#interspersed with weird sensations on and off

[heedular]

Ironically it was the needles that had scared it off for so long. Sure every two weeks like clockwork it did it injections and it hasn’t missed a bloodwork appointment in years. But that was all routine stuff by now, and wasn’t shoving a barely “liquid” swarm of nanites into the palm of your left hand and each joint in the same arm.

Of course that excuse had been faltering as it was over the years, and even that was before the nerve damage. After all what is a bit of one time discomfort and different sensation when its got repeated nerve tests and part of its every day wakeup routine is testing for what sensation has been lost for good this time?

Thus with a unsteady sigh the drone trapped in an all to fleshy and organic body started across the street to the clinic.

The inside of the clinic was comfortable, if a bit cold, though that wasn’t uncommon in synth buildings to help the heat management, and 1136 didn’t have to wait long before being escorted to the operating room.

The room itself was a weird mix of mechanic cleanroom and medical clinic. Tools lined the wall interspersed by pressure cuffs. Nuts next to syringes sitting on top of a vat of faintly glowing green liquid.

1136 gulped slightly, soon most if not all of that would be pumped into its arm, to either convert the organic matter or be used as fuel for the process.

“First time jitters?” the synthetic voice broke it from its internal monologue.

It nodded nervously, “Yea, a bit… but sometimes we’ve got to suffer on our way to what we want.”

The technicians viewscreen shifted to a somber hue, “Sometimes, but I like to think we can find what ways we can around it. If it would please sit down we can begin setting up the procedure while we talk.”

At that she gestured towards the chair in question. It was an interesting piece, though it looked like it belonged in some villains lair, with the way each limb had its own strap and independently adjustable holding plate.

“Sometimes it can help to hold the limbs specific ways during the process. This way we aren’t relying on meat to help us remove itself,” was the answer to 1136’s question about them.

The plates were warm, when it laid down on them, even if they didn’t yield much to the surface, small pinpricks from various hidden injector port rings fired off all over the surface of the drone’s exposed skin.

“So what made you take the plunge? Ive been here a while and its been being treated for here for years longer and the prediction software had it likely to stick to small doses till its meat gave out. Not to be rude but usually something’s spurred this on,” the tech, Azraysyn, asked while securing the drones arms to the holders. At the push of a button a small semi fluid gel extruded from some ports and began cradling the drones chassis softly, “Sorry, usually there’s already been more pre-work done so we keep the softenners more or less turned off.”

It shrugged, or it tried to only for it to be met with the stiff resistance of the casing firmly locking it and all of its joints into place, and its voice only shook a bit from nerves “Uh… nerve damage, and its degrading, and it knows we dont know how much of what makes us ‘us’ is in the perifery and it doesn’t want to lose it before it makes a decision.”

“Mmmhm, no I get it. That’s not an uncommon thing to happen actually,” Azraysyn said while gathering everything onto the tray, “Especially if you have concerns of continuity of self. Sadly it often is the flesh failing that forces the decision, one way or the other. Now then one last thing and we’re ready.”

With that a small port where her collarbone would be opened and she withdrew a faintly glowing purple syringe, “A little something of my own design to help the process for the scared ones.”

And as fast as a blur it was in 1136’s neck and gone before it could even process asking what was happening, much less resist, “Wait what was that?!”

“Little swarm I cooked up myself,” Azraysyn said full of pride, “It’s gonna go inhibit all those pain signals we’re about to cause and turn them into pleasure ones.” She kept talking while lining up the injectors, “Oh don’t worry the nerves are fried anyway and you’ve got too much anxiety to let yourself enjoy it otherwise before you go nonoperational. I should know, I used to be like you myself always letting everyone walk over me and just putting up with it cause they at least humored me by not laughing at me to my face.”

It tried to sputter out a response only for her to keep talking, “Oh don’t deny it I hunt through every client of mines life, make sure I give them exactly what they need, whether they realize it when they come in or not. It’s going to love how it turns out. Now be a good drone and take it and I promise it’ll love every minute.”

With that she pushed the panel and the machine activated. First there was a hiss then a pinch, then another and another, each finger and joint between each bone in hand and arm stabbed into at once. And then the pumping started, a thick viscous fluid filling in the veins and capillaries, immediately sending out spiderwebs of silvering flesh. But instead of the expected pain just a soft warmth was spreading, a soft warmth that felt like someone had taken the cold numbness that had become its life and replaced it with a warm soothing bath.

Not that it had much time to appreciate this before she was literally on top of it, straddling it in its chair.

“This is my favorite part, the part that makes you love this like a good drone and helps get rid of those pesky organic worries,” and with that her screen activated.

A myriad of colours and not colours that ten minutes ago had been invisible to it danced across her screen, absolutely captivating the drone.

Time descended into a blur, all it knew was that this felt good and it wanted, no needed more.

And then just like that it was walking out of the clinic, left arm partway through the process and most importantly no longer hurting, the nerve bundle successfully taking the treatment. 1136 was somewhat sad it would take multiple trips but was relieved there was finally some relief. Most importantly though it was relieved to have finally taken the plunge. Started was always the hardest part and really

It couldn’t wait to go back.

[dream-of-neverland]

Would you consider Agere Remus with cg patton, Janus, or Logan -💚 Green anon

Well this took an embarrassingly long time to write, but here you go! 1399 words of Remus fluff and shenanigans.

Agere Remus, CG Logan, CG Janus

TW: Bathtime, lots of non-sexual nudity

“Bath. Now” Logan knew he had made the right decision when, instead of giggling maniacally, Remus whined and stomped his foot.

“I’m not that muddy. I can just get new clothes.” Remus said, looking at Logan with his best puppy dog eyes. Unfortunately for Remus, Logan was by far the least susceptible to such tactics.

Reaching forward, Logan gingerly grabbed Remus’s far-too-slimy-to-just-be-mud hand before dragging Remus in the direction of one of the two bathrooms they had installed upstairs just for when people were little. “Patton would be very unhappy if he saw you getting dirt everywhere.” Logan responded, opening the door, pulling Remus in, and closing it behind him. “It’s unsanitary.”

Remus whined once more and responded “But it was so fun, though! Me and the other people in the ‘magination got to play in the mud, ‘cause it rained a lot yes’erday, and I made some really cool mud pies, and one of them looked just like a brain!”

Logan smiled to himself as he reached over to turn on the shower. “Well it sounds like you had a good time. Did you make sure to stay in the safe areas of the imagination?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Remus replied, testing the temperature of the water before reluctantly getting in. “No big ‘venjures when I’m liddle, I know, I know.”

There was a momentary lapse in the conversation as Logan helped Remus scrub off the more stubborn patches of dirt. Then, “Hey Logan? Why is dirt unsantidary?”

And with that they were off, with Remus asking more and more questions that Logan would try to answer as best he could, interspersed with long stories from Remus that were just as likely to make sense as not.

Once Logan had scrubbed off the dirt to his satisfaction, he started up the bath and pulled out the bath toys, which made Remus perk up considerably. Now their conversation was mostly about Prince Ken, who started off well meaning but quickly became a zombie, then a lich lord, only to be strangled by a Kraken and left as a warning to trespassers, and so on and so forth.

Time passed pleasantly, and before long Remus’s hair was washed, body clean as it could be, and it was time for him to get out.

“But Looooogaaaaannnnn.” Remus frowned, splashing his arms stubbornly in the water. “I need to know if the Kwagen ever fines his dwew love!”

Logan raised an eyebrow as he reached into the bathtub and pulled out the plug. “I thought he accidentally murdered his true love when he killed Prince Ken.”

“Yeah, but he doesn’ know dat!”

“Well, he’ll just have to find out next time.” Logan said, gently pulling Remus up and out.

A few moments passed as Logan dried him off before Remus broke the silence. “Why do people have to wear clothes?”

It took a lot of self control for Logan not to choke on air. Oh boy. Remus had a penchant for asking difficult questions, but this one was certainly a stand out. How could he explain this to Remus? More importantly, an age regressed Remus? “Well Remus,” He started, wrapping the towel around Remus in an attempt to stall. “If we didn’t have clothes, we would get dirty faster, and then we’d have to take more baths. And that wouldn’t be fun, now would it?”

“Well yeah, but like, why do we have to wear stuff inside?”

Tugging Remus along behind him, Logan realized that Remus would most likely not retire this topic of conversation until he was satisfied with the answer. Plan B, then. “How about we ask Patton that later, hmm? He knows that kind of stuff better than I do.”

Remus didn’t respond as they finally entered his room. Letting go of Remus’s hand, Logan walked into the closet and allowed himself a deep breath. That had been a close one. Hopefully, Patton would be able to come up with a suitable answer. Logan found that Patton was simply more able to communicate that way with the littles than he was.

It hit Logan then. A feeling of terror radiated from his chest as he considered the stillness of the air. Remus hadn’t spoken for a while now. Slowly turning around, the sensation in his chest imploded as he took in the empty room and open door.

OH.

****

Janus thought he knew what to expect when he heard someone enter the kitchen. It was either a regressed Roman or Remus, perhaps regressed perhaps not; no other sides had such heavy and uneven footsteps. So it was to his chagrin, as he turned around, that he wasn’t necessarily wrong. He just hadn’t anticipated Remus to be in such a. . . state.

“Hey Janny?” Remus asked, walking further into the kitchen and looking around with a small frown. “Where’s Paddy?”

“Patton is taking a break while I make lunch.” Janus said, turning back around temporarily to switch off the stove before facing Remus again. “How might I be of service, Your Grace?”

Remus giggled at Janus’s small bow before sucking in a huge breath of air and responding “So I asked Logan why people wear clothes, and he said because then people would get dirty and have to take lotta baths, but then I said ‘What about inside?’ and he said that he didn’ know and to ask Paddon, which is weird because Logan knows everything, so now I need to find Paddy.”

Oh dear. One thing that Janus most certainly didn’t need right now was a naked Remus wandering around the mindscape searching for Patton. In fact, he didn’t think anyone needed that ever.

“Well it seems that you’re in luck." Janus said, stepping forward slightly and allowing the words to flow effortlessly from his lips. "For you see, I am the only other person besides Patton in the mindscape who knows the secret.”

The second Remus leaned forward and asked “What secret?” Janus knew that a light had gone off in his head. He had taken the bait, hook, line, and sinker. Now to reel him in.

“But I’m not so sure I should tell you, dear Remus. After all, it is a secret for a reason.” Janus put on a thoughtful expression and leaned back casually against the stove. “Hmmm. . . Decisions decisions. . .”

Remus came up besides him now and tugged on his sleeve, a pout forming on his face. “Please please pleeeaaaaase tell me, I pwomise, I won’ tell anyone else ever!”

“Well, I gueeessss. . .” Janus said, smothering a smile and playing it up as best as he could. “If you’re really sure that you won’t tell anyone.”

Remus nodded eagerly, and Janus gestured for him to lower his head so Janus could whisper in his ear. “It’s so that the monsters won’t want to eat us.” Remus tilted his head and opened his mouth to interrupt, but Janus continued. “If we’re wearing icky clothes, it makes them much less likely to see us as a tasty snack. Monsters like people, not clothes.”

“But why is it a secret?” Remus said, pulling back with a frown.

“Because it might scare people!” Janus explained, drawing his hand up to his chest dramatically. “What do you think Virgil would do if he found out? Or Roman? Even Logan would most likely be disturbed at such news. That’s why we don’t talk about it very often.”

Noticing movement out of the corner of his eye, Janus figured he should probably wrap things up. “Now I believe you should go get dressed. Logan and Patton look like they’ve been looking for you.”

Remus turned around and took in the sight of a very frazzled Logan and a flustered Patton. “Hey!” Remus shouted, bounding over to Logan and Patton and wrapping them in a big hug. “I wanna go get dressed now.”

“Good.” Logan said before slowly untangling them from Remus’s embrace and grasping his hand firmly.

As Logan guided Remus out of the room, he suddenly turned around and shouted back to Janus “Don’ worry. I won’ tell anyone.” And with that, they were gone.

Janus hummed to himself, allowing a smile to slip onto his face as he switched the stovetop back on and resumed cooking.

“Hey Janus?” Patton said, presumably still lingering in the kitchen entrance. “What did Remus mean when he said that he wouldn’t tell anyone?”

“Why Patton- It’s a secret.”

[aroseandapen]

Spending time with Kokichi, Gonta realizes the root of his feelings, and allows his subsequent actions to bloom from them.

Gonta loved Kokichi’s flower garden.

More precisely, it was the DICE flower garden, a communal space whose upkeep was shared between the ten or so members. The flower beds themselves were thick and lush, a striking pop of many colors throughout the area. Besides them was soft grass, often warm after a full sunny day, with stepping stones lined up to make a path to stroll between the flowers. A couple trees interspersed along the path provided shade to lie beneath, and a sturdy trunk to lean up against.

It was a quiet, peaceful area, isolated from the constant bustle on the streets not too far from there. Gonta saw why Kokichi’s family--because that was what they seemed to him, a tight-knit adoptive family--kept it up.

Though predictably, the appeal for Gonta had not been in the privacy or the pleasing visuals, but in the many bugs that had made their home in the garden.

And more than that, he enjoyed spending time with Kokichi, even when it turned into Gonta searching for insects among the plants as Kokichi lounged around with the occasional quip, as so happened on that very day.

Gonta had trouble focusing on the little buggies as normal. Instead of scanning flower petals, he kept turning to quickly scan Kokichi’s contented face. Kokich today lay half in the shade, his cape balled up and tucked under his neck to support his head. With his eyelids shut and lips slightly parted, he looked more relaxed and at peace than Gonta usually saw him.

Seeing Kokichi like that made a warm fluttery feeling tickle his gut. Gonta pressed a hand over his stomach, recognizing the sensation as fitting of the expression “butterflies in his stomach”. The idea of eating butterflies somewhat distressed him, but not enough to distract him from what he’d learned that the phrase meant.

His chest felt weird, his heart beating a little faster. Embarrassed, as if Kokichi would hear it drumming and wake up, Gonta turned back to the patch of flowers he’d been previously searching.

Seeing the delicate pink petals, pretty with white towards the center of the flower, he thought about how sweet it would look tucked into Kokichi’s dark, soft hair.

The thought possessed him. Pinching the stem, he snapped off one of the more intact blooms, not yet eaten away by bugs. Without rising from the ground, he crawled over to wear Kokichi lay by the tree. His own hair fell from behind his shoulders, framing Kokichi in a sort of private curtain that made his heart pace even quickly.

Then, Kokichi’s eyes opened, and caught him in a sleepy, quizzical look.

“Hm? What’s up?”

Gonta’s face felt warm, the butterflies in his stomach whipping up a storm. He could hardly hear anything over the pound of his heart in his ears, or his own breath quickening. Swallowing, it took so much of his power to follow through, and tuck that pretty pink flower--the color that Kokichi’s cheeks turned as Gonta’s fingers brushed his skin in the process--right behind the shell of Kokichi’s hair.

He lingered there, lifting a lock of Kokichi’s hair to let it slip slowly between his fingers.

The sleepiness had left Kokichi’s face, his eyes now searching Gonta’s with open curiosity. Gonta wasn’t good yet at reading the nuance between the carefully constructed expressions that Kokichi worse, but it looked like he wasn’t sure what to think of Gonta’s actions.

Which was fine. Gonta wasn’t entirely sure either, as he blurted out the fervent desire that rose in his chest, a need to let Kokichi know exactly what he felt in that moment.

“I love you, Kokichi.” A phrase he’d never said before, not in this way, to any other person he’d met. Somehow though, the moment he did, everything clicked into place. It was just right, the perfect words to describe how he felt, no matter what anyone might think of his ability to feel such a way.

He loved him. He loved Kokichi so much. Gonta didn’t understand why, or why it was Kokichi specifically who unlocked these feelings in him, but it didn’t matter. That was how he felt, and it was as simple as that.

Kokichi stared, stunned into open-mouthed silence. His lips formed a little ‘o’, eyes wide with disbelief, but somehow this expression made Gonta Want even more than before.

Tentatively, he touched his fingers to Kokichi’s cheek, his skin warm under his palm as he splayed them out over the side of his face. The touch seemed to stir life back into him, bringing Kokichi back to the present, though words still failed him as he licked his lips. Gonta’s heart jumped into his throat at the sight.

“I-is that ok?” he asked, suddenly anxious that he’d gone too far. “I’m sorry, is that alright?”

Kokichi’s breath hitched. Then he nodded, a quick jerk of his head that Gonta could’ve missed if he blinked. It was enough to reassure him though--the silence wasn’t bad, merely unexpected.

He bent his head somewhat, eyes half-lidded, though they still focused intently on Kokichi’s face. His want had finally taken on a distinct form. He wanted to kiss Kokichi, right where his lips seemed to glitter in the light from where he’d quickly licked them.

“May I kiss you, Kokichi?” he asked, his voice now a whisper.

Another nod, and a murmured ‘yes’ was his answer. Gonta’s own mind wiped blank by them; he lowered himself onto his elbow as he drew closer. Kokichi’s breath furled out against Gonta’s own lips as he bent down, making a light shiver run down his spine. Then, in the next moment their lips met, light and pliable and unsure, but warm and damp and soft against his mouth.

Gonta’s heart thumped so wildly it could explode from a sensation such as this. Love, this feeling was love.

[deputytrash]

Gentle

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: loss of virginity, age difference (not explicitly defined, but not intended as underage)

Fandom: Fallout 3

Relationship: Jericho/Reader

Summary: porn without plot with tons of dirty talk and pet names as always

Notes: some female/"girl" pet names and afab anatomy

anyways read on if you wanna get railed by the stinky ex-raider man except he's kind of nice....

AO3 link

You hadn't really planned to get drunk with your shitty asshole of a neighbor, Jericho, at Moriarty's. You hadn't planned to warm to his presence, seeking his attention and relishing the times when his eyes lingered on your cleavage. You hadn't planned for warmth to coil in your gut and drip down to your core when he met your eyes, gaze hot and heavy. And you certainly hadn't planned to have him pushing you against the patchwork metal wall of his bedroom, thin lips locked with yours, and firm cock pushing against you.

Yet, here you were, the weathered ex-raider rutting against you as he worked you out of your shirt before pulling back to admire your bare breast. His palms squished your breasts, thumbs brushing lightly over your nipples as he groaned in appreciation.

"God damn, baby girl. Can't believe you've been hidin' these from me all this time. Fuck, I should'a gotten you in my bed ages ago," He mumbled, mouth going to your neck, biting and sucking. He made his way down to your chest, tonguing and kissing your skin on the way before wrapping his lips around a nipple.

Your hands pressed into his scalp, fingers brushing over the stubbled skin. "Wish you had."

He laughed against you, blowing cool air against your saliva moistened peak until you gave him a shiver. "Well, I didn't know washed up old wastelanders were your type before tonight."

His rough hands pulled you along to the bed, laying you down on it. He worked your legs out of your battered old jeans as you shifted your hips up to help him pull them off. Jericho hissed out a pleasure noise when he locked onto the glossy slick spot you'd made on the seam of them. You flushed, remembering how you'd just ground your clit against the seam in your seat at the bar, not realizing you'd made that much of a mess on the thick stitching. You wondered if he'd known. A smirk played on his lips as he pulled the fabric up to his face to breathe in deeply. His tongue flicked out and he licked and sucked at the cloth until the damp spot was more saliva than slick.

"Fuck," you hissed out, squeezing your thighs together and squirming just like you had earlier. He turned his eyes back to you, tossing your pants aside.

"God, spread those pretty legs for me." His fingers ghosted up each side of your thighs before running a finger through your dripping pussy lips. Your fight against the urge to clamp your thighs shut and grind them together left your muscles twitching. "Fuck. Tell me who's got you this worked up, huh, baby doll?"

"Shit. You do, Jericho."

"You're God damn right." He plunged two thick fingers into you. Relief at the stimulation shuddered through you as you moaned. Rough finger pads massaged your walls as he acquainted himself with your pussy. The gutteral noise you groaned out made it obvious when he found the right spot.

Fuck, it was good. It was really good. You wouldn't risk saying it out loud for fear he might stop, but you hadn't really expected much from the older man.

"That's it, honey, there we go," he drawled, shifting himself until he could engulf your clit in his hot mouth. He sucked gently and rhythmically, interspersed with quick flicks of his tongue.

Your peak came quick and unexpected, almost startling you as your body tensed through desperate whines and stuttered words.

"Oh, fuck yes, that's a good fuckin' girl. Cum on my fuckin' fingers. So damn good for me," He groaned and worked you through it until you were squirming away, oversensitive.

He sat back, hurriedly working out of his pants. You shifted over to him as he sat back down, fingers grasping around his cock lightly. It felt heavy on your palm and you glanced up at him before moving to take the first inch between your lips. His skin was salty and soft on your tongue as you pressed a flat lick against him. You rolled your tongue around it in a slow circle before starting to bob your head. He hissed, cock twitching against your lips.

He let you get a few more head bobs in before pulling you off of himself, petting your face and hair. "Alright, okay, enough teasin' me, baby girl. Lay back for me. I wanna fuck that sweet pussy."

You laid back onto the mattress as he moved over you, lining himself up with you.

