#so vague and whispy and implied

[snakeguy999]

Do u think they play around with their disproportions

[lady-divine-writes]

Neck Kisses (Rated NC17)

It’s four in the morning, and Crowley wants his husband to come to bed. Aziraphale wants to read, and he’s more than happy to stay on the sofa where he is.

...

Crowley is not pleased with these circumstances. (1279 words)

Inspired by this prompt. Contains non-graphic/implied oral at the very end.

“Urgh! Angel! Noooo!” Crowley steps over the back of the sofa, drops onto a cushion beside Aziraphale, and continues his childish groaning, which seems to come from the pit of his stomach and lasts a good minute-and-a-half. Behind the red canvas cover of his book, Aziraphale snickers, marveling at how this demon, at over six thousand years old, can manage to sound like a grumpy toddler every time he’s the slightest bit inconvenienced. “Are you still reading?”

“Yes, I am.” Aziraphale puts a finger to the last word he read, since Crowley’s whining has the power to make him lose his place.

“Well, would you be willing to stop reading? It’s four in the morning. I’d really like to go to bed.”

“You can go to bed. No one’s stopping you.”

“Yes …” Crowley slides up to Aziraphale’s side. He wraps his left arm around his stomach and his right behind his shoulders, filling up as much of his personal space as possible “… but I need to go to bed with my husband.”

“And why would that make a difference?”

“And why would that make a difference?” Crowley mimics. “Because it’s rather difficult to make love to one’s spouse when they’re fully dressed and in another room.”

“Hmm. I can see where that might be a problem,” Aziraphale agrees, reaching the end of his page and turning it. “All right then. One more chapter and I’ll join you.”

Crowley groans again, but has the courtesy to lean away and not throw a deafening fit right in his angel’s ear.  “That’s what you said five hours ago!”

“I’m sorry! I haven’t read this book in ages and I got sucked into it.”

Crowley grins, nuzzling the soft skin of his angel’s earlobe, breathing hot against his pulse. “I have something you can get sucked into.”

“Very funny.” Aziraphale sniffs, trying to sound unaffected by Crowley’s closeness. “And if you’re referring to what I think you’re referring to, vulgar and immature.”

“Fine,” Crowley grumbles. “But I’m going to sit right here and keep an eye on you. One more chapter you said. That’s all.”

“That’s all,” Aziraphale confirms, and with a nod goes back to reading while Crowley sits silently, head resting on Aziraphale’s shoulder, bored out of his gourd after only seventy-three seconds. He sighs dramatically. When Aziraphale doesn’t get the hint, doesn’t simply give in, he sighs again. When that doesn’t affect a change, he says, “While I’m here, would you be willing to tell me what your book’s about?”

Aziraphale snorts. “You want me to tell you what my book is about?”

“Yes.”

“The Red Badge of Courage?”

“Sure.” Crowley shrugs. “I haven’t read it in a while. Refresh my memory.”

“Very well. Why don’t I read to you from this next passage?”

“Sounds fantastic.”

Aziraphale clears his throat, wiggles himself straight, and begins where he left off. “The youth went slowly toward the fire indicated by his departed friend. As he reeled, he bethought him of the welcome his comrades would give him. He had a conviction that he would soon feel in his sore heart the barbed missiles of ridicule. He had no strength to invent a tale; he would be a soft target …”

“Mmm … soft …” Crowley murmurs as he tightens around Aziraphale, snuggling deep into the crook of his neck, whispy strands of his red hair tickling Aziraphale’s chin.

“He made vague plans to go off into the deeper darkness and hide, but they were all destroyed by the voices of exhaustion and pain from his body. His ailments, clamoring, forced him to seek the place of food and rest, at whatever cost …”

Aziraphale feels Crowley readjust, move his right arm till he can massage Aziraphale’s shoulder. He tips his head up, and a third sigh lands against the angel’s neck.

“He swung unsteadily toward the fire. He could see the forms of men throwing black shadows in the red light, and as he went nearer it became known to him in some way that the ground was strewn with sleeping men ...”

“Sleeping men,” Crowley repeats, lips brushing Aziraphale’s skin, placing kisses ever so gently around his jawline. Aziraphale opens his mouth to begin again, but his head swims from the deliberate press of those lips in spots Crowley knows will make Aziraphale fold like a house of cards pitted against a stiff breeze.

“I---is this a thing we do now?” he asks, his voice buzzing against Crowley’s lips.

“Yes,” Crowley whispers. “This is a thing we do now.”

