eyes on the road, the wheel clasped in two white-knuckled fists.

Switching from the interstate to a smaller road and then to another road but still taking you away from where Sam and Cas had headed, Dean starts to relax.  He chances a look at you, to find you looking right back.  The tension in his neck and jaw haven’t melted away yet but he doesn’t have that hard look of focused fury that he usually does when in fight or flight mode.  He doesn’t say anything and neither do you, but the glances between you become more frequent as though you’re both checking on each other to make sure the other is okay, needing to visually check each time.

A sign by the side of the road identifies the beautiful landscape to your left as Black Water Natural Forest, and with the sun beginning to set behind the mountains in the distance, it seems a good place to wait out the sunset.  You point to the sign and Deans nods.  He doesn’t argue, knowing you need a place to park-up off road away from prying eyes to get your bearings and make a plan to meet up with your friends.

As the road gets narrower and the trees get more dense, Dean slows the car, casting furtive glances at you.  It’s making your skin burn, the way he looks at you now, with that hunger in his eyes.  You feel it too.  Weeks of tension built between you, and todays threat to your lives now culminating in a deep need for some kind of release.  You lick your lips, breathing shallow and quick as you try to regain your composure, but Dean isn’t doing much better.  You look at him fully and he all but moans when he sees the look in your eye.

A turn off presents itself that leads to a small muddy lot where hikers can park their cars when they venture out into the forest.  Dean brings Baby to a stop so hard your seatbelt catches you, then he yanks it into park and fumbles for the seal lever.  You unclip your belt as the front seat slides back fully and he reaches for you, helping you straddle his lap.

You waste no time, kissing him fervently as you unbutton your shirt while he tries to push it from your shoulders before it’s open.  Breaths are gasps released between kisses, tongues touching, tasting and tempting more passion, and you succumb to the frenzy of heat that’s born of your need to feel something other than fear.  Your need to feel him.

You’re both a mess of fumbling hands and sloppy kisses as clothes are shucked and skin exposed.  You try to stand, your legs either side of his as you unbutton your jeans and he unclasps his belt.

The loud sound of the Impala’s horn echoes out amongst the trees, startling birds so they take wing and both of you into stillness and silence.

Dean looks at you with panic but then grins and laughs, reaching to tug your jeans down your legs until they’re bunched up around your boots.

It’s awkward but you can still straddle him like this and, as you kneel back onto the black leather seat, he lifts his hips to grind himself impatiently against you.  The desperation in your eyes is matched by the eagerness in his.  He is rapt, eyes absorbing the sights and sounds of your body and of your pleasure as you grind yourself against him.  Your slicked pussy drenching his cock as you slide yourself along his length but deny him entry just when his tip catches at your entrance.

Dean fondles your breasts, trailing open-mouthed kisses across your skin until he reaches your hardening peaks.  His kisses become more suckling then, nibbling them and flicking them firmly with his tongue until you’re almost shaking above him.

“You ready for me?”  You ask, breathless.

“Sweetheart,” he treats you to his classic sultry smirk, “I’ve been ready for you since you moved in.”

You grin, knowing he’s been jonesing for you for that long.  Truth be told, you’d wanted him for longer but the hate you made yourself feel for him was an adequate distraction from it.

Biting your lip, you reach between you, taking his wet shaft in hand and positioning it at your entrance.  Your eyes meet as you begin to skink down on him, inching down in a shallow rocking motion with Dean stroking your hips and waist as you work at it.  He resists the urge to thrust up into you at first, allowing you to get accustomed to him.

When you bottom him out, he presses down on your hips firmly, lifting his just enough to give you a deep pleasurable pressure that has you groaning and your eyes rolling back.

You are tight despite being very wet, and the way you squeeze him has him twitching heavily against your walls.

“Fuck…”  he groans as you begin to move, leaning back slightly so he hits all the right spots inside you.

“I’m not going to last long,” you laugh breathily.

“No problem,” Dean says, his hands gripping your hips hard, helping you ride him a little faster now.  “We’ll get you for two.”

He doesn’t even have to reach down to stroke your clit, you come all by yourself, grinding on him with a sexy roll of your hips he knows should be good for you, your clit rubbing against his soft hair.  He can feel you spasming and clenching around him and it feels like heaven, even better than warm cherry pie hitting his taste buds.

“You feel freaking amazing.”  He growls, pulling you forward to suckle on the delicate skin of your neck.

“Right back at’cha,” you sigh against pleasure.

He rolls you to the side, and lays you on your back on the seat, still buried in you to the hilt.  Looking down at your heated face, your skin glowing from your orgasm, Dean thinks you are the most beautiful thing he has ever seen, with a possible exception of Baby.  Okay, you’re the most beautiful living thing he’s ever seen.

Looking up at Dean, his brow creased in concentration, his eyes dark with lust, you don’t think you have ever been turned on by anyone as much as this man.  Damn, he’s hot!  Riding the adrenaline of the chase, you had been desperate for an outlet.  Now that is out of your mind, you lose yourself in the man between your thighs, you’re focused solely on the feeling of him buried deep, and the rising tide of pleasure.  The windows steam up as you grind and roll your bodies together, and you think you might combust from the heat of him.

When he meets and holds your gaze, your heart almost stops.  There you see more than just lust, more than just the passion between you.  It’s deep and hidden, secret almost, and it surfaces as affection that softens his eyes.  You reach up to stroke his face as his grinding hips keep their measured pace and he leans into your touch, kissing the palm of your hand, closing his eyes with a tender sigh.

His vulnerability in that moment lances electricity to your core and you spasm powerfully around him.  His eyes flash open and he sees you’re close again but he doesn’t grin cockily like he might have done earlier, instead he leans down to kiss you, leaning his forehead on yours as you grip the back of his neck and look into his gorgeous eyes.  With your other hand on his hip, sliding round to his ass you guide the speed and depth of his thrusts and you roll your hips to meet his.

As you guide him to slow down he thinks he’ll lose the pleasure he’s cultivated so far but he can now feel more of you and it’s more intense because it’s slow and prolonged.  He almost laughs at how it changes everything and he gasps with surprise when he starts to feel his orgasm coming.  He knows he needs to pull out but you hold him on place with your hands and your heels.

“Give me everything,” you moan as you feel him swell.  “I need to feel you, nice and deep.”

Dean groans with pleasure watching your eyes sparkle with heat for him.

“I want it,” you almost beg.  “Want you.”

He nods, biting his lip as bends to your desire.

Spurred on by your permission, Dean thrusts deeper until he bottoms out, moaning your name as he comes deep inside you.  Your walls contract as he fills you, your climax a deep rolling pleasure that courses your whole body.  Everything feels so right, he feels right.  The way you two fit, the way he makes you feel.  It’s like a low-key destiny you’re more than willing to succumb to.

Dean doesn’t just pull out and get off you once you’re both done, he flips you so your lay on his chest.  There he holds you and strokes you back and hips, your hair and your face until you lift your head to look at him.  Then he smirks cockily and you swat his chest.

“You don’t have to look so smug about it,” you chastise him.

“Hey, I keep my promises,” he says with that trademark smirk playing on his plush lips.  “Would’a give you more but we’re kinda on the run here, sweetheart.”

“You can owe me, how ‘bout that?”  You push yourself up and try to find your clothes.

He grins at the confirmation that this isn’t just a one-time deal.  “Hell yeah!  Sign me up.”

You clean up with wipes from your travel bag as Dean calls Sam.  You watch the relieved interaction from the front fender of Baby while Dean paces in the dirt a few meters away.  You apply some flavoured lip balm to your kiss bruised lips as he works out the logistics of meeting up and what to do about Bartholomew.

After the call, Dean beelines straight for you, sliding his hands around your waist and burying his face in your neck, kissing playfully.

“I take it we’ve got a few hours at least until we can meet Sam and Cas.”  You thread your fingers through his messy hair, trailing your fingernails over his scalp which he seems to really like.