"Wait...I haven't actually ever…done this," you admitted.

Jericho balked at you, frozen. "What? Jesus. Shit, when were you gonna tell me?"

"Right now, I guess," you mumbled.

He was silent for a moment. "You serious? You're not just fucking around with me, right?"

You nodded, suddenly nervous about his response. You were honestly surprised at the hesitation. Franky, you'd never taken Jericho for a man with strong morals. "I mean I've done stuff just not…this. Don't get me wrong, I wanna. I don't know I just felt like you should know somehow." The words felt clumsy and awkward in your mouth. Was he angry with you?

He watched you for a moment then sighed, rubbing his face. "I ain't upset. Fuck, I won't lie and say I don't like the thought of me being the first person to get their cock up in you, but are you sure you want me to fuck you through this? I ain't gonna be gentle."

"Yeah, I'm sure. Want you to fuck me, Jericho. Please."

His cock twitched at the words. "Christ, alright, honey. I'll give you what you want."

Contrary to his words, he was rather gentle with you. He pulled back to drool spit onto your pussy, ensuring you were well lubricated, before pushing into you slowly. His eyes watched your face carefully, letting you adjust to the stretch and the foreign drag of skin on skin. Finally, you felt his hips pressed against you. His belly pressed against yours, balls hanging heavy against your ass, and firm cock settled deep inside you.

"You okay?"

You nodded. "Just feels weird. Different. Thought you weren't gonna be gentle, though." You laughed, squeezing your muscles around him experimentally. He let out a choked breath.

"Fuckin' brat. Tryin' to be nice to you and you go and act like this about it." His hips tightened as he ground his cock slowly against your insides, your mouth dropping open at the sensation. He licked his lips, pressing them against yours again. "Lucky you're a cute little thing or I'd throw you out right now for that."

"No, you wouldn't," you pouted. There was no way Jericho would give up a warm willing body over something like that.

"Yeah, 'probly not. Feelin' way too good wrapped around me for that." He nipped at your chin and neck, establishing a rhythm fucking into you.

You let out a weak sound as the foreign sensations of his heavy cock sinking into you morphed themselves into rapidly mounting pleasure. The tighter you grew around him, the more his rough-voiced babbling increased as he licked and sucked and bit at your skin between bawdy words.

"Fuck, baby. Can't believe you're givin' me this. Can't believe nobody's ever fucked you before. I'm gonna wreck this sweet little pussy. Make sure you ain't ever gonna forget me. Fuckin' love how you feel wrapped around me."

"Oh fuck, Jericho. Shit." you whimpered

"Fuck, yeah, baby girl, say my name. Let everybody in this piece of shit town know who's makin' you feel this good." He was fucking you harder now, thrusts punctuated with breathy grunts against your neck. He pushed up to kiss you again. A calloused finger moved to your clit, massaging in circles. "Want you to cum for me again. Want you shaking for me, sweet thing. Gonna make sure you can't walk when I'm done with you."

Jericho's words and the gentle, shifting pressure of his finger had you seeing stars in no time. Your fingers dug into the muscled arms on either side of you, oblivious to your nails pressing crescent moons into the flesh.

"Please, Jericho. I'm gonna-fuck!" You mumbled and gasped. He pulled back, watching you intently. You squirmed and tensed under him before your peak rippled over you, internal muscles gripping and clenching him rhythmically. He growled out your name, hips slapping wetly against you.

He didn't stop or slow, thumb pressing more firmly against your clit as it continued its rhythmic patterns. It felt like you hadn't even finished your last orgasm as your body was worked back up for another. You whimpered, over-sensitive and twitchy and almost afraid for the intensity of what was coming.

"Jericho, I-I-." As soon as the words were past your lips, your mouth fell open in a silent, breathy moan. Your peak came sharp and overwhelming, the warmth of your body fluttering around his cock.

"Shit, yes. Are you cumming again? Fuck yes, baby girl. Oh, fuck yeah. There we go." Tears welled in your eyes as he worked you through it. He freed your clit, frantically chasing his own end. He mumbled gibberish and curse words as his thrusts became uncoordinated and sloppy.

He barely pulled out in time. His fist pumped his cock desperately as cum splashed rhythmically against your belly and chest. He flopped down on his side next to you on the cramped mattress, breathing heavily and muttering something about being too old for this shit.

When he looked up again, he found you gently swirling your fingers through his cum, sucking them into your mouth and he groaned. His hands pulled your face to his as he kissed you hard.

"You're a nasty little thing," he mumbled against your lips.

"What? You don't like it?" you teased, faking a pout. You brought another cum coated finger to drip onto your tongue as he hovered, watching, inches away.

"I fucking love it," he growled, kissing you again. "I'd fuck you again right now if I didn't need a damn minute to recover."

He watched you for another moment before grabbing his stained t-shirt off the ground and finishing the job of wiping off your belly. He tossed it to the ground and settled himself beside you again, pulling you to his chest.

"Thank you," you said, softly.

"What for?" he muttered beside you, drowsiness already starting to weigh down his voice.

"Being nice to me for this even when you said you wouldn't be."

"Don't go tellin' nobody. Can't be ruinin' my tough persona, kid," he grumbled, sounding almost embarrassed. "Don't want anyone else expecting me to be nice to them all of a sudden." The unspoken implication that he was only nice to you had your heart skipping a beat.

"I'm no kid, old man," you teased, trying to play it off as you elbowed him gently. "And it's our secret then. Just don't go telling anyone I was a virgin still either. Gotta keep up my tough persona too."

He huffed out a laugh. "Deal."

[dulcidyne]

Experiments in Diplomacy: Compiling [8/?]

There’s nothing in the Interspecies Diplomacy subsection of the Initiative handbook that covers sharing a tech lab with an angara who can kill her in her sleep. She knows, she’s read every page. Twice. (A collection of in-between vignettes from the Tempest tech lab) 

//Jaal x Ryder // Humor. Romance. SFW // Previous chapters: [1][2][3][4][5][6][7] or read on Ao3

Somewhere along the way to age seven, in Citadel docking bay 223, Se-ah Ryder decides crying, hugs, tantrums, and other public displays of emotion are things she has outgrown. Perfunctory, precise, she shuts them away as if embarrassing emotional habits can be sealed into donation boxes for young needy children in the Lower Wards like her half-melted asari dolls.

Donated or lost, the box she puts them in stays shut. She doesn’t cry when they pay their respects to her grandmother’s urn at the columbarium. Or, much later, in another docking bay, when Scott waves goodbye as he ships off for Arcturus. She doesn’t cry the first time Iraenya plays down their relationship to her colleagues, embarrassed and ashamed.  And when her mother dies, she takes a page out of her father’s book and finds a hospital supply closet and stifles her tears into her shirt collar.

It stays shut, that is, until now. Until twenty-eight uninterrupted minutes of sobbing into Jaal’s chest, followed by forty-one additional minutes of sporadic weeping interspersed with flailing grasps at composure. So, obviously, there is only one logical conclusion to make.

“Just run them again,” Se-ah hisses.

“Once again, Ryder, my scans do not detect any pathologic neurological patterns outside of baseline variation.”

She woke up to the dim ambient glow of the powered-down machine displays running through their background system scans, half-reclining in Jaal’s arms, in his cot, having cried herself to sleep in his embrace  like an infant--that alone is an abnormality. She doesn’t understand why SAM is having difficulty with the concept.

“Outside of baseline,” she pauses, the gnarled tangle that is her hair fluttering as Jaal’s snores gust over her head. It tickles her temples but she doesn’t want to dislodge the warm arm banding around her shoulders to brush it back. “Wait, SAM, does that mean you normally detect pathologic patterns?” “It exceeds my functional parameters to parse this data into a clinical diagnosis. It would be unethical to make an attempt. Dr. T’Perro would undoubtedly provide better insight.”

Maggie’s lights pulse unhurried staccato patterns from the corner. Se-ah stiffens in Jaal’s loose embrace, indignant. “ Unethical. You’re an AI integrated into my entire body. Little late to be worried about ethics isn’t it?”

“A relevant point. I additionally lack subjective expertise. My data collection is limited to two genetically similar individuals. It is therefore relatively impossible for me to extrapolate what is normal and abnormal outside of overt structural dysfunction.”

“Further,” SAM says, “I am not an inert observer. It cannot definitively quantify what impact my integration and ongoing observation and interaction has had on your baseline neurological state.”

Disquieting. Se-ah stills and attempts to parse this new revelation while Jaal’s chest rumbles against her ear like the purr of a massive but very contented kitten. It’s nice. She wishes she were still half asleep and allowed to enjoy it and not awake and mortified over her predicament. Mortified and now, thanks to SAM, horrified.

“So not only can you not tell me if my brain is broken, you’re also saying that just by being in my head, you’re changing how it works and doing so in a way that you lack the ability to detect? Like some kind of quantum observer effect?”

SAM doles out a calculated pause for her benefit. All his pauses are for her benefit as he processes information in nanoseconds, but this one feels especially so. A pity pause. Bad news pause.

“Correct.”

“Great,” she mutters, “I’m Schroedinger’s basketcase.”

“My scans do detect significant decreases to harmful neurological metabolites and reduced cortisol levels...likely the product of sufficient rest.”

So that’s what it is. No creaking limbs, phantom aches or raw fatigue scraping the inside of her eyelids raw. A loose, shivery sensation clings like mist in her chest. It feels like a lungful of the air on Mr. Orleal, saturated in starlight and the ozone tingle of the eezo deposits under the lake.

Melatonin has nothing on Jaal. Lexi would be thrilled. Happiness flutters against her ribs. She hides her smile against the vast sloping ridge of Jaal’s alien chest even though there’s no one else there to see how foolish it looks. A familiar scent tickles her nose and she sniffles back a sneeze. He smells warm and herbal, like grapefruit orchards and Earth sunsets--carnelian, blush,and gold-- if Earth sunsets prickled in her sinuses like wasabi.

As far as smiles go, this one caught on the precipice of a sneeze, feels the stupidest.

“Pathfinder, if you have a moment, I would like to discuss some of the data I obtained earlier…”

The tentative flutter of joy in her chest curls inwards on itself, recoiling. She screws up her face, tipping her head back over Jaal’s arm, his r ofjinn bunching up against the tiny hairs at the nape of her neck.

“SAM, I don’t want to waste all this beautiful mental clarity on parsing out my emotional breakdown.”

It’s not fair and she regrets saying it. He provides more than his share of explanations for her and this is supposed to be a reciprocal relationship after all.

“That classification is interesting, Pathfinder. Noradrenaline phasic signalling was decreased, indicating the absence of a stress response. You rate the subjective experience, however, as a negative one?”

Half the words don’t even sound familiar. Despite being the daughter of a neuroscientist, she picked up precious little on the subject. Latching on to what she understands, she attempts an answer.

“No. Not negative. The opposite, I guess?”

“I see.”

She absurdly pictures SAM fitting the L of his imaginary thumb and pointer finger to his imaginary chin in a gesture of academic interest. Her father used to do that, unwittingly providing Scott with ample ammo for his ‘Alec Ryder, mad scientist’ impressions.

“This supports my observations of the intense activity within the mesolimbic circuit--”

Se-ah winces. “You know, it’s pretty weird to hear all the gory details.”

“I do not comprehend the discomfort.” SAM states, an echo of her father’s scientific fascination faint in the synthetic voice modulation. Her own imagination, she’s sure. “Your emotions are best described as the limited interpretation of this signalling process.”

For some indefinable reason, she bristles.

“Maybe technically, but...it was this amazing, overwhelming experience and it didn’t feel limited . It felt...immense. Bigger than anything. Like I couldn’t possibly keep it in without bursting and then I did burst and apparently that looks like a lot of crying.”

Ugly crying. There was a not-small-amount of snot involved.

“It’s more than mesolimbic circuits,” she persists, words coming faster and her voice tightening,  “Sometimes things are more than their physical, observable state. When I’m on a summit, what I experience isn’t just snow and stars and rocks...it's…well I wouldn’t bother with it if that was all I got out of it. Look, I don’t think I could ever explain it in a way you’d be able to understand.”

The channel goes silent, longer than the normal exaggerated pauses SAM inserts into his responses. The silence is deafening on the heels of her tirade. As if he’s...affronted.

“Thank you Ryder.” SAM says at last. Clipped and professional. Is it her imagination or is it too professional? If there were such a thing? “I will attempt an analysis with this feedback in mind.”

Se-ah nods, unnecessarily given that it is SAM, her heart sinking. Who knows what havoc a peeved AI could wreck in her brain, apparently without either of them any the wiser? And if she can’t explain it to SAM she doesn’t know how she’s supposed to explain what happened to Jaal. Not that she didn’t try before, during all the sobbing, but it was impossible to get anything out that wasn’t ‘I’m fine, I just...’ before dissolving into tears again. He didn’t press her for more.

But maybe now that she isn’t an emotional wreck, he might. Whether she has answers is less certain.

‘Sorry, SAM says you overloaded my mesolimbic circuit and that it’s all very scientific and reasonable and I’m not crazy. Or I might be. Have you heard the human folk tale about the cat?”

Awful. The shivering sensation in her chest unfurls again and spreads out into her fingers. She furrows them into the crease of Jaal’s side and the cot, letting his warmth soothe the trembling overtaking her frame. His arm wraps tighter reflexively. This is the sort of moment she wants to soak in, slow, like sunlight filtering through leaves stippling ancient Morse-code patterns over her face. Eyes closed, she inhales and vague memories sift warm impressions on the backs of her eyelids.

Hands, scarred and calloused and massive sweeping soft, reassuring circles against her back. His chin on the top of her head, her face tucked into the graceful sweep of his neck where a crook would be on hers. A low thrum: his voice, unintelligable, but soothing. A musical hum buzzes through the air.

Se-ah sighs and blinks her eyes open to glance up. He’s still deep asleep, snoring away. A hazy, contented smile gathers at the corners of his mouth and makes him look, for all the universe, like someone having a pleasant dream.

Despite spending the vast majority of her waking moments on the ship in his makeshift bedroom, she’s never seen him this way. The quiet of the ship is unsettling, he claims. Unlike his naps on the NOMAD, the only sleep she sees him take on the ship is fitful, almost violent--covers twisting, his hands clutching, face grimacing, the names of the lost wrenching out of him as he jolts awake. But even the sleep he snatches on the NOMAD doesn’t look this peaceful. It takes him quick and fast, like something joyless and inevitable. She grimaces. Like death.  

Studying his lidded eyes, she shifts on the cot to lean her weight more on his chest and tip her head back, peering up at the sweeping planes of his cheekbones, the point of his chin, and the fine ridge of his brow. He’s beautiful. All angara are, to her eye-- all grace and noble carved profiles like ancient Athame sculptures given color, life, and a Romanesque bone structure. But Jaal’s beauty is sharper, more defined than anything out of asari or human antiquity. War and grief etch his face in a landscape of visible and invisible scars, throwing the softness that remains, obstinate and miraculous, in high relief. The softness is all she sees now.  It is the face of a man who dreams, hopes, composes poems and perfumes, and is always seeking, searching, finding bits of wonder. If it weren’t for the kett, this might always be his face and Andromeda would be a place where it would fit. The dreamer. The tinkerer. The explorer.

But the kett stole that place away from him. War is spare. Merciless. There is little room for anything else but soldiers. Se-ah bites the inside of her lip, hard. Jaal is the first to insist he isn’t much of a soldier.

She doesn’t realize the snoring stops until he, without bothering to open his eyes, asks, “Yes, Ryder?”

Chagrined and surprised over how close she’s gotten, she immediately jolts away. “You’ve been awake? How long?” The slant of his smile changes but his eyes stay closed, “Long enough. Were you under the impression that you were being discreet?”

Fair point.

“So why didn’t you say something?” “I was trying to sleep. Speaking seemed counterproductive.”

“Uh huh. To your eavesdropping, maybe.”

Jaal doesn’t look at her, on account of the fact that he’d yet to bother opening his eyes, but the resigned set of his shoulders conveys a beleaguered expression that comes with an air of ‘No, I don’t think I’ll even bother ’. It’s one he wears around Liam with regularity. “Please do not attempt to explain that one. If I cannot sleep I’d much rather occupy my mind elsewhere.”

He makes a point of settling further into the cot, the large divot his body forms in the fabric deepening. Maybe he’s trying to free up the arm underneath her she realizes, belatedly. Renewed mortification crowds up her neck and she coughs to clear her throat. “Oh, then I should...leave you to that then,” she says, cheeks burning as she draws back against the gravitational pull of his weight on the cot, narrowly avoiding toppling on top of him.

“Stay.” At last Jaal blinks open his eyelids, a slow reveal of vivid blue. He looks at her, uncharacteristically uncertain, before saying, simply, “If...you’d like. You could join me.”

She hesitates. “Join you--elsewhere?”

“No, just here.”

Somehow he feels...closer. Not physically. It’s as if the gap in the universe between them has vanished overnight. She’s no longer on the precipice, her thoughts and feelings a faint, distorted comm. She’s there , a few bare centimeters in front of him and he’s looking at her as if he can see every detail of her with absolute clarity. It’s dreamer’s look with a tinkerer’s focus and his eyes are luminous, twin helium nebulae lit from within with something like wonder. She mistook it for morbid fascination once. This time she knows better. He smiles as if he might laugh. Fond. Unbearably so. Her chest hurts to look at it.

“No idioms, nothing else. Just this. Right now.” The words linger, rippling against her skin in gentle, rumbling waves. Jaal crooks his pinned arm and brushes back the fluttering snarl of her hair.

A quiet bubble settles around the tiny cot, enclosing them within the warm, sunset smell of him. It feels safe. Like home. She doesn’t know the last time she felt those things. Not since-- It should be strange to find them here, an entire galaxy away, with an alien who openly spoke about killing her after they’d just met.

Jaal’s huff of a laugh skips across the quiet like a smooth stone on a lake surface. Something about it tells her he’s picked up on the precise turn of her thoughts--too perceptive by half. “You know, you are remarkably expressive. Almost angaran.”

She tucks her face into the slope of his neck and pulls a scowl, even though it isn’t an insult. The memory of her tragic poker loss to Gil is still all too fresh and she feels a little too raw, a little too exposed with nowhere to hide her vulnerabilities. Instead of answering, she buries a noncommittal sound into his bare skin.

He laughs again, rueful and soft. “It was a clumsy effort, but it was intended as a compliment. We are a vocal people. More than words and expressions. In addition to combative and deliberate communication uses, our bioelectrics have subtle subconscious patterns and pulses. I believe your hanar are similar, in the visible electromagnetic spectrum. It is difficult to suppress. Few have scrupulous reasons to try.”

His fused fingers twine into her hair. It seems a point of endless fascination for him. Even in the Milky Way, hair is something of a novelty.

“The emotions of those around us pervade all our senses. It saturates our lives. My first days on this ship were so...disorienting. I felt the absence keenly, like a limb lost in battle.”

Her scowl vanishes and she looks up to meet his eyes again. Of course, she’d suspected his trouble adjusting, but never knew the full extent. He kept so much hidden then. “It must have made it that much more difficult, deciding if you could trust us.”

Jaal laughs. It sounds pained. “Very. I learned to look harder, with time. There is a beauty in subtlety. Underappreciated among my people, but I’ve grown quite fond of it. Humans were easier. And then, there was you.”

“About as subtle as a flaming ship crashing on your planet?”

Genuine mirth threads into his laughter, his eyes tracing over her upturned face. “Yes. An apt comparison. Vivid, exciting… deeply alarming to some.”

She brightens and his smile deepens. The hand at her temple curls against her skin to brush a soft line over her cheek with the backs of his knuckles.

“It made trusting you more easy than wise, considering the risk.”

“I’m sure Evfra disapproved,” she says.

“Of course. Evfra is a cautious strategist. He despaired of me.”

Jaal leans his cheek against her head, looking off towards the dim ambient glow of the machines running through their downtime routines.

“My caution was always a feeble force and your face...says such beautiful things. I didn’t understand why you struggled  so desperately to hide them away.” He adds, blunt as ever, “Not... well, of course . But with an extraordinary amount of effort. I imagine it was exhausting. Inexpressibly painful. My heart ached just to see it.”

The corners of her eyes begin to prickle. Machine lights catch on the dust motes, adrift on the flickering electrostatic currents weaving around and between them, setting each pinpoint aglow like rippling eddies of distant stars.

“I thought the same about you, you know. Before we rescued the Moshae.”

Caution shackling his expressions and the strategic withdrawals into clipped one-word answers calculated to give as little away as possible. She’s more glad than she can say to have earned his trust and the chance to see his genuine self without the fetters of fear and uncertainty. He said getting to know her would be a gift and that is how knowing him better feels--like the best gift she didn’t even know to ask for.

He nods. “Yes. I wept for joy that she was safe and for the wrenching horror of what we learned that day but also I wept for my freedom from my own fears. Escaping them was...liberating despite my grief. Cathartic. I think perhaps you felt something of that same freedom. Earlier, when you cried.”

Catharsis. Freedom-- but from what? She wasn’t on a diplomatic mission with alien intruders. She was just-- her . A touch-starved awkward hugger with a trigger-happy mesolimbic circuit. But, that feels insufficient as far as explanations go. Instead, she remembers Scott crying, wailing, hands fisting over his eyes. It’s gone. I have to find it. People are looking. Mom ignores them and kneels despite the crowd, attempting to soothe him. Alec Ryder’s stonefaced expression fractures into a grimace. Pained. He turns away. His hand presses down on her own small shoulder and squeezes. It feels like pride. She forces her chin to stop quivering. She won’t cry. Nothing will ever be okay and everything is wrong but she is Alec Ryder’s daughter and she is old enough to do that much.

A tear slips into her hairline and Jaal’s thumb rubs it away. Breath held, she reaches up between them to capture his hand in her own. His eyes are full of reflected stars, twin galaxies pulling her into their inexorable spin. At the point of her outstretched fingernail is a pinprick of light, fanning off, faintly luminous, refracting off her tears.Se-ah pauses, taken aback, blinking away the moisture collecting on her lashes. It’s not a trick of the light. Her fingertips are actually glowing. And, she realizes, the air is...humming.

“SAM, are we about to fry anything with this corona discharge?” she asks. All at once the air changes, the charged dust motes around them still and the lights on her fingertips flicker out. It smells and feels like a storm just swept out of the tech lab.

“Appropriate precautions have already been taken to accommodate non-combat angaran electromagnetic field manipulation, Pathfinder. Ozone levels are also within acceptable limits.”

Jaal coughs and looks away, suddenly awkward.  “Ahh...as I was saying, it requires some concentration to suppress.”

“Can you stop? Concentrating that is? It’s not as if--well, SAM said it wouldn’t hurt anything.”

Now that she’s paying better attention, she can feel the tingling pressure building and shifting around them. The hairs stand up on her arms. The air smells bright and clean. Light collects on her fingertips again. Faint, but visible. Se-ah laughs, delighted, and slowly bends her fingers, watching the blue flicker and reappear. Ionized plasma balancing on the edge of an electromagnetic field pierced by the short point of her nail. Hardly seemed subtle in her book. Little about him was.

“We call this St. Elmo’s Fire,” she tells him. “It was considered a good omen by ancient human voyagers.”

“Ah. I’m your good omen then?”

“Well, we haven’t crashed once since you got here.”

He brings his free palm to hers, one fused, two separate for her five. She adds, sincerely, “It’s beautiful. Does this happen to you a lot? I’ve never noticed before.”

“No. This is...it’s more. It is special. Explaining would be difficult. Clumsy. I cannot do it justice.”

Hands pressed together, his palm dwarfing hers, a swell of emotion courses through her and a stubborn tear traces down her cheek. She laughs and a sniffle turns it into a tremulous, hiccuping burst of happiness.

“Is there a word for it in Shelesh?”

“No,” he says simply. “There is just this.”

Churning waves of electrons are crashing against her fingertips, caught in the lunar pull of him. Everything dissolves in the watery film of tears and she’s floating, falling, swept by tidal forces into an endless depth of variegated blue. There can be no words, in Shelesh or any other language. But she knows anyway. Floating in an electron sea of his design, palms pressed, wrapped in his embrace--she knows exactly what he is saying.

[revisionaryhistory]

Three Days ~ 23

~*~Emma~*~

 Well . . .

That was some pretty aggressive oral sex. I’m not complaining. One would think after a blow job Sebastian would have been pretty chill, but he went the other way. I need to figure out how to make that happen again. I fell back on the bed because I was afraid my legs were going to collapse. I lay there, legs spread with one draped over him, and I swear I could still feel his mouth between my legs. There was still a delicious buzz going on. “Fuck, that was amazing.” He kissed my ankle and I felt parts of me quiver.

 “Says the woman who just blew my mind.”  

I let out a weak laugh, “We’re having a good night.”

“Yes, we are.”  He laid a hand on my leg, ensuring it stayed resting on his chest.

 Sebastian’s voice was weird. I raised my head, pried my eyes open, and looked toward him. I suddenly realized that “legs spread with one draped over him” meant he was getting quite the view. Sure, he’d been very close up twice now, but he wasn’t really looking then. Now, he was looking, and that’s why his voice sounded weird. I laid my head back down. Modesty at this point is, well, pointless. I’m amused with the crack in his voice though. Men are such visual creatures. He can look as long as he wants. I’m willing to bet the looking won’t last long before it becomes touching.

I didn’t like not touching him. I reached out my hand and laid it on his thigh, just above his knee. “I like your legs.”

“I like yours too.” He elucidated his point by running his hand over my calf. “Ouch, I think I got a splinter.”

“Ha fucking ha.” I crossed my arms over my chest like I was mad. “I should go in the bathroom and use your razor to shave them.”

“Don’t do that.”

“I can’t use your razor?”

“I don’t care if you use my razor.” He grabbed my hand and pulled it away. “Don’t cross your arms. You’re blocking my view.”

I put my hand back on his leg, the other I tucked under my head, propping me up just enough to see him. “Better?”

He nodded with a smile, “Much.”  His eyebrows drew in and his lips pursed like he was thinking.

I think I’m about to win my bet.

Less than a breath later I felt a single finger exploring me. His touch was gentle as he checked out places where his mouth was well acquainted. I hummed my approval. His eyes met mine for an instant while he smiled, then his attention went back between my legs. My whole body shivered, not from his touch, but the look we just exchanged. His eyes and smile say more than most people can with a whole paragraph. He liked this and that I liked it too.

I like the intimacy. As I’d said earlier about sunsets, I like the after when you’re letting the moment sink in. There’s been a lot of moments since that conversation. Laying here with him touching me was incredibly intimate. There was a vulnerability in being laid out naked in front of someone. Still, I felt perfectly safe. I moved my hand from his leg to his cock. He wasn’t hard. It hit me that wasn’t the point. I touched him as gently as he did me. Sebastian didn’t look up, but he nodded slightly. Although I had no doubt this would turn into sex, it wasn’t sex. It was different. It was more. It was being comfortable and being together.

I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt like this. I keep thinking the word accepted, but it doesn’t feel right. Still, I think it is. Whatever it is, I know for sure it’s right and it’s good and it’s Sebastian.

“What are you thinking about?” His voice startled me. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”

I shook off his apology, “I was thinking how laying here quietly touching each other feels very good. Emotionally.” I nodded, “Feels good.”

I know I just opened a door to a potentially dangerous conversation. We’ve had sex and now I mention emotions. Podcasts, magazine, and groups of girlfriends would be screaming at me to shut up and take it back. Usually, I’d agree. Right now, I don’t. I don’t quite know why I don’t, which is why I said it out loud. He’s in this with me.

“Yeah.” He licked his lips and played with his tongue, thinking. He looked up to the light on the ceiling, “The lights are on and I look over and can see everything of you.” He emphasized the word everything. “Besides being sexy as fuck there’s something very . . . I don’t know.”

It was nice how he didn’t know either. Suddenly the word came to me, “Intimate.”

He smiled and nodded his agreement, “Intimate. I don’t think it’s about the sex. It’s about talking for hours, playing and laughing, and working together at the house.”

Sebastian was right. The intimacy came before the sex. Sex didn’t make you feel comfortable. I’ve had sex where I wasn’t comfortable just being naked, where once it’s over you pull up the sheet. Naked during sex is different from just naked.

“I keep thinking the word accepted, but I can’t figure out why.”

He was getting hard and I needed to change the position of my hand. When I did that, he pushed a finger inside me. There were a few seconds of silence while we took in the new sensations.

“Good word. We’ve talked about things, told each other things . . . like when I told you I struggle with self-confidence. You didn’t think it was stupid. I guess I do feel like you accept me as I am and I trust you. Why wouldn’t laying here feel like no big deal? Only it is.”

I was reminded of the conversation from earlier about being brave enough to be vulnerable. We were both being brave. Except I wasn’t scared.  “I like you.”

He scrunched up his nose, “I like you too.”

“No, I mean I like you. Not because you’re fun to be with, we have great conversations, and the smoking hot sex.” He laughed with me then I got serious again. “I just like you.”

Sebastian’s face went serious in a way I hadn’t seen before. Serious, but soft. He moved my leg from across his chest and joined me upside down on the bed. His eyes searched my face, his fingers soft on my cheek, “I like you too.”

We lay there staring at each other. The look on his face stayed intense. I thought I read a lot of things in that look. I wasn’t reading this any more wrong than I had his attraction despite us not having kissed. I don’t know what my expression was telling him, but I hoped it was close. I noticed his breathing had increased. We were barely touching. I noticed mine had too.  I raised up to kiss him but stopped to look at him again. I smiled a little bit and Sebastian broke out in a huge grin that ended when our mouths met.

“Don’t move,” Sebastian whispered against my lips before sitting up to grab a condom and quickly put it one. He was back laying next to in no time. “I don’t wanna stop once we get started.” He trailed his fingers from my temple to my chin then over my lips. I opened my mouth and caught one of his fingers, closing my lips and circling the digit with my tongue. Tilting my face to his he moved closer, mouth open, and we were kissing again. His soft tongue teased and tangled with mine.

“We haven’t spent nearly enough time just kissing.”

“We’ll fix it.”

I moaned into his mouth and our kiss became more intense. I ran my hand down from his shoulder to his hand and put his hand back between my legs.

Sebastian slid his fingers inside me with a groan. I raised my leg, planting a foot on the bed to help me work myself against his hand. He broke the kiss and lowered his head to suck my breast. My hand flew to the back of his head, “God, Sebastian.”

Smiling as he looked up, Sebastian said, “I want you close. I don’t think I’m gonna last long.”  He continued playing with me, alternating for a few minutes between fucking me with his fingers and rubbing circles around my clit before just focusing there. He left my breast to kiss on my neck, “You’re so beautiful.”

A jolt of pleasure shot through me, “I need you inside me.”

“Roll over.” Sebastian moved behind me as I went on hands and knees. He leaned over my back, his hands moving from my hips to my shoulders as he kissed the back of my neck. “Want you.”

I turned my head to kiss him, but it didn’t last long. He went back to my neck then I felt his tongue drag down the length of my spine to the crack of my ass. My arms nearly collapsed. If that wasn’t the most erotic thing ever I didn’t know what was. He punctuated the end of his journey with an open-mouthed kiss on my hip that turned into a nibble. I heard myself make an incredibly needy sound.

Sebastian moved behind me, one hand holding my hip, and I felt the head of his cock rub over me once or twice before he pushed into me. His fingers dug in while he rocked his hips, going deeper and deeper. Once he was fully inside me he reached around to finger me again. His strokes were slow and very controlled. I can’t imagine the restraint that was taking. He made these little groaning noises interspersed with “oh fuck” and “yes” and “Emma”.

I felt him so deep inside me, each stroke of his cock and movement of his fingers bringing me closer and closer. I arched my back, changing the angle for both of us. Sebastian’s stroke stuttered. I looked over my shoulder to see him biting his lower lip, eyes squeezed shut, and his head back. Pleasure was written all over his face. “I’m gonna come. Harder, fuck me harder.”

Doing as I asked, he slammed into me. His fingers stopped moving and pressed against my clit, letting the force of his hips keep up the stimulation. My head dropped to the bed when my orgasm hit and I cried out for him.

“Feels so good to be inside you when you come.” Both his hands held onto my hips now, steadying me as he thrust harder and faster. More mumbled curse words, moans, and my name. I loved how lost in it he was. When his fingers tightened so much that I knew he’d leave marks, I tightened my inner muscles as much as I could. “Fuck!” One last thrust and he held me tight to him, releasing himself deep in me.  He leaned back over me, kissing along my back, while barely moving inside me before pulling out.

Sebastian was back in the bed by the time I managed to roll over, still mostly wrong ways in the bed. Righting myself just seemed like too much effort right now. I was covered in sweat, my chest was bursting, and my stomach was full of butterflies. My closed eyes flew open when I realized tonight was the best sex of my life. And it’s not just the sex. It's astounding how this man, this man I've known for three days, made sure I knew what we did was my choice. He didn't assume. He did it in a way, so easily, that I'm sure this was not the first time he'd made sure consent was clear. Hell, the day we met he didn't assume I'd let him know where I live. No one had ever been this way with me. None of my friends had ever talked about a man being like this with them. This is a good man.

I reached for his hand and laced our fingers. I turned my head and squeezed his hand to get his attention. He looked over, his lips parted with breathing that hadn't returned to normal, with sweat-dampened hair against his forehead. I started laughing because it felt so good. "Is it crazy to think you might be falling for someone after only three days?"

Sebastian’s laugh was immediate. He threw his head back, arching his neck against the bed, while his laughter filled the room. He looked back at me, his face lit up with his smile, "Fuck, I hope not." He rolled on top of me and kissed me. "Or I’m crazy too."

[areluctantsblog]

Teacher!Tony wrong number au - Part 6

THANK YOU for all of you who are still here and welcome new readers 💚 Here goes part 6

Part1     Part2     Part3     Part4     Part5

Peter is out of breath when he reaches the apartment’s door. He leans against it to get his emotions back under control before entering. May is still home and she’s bound to ask how he got home so early. Peter needs to come up with a story. And he fucking needs to wipe that stupid grin off his face… But all his efforts are in vain. He's still flushed and beaming despite the unpleasant hotness of embarrassment at the pit of his stomach.

Mr. Stark isn’t mad at him. On the contrary! He promised to tell Peter about his own project. That means they will talk again! That means Peter can approach him. Or does it? He doesn’t want to be a nuisance. But, fuck, Mr. Stark drove him home. What can be better than this? At that, his brain starts conjuring up images of the innumerable scenarios that can be even better than this – some of them involving Tony’s car, others his desk and some of a huge messy bed. Peter shakes his head. He’s a right mess. As image after image of Mr. Stark flashes through his mind, his only coherent thoughts remain ‘oh my god, he drove me home��� and ‘I fucked up’, alternating at a frighteningly high frequency.

Peter takes a deep breath. “A friend drove me home,” he says silently to himself. The grin tugs at the corner of his lips and he can’t resist. Fuck. He needs to do better than this. He covers his face with his hands to regain control over his expression. He groans. This little pause is enough for anxiety to take over. But it’s a good thing, too, easier to hide. Peter sighs before picking up his backpack and opening the door.

May jumps back screaming and swearing. Peter only blinks a few times. His adrenaline level can’t really get any higher.

“Shit, sweetheart I’m so sorry. I was about to leave, have to drop by Lisa before work, her doggo has had an operation and she’s freaking out,” May explains hurriedly. She glances at her watch. “Oof, I’m not late.” Here it comes, Peter thinks. “You’re home early,” May frowns, but then, miraculously, she goes on. “There’s plenty of food in the fridge, see you tomorrow morning, sweetheart.” She kisses Peter and leaves before he can wrap his mind around how lucky he got.

When he does, his whole body sags with relief. His knees almost give out, so he staggers to the sofa and collapses onto it. It’s like the world is happening around him in slow motion. Or, um, the world is completely stationary. It must be him. Somehow, his thoughts seem to come too slowly, and he finds himself blushing and giggling before he remembers the reason behind it. He buries his face in the pillows, half laughing, half sobbing. It’s too much. Just too fucking much.

He fishes out his phone and calls Ned – double checking this time because he would certainly die if he called Mr Stark in the state he’s in. He picks up on the first ring.

“Hey, man, what’s up? How did it go? Where are you? Sorry, I left. I waited for like half an hour. How’d it go?” Ned rambles. Peter wants to answer, but he can’t. His chest is about to explode with all the emotions and he’s sure that the moment he opens his mouth the most embarrassing sound will escape him. So, he bites his tongue and ends the call.

Ned comes over soon and Peter is forced to get off the couch. His adrenaline levels must have returned to normal, because he’s positively shocked when he opens the door and sees the most enormous pizza box in his best friend’s hand.

“Hi, come in,” he begins uncertainly. “Um… There’s a lot of food in the fridge, you know.”

“Yeah, you said” Ned nods barging into the hall. “But this is a crisis, and a crisis requires pizza,” he explains with a knowing expression holding it out for Peter.

“It’s not a crisis. I’m just being stupid,” he mumbles as he sets the box down on the coffee table.

“No, you are not. Stop beating yourself up,” Ned retorts in a more serious tone.

Peter ducks his head and mutters something about getting the plates before he slips into the kitchen. Once he’s there, he heaves a great sigh. He feels overwhelmed and lost. He remembers what he came for, but doesn’t feel up to go back outside yet, so he stays where he is. He presses his forehead against the door of the fridge and squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t need to be ashamed of his feelings, not in front of his best friend. It was bound to happen, one of the falling in love – or going crazy, or whatever this is. Sure, Peter must have complicated things by falling for Tony. Ugh, it’s Mr. Stark for him, because he doesn’t actually know Tony. Shit! Peter lets out a desperate groan. It’s this moment that Ned walks in.

“Come, let me help. Don’t think that we’ll find clean plates in the fridge,” he jokes, picking out two of them and a knife from the cupboard and pulling Peter gently back towards the living room.

When Peter finds that they have vanished nearly half of the monster-pizza, he’s genuinely surprised. “Ned, you are a wonderful person,” he sighs, leaning back.

“Wha-?” Ned mumbles, his mouth still half-full.

“Just wonderful,” Peter repeats, letting his eyes fall shut. He knows that it’s only food coma – well that, and the incredible moral support Ned Leeds is capable of showing even without words – but he welcomes the sensation. It feels closer to normal. His mind is still full of the events of the afternoon, but his emotions are less intense now. He must be too exhausted for that. It feels a little as if the whole thing has happened to someone else. It’s weird, but Peter doesn’t mind. A break is more than welcome. And anyways, there is no way he forgets that it happened to him. If the heavy, tired sensation that the emotional roller coaster left him with isn’t enough, there’s his jacket that miraculously still smells of Tony’s car. And it’s the next best thing compared to Tony.

When they come around from food coma, they talk a little. It’s LEGO stuff and chemistry, interspersed with Tony’s car, Tony’s words, Tony’s eyes, Tony’s project that he will tell Peter more about, Tony’s hands that must be the sexiest thing in the universe when resting on the steering wheel and Tony in general. Mr. Stark, Peter corrects sometimes. Fuck, he’s so far gone. Ned, however, proves to be the most patient friend and helps Peter to accept his own reactions. Peter is sure that alone he wouldn’t have been able to calm down, certainly not to a point where he can sleep. But as it is, it’s him that suggests turning in a little after 9 PM.

He must have been really tired, because he actually sleeps through the night. The morning is not so easy, however. Peter wakes at first light and after throwing himself around in his bed for half an hour he decides to get up. The anxiety is back in full force and he doesn’t seem able to find a safe thought. Even his chemistry project is tainted now. Peter can’t help imagining showing Tony his end results and getting praise from him. Then driving around in the sunset, listening to Tony talk about his innovations. Peter catches himself standing in the middle of the room, frozen in the middle of pulling on his hoodie. Still not on top of things, he realises with a sigh.

He sneaks out to the kitchen and starts making coffee. Coffee. There’s a hint of coffee in the Tony’s-car scent. He surely takes it without sugar. Cream maybe… Then, Peter can’t stop the image forming in his mind – that of Tony licking off a drop of cream from the side of his cup and then doing the same with Peter’s dick. Peter shivers, and it takes him a moment to realise that it might also be because he’s been standing in front of the open fridge for long minutes. He shakes his head and grabs the milk bottle.

The two hours he waits before waking Ned up are agony. The rest isn’t much better either. They only just start cleaning after last night’s pity-party when May arrives. The sight of the boys cheers her up and she decides to join them for breakfast before going to bed. Peter still sucks at hiding his feelings and Ned feels the need to jump in and tell May all about his plans for end of term project. It couldn’t be any less subtle. Peter can feel May’s gaze on him and would bet that a talk is coming his way unless he can get his shit together by tonight and explain it all away by her aunt being tired and imagining things.

After May retreats, Peter finds himself alone with Ned. All those hours he’s been waiting since he woke, he thought that having his friend around would help, but now he’s just as lost as before.

“Come on, man, let’s go out,” Ned nudges him.

“Ugh. I really don’t feel up to it, mate. Wanted to work on my project but my mind turned to complete mush,” Peter admits, hanging his head.

“Yeah, that’s why we need to go out. Let’s go to Central Park.”

“What? It’s fucking far away,” Peter groans. “Can’t we make do with Forest Park?”

“Nope, not this time,” Ned shakes his head. “You need distraction and right now that requires tourists and dogs and ducks.”

Peter buries his face in his hands, but Ned doesn’t let him sink into his swamp of self-pity. So, fifteen minutes later Peter is dragging himself towards the train. Ned helped him dress, but only after Peter spent five minutes fruitlessly trying to pull up his jeans without taking off his pyjama pants first. Even though he doesn’t see the point of this excursion, he goes along with his friend’s idea. If the crowds enjoying the sunshine can turn his attention away from Tony for five minutes straight, he’ll be grateful. Still, he can’t help grumbling once they’ve squeezed themselves into the subway car.

“What are we gonna do, though?”

“Take some fresh air? People watching? Feeding ducks?” Ned replies, trying to sound encouraging, but looking rather uncertain. “I don’t know okay?” he shrugs. “We’ll try and get him off your mind.”