“Several.”  He says against your delicate skin.

“Whatever are we gonna do to pass the time?”  You smile as you picture the pair of you fucking all over his car.

“I can think of a few things,” he surfaces with a hungry look, leaning back in to kiss you.

Your soft lips claim his once more as you melt into his arms, the kiss heated and full of need.  Dean kisses you with such force it steals your breath and makes your knees weak, and when he pulls back he looks at you thoughtfully.  Licking his lips and tasting you on them, he grins.

“Cherry,” his eyes go to your lips again, “I like it.”

Dean’s talented tongue makes you forget any quip you might have said, as he lifts you onto Baby’s hood and keeps his promise.

[artificialfanfiction]

NOAH SEBASTIAN AS A BOYFRIEND HEADCANON-PART 2

boyfriend!Noah is fiercely loyal. Once he’s committed to a relationship, he's all in, and you can always count on him to have your back, whether it’s in a public situation or something more personal. If anyone disrespects you, his protective instincts kick in, though he handles it in a calm, calculated way he won’t cause a scene, but he’ll definitely make sure no one messes with you again.

Given his artistic mind, boyfriend!Noah likes unconventional dates. Expect random, late night drives while he plays unreleased tracks, stargazing from secluded spots, or spontaneous visits to obscure art galleries. He’s the type to suggest things like making music together, painting, or collaborating on any creative projects, even if you don’t consider yourself artistic. He loves sharing his passions with you.

He’s the type to dive deep into conversations late at night. boyfriend!Noah enjoys discussing existential topics, like the meaning of life, dreams, and personal growth. He’d want to understand what makes you You, your thoughts, fears, and goals. He listens intently and is genuinely interested in your perspective, making you feel incredibly seen and understood.

boyfriend!Noah feels things deeply, and that includes the way he loves. His emotions might not always be right on the surface, but when he opens up, it’s raw and powerful. You’ll know when he’s expressing his true feelings because it’s not something he gives easily. But when he does, it feels intense, like he’s giving you a piece of his soul.

Even though boyfriend!Noah has a dark, brooding exterior at times, he’s an anchor in difficult times. He doesn’t shy away from your problems or emotions; instead, he’ll help you work through them, often offering thoughtful advice or just a calm, stable presence to help you feel more grounded. He understands emotional lows and knows how to sit with you through them, without rushing you to "feel better."

boyfriend!Noah deeply values silence and comfortable moments together where words aren't necessary. Sitting beside him while he works on music or being in the same room while you each do your own thing feels intimate to him. He enjoys the simple act of being in your presence, even when you're not actively engaging in conversation.

boyfriend!Noah is all about pushing boundaries artistically and personally, and he encourages you to do the same. He believes in growth and doesn’t want you to stay stagnant, always motivating you to pursue your dreams and expand your horizons. Whether it’s learning something new or stepping out of your comfort zone, he’s your biggest cheerleader.

boyfriend!Noah has a dry, witty sense of humor, and he’ll tease you lightly just to see you blush or roll your eyes. He enjoys playful banter and sarcasm, but it’s always good natured and affectionate. He loves the back and forth that keeps the relationship fun and lively.

Music is a massive part of his life, so you can expect boyfriend!Noah to create personal playlists for you. These playlists would include songs that remind him of you or that capture a specific mood or memory you’ve shared together. He might send them to you unexpectedly, with little to no explanation, but the thought behind it is deeply intentional. It's his way of telling you how he feels without using words.

boyfriend!Noah might struggle to express his feelings directly at times, especially when it comes to his more vulnerable emotions. Instead, he often uses his art as a medium for that expression. You’ll notice that he writes about his emotions in his lyrics, or he might show you a piece of art that represents how he feels. This is how you’ll know you’ve become an important part of his life when he shares these intimate aspects of himself.

While boyfriend!Noah is a private person who enjoys his own company, if he lets you into his personal space, that’s a huge sign of trust. His home is his sanctuary, filled with his music equipment, art, and things that inspire him. If he invites you over often, it means he’s comfortable with you being part of his creative and personal bubble. He loves having you around when he's writing or working on music.

boyfriend!Noah gifts aren’t flashy or extravagant, but they’re deeply thoughtful. He’ll remember the smallest details about something you mentioned in passing and surprise you with it later. It might be a vinyl record of a band you casually said you liked, or a book he thinks you’d enjoy based on a conversation you had months ago. His gifts show that he listens closely and pays attention to who you are.

boyfriend!Noah has a deep appreciation for films, especially those with dark, complex storylines. He enjoys watching films that make you think or feel deeply. Expect him to plan movie marathons with a curated selection of his favorite indie or psychological films. Afterward, he’ll want to discuss the symbolism, the meaning behind certain scenes, and what you both took away from it. These movie nights are a combination of fun and philosophical.

boyfriend!Noah doesn’t raise his voice or get angry quickly. He’s thoughtful and patient when dealing with any conflict that arises. If there’s a disagreement, he’ll want to talk it out calmly, preferring to understand both sides rather than rush into a heated argument. He values communication and will take time to ensure both of you feel heard, even if it takes a while to get to the resolution.

boyfriend!Noah appreciates moments of silence in a relationship. He doesn’t feel the need to fill every moment with conversation. Sometimes just sitting beside each other, with him working on music while you’re reading or doing your own thing, feels comforting. These quiet moments are his way of saying he’s comfortable with you, that just having you around brings him peace.

When you’re not together, boyfriend!Noah texts are often brief but thoughtful. He’ll send quick messages like “thinking of you” or random updates throughout his day, even if he’s busy. But whenever you need him, he’ll drop everything to have a longer conversation. He’s not the most talkative through texts, but he makes sure you know you’re on his mind.

Despite his serious, brooding exterior, boyfriend!Noah has a playful, goofy side that only those closest to him see. He’ll make silly faces to get you to laugh or crack dark, sarcastic jokes that only you can appreciate. These moments are rare but make you feel special, knowing that he’s comfortable enough with you to let his guard down completely and just be himself.

[mossbone]

The recent Dracula Daily updates are interesting to me. This book is infamous for being about the vampiric Horrors, as defined by their sexual immorality and hedonism; unlike our Heroes who are proper and British and christian. And yet...here we see the horrors being compounded and enabled by the rigid social structures emphasizing morality. And for all Bram Stoker's biases, I think that was intentional.

Firstly, the horror is compounded by the Need for Propriety. Lucy is sleepwalking, in nothing but her nightgown! How awful! So awful it is unthinkable as an option to Mina until she sees undeniable proof Lucy left the house. When that is proven true, "ever growing fear chilling my heart" Mina feels turns to "a vague, overmastering fear obscured all details." She then runs through the streets and finally turns to the cliffs, not fearing like Lucy's mother, to see her in danger of falling of the cliffs, but simply fearing to see her safe in their favorite seat—exposed to all the town.

She in fact sees in shadowy detail, an unidentified man leaning over Lucy. Yet..the whole update is strewn with Mina's massive and unfortunately justified fear for her friend's reputation, maybe more than her safety. Did someone take advantage of Lucy, enact some violence or violation of her while she was sleepwalking? Irrelevant, compared to the question: will anyone see them and assume they were up to some promiscuity? After all, she can't help but be "thinking how the story would become distorted—nay, infallibly would—in case it should leak out." There is the psychological horror on top of the nights events, which were traumatic enough.

An indictment of the present state of late Victorian values and their strict judgments already. But then. The consequence of our young heroines being unable to share their story is that Dracula continues to work unnoticed. He will get more victims, he will continue to grow in power and terrorize Lucy and whomever else he wants. Just like Jonathan being trapped in an increasingly abusive work contract because he feels he must stay to the strict matters of politeness [an imbalance of power that work relationships had then and continue to fucking have], here Lucy and Mina are trapped in very clear physical danger because they cannot share the predator hunting them without surely being accused of being a liar and a whore.