“Good luck for us,” Peter sighs with an apologetic grimace.

“Ned, I’m going to die,” he exclaims an hour later. He’s been trying, really giving his best effort, but to no avail. Tony’s face pops up in his head every other second, no matter the amount of colourful, noisy, laughing, barking, chirruping distractions. “I shouldn’t feel this!” he whimpers. He feels exhausted, constantly torn between hope and dejection, desire and rationality. “Nothing’s going to happen and I’m going to go crazy.”

“You don’t know that,” Ned argues with a careful, yet encouraging smile.

“I’ll die if something happens, too!” Peter groans. He means it, too. No matter how happy he’d be to be with Tony, he doesn’t seem able to avoid making a fool of himself around the man. Starting with the texts, then avoiding his gaze when they met, than gushing to him about how grateful he is, until finally missing his fucking opportunity to learn something about the man because he was too busy telling him about his own stupid project. Ugh. Peter blushes just from remembering his fuck-ups.

It’s Ned elbowing him hard in the ribs that shakes him out of this gloomy train of thought.

“I hope not because he’s right there.” Peter hears his friend’s voice as if from a distance. It takes him a minute to tie back to their conversation and make sense of Ned’s words.

“What?!” he chokes out, but by now he can see it, too. Tony Stark, walking towards them from under the trees with a dachshund. Peter freezes. Let the ground swallow him before Tony notices, please… But at that moment Tony looks up, straight into Peter’s eyes.

***

Part7

[alleiradayne]

Photograph

Summary: As a journalist, the reader hides her identity as the superhero, Moonlighter, from her photographer co-worker, Sam Winchester. Square Filled: Superhero AU Warnings/Tags: Fluff, sex in a bathroom, anal play, quickie, violence, guns, weapons, blood. Characters/Pairings: Sam Winchester/Reader Word Count: 3,127 A/N: For @spnfluffbingo2019​, this fills the square Superhero AU. Thank you, as always, to @atc74​ for beta’ing. Song: Photograph by Def Leppard

“Can you run these beside your article?”

His voice sliced through the thick tangle of thoughts cluttering her mind. Time stretched, slowing until it hung suspended as Sam Winchester’s photographs slid across her desk. A hooded woman in a dark suit leaped across building tops, illuminated by the silvery moon high in the sky. Artistic though they were, the surreal sensation of seeing herself captured on camera sickened her to the bottom of her stomach.

“Y/N? Aren’t you writing the article on the… what are they calling her?” Sam asked.

“Moonlighter.”

“Wow.”

She pulled her eyes from the photographs to look at him. “It’s terrible, I know. I tried not to use it but nothing I wrote stuck. Everyone keeps calling her Moonlighter. Like she’s some sort of joke.”

Sam’s scoff mirrored her own irritation. “She’s doing some pretty awesome things for the city. And she’s giving me a run for my money. I’ve had to do four stakeouts overnight hoping to get a glimpse of her. Never did.”

Her blood ran cold, numbing her fingers and toes as her gaze fell back to the pictures. “Then how did you end up taking these?”

“Got lucky,” he said with a chuckle. “That building is right outside my apartment window.”

Christ. How careless of her. Time to stop using rooftops. Or at least, all the rooftops in the vicinity of Sam’s apartment.

“Well? Can you put the layout together?” Sam asked, interrupting her thoughts. “Or, if you want, we could do it together when you’re done writing. Let me know and we can meet up at the café downstairs?”

Her eyes snapped back to his where she expected to find some sort of come-hither gaze, but instead found nothing but his casual smile. “Did you just ask me out on a date?”

He blinked once, twice, then said, “Well, shit, I guess I did.”

Something about his smile disarmed her better than any piece of shit she frequently came across on the street. “I’ll let you know when I’m done, Sam.”

He smiled again as he turned for her door. “See you soon.”

Coffee in hand, Y/N returned to their corner of the café and collapsed into her overstuffed chair. Beside her Sam sat on a stool, laptop resting on his thighs and a full mug beside him.

“What do you think of this?”

He turned his laptop to her and scrolled through the article, his photographs—of her, God dammit all to hell—interspersed throughout the page. She would need to be more careful. No more rooftops. Alleys. Stick to alleys, and the likes of Sam Winchester would never—

“Y/N?”

Her focus returned at the sound of his voice. He had stopped scrolling and started at her, concern clouding his face. Under such scrutiny, Y/N shifted in her seat. “What?”

“I asked you a question,” he said. “How does this look?”

“It’s uh,” she started, but the bell over the door of the café snagged her attention. Three large men entered the café, and while Y/N might not have had a sixth sense or heightened hearing or any sort of fictional superhero nonsense, she didn’t need any of that bullshit. She knew those men, had seen them on the streets of her city countless nights.

“Dammit, Dolohova,” she spat.

“Who?”

Her glare snapped back to him. “Sam, I need you to listen to me,” she started.

“Does it need a footer?” he asked as he frowned, oblivious to the danger. But that wasn't his fault. With his back to the café, there was no way he could know.

“It needs a footer,” he confirmed as he looked back to the laptop.

“I'm not talking about the article,” Y/N snapped as she grabbed his shoulder. “I need you to do exactly as I say. Something is about to happen in here and I don't want you to get hurt.”

“Ow, hey, what are you—”

“Sh!” she hissed as she gave him a rough shake. “Look at me. Three men just walked in here looking like they owned the place. They probably do. Or their boss does.”

Sam started to turn, but Y/N shook him again. “Don’t! Keep your eyes on me. Smile. Act like we’re really on a date.”

“I thought we—”

She cut him off with a hard kiss, intent on protecting him and everyone in the café. At least, that’s what she told herself. Though a treat loomed, Y/N could not deny the fact that she thoroughly enjoyed the sensation of Sam on her lips, his tongue eagerly delving into her mouth, and his soft gasp that lilted into a moan.

When she parted from him, Sam slowly opened his eyes and said, “So we are on a real date?”

“Yes, but this date is about to get really fucking weird,” she growled. “Here’s the plan. We’ll keep making out for seven minutes, then I’ll head to the bathroom. You’ll follow me no sooner than twenty-seven seconds later. Count in your head. Don’t look at your watch. They’ll think we’re going in there to fuck, so that’ll be a good cover.”

“Wait, I’m confused—”

“Sam, I need you to trust me,” Y/N interrupted. “This café has been paying Dolohova’s mob for ‘protection’. And by protection, I mean destruction. Those enforcers are collecting the monthly payment. If the café doesn’t pay, Dolohova’s men wreck the place and buy it out from the owner.”

He stared at her with such aghast shock, Y/N thought she had sprouted a second head. His wide hazel eyes flicked between hers as though searching, but for what she couldn’t be sure. Then his smile spread across his lips—fuck, but he was pretty—and his gaze softened. His hand slipped into her hair as he neared her, lips brushing hers as he spoke.

“I’ve been on the Dolohova case for nearly a year,” he whispered. “And you had all the answers the whole time.”

“I’m so sorry, Sam, I couldn’t tell you,” she breathed. “It’s… I’m—”

“Moonlighter.”

The shock of cold dread slammed into her stomach like a hard-high knee. “I am.”

“My girlfriend is a superhero,” he whispered as he kissed along her jaw.

“Okay, first, I’m not your girlfriend, and second, I’m not a superhero,” she said. “I’m just a person.”

“Y/N,” he sighed, “I’ve been following Moonlighter for months. I’ve seen what you can do.”

Her eyes rolled closed as his sealed his lips on the pulse point of her neck. “Alright, fine, so I’m kinda strong.”

“You throw men twice your size through plate-glass. And you know about fifteen different forms of martial arts,” he stated.

God dammit. “I’m going to ignore all of that,” she started as she shoved him back. When she stood, Y/N forced her best smile to her lips. “Twenty-seven seconds. Start counting.”

She turned on her heel and withdrew her phone from her pocket as she headed for the bathroom. Mismatched chairs and tables crowded the small café, and Y/N navigated the space so that, by the time she neared the end of the counter, she was within arm’s reach of the nearest enforcer.

“We don’t have it,” the woman behind the register said. “That’s almost double last month.”

“Services have expanded,” one of the enforcers said. “So, price goes up. You pay now, we leave. You don’t, we stay and…”

He turned over his shoulder as Y/N passed them, her face buried in her phone as she giggled to herself. Once she rounded the corner, she returned her phone to her pocket and flattened herself against the wall.

“We stay and clean up.”

That was all the confirmation she needed.

Y/N darted into the bathroom and immediately stripped. Beneath her casual blouse and slacks, she wore a suit black as night, the material unknown to her. She hadn’t been about to ask her tailor questions, though. Where he got the material was his business. All that mattered to her was that it stopped bullets and knives.

Over her head she pulled on her full mask and lifted the cowl as she glanced in the mirror. Two white orbs provided her full peripheral view, unimpeded by the cowl or the mask itself. The last of her suit came together in flat boots designed for maximum flexibility, and a pair of gloves to keep her prints out of the game.

And then she withdrew the most iconic piece of her identity from her purse. The small silvery cylinder concealed easily in her palm as the door of the bathroom creaked open and Sam slipped inside. The deadbolt locked behind him, and Y/N hoped it confirmed their ruse. She turned for the window nearby only to freeze as Sam startled.

“Holy shit.”

She wheeled about, coiled like a spring. “What?!”

“I… it’s not that I didn’t believe you,” Sam started. “I did. Those men… they’re starting to argue with the owner. But I didn’t really think…”

She lifted her mask and ran into his arms, lips landing on his for a quick kiss. “You didn’t really think your girlfriend was a superhero.”

“I thought you said you weren’t my girlfriend.”

Y/N righter her mask as she darted back to the window and opened it. With a flick of her thumb, she released the spring on the silver cylinder in her palm, and the six-foot bo staff extended with a sharp crack. Over her shoulder she said, “I am now.”

With that, she leapt through the window and into the darkness of night.

From single to dating a superhero in fifteen minutes, Sam reeled. So deep in thought, he barely heard the shouting from the cafe, and it wasn’t until a bullet burst through the tile of the bathroom that he remembered.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—shit.”

A shower of tile and bullets rained down on him as Sam hit the floor and crawled to the door. There he unlocked the bolt and crouched through the door into the hallway near the register. With his back to the wall, he peaked around the frame and his jaw might as well have hit the floor.

Y/N whirled between the three men as though she were made of water and they of stone. Faster than lightning, she struck with her staff, cracking wrists and fingers and ankles, disarming and disabling. A vicious angled strike slashed the pointed tip of her staff down one man’s face, and he collapsed to the floor screaming, both hands clasped over one eye.

In that moment’s breath to disable one of the men, the other two had recovered their weapons.

“Stop!”

The bull man’s bellow echoed through the café. Screams of terrified patrons followed, hot on the heels of his commands.

“Leave, Night-Light,” the big man said.

“It’s Moonlighter,” the second man corrected.

“Whatever! I don’t care! Leave, or we kill everyone in here,” the bull-man roared.

A second ticked past, Y/N coiled with her staff in both hands. But then she relaxed, her weight on one foot and a hand on her hip. Her head cocked to one side as she spoke. “You know, I get how you Russians haggle and win. You’re terrible at it.”

“What?!” Bull-Man said.

“Leave or we kill everyone in here,” she mocked in an impressive Russian accent, and Sam had to clamp a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing. “You sound like some sort of bad movie villain. In fact, everything about this,” she paused as she gestured to the café, “screams Bad Superhero Movie.”

Bull-Man bellowed another roar of rage as he raised his gun and pulled the trigger. Six shots in quick succession missed their mark, deflected by the whirling silver blur that was Y/N’s staff. Repeated clicks of an empty pistol followed, and Bull-Man tossed it aside.

True to his size, he charged headlong into Y/N. She sidestepped him with practiced ease and vaulted into the air with her bo staff readied. A streak of silver flashed as she whipped the end of her staff around to strike the side of the giant man’s neck, the snap of bone audible clear across the cafe where Sam yet hid in the shadows of the hallway.

The man dropped to the floor in a heap, his massive body an unmoving lump. Y/N turned then to the remaining enforcer and shook her head as though shocked to see him still aiming his gun at her. He seemed to struggle with his options, glancing first to the door, then to the back of the café where Sam hid.

“Really?” she asked.

The man whirled about, and after a beat, dropped his gun. His hands shot into the air, and not a second later, police sirens rose in the distance, still miles away.

“And that’s my cue,” Y/N said as she strode to the man. A flick of her wrist snapped the staff across the backs of his knees as she passed him, and he crumpled to the floor howling. Seemingly satisfied, she loped the length of the café to the rear where she reunited with Sam.

“That wasn’t so bad,” she declared.

“That was insane,” Sam corrected. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”

She grabbed him by the back of his upper arm and hauled into the bathroom again. “These are the rules. If we’re gonna be together, you get to know who I am, no lies. But that’s the price you pay. You get to know who I am. You get to live with that constant fear that someone is finally gonna get the best of me, and I might die. I’m not stopping. Not for a relationship. I know who I am as a person. Not as a superhero. And these are my convictions. I don’t expect you to be okay with any of that, but those are my terms, and—”

Sam lunged, and as much as he wanted to believe that he had caught her unaware, he knew she had let him pick her up and carry her into a stall. She tore her mask from her head, and he kissed her as hard as she had kissed him in the café.

Though the police sirens howled miles away, Y/N tore at his pants, buckle and zipper opening beneath her fingers. Sam parted from her in a breathless gasp and asked, “What are you doing?”

“I’m on a massive adrenaline rush, and after you manhandled me into this stall, I’m sopping wet, and you are way too hot not to finish what you started,” she said.

Her honesty���not to mention the language she chose—stiffened his cock, straining against his tight boxers. And yet, as the sirens continued to grow louder, he hesitated. “The cops—”

“Will be here in six minutes. Think you can satisfy us both that fast?”

He dropped her to her feet, grabbed her by the hips and spun her to face the wall. Pleased, Y/N moaned as he shoved her against the wall and pinned her to it with his entire body. He grasped at her suit until he found a seam at her hips, and the material bunched as he shoved it to her ankles. Her back arched as though presenting herself to him, a subtle shimmer coating her sex, and Sam wasted no more of the precious seconds they had left.

He shoved his pants to his knees and withdrew himself from his underwear, the waistband hooked under his sac. When he looked up to find Y/N staring, a familiar sting burned in his cheeks. “What?”

She licked her lips, then spoke. “Oh, I have a feeling I’m going to be more than satisfied.”

“Yeah?” He dragged the tip through her arousal, coating himself as her lips spread for him. “You like it?”

“I’ll know when you’re—oh, fuck me, Sam.”

His hips snapped, slamming his cock into her completely. “Holy shit, you feel so damn good, Y/N.”

“Five minutes,” she stated as she bucked her hips. “If you don’t fuck me, I’ll take care of myself on you.”

Sam withdrew and set his grueling pace, hips pumping into her ass in quick snaps. Y/N grasped his wrist and pulled it from her hip to shove his hand between her thigh. “Four and a half minutes. You’ve got a lot of work to do, Sam Winchester.”

Fuck. “Like this?” he asked as he rubbed furious circles around her swollen clit.

“Harder,” she moaned.

Sam thrust as hard as he could, the slaps of their bodies echoing in the tiled bathroom. Y/N moaned so loud, he knew anyone left in the café could hear her, but he didn’t care. If anything, it only heightened his arousal.

“Two and a half,” she breathed. “I’m close, baby. You feel so damn good with that big fat cock inside me.”

“Oh, god, Y/N, you keep talking like that, I’m gonna come,” he growled.

“Do it, Sam,” she hissed. “Come in me. Come inside my pussy.”

He ground his teeth as he grasped her hip with his free hand. “No, I want you to come first.”

“Sixty seconds, then, honey,” she mewled. “I’m so close, keep going.”

His grip on her backside adjusted, and his thumb pressed to her asshole. A shriek of surprise lilted into a moan so lascivious, Sam growled in his effort to hold back. “Come for me, Y/N. Come on my cock.”

Rapid shudders coursed down her spine as the walls of her cunt squeezed and spasm. “Yes, Sam, harder. Fuck me, baby, keep going. Thirty seconds.”

“I… fuck I can’t—”

Another wild wail filled the bathroom as Y/N unraveled, her entire body writhing in her release. A fresh coating of her arousal gathered on his cock as he continued to thrust into her pussy, his own orgasm ravaging his entire body. His cock twitched a hard, prolonged flex as he came, balls emptied into her as he buried himself inside her.

The police sirens exploded as several cars raced down the streets connected to the back alley of the café. Y/N moved swift as a cat, cleaned and clothes righted in a blur of arms and hands. When she turned and found Sam still reeling from his orgasm, a pink hue colored her cheeks.

“Five minutes and forty-five seconds,” she said as she slipped her mask over her face. “Meet me at my apartment in an hour?”

Sam righted his pants as he followed her from the stall. “Yeah, right after I talk to the police.”

She pushed the open window aside and stepped onto the ledge. “Make sure you're outside in about ten minutes.”

“Why?”

She hopped into the alley as she said, “You'll need a few more photographs to go with my article on Moonlighter!”

If you want in on any of my tags (Sam/Jared, Dean/Jensen), send me a DM or an ask!

ALLEIRADAYNE’S SPN FLUFF BINGO MASTERLIST

ALLEIRADAYNE’S SPN MASTER LIST

The Whole Thang:

@atc74  @hannahindie @bevans87  @meganwinchester1999  @plaided-ani-on-hiatus  @oneshoeshort @jonogueira @andkatiethings @elfinmox @wonderfulworldofwinchester @princessofthefandomrealm  @just-another-busyfangirl @jmekitchens @81mysteriouslyme @dolphincliffs  @seenashwrite  @canadianspnhunter  @meowmeow-motherfucker @depressed-moose-78 @staycejo1 @hobby27  @pretty-fortune @mypopculturediva @fanfictionjunkie1112 @sandlee44 @4llmywr1tings @claitynroberts @maddiepants​ @scarletluvscas @donnaintx​ @blackeyedangel9805​ @rainflowermoon​ @winchesterprincessbride  @lazinessisalliknow​ @the-is13​ @waywardafgrandma​ @keymology​ @sister-winchesters99​

Sam’s Sasstresses (Jared):

@morganas-pendragons​ @karouwinchester​

[meta-squash]

Journal For Plague Lovers & Modernist Literary Style

So I’ve had this theory/idea/whatever in my head for at least a year now about Journal For Plague Lovers and Modernist literature. (Note: I’m talking about the full, unedited lyrics available in the deluxe edition booklet, which you can find my scans of here.) Basically, my theory is that JFPL reflects and uses a Modernist style of writing in order to express feelings and experiences. The Modernist writers really started experimenting with form and meaning and how each dictates or manipulates the other, and there are certain stylistic choices that Richey made in these lyrics that are really reminiscent of the Modernist techniques and experimental styles.

To begin with, JFPL is a notably massive leap forward in lyrical writing for Richey. Which, frankly, is amazing if most of it was written between autumn 1994 when he got out of hospital and January 1995 when the binder was given to Nicky. That means that his lyrical advancement occurred in about 6 months, between the writing/recording of The Holy Bible and Richey’s release from hospitalization, which is incredibly fast. Nicky is always mentioning how Richey’s mind was in high-gear around the time of writing Journal For Plague Lovers, how he was unable to switch off or slow down, which probably accounts both for the advancement and the overwhelming overload of references in these lyrics.

Anyway, I’m just gonna go through some of the main characteristics of Modernist literature/poetry, and sort of look at how JFPL reflects that or utilizes it.

Probably the most obvious is the “cut-up” word/writing style of most of the songs. The Beat poets took cut-up and really ran with it, but it kind of started during the later modernist period. Cut-ups are where a text or texts are cut up and rearranged to make a new text.

I don’t think Richey was literally cutting up texts, but the way certain songs, like Me & Stephen Hawking, Peeled Apples, and Journal For Plague Lovers leap from subject to subject or POV to POV very much seems to emulate that cut-up style. Me & Stephen Hawking is a really good example. In an interview about the album, someone mentioned the weirdness of the lyrics to the song and James responded, “Seriously, you haven’t seen the rest. Seriously, you wouldn’t fucking believe them.” The lyrics clearly have an ongoing theme, but it’s hard to make out at first. They’re very cut-up style, random and almost unintelligible:

Queen mother stuffed for exhibition Three strikes yr out – execution – pizza 2/ Dante III, spider robot, Mount Spurrr Increased plastic surgery for pubic hair Sanitation police, crime of proportion.

Peeled Apples, while clearly political, and Journal For Plague Lovers, clearly personal, also really use the cut-up style. Peeled Apples slams together political/history references with images of personal suffering and popular media as well as just plain bizarre phrases like “Canaries are always behind bars the day of deliverance lied.” Pretension/Repulsion also does this, as it’s just single seemingly unrelated words clustered together separated only by commas. The cut-up sort of style allows a ton of words to be put together where it might not have been so easy before. It’s hard to follow, but it manages to pack a LOT of information into a small amount of space, and creates a sensation of overwhelming reality and/or unreality.