Of course, the loved ones of our protagonists are not of that malicious nature at all. If only they could talk to each other freely, Jonathan and Arthur and Lucy's other suitors would obviously not blame her. And Mina, or likely anyone, would help Jonathan recognize the red flags as what they were. But such close communication is impossible given the heavy expectations of the day.

Social standards were very bad and restrictive in 1897, and I think Bram Stoker consistently criticizes how they are with his novel, even while it serves as a cautionary tale against immorality. The solution to sexual abuse and immorality, in his words, is not punishing people for suffering from them or talking about them. I think he is saying this masterfully, as well, by allowing the audience to feel the visceral fear and helplessness through the perspective of the narrators so closely. Unlike many novels of the time which had people near the protagonist serve as cautionary tales and indictments of society, he forces the reader into those shoes through intimate first person narration.

Anyway. Good chapters, huh. Sadly still relevant.

[robo-milky]

[MORE INFO]

[Loosely references Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde]

Nicknames:

Crema/クッレマ (Cloche) | Big Henchman (Grim) | Vet/Medic (Ace) | Tiger Prawn (Floyd) | Monsieur Fumé (Rook)

Bio:

A proud and confident man, loves nothing more than himself. He’ll act diplomatic when needed, but that exterior will crack fit if something doesn’t go his way. Mors is bad at compromising, and can be very stubborn. May act passive aggressive in retaliation. Ever the megalomaniac, he will stop at nothing to reach the top. He is a man above pretensions, like morality and ethics. Though he can be boisterous, Mors is well spoken, hurling obscure insults at those who earn his ire. No matter what, he is always in the right.

Core Values -> Accomplishment + Knowledge

Elm is the opposite of Mors, a humble and kind man. He’ll do good for the sake of it, not asking for anything in return. Can be a bit of a pushover.

Core values -> Inspiring + Empathy

Background:

From the hit series, “Loyalty Lock”, Mors is an antagonist. Was an aspiring doctor of noble birth, that got drafted by mistake. His military career consisted of being a foot soldier, medic, to army officer (through bribery and corruption). Along with him being a controversial political figure in Vostege, Mors has many enemies. This resulted in him buying hiring a special vessel from “Goldbelle’s Facility of Maids”.

Mors had no one else but himself to blame, having taken the life of his one and only ally. If he was still under her protection, would he be a free man? Arms bound by rope, wood digging into his neck, he might as well think of his last words instead of what-ifs.

Elm stepped into the dark carriage and Mors came out the of coffin.

Notable Thoughts: Mors’

“I can’t possibly imagine being buttered up so easily, like the Headmaster of this school. Hm? Why are you staring at me like that for?”

“Eugh… Not only does Miss Jin have to resemble Cloche, but they share the same name. It leaves a foul taste in my mouth.”

“Grim is a curious specimen, indeed! I’m no veterinarian, by any means, but I would love to take a closer look at him when he is still.”

“Mr. Trappola? The boy’s clever, alright. He always knows just the right things to say.”

“I suppose Mr. Spade is quite cute, is he not? Always so eager to please.”

“Mr. Howl is alright for a beastman… He is at least well disciplined. ”

“Mr. Pergameno is surprisingly knowledgeable of protective eyewear. I may ask him for recommendations, sometime.”

“Lucius seems to hiss at me whenever I stop by and chat with Professor Trein. I wonder why, hohoh…”

“Professor Crewel would make a fine drill sergeant. The crack of his whip brings me back to my days of youth.”

“Coach Vargas’ physique is extraordinary. I’d like to someday study his veins, if given the opportunity to.”

“The Mystery Shop always somehow has everything I need. I wouldn’t ask Mr. Sam any questions he wouldn’t ask me.”

Notable Thoughts: Others’

“Mr. Clematis? Such a nice and helpful man! Taking on the task of monitoring the library by himself, on top of his studies.” - Crowley

“It could have been anyone else from ‘Loyalty Lock’ to get isekai’d here, but it just had to be him.” - Cloche

“Eek! Hide me! Do not make that freak come near me, please!” - Grim

“Can you patch me up instead? I don’t wanna get another scolding from the Vet!” - Ace

“Yeah, of course I respect Mors! He’s been taking the time to help me with studying and some reading.” - Deuce

“Mors’ insistence of live specimens, for dissections, stresses me out a little, but that’s how he did it back in his time… haha…” - Trey

“If I had to choose between dealing with Rook and dealing with Mors, I’m taking Mors all the way. At least he can leave me alone.” - Ruggie

“That geezer has some magic within him, but it’s unlike any I’ve seen before. It smells off.” - Leona

“I’ve got to return the handkerchief Mors gave me someday!” - Leikata

“Ah, Mors! Talking with him gives me nostalgia. It’s not bad looking back into the past.” - Lilia

Extras/Trivia:

- Harbours a strong dislike of all beastmen, and a preference for humans

- Pops in and out of any classes if it interests him

- His glasses are pinched on the bridge of his nose

- May go off on a tangent about all the “incompetent people” of his world when drunk

- Always faintly smells of smoke. Cigar? Gun powder? …Something else?

- Addresses most of the cast as adults, since they would have “reached maturity” where he is

- Oddly flattered that there is a “series based on his life events and greatness”

- Greys early because of stress in his youth

Gallery:

[awearywritersworld]

To Look Upon Such Divinity

Aemond Targaryen x Velaryon(Strong)!Reader

Summary: As children, you and Aemond were always very close, but after he loses his eye at the hands of your brother, he pushes you away. Years later, you travel to King’s Landing and see your old friend once more. Hurt/Comfort

Word Count: ~1.7k

Warnings: none, really 

______________________________________________________________

“You shouldn't be here.”

Those were the first words out of his mouth, nearly growled in frustration, when he opened the door to his chambers only to reveal you on the other side. The hour was late, the halls quiet and dark. 

“I- I wished to see you, my prince”

Pulling you inside, he swiftly closed the door behind you. His body invaded your space, forcing your back against the wall. His hand came to rest on the stone beside your head, his arm trapping you in place.

You were taken back by his actions and it showed plainly on your face. You had not seen him in years, not since Laena’s funeral, and in truth, you no longer knew the person standing before you. That idea made you feel uneasy.

You had always been close with your uncle, but when your brother sliced his eye, he completely shut you out. He wouldn’t let you see him before you left Driftmark, though you tried to visit his chambers several times. Afterward, you wrote him enough letters to fill a book, but they all went unanswered. Eventually, to his despair, you stopped trying.

Aemond had been attempting to stifle his shame by ignoring you. It was your younger brother that disfigured him, after all, and it left him humiliated. The prince had feelings for you and he couldn’t bear the thought of you shying away from him after he’d been made into a monster, just like everyone else.

Years later when you saw him after arriving in King's Landing, your brothers eager to catch a glimpse of those in the training yard, your eyes still lit up. It made him feel small and nervous. In all the time that had passed, you’d become a beautiful young woman with an air of grace and elegance. Time, however, had not been able to make Aemond whole again. 

That very night, you stood before him in the dim light of his chambers and it was the first time you'd had a good look at him. His face was familiar to you, though it was older, its features now much sharper.

You cursed the black patch that obscured the mark left by the blade, curious to discover what lied beneath it. You pondered whether the leather felt harsh against his skin, or if he'd grown used to it by now.

His large frame hovered over yours, meant to intimidate you. His close proximity forced you to look away from him and you drew your bottom lip in between your teeth anxiously. 

“You claim you’ve come to see me, yet your eyes evade me.” 

“Forgive me, my prince,” you returned, your gaze now meeting his own. 

He stared at you for a moment, trying to discern the look on your face. Eventually, he pulled away from you, unable to find an answer. You always did have a tendency to leave him guessing. 

“Aemond will do just fine,” he grunted at you, now facing the other way. 

You adjusted your skirts and stood up a little straighter. “Oh, I assumed formalities would be expected, given you’ve spent the last six years disregarding me.”

He gave you a dry chuckle in return, “if you cared for formalities, you would not be here.” 