Which brings me to another characteristic of modernism, which was the destabilization of reality, the realization that there is not central truth and that truth is provisional and reality is constructed by the “writer” and the “reader.” Jackie Collins Existential Question Time really utilizes that, as it warps reality into this bizarre sort of talk show asking relationship questions– but you don’t know if you’re the audience or not, or where you/the speaker is, or what the conclusion is meant to be, or what the questions really mean. It’s silly but also serious and you’re not really sure how to take it because it’s so weird. You get a sense of place, of what’s going on, but not enough to feel like your feet are on solid ground and that you’re understanding anything.

Facing Page: Top Left and Virginia State Epileptic Colony do this as well, but in very different ways. In Facing Page, you get the sense of a hospital or institution, flashes and fragments of moments and images from within, but there is never any clarity about what is going on, and the world constructed by the words is obscured from any conclusion or truth or central point, since images of institutionalization are interspersed with phrases like “The scum as jewellery,” “Pig bargaining,” “Christian fraternity meeting Pagan idolatry,” and of course “This beauty here dipping neophobia.” It’s comprised mostly of collections of short phrases, and none of these phrases coagulate or combine to clarify anything or to give the listener-reader any sort of intended message. Virginia State Epileptic Colony also presents a hospital scene, but it is much clearer. Instead, the destabilization of reality comes from spaces in the text, and the repetition. We only get about half an image in 13 lines of text– people (patients) sitting at tables drawing circles in chalk, given medication by doctors, waking to strange lights and being told that they are independent because they are allowed to learn domestic tasks. We have the repetition of “Piggy” (and those double asterisks) 5 times in the chorus, with no true explanation as to what it means, and with two verses, a repetitive chorus, and a two-line bridge, there is so much space in this song, so much emptiness. It is up to the listener to fill that space, that reality, making it something constructed not by the words, but by what isn’t there, the information that the listener has to create for themselves out of the half-image that’s given.

As an extension of the above, the use of stream-of-consciousness (and first person) writing became really popular during the modernist era. Most songs are sort of a form of stream-of-consciousness, but the lyrics on JFPL seem to do it more on a literary rather than lyrical level. More than any of the others, William’s Last Words does it best. It’s literally a Faulkner-style first-person prose monologue without line breaks or a verse/chorus/bridge structure. The original version is clearly a drunk character leaving or attempting to leave a party or show of some sort. It’s sad and nostalgic and self-deprecating but it’s all one unbroken monologue-scene of stream of consciousness speech. This is just a small chunk of the page and a half of text:

Goodnight all, you’re all my friends…remember my wedding day, should’ve heard ole Bill singing, we’ll have a good old ding dong tomorrow, you’re lovely all of you, goodnight godbless I’ll always remember you, hope you liked the concert. I’ll go nice and quiet, I’ll just say cherio, here I go on my way, till we meet again, wish me luck as you wave me goodbye. Yr the best friends I ever had, yes, no, no I’m not a clever chap, I made a balls up again, first, second, third time but not on your time I hope, you’re a part of the world….oo be quiet old Bill, no applause, sleeptight, isn’t it lovely when the dawn brings the dew and I’ll be watching over you. It was lovely singing to you, I won’t forget you.

It’s full of commas and run-on or unconnected sentences, but it is prose that connects to itself rather than lyrics. Still, it seems to start in the middle of a scene and fades away into not much of a concrete conclusion, so we get a moment of consciousness– perhaps the most emotional moment– before turning away. Facing Page: Top Left and Marlon JD do stream of consciousness to some degree as well. Facing Page is not a typical stream of consciousness, but more like a list of things or experiences or associations. In some ways again it makes me think of Faulkner, of the way he writes characters that don’t really know how narrate their thoughts/experiences in words. It never leaves its institutional location or changes the subject to something else, it just rambles about the situation it’s in through fragmentary phrases. Marlon JD is also very stream-of-consciousness, but because it’s already based on a monologue from a film that’s kind of to be expected.

Modernism was also characterized by a sort of “what’s becoming of the world?” reaction, in response to the speeding up of technological advancements and scientific discoveries etc etc, as well as the consciousness of the changes that came from the end of the 19th century and how the new 20th century was shaping up to be. Something that the band specifically notes in interviews about the Journal For Plague Lovers album is the emphasis on information overload, of the speed of technology and information/media consumption, as well as concerns about things like the environment, religion, and global politics/history and the end of the millennium.

Me & Stephen Hawking is the clearest example of this “what is becoming of the world?” anxiety, and the focus on information overload. The main body of the lyric –the verse(s)– never actually made it onto the recording, which just uses the bridge and the chorus. This is probably because the verse(s) are just jumbles of references to history and media and events and ideas. It’s also characterized by swaths of blacked-out lines. Whether the Richey did that or the band did it posthumously, we don’t know. If Richey did it himself, it certainly changes the interpretation of the lyrics, as it adds another layer of “information” (censoring) overload. But the words trip over each other, so many different references all piled in one spot:

2/ Dante III, spider robot, Mount Spurrr Increased plastic surgery for pubic hair Sanitation police, crime of proportion. 3/ Paisleyism and ecumenism and cenotaph bombers [blacked out] wearing policing Soviet labour medals sold for Coca Cola 82 million watch Gorilla Meets Whale

Peeled Apples does the same thing, piling political and historical and emotional and media references in one place until they’re so jumbled it’s hard to make sense of them, showing the anxiety of that information overload and speeding up of communication, creation, knowledge. I’ve always thought that All Is Vanity is a kind of reaction to that reaction, putting the anxiety succinctly into “It’s not whats wrong it’s what’s right / Makes me feel like I’m talking a foreign language at times” and the desire for control or some semblance of order and calmness in “I would prefer no choice / One bread one milk one food that’s all / I’m confused I only want one truth.” Which, again, goes back to that Modernist realization that truth is provisional, reality is constructed, and there is no central point because not only is it all relative, it’s also always moving and changing and growing and shrinking and twisting.

Another characteristic is that of an emphasis on the sexual (in the form of fetish or obsession, usually), and the visceral or grotesque. While JFPL doesn’t really have much of the former, it certainly has plenty of the latter. The most obvious are Journal For Plague Lovers and She Bathed Herself In A Bath Of Bleach. She Bathed Herself really contains the most visceral image in the title, which is, as Nicky calls it, “quite a shocking title.” Aside from the title, the more intense lines are “She thought burnt skin would please her lover” and “Love sat her in a bath of bleach / But salmon pink skinned Mary is still caring.” Even so, the title kind of dictates where the listener’s mind goes with these words, and so with the suggestion from the title, the imagination goes to more grotesque places that the words actually literally contain. On the other hand, Journal For Plague Lovers has some really grotesque imagery. The band sort of cherry-picked lines to record around the more intense parts of the verses. The verses altogether seem to be an image of a rotting self, whether physical, emotional or mental, especially when combined with the “dying relationship” of the bridge.

These perfect abattoirs these perfect actors Babies bones, dustbinned, shorn

Oh such love smeared stimulus Vacuumed pain slow suck luck Wake in hell murder one Troughs o’ bones wade in gore

Weep helpless skewered flesh Milky teeth soured and fetid PG certificate all cuts unfocused Sick in skin embarrassed within

The imagery is really intense but non-specific, creating a reaction of disgust and fragments of gross images without really knowing what we’re looking at or what we’re supposed to be disgusted by. It’s a shock factor that transitions into the bridge, which is a scene of a failing or failed relationship, so that the gross images overlay this moment of romantic collapse, making it even more visceral and pitiful.

Modernism also started really focusing on the meaning and history of words, and how they could be used to create an image without blatantly telling a story. Pretension/Repulsion is the best example of this, especially because James Bradfield specifically noted in an interview that the way the song was laid out meant it felt like Richey was telling him “Look at the words, James, look at the words.” Which makes sense, as it’s just a bunch of individual words divided by commas:

Explored, inclos’d, amaz’d, perturb’d Assum’d, annoy’d, ceas’d, unhinder’d Burden’d, gather’d, agonis’d, lock’d Mix’d, sear’d, receiv’d, unclaps’d 

Instead of focusing on a story, the listener-reader is paying attention to the sound of each word and thinking of the meaning behind it. Instead of a narrative, we get flashes of image/emotion for each word. Peeled Apples also relays on knowledge of words and historical references, with lines like “In SB’s Cistine Chapel inabilities wither / Boy smoking cigarette infront of Himmler’s painted ether” and “Nutrition is neuroses for a maelstrom of inadequacy.” Doors Closing Slowly relies on religious knowledge, and its references go very deep. It twists biblical stories and references, and expects the listener-reader to understand the origin and therefore the modified version:

I want your sin third day perfected Lazarus burning Jerusalem Blaspheme, cut dead, Isiah One day birds of prey Israelite 

But, like the Modernists, each of these lyrics uses an emphasis on the expectation that the listener-reader will have the literary or historical or vocabulary knowledge to understand the meaning/origin of the reference in order to create a specific image through the twisting or reinterpretation of that reference. It wants the definition and history to expand the story, so that it’s the effort of the listener-reader and not the speaker that will expand the story into something fleshed out and recognizable. Despite the cuts that were made for the studio recordings it’s clear when you read the full versions of the lyrics that every single word is important and researched and meant to be included. There is a history and meaning infused in every reference, and Richey’s brain was going so fast that some of the lyrics feel like they’re piled on top of each other, but at the same time, they seem to build on each other, each reference allowing the listener-reader to glean more meaning the more history or definitions they know.

What I found most telling was seeing the quality of modernist literature that my professor really drilled into us: that modernist lit (especially prose, but also poetry to a large extent) was not necessarily about the plot, and the plot was not the most important thing. Instead of a specific narrative, what was important was the impression or emotion evoked by the words. I always think of the novel Nightwood by Djuna Barnes when it comes to feelings/impressions being more important than the plot; there is a plot, but it’s just a scaffolding or a base for the emotion to build off of, for the reader to interpret and feel from. It’s basically what all of the above is driving to create and express. Instead of having a direct narrative within the lyrics (like 4st lbs or La Tristesse Durera or even, to some extent, PCP or Intense Humming…), it relies on fragments of scenes or references to create an impression or an emotion on the listener-reader. Faster and Of Walking Abortion do this as well, but JFPL manages to take it to another level.

The band, when being interviewed about Journal For Plague Lovers, often talk about how much this album seems simultaneously “of its time” and strangely fitting for the present. In his very last television interview, Richey mentioned that his dream was to “write a lyric which I think is flawless, that makes sense to me, not anybody else. That I think in 15-20 lines sums up exactly how I feel about everything, not just how I feel today, how I’ve felt all my life. Everything I’ve read, everything I’ve seen, everything I believe, that in those 15 lines you just say it all.” Considering the sheer amount of knowledge and imagery and information packed into just the 13 songs on the album (not to mention the 20 or so more in the binder that have never been published), I think that’s partly what Richey was trying to do with these words. We’ll never know if he thought he succeeded, but instead of being left with a clear-cut picture of his opinions (or accusations) like THB, instead we are left with impressions of experiences, feelings, and events created through the fragments of information all slammed together– everything, all in 15 lines.

Aside from one or two songs, the tracks on JFPL don’t really have a defined narrative. Instead, they rely on fragments of images, emotions, references, and ideas to form an impression in the listener’s mind. For example, Peeled Apples, the most reference-filled track on the album, doesn’t actually tell a straightforward story or clear opinion the way the more political tracks on THB did. Instead we get an opening line that is clearly political followed by a much more personal line: “Riderless horses, Chomsky’s Camelot / Bruises on my hand from digging my nails out,” and the rest of the lyrics that follow are a mass of references, from the bible to Japanese post-Hiroshima films to the Birdman of Alcatraz to George Orwell, intermingled with lines that are abstract and emotional. Yet somehow what the listener-reader gets out of is an impression of frustration, political anger, and historical/political/personal entropy. Me & Stephen Hawking is similarly reference-packed, and out of that comes the impression of overwhelming technological/information enhancement and concern for the survival of both the environment and the self.

Doors Closing Slowly is full of religious references, and leaves us with an impression religious and personal doubt, and the overwhelming feeling of rejection and dejection towards both. And they’re so twisted together there are some lines, like “Love the soul not the body / Let me forgive the word ruins / I wanted to kill but my tears love,” where you don’t know if it’s a personal reference or a religious one.

There’s a sense of desolation and loneliness, of overwhelming exhaustion at the uncertainty of truth. William’s Last Words, on the other hand, feels desperate, lonely but wishing not to be alone. As a prose monologue, it is more personal-sounding, able to sound rambling and drunken because of the amount of space the words are allowed to take up. Within the words there’s the impression of nostalgia and a sort of rainy quietness, a mental fading, and a sort of muffled personal mourning.

In All Is Vanity, there is a sense of desperation. For control, for understanding, for being understood. Especially in “I’m confused I only want one truth / I really don’t mind if I’m being lied to,” there’s an impression of simultaneous frustration with monotony and a desire for it, a frustration with and desire for beauty, love, a non-existent central point, a conflict of interest on the personal level. This Joke Sport Severed feels bleak, an impression of rawness or over-sensitivity being dealt with through rejection and repression, hiding or turning away from everything that hurts. It includes the odd bridge, “Repress yr emotion / Repression yr revenge / Stoic shitter nerve end,” which radiates anger as well as dejection and frustration. The song leaves an impression of being curled in a corner somewhere, barefoot, confused, frustrated and lost and nursing wounds and pretending nothing outside of your little corner exists.

As I mentioned before, Facing Page: Top Left absolutely leaves the listener-reader with an image of hospitals and institutionalization and the monotony of that existence. It also gives an impression of discomfort, a body seen in fragments rather than as a whole, and a loss of agency. It feels frustrated, searching, but also pointedly disgusted both with the self and with others. The final two lines, for me, pack all of those feelings in a short punch packed with words and images: “Dipping neophobia. Gillette Cuticura. Flak. PS. Recovery. Huh / Central dissolves. Exceed dosage. Subscribed. Cleansed. Boring.”

Journal For Plague Lovers also reflects that disgust, to a much higher degree. The grotesque imagery gives the listener-reader a distinct feeling of uneasy revulsion, but also a sort of pity or helplessness, both for the self and for others that seem to exist in the song. Especially because it’s difficult to make out who the speaker is and what they feel– which puts all the interpretation on the listener rather than the speaker. It makes the listener-reader feel conflicted, uncertain whether they should feel horrified or sad.

Again, most of the songs don’t really have an obvious narrative, just images you can kind of construct meaning out of. But on the off-chance we do get a narrative, it is left so vague and open-ended it’s barely a narrative at all, but a fragment left open at both ends. In Virginia State Epileptic Colony, we get a momentary picture of a hospital scene, but we leave it before we get anything but an impression. She Bathed Herself… gives an incomplete narrative of a mentally ill woman and her views/attempts at romance, a fragment of her thoughts and feelings and experiences, and a fragment of the speaker at the bridge demanding “Brush her hair, no one else will / Don’t hurt her anymore, stop hurting her.” Marlon JD is also fragmentary, but some explanations can be found in the film it references, because most of the lyrics are a monologue from Reflections In A Golden Eye, or descriptions of scenes from the film. William’s Last Words starts abruptly, practically in the middle of a sentence, and peters out into nothing without the narrator going anywhere or doing much. It’s a long, sad, drunken ramble with no central point (as there is no set or stable truth), in which the narrator seems to circle around whatever it is he wants to say without really saying it, and loses steam before he gets to it. Instead we’re left with this strangely contradictory set of ending sentences, (and, apt for the album and its circumstances) a conclusion without any real meaning or conclusion:

“If I sing a song I’m down a scale or up a scale. I’ve come a long way, really, even for a tone deaf singer, if you want to know.”

Nicky also tends to mention how the binder was filled not only with lyrics, but with paintings, scans of other authors’ literature, collages, drawings, prose, journal entries, and other sorts of clippings. He makes it clear that the binder itself was meant to be a work of art. Again, this places emphasis on the form and the importance of references and of the whole being seen to create an impression rather than each little piece being interpreted. This does make me wonder how much more to the lyrics and art within there really was, and if within the whole thing as a work of art Richey did somehow reach his goal of writing the perfect lyrics or the perfect album or the perfect piece of art expressing himself. Either way, I think the inclusion of Richey’s art and non-lyric writings and things in the booklet are a sort of attempt at allowing the whole to give an impression, because the inclusion of the drawn-upon diagrams of Dante’s Infero with the lyrics to Journal For Plague Lovers, or a Christ figure with Marlon JD, or Richey’s notes from therapy with Pretension/Repulsion, flesh the piece out into art as a whole, in which the visual aspect also informs the creation of the impression upon the viewer (or listener-reader).

In Journal For Plague Lovers, modernist style is used and reflected to talk about Richey’s own experiences and thoughts, but also to capture and express a very specific moment and emotion and idea without saying it outright. There is never any mention of that information overload, of apprehension about the coming millennium, no outward or straightforward reference to his time in hospital or his views on relationships or the self. Instead, each song leaves us with an impression, a feeling rather than a clearly defined narrative or message. There’s an internalization of meaning, of imagery, so that it must be sensed and pulled out of all the jumbles of words and emotions; this time, it isn’t the plot or the message that is important, it’s the impression and feelings of an experience and a moment in time that is simultaneously constant and passed, intensely, vividly present and faded away like a memory.

[cloudbattrolls]

Zenith

Etuuya Vannyn | Present Night | Depths of Imperial Space

You have to shut your eyes as it approaches.

Even as a jade and a light-loving drinker, the ship is too huge and bright - you know very well you’d have to waste energy regrowing new ones from the sheer pain and damage of the glare.

What’s happening? 

You have a million questions, but mostly you find yourself annoyed. 

The whole scenario is damn silly, like the sort of beetle dreadful novel folks write for wrigglers about old colonization eras. You hope Karina got your message, at least, though perhaps she’ll wonder if you’ve gone insane.

You hear the ship groan, ears flicking as you grip the arms of the seat you’re buckled, and you realize you’re moving again. It’s not a random teleportation like before - rather a slow, deliberate pull, like being towed by a gravity beam. 

Who wants you this badly? Who would go to all the trouble you now suspect they went to, in such a showy and unnecessary way, just to capture you? You doubt it’s for your snail care expertise or what you can do with a needle and thread. 

Either whoever’s doing this is stupid, which is a comforting thought, or they have enough energy and resources that it’s all fun and games to them, which is significantly less comforting since anyone like that is going to be very hard to reason with.

You hear the distinct sounds of your ship docking, apparently without any say on your part. Well, at least it sounds like they’re being careful about it - on the off chance you get out of this alive, Tulais won’t cut your pay for damages. Silver linings.

It’s tempting to be ready with a gun, or try to set up traps when you can open your eyes again (the glare is still too bright, intense even with shut eyelids) but if these showy fools had wanted you dead you would be already, and it seems unwise to give them a reason.

So you just check your sylladex and make sure you have got everything in case you need it, tapping your fingers as all you can do is (unfortunately) wait. 

You’re not kept doing so for long.

The glow dies, and the second it does, your eyes snap open and so does the door to your quarters, something pushing it aside.

It is definitely a something.

Whatever’s walking toward you has a troll’s basic shape, but no troll has horns covered with glowing veins, or eyes that look like lava. No troll has skin with what looks like glowing fluid swirling underneath it, pulsating back and forth in tune with their movements, with heat radiating off them like an oven. 

No troll smiles at you with teeth black as obsidian - which might be what they’re actually made of, you’re not sure.

Their clothing is weirdly boring by comparison - standard issue gray and black wear - but it has an odd texture and consistency to it, looking more like armor. 

“Hello.” You say after your moment of shock, sticking your hands in your pants pockets. “What’s your name, mysterious stranger? Or am I the mysterious stranger in this scenario. What a conundrum.”

“Come on. You’re expected.”

“You just hauled my entire ship in.” You drawl, following nevertheless as this entity turns, obviously expecting you to follow. “If you weren’t expecting me, I’d wonder what was going o - ”

The word dies in your mouth as you walk out into a shimmering white world.

It’s the white of marble, which could well be what you’re walking on, though perhaps it’s just some metallic or plastic alloy. You can see, barely, but you’re squinting as your head darts back and forth, absorbing the apparent palace you’ve been nabbed by. 

Columns and webs of wire and metal intersperse the immaculate white, and plants ranging from small to jungle-size are everywhere. Why not? The heat of this place must be amazing for them.

Vines curl around columns threaded with gold, and pretty much everyone you pass looks at least a bit like your travel guide here.

They’re not all the same - their traits vary from patches of stony skin to stranger things like long antennae, or oversize obsidian claws - but all of them have those glowing eyes, and all of them radiate yet more heat in this already sweltering environment. 

It’s a true novelty, being the most thoroughly normal person in the area. You wish you could bottle up the sensation and take it with you.

Most of the people - if that’s what they are - barely spare a look for you, which is nice, but also unhelpful. A bit of gossip as to what’s going to happen in your near future would be appreciated.

Nope, everyone’s silent, even your escort, who hasn’t looked back at you once since you started following them. 

Wait. Why are they all silent to each other? Don’t they have news to share? Shopping lists to discuss? What do weird fire-people buy at Slayer’s, anyway.

Smoothing your hair back, you open your mouth to ask your not-really-a-good-guide a question - 

- and nearly bump into them as they stop short in front of a door that just feels a tinge ominous to you.