When he turned to look at you once more, you studied his face shamelessly and the scrutiny made him tense. “If I recall, formalities were never something you valued either. Though, I suppose after all these years you are all but a stranger to me.” 

“I take no great pleasure in that fact, I assure you.” 

His honestly surprised him, as he tended to hold his cards tightly against his chest. He had learned to be suspicious of others, but alone in your presence that seemed to slip away. Aside from his mother, you had always been the one person to support him, to meet him with unquestioning kindness. He hoped to the gods he hadn’t lost that, even if he deserved to.

“Then I beg you to help me understand your sudden and unceasing indifference,” your voice grew louder, but he could find no hint of anger in your tone. “I showed you nothing but devotion, yet your coldness left a wound in my heart that still bleeds.”

He thought back to when his injury had been discovered and the families convened within the halls of Driftmark to sort out the incident. You had defended him, despite the insults he’d thrown at your brothers, and by extension, you. You did not think less of him after he claimed Vhagar for himself, even if it happened right under the noses of Laena's grieving daughters. 

All that only served to make it more difficult to give you an answer, even if he was no longer a foolish child. “It... It does not matter now. You have moved on, have you not?” 

The question, more than anything, was a last ditch attempt to put an end to the guilt stirring in his stomach, but your incredulous expression only made it worse.

“Have you?” The defeat in your voice was evident. 

His eye moved to the floor and you took the opportunity to glance around the room, committing to memory what little pieces of Aemond you could. The pile of books beside a short, well burned candle on the table next to his bed. The blanket and pillow in a pile near the fireplace. The belt that held his sword placed neatly and carefully by the door. 

“This was a mistake,” you finally spoke, resigning yourself to the fact things could never go back to the way they once were. 

“No, wait.” He moved closer, his fingers reaching out for yours, just barely brushing them before his hand fell back to his side. “Please.” 

“I will not long survive your twisting of the dagger, Aemond.”

"I did not move on," he began weakly, "for years, you have haunted me, both in waking hours and in my dreams."

His confession left you confused, your eyebrows furrowing together, "then why-"

"The shame I felt knew no measure," his hand reached up, subconsciously grazing his scar. "You were always gentle and tenderhearted, but I was left a monstrous cripple. I would have been an embarrassment to you."

"Oh, Aemond," you breathed. Though he stood before you as a man, it was obvious that the sweet, shy boy of your youth still occupied his mind to some degree. Your voice was just above a whisper, "how you mistake yourself."

You approached him slowly, his vulnerability making him look like a hound in fear of his master's raised fist. He fought the urge to look away from you. You stopped only a foot or so short of him, something akin to sadness dominating your features.

Your fingertips came to rest on his cheek, then trailed over the scarred ridges of his face with care. Your gentle touch pulled a soft sigh from his lips, his eyes fluttering shut as he allowed himself to relish in a rare moment of peace. Silently, he wished that the soft pads of your fingers would melt into his flesh so that he could hang on to the feeling forever.

Your touch ghosted over the eyepatch, your head tilting in a silent plea. Hesitantly, his hand reached to pull the leather from his face, his breath catching in his throat as he gauged your reaction. Your eyes softened and your stomach fluttered as his sapphire reflected in the light, commanding your attention.

“Does it hurt?” you questioned. 

The warmth in your voice forced him to swallow a lump that formed in his throat, “not anymore.” 

Your hand cradled the side of his face, while your thumb continued to brush over the harsh mark just beneath the blue stone. Your lips parted and your breath was steady as you continued to observed him. Even then, he waited for you to turn away in disgust, to suddenly realize how grotesque the sight before you was. The idea consumed his thoughts, his shoulders slumping as he prepared himself for the worst. 

“To look upon such divinity,” your voice grounded him, pulled him back to reality. “I consider myself blessed.” 

As the meaning of your words sunk in, Aemond’s teeth clenched together, trying to prevent the tears that threatened to spill down his cheek. He studied you, searching for any hint of jest or deceit, though he found what he always did when he looked at you--- affection and tenderness. 

Aemond felt a fierce rush of emotion overtake his body as his gaze moved between each of your eyes. It was as if you’d reached into his chest and squeezed his heart for all that it was worth. In his mind, the action would be warranted after all the grief he’d subjected you to. 

He could not help it when leaned down, bringing his lips closer to yours. He was unsure of himself, shy in a way that reminded you of moments you shared in the past. You did not pull back, you did not scorn him, so he dipped his head and the closed the space left between you. 

His lips felt soft against your own, his hands finding your hips and pulling you closer to him. You felt the wetness of his quiet tears against your face and it made your own eyes sting. All the pain you’d felt over the years seemed to bubble up and pour over, but it was accompanied by other emotions, too--- relief, bliss, love. 

You gripped the fabric of his shirt, his arms now wrapped around your waist, each of you desperate to feel the other. Even so, the kiss wasn't clumsy or rushed. No, the way your bodies melded together was slow... fervent. When you finally pulled away, only a few inches between your faces, your breathing was deep as you tried to appease your lungs. 

He watched you, noting the way your lips had grown just a touch plumper and how your eyes were dewy with emotion just like his own. For a fleeting moment, he berated himself for ever thinking you would disdain him for the injury he endured. 

“Surely,” he began, taking your face in his hands, “any divinity I possess is born only from the love you have always shown me, however undeserved.” 

[agentrouka-blog]

I find the Jeyne Poole/Arya relationship really interesting. Jeyne bullies her, laughs at her, and coins the name "Arya Horseface", but then also is the one who informs Arya of Mycah's butchering and of Joffrey's interest in Sansa. And then of course Jeyne is forced to pretend to be Arya. If we don't get a scene with Arya, Jeyne, Sansa, and Beth, that mirrors the sewing circle scene from AGOT but with them all finally safe I will be so mad.

First up, I very much agree that this trio needs a harmonious and healing reunion and resolution to their conflict. 😊😊

Given the vast status difference between the Lord's daughter and the steward's daughter, however, I think we need to be careful with the idea of Jeyne "bullying" Arya. She does not have the power to truly intimidate or repeatedly insult her without consequences. This is still a feudal society.

GRRM made it canon that she made up a hurtful nickname, but it spread without being attached to Jeyne as the originator, and was over by the time canon starts. Arya's perception of Jeyne laughing at her in the sewing circle might be as distorted as her perception of Sansa in the same context. And while Arya held on to the hurt feelings over the nickname that touched on her secret insecurity, Arya doesn't dwell on Jeyne much at all regarding it. Her focus is on Sansa.

We can safely assume that Arya is on Jeyne's mind, though.

Jeyne does have conflict with Arya, she clearly resented how she had opportunities that Jeyne would never have, but treated them with disregard or disdain. She clearly had a catty streak about it, and tried to make herself feel better through comparing their relative prettiness and mocking Arya where she could get away with it. She clearly showed little regard for Arya's feelings while sharing morbid information about Mycah's murder (same as about speculation over where the Mountain's head should be put on a spike). But she was also only 12 at the time. This is playground squabbles, not bullying. Bullying is what Aliser Thorne does to the recruits, what Jon does to them, even. One short-lived nickname is not that. Arya's insecurities have far more to do with society as a whole, with Septa Mordane, with her own sense of not fitting in.

GRRM is illustrating the misogyny and classism of their society in how it affects all of these young girls in their relationships to each other.

Jeyne being discarded in a brothel, retrieved like a toy only when the name Arya imbues her with false value, mistreated in Arya's place, forced to remain in this charade because as Jeyne she has no worth in their society... that fits right in there.

Arya's own arc strongly revolves around class and privilege, through her relationship with Gendry and with her own name. Jeyne's position in life is bound to be much clearer to her when they meet again, and what seemed big and dramatic to a nine-year-old will fade into obscurity compared to the real horrors and injustice they have all been through.

Arya is furious that no one stood up for Mycah the peasant boy.

How will she feel about the fate of Jeyne the steward's daughter, when she may have the power to work toward justice for her?

I think this is going to be a very powerful bookend to their beginning.

[beautiful-basque-country]

Some new conclusions regarding the Hand of Irulegi

The stippled text can be read as follows:

sorioneku ⋅ kunekebeekiŕateŕe/ /n oTiŕtan ⋅ eseakaŕi eŕaukon ⋅

The script used for the text on the Irulegi hand clearly belongs to the family of the Palaeohispanic semi-syllabaries. 18 different signs can be discerned. The presence of the T sign in a non-numismatic text is highly significant, because it demonstrates that this sign was used in multiple epigraphic contexts and because it confirms the existence of a graphic subsystem that, considering its geographical distribution and the increasingly solid linguistic evidence associated with it, must be described as a ‘Vasconic script’. Where and how such an adaptation occurred are aspects about which we currently know very little.

None of the words identified can be directly related to Vasconic or Iberian anthroponyms. The remarkable similarity between the first word in the text, sorioneku, and the Basque word zorioneko—‘of good fortune’, a flection-derivation of the sequence zori ‘fortune’ + (h)on ‘good’—could be taken to be a coincidence, were it not for the evident symbolism of the artefact and its findspot at the heart of Vasconic territory. Both words are of early date within the Basque vocabulary; even the union of both elements is recorded in the oldest Basque documents (e.g. zorionean ‘fortunately’ used by both Joan Perez Lazarraga and Bernat Dechepare in the 16th century).

The sgraffito version, however, offers sorioneke. The reason for this difference is obscure; the final -(e)ke may be the ending of some Basque-Aquitaine divinities recorded in Latin inscriptions on altars, such as the theonyms Larrahe and Herauscorritsehe. This word could mention the divinity, be it Good Fortune or another deity, to which the inscription would have been dedicated.

In line 3 it is possible to isolate oTiŕtan. This could be interpreted as a toponym given the possible presence of a formative suffix ta [da] in its lexical structure, (which is identical to that of the well-known toponym iltiŕta = Ilerda) as well as the Vasconic locative -n desinence. Depending on the value given, it would be the toponym Osserda or Ol(l)erda in its Latin transcription.

Among the rest of the words identified, eŕaukon is the most likely to be a verbal form, both because of its form and its final position. Its form recalls the Basque form of the past tense of the auxiliary verb zeraukon, used in eastern dialects; it is a form of *eradun—causative of *edun—‘to make have’ > ‘to give’, marginally used as an autonomous verb still in the sixteenth century, prior to its use as an auxiliary. The meaning of this verb would make sense in the case of a votive dedication, although several aspects are debatable.

The rest of the inscription on the Irulegi hand remains quite obscure. While here are problems in relation to the Basque words adduced as parallels, the inscription can be interpreted as a dedication to a divinity named at the beginning (sorioneke /-ku), with a dedication verb at the end (eŕaukon) whose object would go immediately before (ese-agaŕi). A place (oTiŕtan) may likewise be indicated, leaving the expression of the individual making the dedication and some other specification in the obscure line 2.

The inscription provides support for a growing awareness that the ancient Vascones knew and made use of writing, at least to a degree.

The use of sorioneku or sorioneke at the beginning of the text, isolated from what follows as an introduction admits comparison with Basque zori (h)on (‘good fortune’), and other elements, such as the verbal form eŕaukon or the locative in -n of a place-name, suggest that the inscription is in the Vasconic language, the longest and earliest known to date.

The implications of the discovery of the Irulegi hand for the epigraphic and historical understanding of the Vasconic territory, as well as the possible linguistic connections between the Vasconic, Iberian and modern Basque languages, require further in-depth analysis. Given the scarcity of other firm evidence, the Irulegi hand and its inscription will henceforth constitute an indispensable starting point for the establishment of a linguistic map of the region and any debate on the origin and development of the Vasconic language and script.

Full article

Eskerrik asko @glendathegoodone for sharing this!

[anxiousgaypanicking]

I noticed that you're accepting requests for good omens 👀 aziraphale coming back from heaven after leaving Crowley and things escalating up to apology sex/giving Crowley the opportunity to let out his pent-up frustrations? Whoever's the top or bottom is up to you

Apology

Warnings: pretty standard sex

Aziraphale stands idly on the steps outside what was formerly his bookshop. Despite having entered and exited these doors plenty of times, he now feels unsure of whether or not he was welcomed inside.

He had seen Muriel pass by the doors, holding an unsteady stack of books in her arms. Seeing her reminded him of his first days on Earth, and even of the first books he got to hold in his hands. He hoped she hadn't given any away, but he wouldn't blame her if she didn't understand their value. Those books were important to him, and he'd abandoned them anyway.

It wasn't the only important thing he'd left behind.

Just barely visible through the window of the door is Crowley. He's laying back on one of the comfortable couches Aziraphale's ex-bookshop houses. Normally, when he'd stretch out on the piece of furniture it was when he and Aziraphale were engrossed in witty conversation. Now he looked as though he was miserable, if not rotting away on the cushions.

Aziraphale didn't blame him in the slightest.

Fear of rejection is the only thing that keeps him hesitant outside the doors. He doesn't deserve Crowley's forgiveness, but he's prepared to beg for it anyway.

Swallowing the spit in his mouth, Aziraphale heads inside.

As he pushes the door open, the bell above it jingles, and though Crowley doesn't stir, Muriel's feet can be heard excitedly pattering towards the doorway.

"Hi!" she exclaims, before she's even before the door, "welcome to A. Z. Fell & Co..." Muriel trails off before she can even finish her sentence. She gasps when she fully processes who is standing before her.

"Aziraphale!" she exclaims, though Aziraphale has a hard time interpreting whether it's out of surprise or excitement.

The proclamation of his name has Crowley whipping around in his seat though, staring at Aziraphale with his eyes obscured by his familiar black glasses. Aziraphale swears it was just yesterday when Crowley felt comfortable enough to slide his glasses off every time he walked into the bookshop. Now here he was wearing them just to lay around.

"Hi, Muriel," Aziraphale says, though his voice is unsteady, as though he's trying to keep a shuddering sob suppressed. "Hi, Crowley."

"I've kept everything tidy for you!" Muriel states, smiling, though her eyes reflect a certain disbelief. "And Mr. Crowley told me you didn't want any books actually sold."

"How sweet of him." Aziraphale smiles at Crowley. Crowley scowls in response, turning away from him in such a way that drew attention to the cold air wafting between them. There's thick tension that settles along with the silence, which has Muriel bouncing on the heels of her feet awkwardly.

"Why don't you go... tidy something up in the back," Aziraphale then urges Muriel, as soft as he can. She seems relieved at having something to do, and nods at the request, before walking off and leaving Crowley and Aziraphale alone.

For a few seconds, Aziraphale waits, wondering if Crowley will say something. He doesn't. And so, Aziraphale clears his throat and breaks the silence, stating "I came back."

Crowley doesn't stir.

Taking a few small steps toward the sofa Crowley was spread out on, Aziraphale adds "I suppose this warrants a lot more than the apology dance?"

"I don't want to talk to you right now."

Aziraphale's chest aches at the words, but still he presses onwards. "Crowley..."

"I don't even want to see you."

That has Aziraphale's eyes feeling wet. He blinks away the tears before they even have the chance to fall, and sets his hand gently on the back of the cushions, standing behind Crowley's head. So close, Aziraphale could reach forward and cup his face.

"I'm sorry."

That has Crowley drawing in a sharp breath. He doesn't answer Aziraphale, inviting him to say more. Apologize again, or plead his case maybe?

Whatever the reason, Aziraphale knows this is potentially his one chance to make things right.

"I'm sorry," he repeats, believing it to be a good place to start from. "I shouldn't have left you. I shouldn't have left Earth. I was... I was hoping that, as the Supreme Archangel, I could make a difference. I could allow Heaven to see just how special Earth was, and... that I could have you with him. But I couldn't have either." Aziraphale's voice shakes. "I thought I was doing the right thing, but I don't know what the right thing is anymore. Everything is so skewed."