Maybe it’s the fact that it’s on fucking fire.

Red, orange and purple flames dance around the huge white slab, but they don’t move. You’d think they were illusory if you couldn’t feel the heat, hear the hiss and crackle. Yet they burn with nothing to fuel them, as far as you can tell. 

Glow-horns puts their hand on the door and sucks the flames out. At least, they burn for a moment with purple flames and then are back to their usual state.

What you assume is usual for them. Who can say.

You’re just glad you don’t sweat, you would be a mess right now.

The door swings inward and you hear what sounds like...singing?

Wordless singing, but still, it seems to be a troll’s voice.

Curious, you step in and blink repeatedly at the sight before you.

At the center of the room is a fountain. It’s shaped like one, anyway, but instead of water, it’s surrounded by steam. It has to be at least thirty feet tall, though it’s hard to tell through the haze.

The woman doing the singing is perched at the top.

Literally, because she has bird legs, also wings, and really can this night get any weirder?

Never mind, you don’t want to know.

She looks both more and less like a troll than the others - her legs are scaly from the knees down, with talons - and she has massive shining wings in too many colors to name. Gold, purple, red, orange and every hue in between.

Yet as she stops singing, spreads said wings and swoops down (nearly buffeting you backwards as she lands) you can see that while her eyes glow and she has feathers around their edges, they don’t look like lava. Nor does she have any patches of stone on her body - you can see quite a bit of her skin between her skimpy teal clothing, cut up to accommodate her extra limbs and shoulder feathers. 

Her teeth are obsidian, though, as she too smiles at you like someone brought her the world’s best wriggling day present.

You are not meant to be smiled at. It would be nice if they all stopped. They can be odd lava creatures all they want, but some things are just plain uncomfortable.

Still, you extend a hand. 

“Hi, I’m Tuuya, to what do I owe the pleasure.”

“I know who you are, little Vannyn.” She says, and as she stands up fully, wings folded, she must be eight feet tall, at least. Why is everyone a bloody giant these nights?

Stepping toward you, she ignores your hand and puts her own under your chin, tilting your head up as she looks down at you.

You go rigid, not from the heat of her that feels like it’ll burn you, but because - because - 

“Please don’t do that.” You manage to choke out. “I promise, you don’t want to.”

She can’t know who you are, if she’s doing this.

“Don’t I?” She says, with amusement. “I spent three lives to find out who I was dealing with. I was very impressed, though a touch put out - you’re so restrained. You think so much of people who only see you as their pet. What a curious troll you are.”

You can’t think. Your mind is buckling from the weight of what she’s saying, what it means.

With a jerk you take your head away from her palm and look up at her, eyes brimming with hate.

“You made. A drinker.” You say, even, but your claws dig into your clenched hands as you shake slightly. “You sent a troll to a fate worse than death.”

She tilts her head, her feathered ears twitching as a smile plays across her lips.

“Every creature is meant to spread, reproduce - why does it bother you? Haven’t you been a sire before?”

Sire. What an attempt of dressing up a despicable act in pretty language.

“Don’t you feel some joy at your creation?” She queries, now going to your largely forgotten guide and putting her hands on their shoulders. They glow more brightly when she does, practically incandescent. “Why so miserable, Etuuya? I gave you a fledgling. I thought you liked being a lusus.”

It’d be better if she was mocking you, but there’s honest curiosity in her voice, mixed with a hint of disappointment.

“That troll.” You say slowly. “Is being forced to adjust to an existence they didn’t ask for. They are now a parasite to every living person, a threat by existing. They hate me, and they should.”

You haven’t actually talked to them, or asked anyone if they’ve said anything about you. Wester is their name, you later learned. It’s been too difficult to absorb anything else about the snake troll.

Especially since they had to talk you out of mercy culling them.

She clicks her tongue, shaking her head. Her hair is long, long enough to go down her back past her wings. How does she ever have time for anything else, between washing it and - can she preen those wings, with no beak? Does she have someone do it for her? 

“Also - why are you troll Alfred Hitche’s daymare. Why...all this. What’s it about.” You wave a hand.

You’re not really expecting an answer (not a helpful one) but maybe it’ll buy you some time to think while she monologues, or cackles and talks about her evil plans or something.

Instead, she plucks you up by the collar of your shirt, there’s a flash of heat and light, and the pair of you are standing on what can only be an alien planet.

The three moons in the sky and the setting twin suns are a bit of a giveaway. 

As are the vast volcanic structures towering in the distance, beyond the plain you’re standing on. Hardened lava flows that must be hundreds - maybe thousands of miles long - formed into impossible loops and spirals.

Big Bird’s archnemesis sticks out her arm and the whole sky erupts into a combination of fireworks and the northern lights, enough flashy colors and bright patterns to give you a headache, so you look at the ground.

“It only matters what we do with our gifts, little Vannyn. It’s painful watching you fetter yours, as if you were some common beast.”

“Just once -” You comment, with a touch of acerbity, “- I’d like to be in high demand for something I do. I make excellent clothes, and if you weren’t a veritable sun, I’d offer you something that covered more boob, ma’am, for fear of you catching a chill.”

She looks down at you as the lights continue to go off, a slightly annoyed expression on her face that gives you the idea she doesn’t appreciate your helpful commentary.

“You may call me Firebird.”

It takes everything you have to not double over laughing, so you compromise.

“I’m Carmen Sandie! Guess where I am.”

“This is a serious conversation.” She snaps.

“Oh, it would be, except I’m talking to a woman who’s a spicy chicken entrée, and she sent three poor bastards after me because she wanted to, I don’t know, get a feel for how I worked.”

“I could burn you to cinders with a thought.” She warns, blue flames dancing around her body.

“And I’m sure your lusus is very proud of that, but if you wanted me dead I would be.” You say, arms crossed. “So why am I here?”

Her dark teeth spread in a smile that plummets your moderately chipper mood right back down below sea level.

“Don’t you see the resemblance?”

You want to ask her if it’s to a KFC meal deal, but you manage to hold your tongue as a hot wind picks up some ash on the plain and swirls it around. 

“No. Care to enlighten me? Never mind - I’ll do it myself.”

Her blue-gold flames and your white glow both flicker, and despite the situation, your eyebrows raise and you smile slightly.

Said smile is extinguished as your thinkpan comes to a screeching halt.

That moment on Tulais’s ship when you did the same to match her lantern. Firebird’s warm as a blaze, but her clothing is teal...

The avian woman chuckles as your ears flatten.

“Welcome to the Outer Limits Settlement Company’s headquarters, little Vannyn. Let’s go fetch my descendant.”

END

[kwa-aj]

The Kind of Weird Adventures of Ana Jayanshakar - Episode 01

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

Ancestry.com Doesn’t Tell You Everything

~

“Oh, shoot.”

It was August in London which meant the sun had officially taken its leave and skipped off to Hawaii and rain had staunchly taken up its post. But that never stopped the picketers.

Ana sighed, peering through the overtasked windshield wipers of her Honda Civic. “Dang it.” She flipped her black steering wheel around and pulled dutifully into the nearest parking space. She counted out two quarters and slipped them into the toll machine. Flipping up the hood to her rain jacket, she yanked on her zipper which immediately intertwined with her necklace. (An unremarkable opal-ly gemstone gift from her mother). After one tortured minute, she extricated the fine silver chain and zipped the blue jacket up to her chin. She stuffed her hands in her pockets and strode determinedly down the sidewalks of Finsbury Circus.

“Vote to keep Blackstone in Parliament!”

“Contractors are tearing up Rose Gardens!”

“Funds for the Crystal Palace restoration!”

“Shame on Pear, Inc.!”

Ana sniffled slightly and reached out a hand to pry open the glass doors leading to St. Joseph’s Medical School.

“Miss, do you know you’re an alien?”

That was one she hadn’t heard before. She turned her head and squinted through the rain at a bored green face.

“Do you know you’re an alien?” she asked.

“Yes, miss. Andromedan, to be exact.” In one jade hand dangled what looked like an iPhone if Nikolai Tesla had some say in its production. In his other hand, clad in a warm knit glove, he held an airport pick up sign scrawled with huge Sharpie letters. It simply said “Ana Jayanshakar.”

Ana stared. “That’s my name.”

“Yes, miss. We’ve been looking for you.”

“Why?”

The alien sighed like a teenager explaining to a technologically confused parent what the “Home” button is for the 112th time. “Because you’re an alien, miss. I doubt your maternal figure told you but your paternal figure is an Andromedan from our galaxy. I was given express orders to relay this information to you – “ yawn – “an employer who wishes to remain anonymous.” The last several sentences he rattled off like he had a couple rehearsals.

Ana sniffled again and shifted from one foot to the other. “My dad’s an alien?”

“Yup. Oh! Hold on.” He leaned forward and picked up Ana’s necklace. With one sharp movement, he yanked it off her neck.

“Hey!” Ana was about to protest further but was cut short by a very strange sensation. A sensation similar to when you put on platform shoes for the first time and all your proportions feel out of whack. She glanced down. Ah, that was it. She was at least half a foot taller than before. She pulled her hands out of her pockets. They were a pale green and her nails felt harder and noticeably thicker. Sharp canines descended and poked at her lower lip.

“Well, this is different,” she said.

The alien yawned again. “Quite. I believe your mother figure gave this to you so you could blend in with, erm, humans, as it were. Humans is PC, right?”

Ana raised an eyebrow. “I believe so. What else would we be called?”

“I wasn’t sure. Lately, humans have started to identify as apes, as I recall?”

“Um, well, not exactly.”

“I see. I sincerely apologize.” He handed the necklace back to Ana, metal chain neatly knitting itself back together. “Also, Earth is being invaded in five days. I think you’re the only one who can stop it, according to my information.” He grinned, slightly beast-like but mostly genial, and tossed his sign into a nearby trash can. “The name’s Nark. Have a good one!” He tucked his Tesla-Jobs phone into his pocket and jammed earbuds into his pointed ears before walking off, producing a weird vibration that counted as both a whistle and a hum.

Someone screamed. Ana flinched and hastily pulled her necklace back over her head. Realizing she was very wet, she slid between the university doors and retreated into the dry hallway. She stared out the glass window for two minutes, dripping water onto the grand marble floor. She finally glanced down and fondled her necklace delicately. “That was weird,” she said.

~

 At 9 o’clock that evening, Ana stumbled through her apartment door and kicked off her shoes. She ran her fingers through her auburn hair, letting it fall limply around her shoulders, and released an enormous yawn. Even during third year, morning med school was rough on the sleep schedule. She shed her scrubs and hung them in her closet before collapsing face up onto her bed. She blinked at the popcorn ceiling.

“I’m an alien.” She flopped onto her side and creased her brows. Gasping abruptly, she shot back up. Her bangs flipped up and perched awkwardly on the side of her head. “Oh, my gosh. I’m Peter Quill.” Chuckling slightly, she crossed her legs and rested her chin in her hands. “So, I guess Earth is being invaded.” She rocked back and forth uncertainly. “He said I was the only one who could stop it. I wonder if that’s true?” Uncurling her legs, she sat back and stared at her laptop resting on her wooden desk. “Well, if it is…I should do something about it, shouldn’t I?” Shaking her head, she pawed around her nightstand for her glasses and scooched off of the bed. Sitting down on her creaky swivel chair, she opened up her laptop and waited a few seconds for it to stop spooling. The colorful lion adorning Santana’s 1999 album popped to life. Ana pulled up Chrome, already laden with 51 open tabs.

“space pilots with low rates,” she typed.

The next five minutes were interspersed with low grunts of disapproval and some tentative “eeehhhs”. At 9:09, Ana’s finger stilled on her mouse, eyes fixated on the last ad on the list.

“Estelle Livingstone

Holds five records for speed in Milky Way Galaxy. Certified in all classes of ship except for Ethiopian military tanker (still working on that one). Will fly for a ridiculous amount of danger and/or handsome men. Contact at (020) 340 – 418 or McQueen’s Pub in Whitechapel.”

Ana clicked on a fresh tab.

“mcqueens pub whitechapel”

“McQueen’s Pub

11341 Garden Street

Whitechapel, London

Hours of operation: 24 hours”

Ana shut her laptop. She stood up, grabbed her blue rain coat, and shoved her phone inside her pocket. “Here goes,” she said, and shut the door behind her.

~

Author’s Note: Thank you so much for reading! Blog design is credited to the fabulous and artistically talented thehappysammiedog. Also special thanks to all of those who helped edit. This wouldn’t have happened without you. The artwork on this blog is not mine and I do not take credit for it. New artwork should be coming soon. “Episode 02 - Rogue Pilots Know How to Navigate EBay” will be released within the next two weeks.

If you want to reblog or share, that’s all fine and good. I’m flattered. However, I do have a copyright claim on this so don’t try to, like, say you wrote it when you didn’t. Savvy? Thank you so much. Much appreciated.

Feel free to follow this blog if you want to be kept up to date on The Kind of Weird Adventures of Ana Jayanshakar. Also feel free to leave notes or chat if it so strikes your fancy. I’m happy to talk or answer anybody’s questions.

[hailqiqi]

The Future in Snippets

AO3 - Chapter One - Chapter Two - Chapter Three - Chapter Four

Chapter Five: ...Must Come Down Somewhere

Words: 4902

So it turns out that the ghosts of actions past bite. And not in the way you’d want them to.

---

@blue-hawkeye A Lannister always pays her debts.  Shout out to @mistyhollowpro for reading this through for me like ten times over the last week, and the lovely people on the Pidgance Positivity Server for listening to me whinge about the writing process!

This chapter is SFW

---

For the fourth time in three days, Pidge woke up wondering how the fuck she was going to face Lance.

Especially since the last thing in her face had been his—

She cut her thoughts off with a squeak and buried her face back in the pillow, cheeks burning.

Frustrated irritation washed over her a moment later. Why was she still so embarrassed about this? Last night she’d been rubbing against it. (‘It’. His dick. D-I-C-K. She was at least going to think the damn word, even if she couldn’t say it.)

It was definitely too late to play the shy card, so if her cheeks and morals and whatever the hell kept making her want to run away giggling like a grade-schooler could just get with the damn programme that’d be great. Whatever the programme was.

She was still blushing when she forced herself to the sink, but she ignored it to frown at her half-undone braid instead. Sighing, she began work on undoing the other one, making a mental note to check her bedsheets later for the missing hairband.

Being shy about it didn’t have to be a bad thing, she reasoned. Maybe she just wasn’t the type of girl who could be straightforward about things like that. Then again, Pidge had never thought she was the type of girl to lose her virginity against a wall, but...

Her fingers stilled, eyes going wide. Was that where it had been heading last night? If Lance hadn't said her name and freaked her out, would they have gone all the way?

Yes, a little voice whispered. Just thinking back to his touch was making shivers dance across her flesh, her breath catching in her throat and heat curling in her belly at the ghost of the sensation. The way his fingertips had roved over her skin, leaving fire in their wake. The strength of his body pressed against hers. The passion in his lips.

...The clumsy sweetness of those first kisses. The way he'd blushed when she kissed his cheek, as if that had meant more than the frantic making out (foreplay, she forcefully corrected herself) just minutes before. The way he'd given her space the picosecond she'd said she was uncomfortable.

Those memories stirred up a very different kind of warmth, and a smile tugged at her lips.

She used her fingers to comb her hair out into messy waves, still smiling as she studied her reflection in the mirror. If Lance had been the one to yell stop, would she have had the self-control to back off that quickly?  Somehow, she doubted it — all she’d wanted was to be closer.

But Lance had, and she'd always heard it was meant to be harder for guys. That had to mean something, right?

She reached for the toothbrush almost absently. That had to mean something might be a redundant question when he'd flat-out admitted to liking her in the lounge.

A memory flashed in her mind: his jacket around her shoulders, and the gentle hands that had put it there. When she closed her eyes, she could almost feel its warmth again, and that realisation gave her pause.

The girl in the mirror had wide eyes, pale skin and messy hair, and for once Pidge didn't think she looked like a boy.

But did she look like a girl in love?

 ------

 Pidge was still dwelling on the answer when she tripped over Lance on the way to breakfast.

"Woah!" He reacted quickly, abandoning his shoelaces to whirl around and catch her before she faceplanted. "What the cheese, Pidge, look where you're— ah, Pidge! Uh..."

His hands were still on her shoulders, helping to steady her even as his cheeks rapidly darkened. Pidge could feel her own cheeks heat up to match as the memories of the night before -- both the dreams and the reality -- came flooding back.

Shit. He stared at her, wild-eyed, looking as lost as she felt. She had to say something to break the tension. Anything. Anything— "Uh, hi."

Lance nodded, releasing a breath she hadn’t realised he’d been holding. "Yeah. Uh, hi."

"Well, now I know what you two were dreaming about last night," Hunk said, grinning, and they leapt apart.

Lance let go of Pidge (she wasn’t disappointed she wasn’t), punched Hunk on the arm, then shoved his hands in his pockets and started stalking down the hallway towards the dining room. "Shut up, buddy."

Hunk waggled his eyebrows. "Just sayin'." Turning to Pidge with a laugh, he gestured for her to walk with him as Lance disappeared through the doorway. "Seriously, my dreams aren't nearly as interesting. Last night I was talking to Coran about upgrading the castle's system."

“That is interesting, though!” Pidge protested, immediately interested in the word ‘upgrade’. “Do you remember what you were doing with them?”

“No idea. Just something about Planck’s Constant,” he replied with a shrug.

“6.62607004 × 10-34 m2 kg / s?” She frowned. “What do photons have to do with the castle’s systems? The particle barrier?”

Hunk froze, his hand inches away from the door panel. “Okay, look, I’m smart and I’ve known you for about two years now but it’s still scary how you can just rattle things like that off.” Pidge smirked, and he wiggled a finger at her. “Also, the particle barrier would make sense, but I didn’t see that much.”

The door whooshed open. “Okay, but the only thing in this castle that utilises that much electromagnetism is the particle barrier, so—”

“Are you kidding? I leave you guys alone for five seconds and you’re already talking nerd stuff?”

Pidge made a face and flipped him off without even looking, instead edging around the table towards the kitchen. “As I was saying, it’s—”

“—nice knowing some things haven’t changed.”

Both members of Team Punk froze, turning towards the source of the voice as one. Keith sat at the table next to Lance, a grin on his face and one hand held up in greeting. “Morning.”

“Keith!”

The flood of emotion that threatened to overwhelm her caught her off-guard, but the next moment Pidge practically ran at him, tackling him in a hug so exuberant it almost knocked him off his chair. Keith grunted with the impact and tensed up, but a moment later she felt his arms wind around her back as he returned the embrace, murmuring “Are you okay?” against her hair.

Pidge nodded, tightening her grip and breathing in. Keith was the one who’d spent hours teaching her how to fight, who offered her his silent company when she was up late working on difficult programs and always helped her work out her frustrations when she needed to hit things but didn’t want to talk about why.

She’d missed him.

A second later they both yelped as Hunk got in on the action and lifted them into the air, though Pidge’s laughter quickly turned into wheezing when she found her air supply cut off. She wriggled out of the group hug, landing on her feet ungracefully but saved from a meeting with the floor by a hand on her back again.  Surprised, she turned to see Lance watching them, his other elbow on the table propping up his chin.

He returned her grateful smile with a raised eyebrow. “How come I never get greeted like that?”

“Disappear for four months and you might,” she replied, rolling her eyes.

“Okay, one,” Hunk chimed in, releasing a grateful Keith from his hold and wiping his cheeks, “nobody is stopping you from getting in on this action, you just think you’re too cool for hugs. Two, you got a giant quiznaking hug from Pidge yesterday, and I think that counts.”

Pidge froze.

“She was crying! That’s not the same!” Lance protested, and Pidge let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. Right. The morning thing. That dream, and not the...other thing.

Hunk hummed non-commitantly, gesturing for Pidge to follow him to grab some food goo, while Keith frowned at Lance. “Pidge was crying? Why?”

“Uhh…”

“Those two have been having a bunch of dreams about each other,” Hunk offered, saving him from having to think of a reply. “You know, the prophecy ones? From the quintessence on this planet? But trust me, you really don’t wanna know the details.”

“I don’t even wanna know the details,” Lance muttered as Pidge slid into the empty seat next to him.

Pidge shrugged and scooped up some of her breakfast, pausing with the spork halfway to her mouth as she felt eyes on her. She looked up to see Keith studying her. “What?”

He frowned. “Are you sure you’re okay? You’re not normally that...happy to see me.”

The question made her think. Was she okay? She glanced sideways for a cue but Lance’s attention was focused on his breakfast, so instead she turned back to Keith and forced a half-smile. “I guess? Life is just really weird right now.”

That must have been the right answer, because Keith chuckled in response, his shoulders relaxing. “When isn’t it?”

Breakfast proceeded fairly normally after that, the sound of sporks scraping plates interspersed with idle chatter as they caught Keith up on all that had happened with Team Voltron and he shared some anecdotes about his time with the Blade until the door whooshed open, admitting Coran.

“Ah, there you are! Lance, I’ve input those designs and the measurements from your armour into the fabricator so we should have those outfits for the ball in two quintants!” He stood at the head of the table, his hands on his hips as he surveyed them, expression brightening even further when his gaze landed on Pidge. “Number Five, I daresay you’ll look like a Groggorian beauty in that dress!”

Her spork landed on the table with a clatter as panic seized in her throat. “Dress?! What dress?!”

“It’s a different dress!” Lance yelled, eyes wide and face pale. “A totally different dress!”

Pidge stared at him, her heart pounding a mile a minute, trying desperately to calm the panic in her mind. Lance stared back, equally flustered.

Wheezing laughter broke the tension — “O.M.G., was Pidge wearing a dress in the last one?!” — and embarrassment hit Pidge like an ion cannon.

“Oh no!” she squeaked, hiding her face in her hands and slamming her head on the table. “Why is this even happening?!”

She heard Lance groan beside her, and the sound of Keith smacking Hunk on the back as his laughter turned into choking (good, maybe then he’d shut up). Her face felt so hot part of her was afraid the table would melt through, but — whatever. Pidge was staying there even if it did. In fact, this was where she was going to live out the rest of her life now, face buried in a hard table until someone developed a cure for abject mortification.

“Did Pidge and Lance dream about each other again?” Coran sounded confused.

“Are you kidding? Pidge is all I’ve been dreaming about! Seriously, I thought I was gonna get all these cool dreams about cool things I’m gonna be doing but no, it’s all Pidge—”

“To be fair, Pidge is pretty cool, Lance.”

—Hunk was gonna die. She’d have to do it when he was asleep, because there was no way she could overpower him, but if she tied him up first and woke him then she’d at least get to see the fear in his eyes—

“They’re together a lot in their free time, so it’s not that strange, is it?” Keith pointed out.

“No, it’s still unusual…” Coran said, slowly, and Pidge looked up from her homicidal fantasies to watch him twirl his moustache. “Normally the dreams are cyclical in nature; we should be ‘taking it in turns’, so to speak…”

“Are all of our dreams these prophecy dreams? And do we only have one a night, or do we have a bunch and just can’t remember most of them? Like how normal dreams work?” Lance asked, his spork pointed towards Coran as he waited for an answer.

Pidge frowned. “Are you talking about REM and non-REM cycles?”

Lance blinked. “I dunno. Am I?”

“I’m not sure what a remming cycle is, but Number Three is right in that you typically only remember the last dream you had before you wake up. And since we’re all new to Miskira, we should each be having three to six prophetic dreams a night, even though we only remember one or two.” Coran studied them, obviously thinking carefully before choosing his next words. “Still, it’s rather strange that you’ve only dreamt of each other. I’ve shared dreams with a different person every night.”

“Come to think of it, I haven’t had a dream with either of them in it,” said Hunk. “Guess they’re too busy—”

“Don’t finish that thought, buddy,” Lance growled, leaning across Keith to brandish his spork at him.

Before anyone could react, Allura’s voice echoed over the PA.

“Paladins to the bridge. Immediately.”

Everyone in the room exchanged a glance, then shuffled to their feet as Coran began herding them out the door, clapping his hands like a kindergarten teacher. “Up, up! Let’s go! You too, Keith, you’re still a paladin!”

 ——-

 Lance caught her just outside the kitchen, tugging gently on her wrist while waving the others ahead. “Uh, about last night…”

Pidge’s thoughts abruptly screeched to a halt.

Last night. The changing room. The kisses, the touching, the everything. Her cheeks were burning when she squeaked out, “Um, yeah?”

He chuckled, a smile briefly gracing his lips, before glancing away and scratching the back of his neck. Dark red dusted his cheeks, his fingers were warm on her wrist, and Pidge suddenly found his proximity very distracting.

Distracting enough that she was thrown for a loop when he pinned her with a look and asked: “What are we?”

“Uh… What?” Shit. “Um. Friends? We’re friends.” Right?

“I… Friends?”

“I guess…?” Pidge blinked. “I don’t—”

“Pidge, I don’t do that kind of stuff with friends.” He let go of her wrist to gesture between them, and Pidge resisted the urge to grab his hand. “We’re not…?”

Wrapping her arms around herself, she dropped her gaze to his shoes, breathing through her mouth in an effort to ignore his scent and regain some semblance of clarity. “Look, Lance, I’m just—” Breathe, Pidge. “ — I’m confused, I don’t know what I want or—”

“I know what I want,” he said, and the conviction in his voice made her gaze snap up to his.

“What?”

“I do know what I want,” he repeated, voice firm. He lifted his chin, straightened up and squared his shoulders, hands held sharply at his sides as he said, “I want you.”

The breath left her lungs in a rush. “I—”

She what, exactly?

Blank. Her mind was blank.

Lance held her gaze steadily, his entire attention focused on her, and she suddenly felt very, very small.

He was waiting for an answer, but she didn’t have one. Panic began to set in and her thoughts started tumbling over each other in a never-ending waterfall of useless fragments as she searched for something to tell him. Did she—? Yes? No? She had, but, she did—?

“Okay you two, are you coming or not? Cause Allura won’t be happy if you’re late.”

They both spun around at the intrusion, and the tension snapped.

Maybe she’d forgive Hunk for earlier after all.

 ——-

 The walls were made of space bamboo, and it was making it very difficult for Pidge to keep denying that the Miskirans did kinda look like pandas.

Lance, of course, had been fucking delighted the moment they’d pulled up an image of the hideout. It was probably only the facts that Shiro and Allura were running on zero sleep and already wanted to kill him that kept him silent, but Pidge hadn’t missed the way his features lit up when Hunk said: “Is that...bamboo?”

It turned out there was a healthy chunk of metal in here too, but the middle of a mission wasn’t really the time to dwell on it.

“Two bio-signatures coming up on the right.”

They ducked into an alcove, pressing themselves against the sides as the guards — probably some of the Miskiran rebels — walked past the end of the hallway. Hunk gave the all-clear on the comms and Keith signalled for them to get moving.

She saw Lance moving to bring up the rear with his rifle as she skulked back out into the hallway, following Keith’s lead. The three of them moved swiftly and silently through the dim halls, pausing to avoid patrols before setting off again.

The mission itself was simple. Infiltrate the collaborators’ hideout, find their server room, and steal all their intel. The hideout was dimly lit and heavily guarded, but that was nothing the Paladins hadn’t faced before. It was almost routine by now.

The formation was new. Shiro and Allura were strictly off the mission as they hadn’t slept in over 24 hours; though Allura was waiting in Blue in case they needed an extraction. Hunk was on the comms, providing back-up from a stake-out spot a hundred feet or so away.

“You’re gonna be caught between two patrols if you go that way. Wait where you are.”

Pidge grit her teeth. Lance should have been on the comms, really. His rifle was much more reliable than the BLIP sensors they were using, but the Miskirans had insisted that Lance be in the ground team with her, so here he was. Insisted, as in, threatened to withdraw their support for the Coalition if he wasn’t.

These were the same Miskirans who had point-blank refused to entertain the idea of joining the infiltration, claiming it was ‘too dangerous’. They’d even wanted to pull Keith off the ground team; he was only with them because Shiro was adamant that Pidge have some close-quarters back-up and had sworn to pull the plug on the entire alliance if they tried to send her in with only Lance.

Of course, the Miskirans didn’t really care if Pidge died on the mission. That was probably the point, as Keith had cynically pointed out.

The Minister was dead. Pidge and Lance were the chief suspects.

Though why that made the Miskirans think they were the best choice for this mission, Pidge had no idea. If they really were working with the rebels, infiltrating rebel HQ wouldn’t have been hard for them. Allura said it was likely a test of their loyalty. The idea made Pidge want to punch something.

Preferably a panda-alien.

“Once you turn this corner your target’s straight ahead. No hostiles currently within range.”

“Roger that,” Lance replied softly, and they exchanged a glance as Keith gave the signal again.

The code on the server room door was easy to hack. They quickly ensconced themselves inside, Lance wriggling up into the rafters by the door while Keith took up a defensive position at her back.

Pidge always secretly hated this part. Hacking into the mainframe, finding the data and downloading it was never a problem, but data transfers always took time. And Pidge, as the resident computer genius, had to monitor the download — lives often depended on the download going smoothly — which meant she needed to rely on the others to watch her back.

And they would — this she knew without a doubt. Right now, Keith stood beside her and Lance was watching over them both, and both of them would throw themselves in the line of fire for her without a moment’s hesitation — as she would for them. But there was always this tiny part of her that hated it, repressed animal instincts that flat-out rebelled at the thought of being deliberately vulnerable in a dangerous situation. Of giving up control over her own defence.

Sixty-seven percent. Ten minutes remaining.

“One bio-signature heading towards the entrance.”

A sharp intake of breath from Lance. Keith glanced at her. “How long will that lock hold?”

“Five minutes, max,” she replied, eyes fixed on the screen.

“How long left on the download?”

“Nine.”

A thick silence fell over the room.

Hunk’s voice was quiet. “Guys, they’re at the door.”

The faint beeps of the keypad floated through the door, followed by the sound of familiar cursing and thuds against the metal.

Eight minutes left.

“Second hostile approaching. I think he’s called for back-up.”

“They probably think the lock’s broken,” Lance said, armour rustling as he shifted in the rafters. “How long, Pidge?”

Seventy-four percent. “Almost Seven.”

“Maybe they won’t figure it out and we’ll get out scott-free.”

“Unfortunately, that’s our only exit,” Keith said.

“Unless there’s another way out. Hunk?”

Lance sounded optimistic, but Pidge knew the answer before it came. They’d all studied the blueprints. “That’s the only entrance. I think they know something’s up, there are a lot of hostiles moving in your direction very quickly.”

“Six,” she chanted, answering the question before Keith could ask it.

Nerves threatened at the back of her throat, but she forced them back down as Keith dropped into a defensive stance, his voice steady as he said, “Allura.”

“Yes?”

“Be ready. We might need that extraction.”

“Standing by.”

The sound of metal and wood clashing reverberated throughout the room. Pidge curled in on herself, trying to make herself as small a target as possible without losing the connection. They needed this intel. At the very minimum, it would exonerate her and Lance and save the alliance.

Eighty-five percent.

“Don’t worry Pidge, we’ve got your back.”

There was confidence in Lance’s voice, and Pidge felt a fleeting desire to see him. “I know. Four minutes.”

“How many outside, Hunk?”

“I’m counting ten, with more incoming.”

Keith swore and moved out of her field of vision entirely as the noises through the door grew louder, likely taking up a position at her back. “Get ready.”

Not much I can really do. Fighting the urge to grab her bayard, she inhaled deeply and focused on the screen. Eighty-nine percent. Three minutes.

The pounding grew louder. A single bead of sweat dripped down her brow.

“Allura, get in the air. How long, Pidge?”

“Two minutes.”

She briefly heard Allura’s confirmation, and then all hell broke loose. The door gave way with the sound of splintering wood and an almighty crash, then a roar filled the room as footsteps pounded towards them and Keith yelled, “Get down!”

Hunkering down further, she forced herself to focus on the download. Ninety-four percent. Less than two minutes.

A pop, a heavy thud, and she knew Lance had just taken down someone who got too close. The body didn’t move again. Must be Galran.

“Don’t kill the Miskirans!” Keith yelled, and Pidge found herself hysterically wondering why the fuck they’d sent a sniper and a swordsman in with the instructions to ‘wound, not kill, under any circumstances’. Miskiran lives were precious.

More precious than theirs, apparently.

One minute left.

“C’mon c’mon c’mon…” she chanted. Groans of pain reverberated in her ears, so more than a few of the too-precious-to-die Miskirans must have been littering the floor. Keith was still fighting, Allura was in her ears reporting that she was less than two minutes out, and the bar kept ticking upwards…

Ninety-eight… Ninety-nine…

“Yes! Done!” She slammed the gauntlet down and spun, hand flying to her holster and ready to join the fray.

She didn’t get the chance. Her bayard flew from her grip as she was hoisted into the air, sharp claws slowly digging through her suit and into the flesh of her neck. Pain exploded in her throat and she gasped, struggling to breathe, hands coming up to scrabble at the armoured hand of the Miskiran who held her.

Shit.

Glittering gold eyes glared from a black-and-white patched face, sharp teeth far too close for comfort as her captor hissed: “You won’t get out of here alive. We’ll have—”

The world exploded in red.

 —-

 Later that night, Pidge tossed and turned, unable to sleep.

The blood had taken forever to wash off. Her armour was in the steriliser — the last time she’d seen it, it had been more pink than white. At least her helmet had stopped any from getting in her hair. They’d had to check her blood for contaminants, though, as her suit had been compromised.

She shuddered as she brought a hand to her throat. Her windpipe had been crushed, but a quick stint in a pod and now there weren’t even marks.

Somehow that felt wrong.

Pidge was the lucky one, though. She remembered all-too-well the helpless frustration of seeing your teammate lying injured on death’s doorstep. All Pidge remembered was everything going red, and then she was waking up to her brother’s waiting arms.

The pods always made her sleepy, so after that it had been food, a shower and then bed, in quick succession. She’d woken up sometime after dinner, refreshed after her blessedly dreamless sleep, only to be accosted and dragged into a tight, lingering hug by absolutely everybody she came across.

Even Keith had grabbed her and held on tight, raising the number of Keith-initiated hugs she’d experienced to one. She must have looked like death when they got back.

Lance had been conspicuously absent, though, and as Pidge reshaped her pillow for the third time in five minutes she couldn’t help but wonder if that was why she couldn’t sleep.

Sure, she was probably going to see him in her dreams again, but she kind of wanted to see him now. At the very least, she owed him a thank you for saving her life.

Pushing herself out of bed before she could think too much, she slipped on her lion slippers and started gathering supplies. Lance was probably awake as well, and she had a hard drive with 200TB of movies on it. A movie night sounded like a good distraction.

She took a step and paused, computer in hands, as the cool air of the hallway hit her bare shoulders.

First, she had to get changed.

 ------

 Less than ten minutes later she was settled on Lance’s bed in her Altean pyjamas, leaning back against the wall as she watched him try to hook her laptop up to the screen in his room. Something about the way his brow furrowed as he glared at the wires was endlessly entertaining: she could watch him do that for hours and not get bored.

“You know, I could do that in two ticks, right?” she offered, eyebrow raised, inwardly wincing when the effect was ruined by a jaw-cracking yawn.

“You sure you won’t fall asleep?” he replied, shooting her a smirk over his shoulder before going back to it. “Besides I think I’ve...aha!”

The screen flickered to life and Pidge cheered when he returned to her, grinning proudly as he handed her the laptop. “Check it out, the cable’s even long enough!”

“Of course it is, I brought it,” she said, rolling her eyes. “What do you want to watch?”

“Something light. Family-friendly.” He paused. “Nothing with blood in it.”

The implication hung heavy in the air. Pidge hesitated, then clicked on the folder labelled ‘Disney’. “Have you seen Frozen?”

“I have a niece, Pidge, I’ve seen it a million times.”

“How do you feel about seeing it a million and one?”

Lance laughed, and the tension vanished. “Yeah. Good.”

When they settled back against the wall — laptop safely on the floor and out of accidental kicking range — Lance startled her by wrapping an arm around her waist, his expression sheepish but his eyes haunted when she glanced at him for answers. “Look, I know we still have to talk and you said you were confused, but is this okay? Just...for now?”

She hesitated for only a second before snuggling into the embrace, flopping one of her legs over his as she curled up against his chest. Lance quickly drew her closer, pressing a kiss against her hair, and Pidge couldn’t stop the giggle from slipping out. “Okay. Now watch the movie.”

“Yes, Katie,” he chanted, sitting up a little straighter. “I’m pretty sure I can recite this movie word-for-word, though.”

“Just don’t sing,” she said with a laugh. The ice men were finishing their manly chorus on screen, and as the shot panned out to the stars Pidge was irrepressibly reminded of the view from the baths the night before.

Which reminded her of something else. “By the way,” she said, “it’s Caterina.”

“Huh?”

“My name. It’s Caterina,” she repeated softly, suddenly feeling shy. “That’s what Katie’s short for.”

“Caterina?!”

His shoulders began to shake, and she smacked her palm against his chest, eyes narrowed. “Don’t call me that though. Seriously. The only person who calls me that is my nonna, and even then I only tolerate it.”

“Really? Your mom doesn’t say something like Caterina Maria Holt, get down here when you’re in trouble?” Lance pitched a falsetto on the name, eyes overflowing with mirth as he pushed her bangs back off her face.

“Oh my god, Lance.” She buried her face in his chest to hide from him. “I am not telling you my middle name.”

Laughter spilled from his lips, making his entire body vibrate. “Is it really Maria?!”

“No!”

[impossiblyizzy]

jake/charles loving sexy times after a cute date or something maybe pls :D

Thanks for this prompt, I like it XD

I’m not entirely sure where the line is between romantic and sexy, but I don’t think Jake is either…

This is rated M (or maybe a soft E?) and is available on AO3.

‘Didn’t I tellyou you’d love the sweetbreads?’ Charles said, as they stepped into hisapartment.

‘You did, and Ishould have listened to you,’ said Jake. He took off his coat, kicking off hisshoes at the same time. ‘From now on, I’m trying whatever weird food you want.’

‘Oh my god,’ saidCharles. ‘Really? I have so many ideas.’

Jake leant downto kiss him. ‘I’m going to regret saying that, aren’t I?’

‘Have faith, lover,’said Charles.

Jake licked hislips. ‘Is it super weird that I like it when you say stuff like that?’ He leantin again, and this time his kiss was slow and full of purpose. When they brokeapart he caught Charles’ tie in his hands, tugging at the knot until it cameloose. Charles titled his head back as Jake’s careful hands brushed against histhroat.

‘Let me take youto bed,’ said Jake. He frowned. ‘That’s a thing people say, right?’

‘It is,’ saidCharles.

‘Yep,coolcoolcool, I knew that,’ said Jake. ‘I’m tender and romantic all the time.’

Charles kissedhim. ‘You don’t have to be if it’s not your thing.’

‘I want to,’ saidJake. He cupped Charles’ face in his hands, one thumb caressing his cheek, andkissed him again. ‘Right, where were we?’

‘I believe youwere taking me to bed.’

And then there was the stumbling to Charles’ bedroom, theunbuttoning of shirts interspersed with kisses, the fumbling hands as theytugged each other’s clothes off. And then Jake was on top of him, his facepressed into the crook of his neck, covering him with lazy, tender kisses.

It was all at once breathtakingly romantic, and not happening anywhere near fast enough. Theweight of Jake on top of him, his erecting pressed into Charles’ hip, his mouthsucking teasingly at his neck – it all added up to leave Charles aching formore.

‘I like you so much,’ Charles said. Jake made a littleappreciative sound against his neck, so Charles kept talking, partly because heknew Jake liked it, and partly because he had never had any self-restraint whenit came to Jake. ‘So much. You let metake you to a fancy restaurant even though you thought you weren’t going tolike it, because you’re such a good boyfriend. And you’re such a good kisser.Oh my god, Jake.’

As Charles was talking, Jake inched his was down Charles’body, peppering his skin with kisses. His curly hair tickled as it brushedagainst Charles’ stomach, and it was hard to stay coherent with Jake’s mouth slowlyapproaching where he so desperately wanted it. ‘Oh my god. Your mouth is soamazing. I want…please?’

Jake kissed Charles’ hip, hands sliding over his body.

‘You know what?’ said Jake. His mouth nipped at Charles’skin again. ‘I think you deserve it after taking me on such a nice date.’

He traced the tip of his tongue over Charles’ cock, and eventhat small touch had Charles fisting his hands into the bedsheets.

‘Oh. Jake. Wow,’ he breathed. And then Jake wrapped thoseamazing lips around his cock, slowly taking it into his mouth. Charles proppedhimself up on his elbows so that he could see the top of Jake’s curly head, seethose cheeks hollowing around him; it was a sight he would never get tired of. ‘Ilove you,’ he panted.

Jake took his mouth off him just long enough to say, ‘Loveyou too.’ He kept his movements slow, almost reverent, his hands roamingunhurriedly over Charles’ hips. And Charles wanted to keep gazing at him, butsoon it was impossible to keep his eyes open, impossible to anything butcollapse back onto the bed and groan at the sensation of Jake’s mouth on him.And then he was coming, with Jake’s name on his lips.

For a moment, all he could do was try to catch his breathand think about how lucky he was. When he looked up, Jake was sitting back withhis eyes closed, stroking himself with one hand. Charles licked his dry lips,drinking in the sight of him.

‘As much as I want to watch this,’ Charles said. ‘I thinkit’s only fair if I return the favour.’

Jake let out a shaky exhale of breath, still jerking himselflazily.

Charles sat up, caught Jake’s face in his hands and kissedhim. ‘Seriously,’ he said. ‘My turn.’

‘Hey, I’m not complaining,’ said Jake, allowing himself tobe pushed onto his back.

‘I love you so much, Jake.’ Charles leaned down to kissJake’s collarbone and shoulder. He trailed one hand down Jake’s chest, andJake’s arms were around him, running over his back.