He has to take in a breath to keep himself from slurring his words.

"Jim... or, Gabriel, told me when he'd lost his memories that being around one particular person would make things okay. That if you had nothing else, and you were lost, that one particular person could make things feel better. You are my person."

Crowley is still. Aziraphale continues.

"You don't have to forgive me. I... I don't even know if I'm asking for your forgiveness. But let me at least be with you; I beg of you." Aziraphale's hand slides from the back of the sofa down to the armrest Crowley's head was leaning against. His fingers slowly crawl up Crowley's cheek, caressing his tattoo oh so gently, before cupping his angled jaw and just holding his face.

"I'll do whatever it takes to make things right," Aziraphale promises, and he means it. Once more, his shining eyes are welled up with tears. He's gotten so good at reading Crowley throughout the years, but as Aziraphale looks at him now, he hasn't the faintest clue what he could be thinking. Truthfully, as much as Aziraphale wanted Crowley to accept him, he knew he just as rightfully deserved to be turned away.

Finally, Crowley sits up. He just stays sitting, facing away from Aziraphale for a few moments, before turning back to him and scooting himself to the arm of the settee so that they're face to face.

"I'm still angry with you," Crowley states. Aziraphale smiles sadly, and nods his head.

"I figured you would be. And- it's justified, of course."

"What made you leave?"

The question surprises Aziraphale a bit, but he supposes it makes sense that Crowley would want to know, especially after Aziraphale had begged him to come with.

"I missed you." Aziraphale stares into Crowley's glasses, finding only his sad reflection within them. "I missed the world. I missed my world."

Aziraphale's fingers travel upwards, dancing against the side of Crowley's glasses. Upon being met with no resistance, he slowly slides them off of Crowley's face, and sets them aside. Crowley's eyes are wet, but otherwise hard to read.

"I'd like to be on our side, if that's okay," Aziraphale quietly says, speaking those words to Crowley and Crowley alone. A side that would consist of just the two of them. A group of the two of them.

Crowley's hand sets itself atop Aziraphale's, holding it against his face, before it slithers upwards, sliding over the length of Aziraphale's arm until he's holding Aziraphale's own soft cheek, studying his countenance.

"I shouldn't forgive you," Crowley utters, voice raspy and low. "But after six-thousand years of being around you, it was devastating not feeling your presence on Earth."

Aziraphale exhales, shaky and apologetic, sighing as his eyelids flutter shut momentarily. When his eyes reopen, Crowley is still staring at him, but his gaze has softened in such a way that Aziraphale can sense forgiveness, though both of them know things are different now. For once, they both seem to agree on where they stand in relation to Heaven and Hell, and in relation to one another.

For a few moments, they just stand in each other's presence, Aziraphale leaning against Crowley's hand while his own thumb rubs over Crowley's cheekbone. Then Crowley's pulling him closer. Slow, at first, as though testing the waters, urging him to bend down so that they're face to face.

"Am I moving too fast?" Crowley whispers.

"I should be asking you that question," Aziraphale responds, feeling relief wash over him at the way Crowley's looking at him. He's still angry - he probably will be for a while - but at least temporarily Aziraphale is forgiven.

He can feel Crowley's warm breath on his lips, but there's a pause. Perhaps Crowley is waiting to see if Aziraphale will pull away, or if he'll truly make up for his departure by connecting their mouths in a much softer fashion than Crowley initially had. Regardless of the reason, Aziraphale can't take the lingering much longer, and so slowly tilts his head to the side and presses their lips together.

It's gentle, as most things with Aziraphale are, and just as apologetic as he is. Though he hesitates, his hands eventually find Crowley's shoulders, no longer afraid of embracing him. Crowley lets him move at his pace, and his hands slowly grasp Aziraphale's coat, keeping him close but not pulling him in as he had before. They're close enough as is. Close enough for their foreheads to rest against each other when Aziraphale pulls away slightly, leaving an air of fluster between them.

"So..." Aziraphale speaks, voice low and unsure. "What now? No apology dance?"

Crowley finally snorts, a smile creasing the corner of his lips just barely visible as he turns his head to the side. It helps soothe Aziraphale further, and finally allows him the ability to smile as he straightens back up.

"No, I suppose not," Crowley answers, as he smooths out his pants and leans back against the couch. "Though, if you're still insistent on making things up to me somehow, I have a few ideas."

That has one of Aziraphale's eyebrows quirking up, as he replies "oh? I'd love to hear them, if you'd be so..." he stops before saying 'kind,' and uses "willing" instead, smiling after. Crowley smiles briefly at him in turn, before his face falls to a more neutral expression, and then a more contemplative one.

"I have one that I'm particularly inclined to suggest, but I'd like to know before I suggest it that you'll be completely honest with me," Crowley states, as he finally works his glasses off his face, allowing Aziraphale to see his gleaming yellow irises. He looks serious, though.

"I will be," Aziraphale affirms.

Crowley stares at him for just a few seconds, before pushing himself off the sofa and taking Aziraphale's hand, lightly enough for Aziraphale to pull away if he so desires but still firm enough to lead him forward. He takes them upstairs to the now-vacant bedroom Gabriel-turned-Jim previously used during his temporary stay. Aziraphale's eyes him curiously, having not yet caught on to Crowley's implications, up until Crowley's fingers are sliding beneath his coat and pulling it off of him, slowly slipping the coat down Aziraphale's arms and running his fingers down them all the same.

"Oh..." Aziraphale breathes, eyes darting from Crowley's hands to his face.

"Is this okay?"

Aziraphale lets his coat fall to the floor, and despite his urge to pick it up and hang it over a chair or something, he stays planted where he stands, Crowley's fingertips lingering over his knuckles.

"I suppose," Aziraphale answers, shying away from Crowley's gaze. "Though, it's a bit unfair."

Aziraphale reaches for Crowley's jacket, and Crowley lets Aziraphale pull it off of him, though he does comment "I thought this was all about making it up to me. This was my idea after all."

"I'm just making a few suggestions of my own, Crowley," Aziraphale replies, pulling Crowley's grey, skinny-scarf off of him as well. "If you disagree with them, you can say such."

"No, no," Crowley is quick to say, face warming at Aziraphale's casual nature. Despite this quite literally being Crowley's choice, Aziraphale had adapted rather quickly, and with a lot more relaxation than Crowley truthfully expected. "I have no complaints with this."

"Good." Aziraphale's hands still pertain a little bit of hesitancy, as doubt fills any silent moment they have, but he pushes himself to continue anyway. Who's going to stop him from touching Crowley now that he's finally allowed? No one is.

He's had Crowley's body, but he's never felt Crowley's body, and there's a clear difference between the two. And Crowley just stands there and lets him run his hands along his sides, fingers pushing against his ribcage and hip bones before ever so slightly sliding beneath the waistband of Crowley's tight pants, and it's only there that Crowley stops him.

"You'll probably need some help with that bit," he states, though Aziraphale's eyes shine at the joking manner in which Crowley speaks. While he would much prefer to go the more humanly route of properly stripping Crowley down, he knows that logically Crowley's pants probably can't slide down further than a couple millimeters without coming to an impasse.

Pulling his fingers up, Crowley makes a quick flicking motion, and in a matter of seconds his clothes are miracled off. If he has any shame about standing nude in front of Aziraphale, he's doing a great job of hiding it, and instead just takes to unbuttoning Aziraphale's vest.

He's careful with the angel's clothes, sliding them off his body slowly and making sure they land on an area of the floor where they won't be accidentally trampled. Aziraphale has little shame in being naked either; he's been alive for six thousand years, he's been indecent once or twice, but the way Crowley looks at him once his pants are dropped makes him burn internally, as though Crowley is igniting hellfire inside of him.

"Look at you," Crowley murmurs, so soft Aziraphale takes a step forward to hear him better. "You're gorgeous."