Charles leant in to kiss him again as he wrapped his handaround Jake’s cock. Jake’s kisses were wet and needy, all tongue and a hint ofteeth, and his hands scrabbled at Charles’ back. And Charles closed his eyes,stroking him slowly as they kissed. He could feel the tension in Jake’s bodybeneath him.

Jake moaned into the kiss, and Charles sped up the motion ofhis hand. Jake kissed him harder than ever, his strangled breaths filling inthe gaps. They didn’t break apart, even as Jake came, but their kisses turnedfrom passionate back to something more gentle.

‘I love you, too,’said Jake, when he finally pulled away. ‘So much.’

Charles kissed him again.

‘So, how did I do?’ said Jake, grinning.

‘What?’ Charles nuzzled into the side of Jake’s face.

‘At being romantic.’

‘You did amazing,’ said Charles. ‘You’re always amazing.’

‘You’re right,’ said Jake. ‘I don’t know how you handle it.’

[weeklyhumorist]

The Calm App Presents: Shark Week

Dear Lina,

As the #1 app for sleep, meditation, and relaxation, Calm exists on the cutting edge of happiness and health innovation. That’s why we’re thrilled to announce our upcoming partnership with Shark Week. An undeniable worldwide sensation, Shark Week has delighted audiences for 32 years while showcasing the superior physical specimen that is Selachimorpha.Why Shark Week? We’ve long admired these powerful predators, which, through centuries of optimization and mindfulness, have evolved into single-minded masses of sinew and cartilage with one goal: to destroy. In this way, sharks exemplify the Calm manifesto. Also, as the alpha predator of the sea with near-nothing to worry about, what’s calmer than a shark?

With this partnership, we’ll debut a number of exciting new features that you won’t find anywhere else—like an exclusive album from Baby Shark. These tunes will make you feel like you’re relaxing poolside. Well, kiddie poolside. Well, okay, kiddie poolside but in a way that makes it clear that this little cutie will continue growing for the rest of its life, as sharks do, to become a man-eating menace of shocking proportions. It’s so catchy, it’ll have you writhing for more. Straight to your doom.

Deepen your focus with our surprisingly lifelike “Shark In The Waters” nature scene. What better backdrop for work, study, or leisure than a tranquil beach scene in which puny virtual humans fleeing frantically from shark-infested waters? What better way to unwind than by witnessing Big Pat the Hammerhead rip off a hunky lifeguard’s entire lower half? Truly, what better conclusion to a tough day than witnessing the majesty and raw sexuality of these thrashing beasts? My, how they thrash!

Move your body in our new video series, hosted by the sharks from your local aquarium. You’ll learn how to swim, thrash, hunt, gnaw, rip, tear, amputate, debase, defile, desecrate, mangle, injure, dismember, and mutilate like never before.

Learn and grow in our life-changing in-app MasterClass taught by none other than the shark from Jaws. Discover how mindfulness helped her—yes, HER—achieve more in that role than anyone thought possible. By centering her strength, she was able to channel all of her power in her mandible to rip flesh—and also, to change minds. After all, before Jaws, many never would have imagined a Jaws 2.

Trouble sleeping? Nod off peacefully to the hurried whisper of professional surfer Bethany Meilani Hamilton, as she retells the time a massive shark ripped off her left arm, leaving behind a twitching, oozing mass of veins, arteries, and other weird shoulder gristle. Of course, Bethany recovered and continues to surf professionally—but fear not! This audio experience focuses on the gory stuff.

Meditate to the voices of popular TV shows that have “jumped the shark” interspersed with the screams of individuals jumping actual sharks. If you can tell the difference between the two types of clips, you haven’t reached your goal meditative state.

Finally, as you may have heard, while the soul of Calm remains an in-app experience, we’re also excited to expand offline in ways that bring more peace, clarity and oceanic terror into your busy life. See for yourself during our launch of Sharknado LIVE! Originally dreamed up by a Calm intern as a hilarious bit, we realized bringing a physical Sharknado to our users would be the best way to get you OUT of your head and INTO your emergency escape plan! Also, into a swirling cyclone of aquatic destruction filled with fetid sea water, palm tree remnants, and also some limbs.

Since relaxation requires commitment, we are legally obligated to inform you that, starting now, all app cancellations will result in the Sharknado picking you up, tearing you limb from limb and scattering you over a Bubba Gump Shrimp Co.

Sleep more. Stress less. Respect nature’s designated sovereign, lest ye be devoured into a bunch of small, ham-like cubes. Swim on over to the app today!

The Calm App Presents: Shark Week was originally published on Weekly Humorist

[existentialterror]

A humble compendium of asexual dating advice

Happy asexual awareness week! I’ve been aware of (my) asexuality for 2.5 years now and am currently happily dating a couple very wonderful gentlemen. I’ve been asked for advice, and it’s also come up at ace meetups. While I can’t speak for everyone, I’m going to write what advice I would have liked to hear. Maybe you’ll find it useful too. For seeking out potential partners, I’m going to assume that you want to find a broad dating pool, and also that you want to avoid unnecessarily painful rejection. Some rejection is going to happen and in fact will always happen in any dating situation, of course. But while being ace is nothing to be ashamed of and isn’t something terrible you have to “warn” a potential partner about, there are a lot of very nice people who are just incompatible with ace partners, and our goal is A) for you to be happy, and B) for you and them to realize this incompatibility as early on as possible.

Online dating sites

I’d find the biggest dating platform in your region among the age demographic you’re looking at. As you might imagine, being in a big city or being open to long-distance dating helps. For a lot of places, that platform is OKcupid. Here’s my strategy:

Mark yourself as “asexual” in addition to other relevant romantic preferences.

Then, mention it again in the text of your profile. Asexuality is an umbrella term, so quickly describe what that implies for dating you. I like the phrasing “I identify as X, which for me means...” (This tip brought to you by several iterations of refining my okc profile, interspersed with new dates gradually getting less confused about what my actual preferences were. Trial and error: it works!)

After this, you can sort matches by asexuality. But there are also people who aren’t ace, but wouldn’t mind dating an ace person. I recommend the Chrome plugin “OkCupid (for the non-mainstream user).” Among other settings, it has an “asexual-friendly” setting that filters through a person’s question for ones relevant to ace dating, and shows you their answers on their profile page. Turn this one on and leave it on.

Click and message away!

Oh, yeah, especially if you’re a lady, you are probably going to get some sexual messages anyways, and you might get some messages asking you about the ace thing. All I can say is use that block/report button liberally, or just ignore them. (Screenshot the really weird ones to show your friends for a good horrified laugh. And then report the senders.) You can respond to anything if you want, but even if someone’s apparently completely nice and polite and is just curious about how the ace thing works, you still don’t have to respond to them - that’s not what you’re here for. There are also some ace-specific dating websites. I think the idea is neat, but haven’t tried any, and every ace person I’ve talked about them has said the same thing, but maybe you’ll be the first.

If you’re not sure how to describe yourself, I endorse this mindset about orientation labels being about communicating preferences. You might find it helpful too.

In person You can ask people out in person too! You don’t have to disclose being ace on the first date or anything, if sexual preferences haven’t come up. That said, I recommend getting it out there early on - see “The talk” later down.

If there’s a social or friend group you might want to date in, and the circumstances are right - the group is at least somewhat LGBTQ+ and/or sex positive, etc - maybe try to have it be known that you’re ace. It’s not a big deal, and it’s a reasonable thing to bring up if the conversation turns to sex, dating, etc. I like it because it’s an extra screening measure - if people approach you for dating, they’re more likely to have a sense of what’s in store. Even if they don’t know, a lot of dating starts with people telling their close friends that they’re crushing on so-and-so or “who is that, they’re so cute”. Even if the person gushing doesn’t know, their close friend might know and be able to tell them. Also, being visibly ace is pretty cool, and you might be able to help other people come to important realizations about themselves.

Polyamory

Obviously not for everyone, but if you think polyamory sounds interesting and there’s a local poly community (or you’re connected to ones via friends, internet, w/e), it might be worth checking it out. This can expand your dating pool - there are lots of people who dislike the idea of not having sex, but are more than willing to date people who don’t want to have sex, if they can get sex elsewhere. I also suspect poly communities also tend to be more aware of and cool with LGBTQ-ness and unusual preferences about sex, like not having it, but YMMV. If there are meetups around, or places where the poly people congregate, it might be worth going as a social adventure and seeing if the people there seem like the kind of people you can hang with. Poly dating is like normal dating, but a little weirder because we don’t have all the cultural scripts for things like “when do you tell a partner you’re dating someone else” or “what kind of small talk do I make with my metamour”. In general, communicate and be kind. I like the books More Than Two and The Ethical Slut. (I do worry there’s a minority of aces out there who really aren’t into to the idea of polyamory, but think it’s the only way they can date without ‘inflicting’ themselves on sexual people, and I want to be clear that if this describes you: hang on, don’t do polyamory, and look around some more. There are lovely people out there who will be thrilled to date just you, and it’s worth taking the time to find them.)

“The talk” At some point, you are probably going to want to have some kind of actual conversation in which you say you are asexual and what that implies for dating you. This might not be necessary if you’ve already talked about asexuality a bunch, but even if you think the other person knows, or it was on your dating profile so they really ought to know, have it anyways. They might actually not know, or they might have questions. It’ll also open up the floor for any concerns, and ensure that everyone is on the same page. I recommend doing this early on, when the stakes are low and both of you are still feeling things out. My guess is that it’s slightly better to have this talk face-to-face, but if distance bars or if you’re very shy, I’d say 100% do it via a text medium. Especially if you’re worried they’ll be weird about it. It’ll give you the space to choose your words carefully, and it’ll also mean you’re more likely to get a response that’s more thought out and truer to what the other person actually thinks, rather than their immediate first reaction. Fortunately, after this, you won’t have to talk about all this awkward boundary stuff again. Just kidding.

All the talks that come after

You have to keep talking about comfort and boundaries and what you want. This definitely isn’t ace specific. We’re messy people with bodies and lives. The edges of my comfort zone have changed over time, maybe from person to person as well, and they might for you too. Your partner will have them as well, even if they’re not ace. I have this sense that society has sort of a pattern of what a typical romantic or sexual encounter looks like - what kind of touching or contact happens, in what order, over what timeline - and that if that’s what you both want, you don’t have to talk about it much, but if you want something else, you have to clearly explain what that is. Maybe I’m wrong and nobody’s dating actually looks like the first case. Either way, once I’m getting physical with people I’m dating, even after we’ve had the “yes I’m ace” talk, they or I generally start another, more practical talk. I always feel like these talks are a little bit like pulling teeth, but even if you feel that way too, they’re good to have. There are some things that don’t naturally come up (or get remembered) long before you get physical, but that it makes sense to establish early on in the process:

Places on your body you don’t want touched

Activities or escalations you definitely don’t want to do right now

Kinds of sensation or touch you don’t like

Kinds of sensation or touch you do like

Ask your partner what their answers are too. They might be like “I’m up for anything” or they might not be. (Particularly if they’re ace too!) While I remember boundaries, I tend to forget the answer to “what kind of touch do you specifically enjoy” right after a cuddle session, and have to re-derive it from experimental evidence, at which point it sticks. I wish everyone had secret google docs about their gushy physical preferences for their dates to refer to. This is a tangent but I think it’s a great idea. Anyway, note is that you don’t have to precisely define all of your preferences right now in this conversation - you’re just giving them a road map for right now. You’ll keep having versions of it as things come up - “little to the left, ooh I’m ticklish there, not good”. It’s also reasonable to lay out some broad boundaries or preferences and then be like “okay, explore.” Expressing a positive response to your partner doing something nice (”that feels amazing”, etc) is highly recommended. Tips -

This article from Captain Awkward is not quite about this topic, but it’s relevant and sweet and powerful. You’re going to keep talking about preferences and boundaries and desires as long as you’re romancing, so you’ll figure it out.

If you’re up for it, giving each other back massages is good and classic practice for communicating your desires about touch.

Make sure you’re enjoying things and don’t have reservations

Finally, as things go, check in with yourself and/or the other person. Are you enjoying things? Are they enjoying things? Does anything feel off? To ask yourself: Do you feel safe, respected, and happy? If your boundaries are being disrespected or criticized, or you find yourself being talked into things you don’t enjoy, get out of there. If you’re just not enjoying yourself, or something feels strange or bad, still consider getting out of there - you don’t need an airtight reason - or at least talking to the other person. You deserve to be enthusiastic and happy about a relationship! If the other person rejects you and it’s because of the asexuality

I’m sorry, I’ve been there and it sucks. Maybe you're into someone and they just can’t do relationships without sex (or whatever - some fundamental preference incompatibility.) Maybe they can do ace relationships sometimes, but not right now, or not with you. Maybe that’s not even the real reason, but asexuality felt to them like an acceptable, no-one’s-fault reason to offer, so that’s what they told you. (Rejection is by no means an ace-specific phenomenon, but I think it feels worse when it’s pointed at something you knew was going to make dating hard, or part of your identity, or something you’re already a little unsure about. I don’t know if this is universal, but when a relationship is going south, I sometimes catch myself wondering if I should offer to start having sex with them. “If I do, they might like me more, or get back together with me, or spend more time with me, and it wouldn’t be that bad, and...”

And here’s the thing: every single time I think that, that’s my brain trying to solve the wrong problem. It probably wouldn’t work, plus I’d be miserable, and I should not do the thing. I’m not going to say this is 100% always true for you too, but if you start wondering the above, I invite you to STRONGLY CONSIDER that your brain is lying to you. Your boundaries are important and meaningful and you don’t need to compromise on them.) Ultimately, whether it was kind or not, they don’t want to date you, and there’s nothing you can do to change that. Sit tight, feel your feelings, take care of yourself. You didn’t do anything wrong by being asexual or by having a boundary. Once you feel like it, dust yourself off and get out there again.

Finally, of course, your worth and your happiness don’t depend on you dating anyone at all. But it is nice, and if you want to, you can. Good luck, fellow aces!

[domain-of-friendship-blog]

02: Seeing Stars

The first thing Sunset Shimmer noticed as she awoke was the dull ache that seemed to permeate every muscle in her body. Flat on her back and eyes still closed, she wrestled with her frazzled brain to take stock of the situation.

A cool breeze blowing by and the texture of earth beneath her suggested she was very likely outside. With a grunt of effort, Sunset propped herself up on her elbows and opened her eyes, which spent several seconds focusing in the dim light. A cursory glance around revealed that it was night, briefly giving her pause to wonder how long she had been unconscious after getting dragged into the portal.

The portal...

She shuddered as the memories came flooding back all at once. It happened so quickly, too quickly for her to process, and thinking about it was making her already aching head hurt even more. What made it go berserk like that? Why didn't it send her to Equestria like usual? Where were -

"Twilight!" Sunset scrambled to her feet, blood going cold as the realization hit her. "Rarity! Pinkie! Applejack!"

Her cries were met with silence.

Sunset's mind raced. If she was alive, the rest of them must be too, right? Granted, that was assuming this wasn't some sort of afterlife, but she certainly felt alive if the soreness was anything to go by; it felt like she had run a marathon right after bench-pressing twice her weight.

In an effort to stay calm, she distracted herself with taking a moment to properly examine her surroundings. She had awoken in what looked like a small impact crater several feet wide, loose dirt scattered about its edge. Beyond it was a field of tall grasses stretching as far as the dim light let her see, interspersed with the occasional cluster of trees. High above, set in a sky dotted with stars, an object that looked something like a glowing white ring cast a gentle light over the landscape. In one direction, she could just barely make out the outline of a jagged mountain range on the horizon; in the other sat a plain dirt road on which tire tracks were visible.

A road! Her heart leapt - that meant this place was inhabited! With any luck, she could find a way to get the locals to help her find her friends, assuming they had a way to communicate; it seemed unlikely she would be able to just talk to them. Perhaps Fluttershy's ability would help? Assuming Sunset could find her, that is...

She shivered suddenly, her train of thought derailed as the strangest sensation struck her. It was subtle but still distracting, like the fusion of a pinched nerve and a spine chill, causing her mind to concoct the image of a bug carrying an ice cube up her back.

Before she could deduce the origin of the sensation, however, it faded just in time for her to catch a glimpse of headlights from an oncoming car somewhere down the road. Her heart skipped a beat - should she hide? Wave to get the driver's attention? Hold her ground and wait to see what happens?

The car slowed to a stop on the far side of the road, giving her a better look at it - it reminded her of military vehicles she had seen in documentaries of an old war from over half a century ago, but it bore no obvious insignia. A moment passed before the door opened, a humanoid figure barely visible within.

Sunset stood still, watching the figure suspiciously. Even as they leaned out of the door, only their outline was visible in the shadow of the car; despite this, she could easily tell they were paying her rapt attention. The figure hesitated for several seconds before fiddling with a small object in their hands: a flashlight, judging by the audible click and the beam of light now aimed directly at her.

Sunset squinted at the sudden brightness, shielding her eyes with her hand. "You want to point that somewhere else, maybe?"

The figure lowered the flashlight beam... and spoke.

"Well, I dunno what I expected, but I don't think this was it."

The figure climbed the rest of the way out of the car and approached slowly, finally giving Sunset a better look at him. He stood marginally taller than her, with dark hair, light skin, and a strange-looking scar covering his cheek, but what stood out the most was his outfit: a tunic of medieval-looking armor covered in metal scales, with accompanying gloves, boots, and even a cape. It contrasted rather bizarrely with the car behind him, giving her the impression that he had just left some sort of Middle Ages reenactment.

Sunset shook her head to get her thoughts back on track. "Expected from what?"

"A red light visible from the next town over just shot out of the mountains and landed... well, probably about here," the man explained, gesturing at the shallow crater in which Sunset now stood. "Wouldn't have guessed it was gonna turn out to be a teenage girl with furry ears and weird clothes. That's a new one on me," he added with a smirk.

"Furry - ? Wait..."

Sunset reflexively reached atop her head, where sure enough, her pony ears sat proud and true. A quick check over her shoulder confirmed that her hair was now past knee-length, tied at the end in a cute little ponytail. "But... how did I pony up while I was out cold? I didn't know that was possible... and how has it not worn off yet...?"

"Uh. 'Pony up'?" the man echoed. "Yeah, I feel like I'm missing some context here."

Sunset gave an impatient huff. "Sorry, I don't have time to explain. My name is Sunset Shimmer, and I need to find my friends as quickly as possible. Have you seen anyone else around here?"

"Uh... right." The man stared a moment longer as if to process this. "Alexander Abrams. Call me 'Tank' though; it's easier." He put a hand on his hip and leaned slightly. "As for your question, there's no one out here at the moment but us as far as I'm aware. Are there supposed to be more of you?"

Sunset sighed. "Yeah... yeah, there are. I guess I should've figured the portal would separate us just to make things more difficult..."

"Wait, so you did come through the portal?" Tank's eyes widened as he glanced backward. "You know, if that's true..."

"I mean, more accurately we got pulled through it against our will, but yeah." Sunset leaned to one side, looking over Tank's shoulder suspiciously. "Does that mean something to you?"

Tank turned back to face her and jerked his thumb at the car. "It means I know someone who just might be able to help you, if you'll trust me."

Sunset hesitated. Could she trust him? It didn't take long for her to recall a way to know for sure. "Take off your glove and give me your hand for a minute."

Tank looked perplexed for several seconds, but shrugged as he pulled off one of his gloves and held out his hand toward Sunset, who stepped forward to take it in hers with no particular ceremony. As she did, her eyes took on a magical white glow.

"..."

The spell lasted for only a moment, but it was all Sunset needed. Satisfied, she let go of Tank's hand. "Well, it doesn't seem like you have any ulterior motives, so I guess it's safe enough to believe you."

"Uh." Tank scratched at his scarred cheek with his ungloved hand. "So was that a spell just now, or what? What did it even do?"

"Oh, not much." Sunset crossed her arms. "Although now I know that you're talking about a girl named Penny Richter and her uncle Darian Mobius who work at a research facility called Event Horizon specializing in portal study and extradimensional theory that's about an eight-hour drive from here, but you don't really mind because you were on your way back to your home town anyway to visit your folks and say hi to an old friend, and this place is only a short detour."

For several seconds, all Tank could do was stare incredulously at the bizarre girl before him. "...Uhh?"

"My magic lets me read people's memories," Sunset explained. "It's pretty handy for knowing when they're telling the truth."

"...Huh." Tank continued looking entirely unsure of how to react. "Okay, so. 'Sunset,' was it?"

"Yeah?"

"Let me be real with you for a minute here. This whole thing is pretty compelling so far, but I'm still not totally convinced it's not some kind of prank." He scratched at his scar again. "That said? Whether this 'mind reading' thing of yours..." He wiggled his fingers to emphasize the point. "...is real or fake? It was pretty impressive either way. Like, credit where it's due and all."

Sunset smirked, chuckling to herself. "Well, the honesty's nice, at least. Reminds me of - !"

Stopping mid-sentence, Sunset's heart tripped on a beat as a familiar tingling-chilling sensation struck her... and this time, she knew instinctively what it meant.

"Uh. You feeling alright there?" Tank quirked an eyebrow. "I'm no expert on alien teenager biology, so..."

Sunset's voice was barely above a whisper. "We're being watched."

Previous Chapter

Next Chapter