His hands linger above Aziraphale's chubby stomach, wanting to touch but hesitating despite their mutual vulnerability. Hovering upwards, Crowley instead holds Aziraphale's face, pulling him forward and leaning down to kiss him again.

It reminds Aziraphale of his time spent in heaven, longing for the taste of Crowley's lips. They'd been the last thing he tasted before departing, and he hadn't realized just how much he'd craved them until they were unattainable.

A moan slips past his lips, which has Crowley pulling away immediately.

Startled, Aziraphale almost goes to apologize, but is quickly rendered speechless by Crowley tilting his head upwards and thumbing over his lips.

"Beautiful," Crowley breathes, so delicately Aziraphale could have believed the word emerged from the wind itself. "I wish it hadn't been muffled."

"I'm sure the others won't be," comes Aziraphale's assurance, though both of them go pink in the face at his implications.

"Well," Aziraphale then begins, clasping his hands together in a flustered bid to move things along, "shall we mount the bed? I assume that's why you brought us up here in the first place." Aziraphale nods at the mattress, and Crowley looks between it and Aziraphale as though his initial plan hadn't just involved wanting to move away from the downstairs windows.

"Right, yes, of course," Crowley exclaims, nodding and pressing his lips together into a thin line. "After you."

Aziraphale smiles softly, though pulls Crowley slowly to the bed, urging him onto it first. "No, please. I insist."

Surprised, but interested, Crowley lays himself back on the bed, scooting partially up the mattress until a pillow hits the back of his shoulders. Aziraphale crawls onto the bed after him, sliding between Crowley's thin legs until their bodies are pressed together, guiding Crowley's calves around his waist.

"I never would have expected - in all of six thousand years - to be doing this with you," Crowley admits, as Aziraphale's soft hands glide over his bony figure. Unlike Crowley, who displayed more reservations about touching, Aziraphale has no trouble getting right to it. They've never properly embraced, he's realizing, and now at their most vulnerable they're going to get to.

"Have you thought about it?" Aziraphale asks, as his fingers dance down Crowley's pronounced hip bones, and then over his thighs.

"Yes."

Aziraphale nods, not saying anything in response, though his cheeks flush at the confession.

His hands slide back to Crowley's hips, rubbing over his prominent ilia, before he sheepishly asks "who... who do you want to be in control?"

He would take the reins himself if Crowley so desired, but felt it necessary to ask. This had been Crowley's idea after all; he might have had a specific way he wanted this all to go down. Besides, after no doubt feeling out of control during Aziraphale's leave, he may want to be the one to guide things.

But surprisingly, he takes Aziraphale's wrists, and pulls them until Aziraphale is falling forward, hands planted on either side of Crowley's face.

"You can take the lead," Crowley says, slurring his words a bit in an attempt to be smooth. "Might as well, with the position you're in."

Very lightly, Crowley's fingertips brush through Aziraphale's curly hair, as he feels Aziraphale's stomach press against his body. Aziraphale stares into his eyes, before they're both moving to kiss in tandem, soft and slow, appreciating the other for all they're worth. To some extent, every kiss in the near-future will be a somewhat bittersweet reminder of Aziraphale's absence - and even his initial rejection - but it was sweet enough to be worth tasting. Addicting enough to have Aziraphale pulling away to catch a breath, before kissing Crowley again, his own arms shaking in a desperate bid to keep his body from laying flat against Crowley's own while kissing him feebly. Pleasure courses through his body, but he doesn't place why until he's being lightly pushed back.

"Angel," Crowley gasps, turning his head to the side to prevent Aziraphale from kissing him once more. "You mustn't tease me."

Aziraphale goes to ask him what he means, but as he sits up he sees that Crowley's hard, leaky cock was trapped between their fronts, no doubt stimulated by any miniscule movement. Aziraphale's own cock - also hard - was in a similar position, explaining his previous arousal.

Aziraphale sits back on his calves, leaving Crowley to prop himself up on his elbows as he watches Aziraphale curiously wrap his thick fingers around his cock, and give it a few unintentionally teasing strokes.

Crowley's fingers dig into the blankets at the pleasure, and his teeth grit as he muffles an embarrassingly loud moan, tucking his head briefly into his shoulder until he can steady himself. When he sees Aziraphale watching his face with pink cheeks, he's quick to spit "well? Get on with it then!" He can feel the blood rushing to his own cheeks, and he knows Aziraphale's noticed after witnessing the angel's lips form into a soft, embarrassed smile.

Performing a small, quick miracle, Aziraphale summons a small bottle of lube. He pours some onto his fingers, and then makes sure the digits are fully coated before pressing his fingertips against Crowley's hole.

Bitterly, Crowley objects "is this really necessary?"

But Aziraphale's response is firm and sweet, as he states "of course it is. Safety first."

Two of his fat fingers then push into Crowley's hole, spreading him open leisurely as Aziraphale focuses on stretching him out. Crowley groans at the feeling, sliding his forearm over his mouth to muffle his sounds as he leans his head back against a pillow. Aziraphale watches the way his Adam's apple bobs each time his fingers slowly thrust inside.

Crowley says something, and though Aziraphale can't understand it due to his arm in the way, he can assume it's something along the lines of "hurry up." It has Aziraphale huffing, but he wants to please Crowley, and so scissors him open just a tad longer before retracting his hand, musing at the whine that slips from Crowley's throat in the process.

The bottle of lube is reopened once more and spread over Aziraphale's thick cock, before it's shut and set aside with Aziraphale's hands taking hold of Crowley's hips once more.

The tip of Aziraphale's cock presses against Crowley's hole, before slowly sliding into him, with Aziraphale leaning over Crowley as he moans. That has Crowley gasping, as he slides one of his arms around Aziraphale's body so that his hand is pressed against his back. His nails just barely sink into Aziraphale's soft flesh, but he's careful not to hurt him.

"This is quite the apology," Aziraphale murmurs, voice light and breathy as he his cock pushes fully into Crowley. "Much better than the dance, I think."

"I quite like the dance," Crowley utters in response "Perhaps I'll have you do it for me when we're done here."

Aziraphale snorts out a laugh, before he's kissing Crowley's throat. This was truly a great deal of exertion, but it was worth it to see Crowley's cheeks glow red with each bit of affection Aziraphale gave him, despite having been the one to initiate this level of intimacy.

"Tell me when you want me to move," Aziraphale then says, voice gentle. "I want to go at your pace."

"You can move now," Crowley states, almost immediately. "Don't make me wait any longer." His arm falls from his face in order to cup Aziraphale's in turn, before Crowley whispers the softest "please" Aziraphale has ever heard.

Aziraphale is filled with the upmost desire to please, and so pulls his cock halfway out, before pushing it back into Crowley, shivering at the gasp the latter lets out at the action.

Here Crowley was telling Aziraphale he sounded beautiful when his own noises were just as addicting in their own right.

Aziraphale is slow and precise with his movements, and though his eyes watch Crowley's face contort with curiosity and pleasure, his mind is dually focused on making sure Crowley feels as best as he possibly can. And maybe - rather selfishly - Aziraphale is focused on the way his cock feels buried in Crowley's ass.

He tucks his face into the crook of Crowley's neck, trying to adjust to the rather sensitive sensation of having sex for the first time. As generally sexless beings, Aziraphale would never have guessed they'd do something so human. But humanity, to some extent, was what brought them together, so really it only made sense this would happen eventually.

Eventually. Aziraphale flushes as he thinks of that word.

It's rather intense though. Sex is. His nether regions are sensitive and his body is warm, especially as it presses against Crowley's.

His lips rest against Crowley's skin as he thrusts slowly into him, and despite his urge to keep his face tucked beneath Crowley's jaw, he pulls away after a few seconds, pressing a parting kiss to Crowley's sharp collarbone.

He brings one of his hands to Crowley's cheeks, running his thumb along his cheek, before he goes "your eyes truly are gorgeous. I missed you, of course, but I missed your eyes especially."

Crowley groans at the attention, and immediately slots an arm over his eyes to obscure them. Immediately, Aziraphale is tutting and quickly grabs his hand, peeling it away from his face and pinning it to the bed beside his head. He entangles their fingers, and scolds him softly for trying to hide any bit of himself.

Under his breath, Crowley grumbles about Aziraphale being a tease, but Aziraphale just kisses him into silence, grinding their bodies together as he attempts to speed up his thrusts. With hard thrusts, he pulls himself most of the way out, and then snaps his hips all the way in, stretching Crowley open with each movement.

Crowley's own cock slides against Aziraphale's squishy stomach, stimulated relentlessly while Aziraphale moves atop him obliviously.

Suddenly, Aziraphale's hand is being squeezed by Crowley's own as he breaks away from the kiss with a loud cry, head falling back as his back arches off the bed.

Aziraphale's thrusts slow immediately, unable to read the reaction as pleasured or pained.

"Are you okay?" he asks, tightening his fingers against Crowley's hand, only to flush when Crowley doesn't even try to repress a trembling moan.

His eyes are squeezed shut as he answers "prostate..." followed by a panting "sensitive area," which has Aziraphale going red in the face as he nods wordlessly.

His body presses further into Crowley's as his cock speeds up again, this time with Aziraphale looking considerably more focused as he attempts to aim solely for that spot over and over in order to make Crowley feel the best. And he does a considerably good job, with the tip of his cock repeatedly jutting against Crowley's prostate, making the demon moan with each thrust.

Crowley's legs squeeze around his angel's chubby waist, helpless to do anything but squeeze his eyes shut and suck in shaky gasps for air. He's only able to focus on the intense onslaught of pleasure that he's facing.

He expected this to be a learning experience for both of them, but Aziraphale is surprisingly good at this. He wonders briefly if Aziraphale has ever done this before, and then thinks about how they definitely need to do this again in a non-apologetic context, before he's being quickly distracted by another thrust to the sensitive bundle of nerves within him.

Choking out a moan, Crowley grabs Aziraphale's upper arm and clings to it, nails ever so slightly digging into his skin as he forces his eyes open to watch the way his angel's stomach looks rubbing pleasurably against his slick cock.

Aziraphale's stomach engulfs it, sliding over it, before lifting up slightly and letting Crowley see the strings of sticky pre connecting his cock to Aziraphale's pudge, before he leans back down and once again squishes Crowley's shaft beneath him. Aziraphale himself feels hot, and pants as he works to please them both.

"Angel," Crowley pleads, as warmth overtakes his body. He can feel sweat building on his brow, trickling down the sides of his face.

"What do you need, Crowley?" Aziraphale asks, knuckles white with how firmly he's holding Crowley's hand. "Anything, and I'll do it." And he means it.

Yet, he doesn't expect Crowley to suddenly grit out "come in me."

Clearly, he's embarrassed as he asks for it, but Aziraphale is equally as flustered to hear it, and can't help gasping at the request as he presses his forehead to Crowley's. Against Crowley's lips he breathes out "okay, okay," while Crowley moans between his affirmations. He's straining to hold back his orgasm, waiting for Aziraphale. Always waiting for Aziraphale.

Aziraphale's own eyelids stay lightly shut as he lets out a moan of his own, soft and barely audible, driving his cock into Crowley with increasingly sloppy thrusts before his breathing picks up, face red as he presses his body fully against Crowley's. Chest to chest, as close as they could possibly be, Aziraphale thrusts his shaft deep into Crowley a final time, before coming hard inside of him. He moans as semen spills from his cock, thrusting through his orgasm, before he feels Crowley jolt beneath him.

Breathing heavily, Aziraphale pulls back in order to watch Crowley bite his bottom lip, muffling a guttural groan as his back arches into Aziraphale's chest, scratching Aziraphale's arm as he comes, before falling back against the bed with a dramatic huff as he struggles to catch his breath. Aziraphale stays above him momentarily, before pulling back and sliding out, sitting on his knees between Crowley's legs - that remain loosely wrapped around him - as he sees the mess Crowley made of their stomachs, and his own mess spilling out of Crowley's hole.

Aziraphale rubs Crowley's thigh until they've both calmed down, before he asks "would you rather miracle away this mess, or clean it up the traditional way?" which is promptly answered by Crowley waving his fingers and miracling himself a clean pair of boxers, and their mess to be wiped clean.

"Ah. I suppose that answers that."

Aziraphale slides off the bed with shaky legs, and grabs his own boxers off the ground. He slides them on carefully, before turning back to Crowley, who is staring at him as though he's holding back a question.

Smiling, Aziraphale wordlessly gets back into bed, and watches the way Crowley lets out a quiet sigh of relief, lightly wrapping his arms around Aziraphale as Aziraphale slides his arms around Crowley's back, tucking Crowley's face into his chest.

"I'm not much for sleeping, but I know you enjoy it," Aziraphale says softly. "How about you get some rest, and when you wake up we can talk about things over tea."

"And a bit of gin?"

Aziraphale laughs, gently rubbing his hand over Crowley's back. "Whatever you'd like, Crowley. Whatever you'd like."

[most-datable-datable-bracket]

ROUND 3 MATCH 22

Claude propaganda:

"To say Claude has trust issues is an understatement—you have to spend half the game earning his. (Claude isn't even his real name!) Once you have it, though, he's absolutely ride or die for you until the stars go out. He is so full of heart and ambition: He wants both sides of his heritage to get along, he wants to open borders and eliminate xenophobia and promote equality between commonfolk, and deep down, I think he craves a partner to stand with him at that new dawn, or an equal who sees his vision for the future and will fight for it just as hard. Nobody believed in him when he was a kid, but if you put your faith in him, he'll return it tenfold. Some people don't like that he's calculating, or has to leave the player character at the end of the game to go back to his homeland, but both are necessary elements for his goals to change things. He will always come back, and everyone who bets against him and his love for his companions is wrong with a big fat W. #KhalidForMostDatablePrez"

"Claude is a fun little onion of facades. He calls himself the embodiment of distrust, he acts like he's carefree and without worries, an unscrupulous schemer--and so many in universe buy into that hook line and sinker. He's used to others viewing him with suspicion and uses it as armor to obscure his not-so-dark truth: that he cares immensely, that he values minimizing the loss of life, and that above all he has so much hope that people will fundamentally choose to do better given the choice.

His front guards a center that his conflict filled world would be happy to tear apart. As the child of people from two nations in constant conflict--one of which is explicitly isolationist and dehumanizes those outside its church's reach--he hasn't really had a place where he can be without his facade. As a child he thought he could run, but when confronted with the fact that this hatred existed no matter where he ran, he chose to instead try to create a more just and kind world.

His inability to let others in beyond his facade at first may lead to a sense of distance, but isn't it then all the more satisfying when you're allowed in? All he wants is a little trust, a little faith, and--like what he wants to give everyone--a chance to be better.

And like that you got a charming young lad with a fun personality that your grandma would be thrilled to have stay forever."

Hades propaganda:

“Fields of Asphodel is a work in progress (but nearly finished!) text-based IF game where the MC plays the part of Persephone (you can rename your character tho) who get married to Hades at the behest of Zeus (being a giant douchebag per usual) and move to the Underworld. Hades is kind and respectful and cares deeply for his realm. He feels guilty that the MC was forced into this arranged marriage and does whatever he can to make the MC more comfortable. Even if the MC wants to leave, he puts the MC's feelings first. He drinks that respect women (gender neutral) juice everyday. Listen, this marriage is arranged by Olympus King Dick Zeus, so Hades has absolute zero problems if the MC dates someone else from his realm. Choose someone else's route (if you can!) He has the cutest kid, Makaria and of course everyone's favorite puppy Kerberos. Hades is a slow burn, he dodges and swerves the MC's flirting, pretending to be oblivious. He's not oblivious at all to the growing feelings between the two and that's what makes it sooo good.”