“A-and how long are you going to be doing that?”

“Does it bother you?”

“I-I didn’t say it bothered me,” Aziraphale answers, frustratingly unable to keep his voice from shaking. “I’m simply looking for a timeline.”

“Until I tire of kissing you, or you surrender and come to bed with me. However, I think it’s only fair to warn you that I will never tire of kissing you.”

“Since when have you been fair?”

“Since now.”

“I know what you’re trying to accomplish,” Aziraphale says haughtily, “but this may not inspire me to leave the sofa.”

“We don’t have to leave the sofa.” Crowley unwinds from his husband’s body. He moves Aziraphale slowly, lying him out on the cushions beneath him, resting his head on the overstuffed arm. “In fact, you can keep reading if you’d like.”

“I can?” Aziraphale peers at his husband, perplexed when Crowley starts unbuttoning his shirt.

“A-ha … while I make love to you right here.”

“Oh … well …” Aziraphale squeaks, lifting his book above his husband’s head as Crowley’s body fights for space with Aziraphale’s arms, “that’s very polite of you, I suppose.”

“Go on,” Crowley teases, his mouth making its way over the subtle swells of Aziraphale’s chest, working down towards his waist. “Keep reading. I wanna hear you.”

“Oh. O-okay.” Aziraphale scoots as Crowley shifts, his left knee pressing into the sofa back and his right leg sliding over the side to accommodate his demon lover. He looks back at his book when they’ve both settled, the words blurring then snapping back into focus after every touch of his husband’s lips – an impact tremor caused by Crowley’s mouth against his skin. “Of a sudden he confronted a black and monstrous figure. A rifle barrel caught some glinting beams. "Halt! halt!" He was dismayed for a moment, but he presently thought that he recognized the nervous voice. As he stood tottering before the rifle barrel, he called out: "Why, hello, Wilson, you--you here?"

Aziraphale gasps, shoving those last two words to the back of his throat when Crowley’s teeth tug open the button to his slacks, then pull the zip down.

“The r-rifle was lowered to a position of caution … a-and the loud soldier came slowly forward. He peered into the youth's face.”

Aziraphale re-doubles his efforts, determined to get to the end of this chapter without his husband slipping him up. It’s only a few hundred words after all. What’s a few hundred words? Not a whole page. Barely a swallow.

Swallow, he discovers, is an all too apt description for what Crowley has chosen to do.

"That you, Henry?"

"Yes, it's--it's me."

"Well, well, ol' boy," said the other, "by ginger, I'm glad t' see … I'm glad t' see …”

Softer and softer Aziraphale’s voice becomes, the words drifting from his lips, withering when they come in contact with the air at the caress of his husband’s tongue, the movement of his husband’s throat.

The last Crowley hears of The Red Badge of Courage is the thunk the book makes when it hits the floor.

[doomspoon888]

Mission's temper tantrums, when he was a toddler, must have been an absolutely frustrating, audial-splitting, migraine-inducing nightmare for Starscream (they'd probably make a great contraceptive advertisement if they were filmed). ;) But Starscream deserved it! He's well-known for doing it to others, so it was only natural that someone gave him a taste of his own medicine, especially someone with his own code (i.e. we know exactly where that screech comes from).

tbh no amount of screaming and snotty crying could stop Mission from being adorable

The transport was packed with travellers and immigrants of all shapes and sizes, colours and textures, organics and synths and species even Starscream, with his vast intergalactic experience, had never seen before.

Even on the outskirts of the universe his face was far from conspicuous though. Decepticon agents and bounty hunters alike were out in force, looking for their biggest payoff yet. He kept his shawl low over his optics, tucking the concealed bundle he held closer to his chest.

He took a seat at the back, in the dark corner where the guide lights weren’t working. His broad wings took up a lot room and he was getting glares from the other travellers. A vaguely organic, ambiguously gendered liquid-like being eventually sat next to him. Starscream sneered and drew his shawl closer, not wanting it to get damp.

The ships engine’s came on with a rumble, vibrating through the floor and causing the flimsy bulkheads to shudder. Starscream felt the bundle in his arms stir. He bounced it gently, urging it’s occupier back to recharge.

But then the ship lurched, a careless jolt forward from a heavy handed pilot that had no idea how to fly. Beneath his shawl there was an angry wriggle, and a soft cry.

Starscream felt his tank drop with fear, bouncing and patting more insistently now. It was one thing to be that parent with the screaming offspring, but drawing attention to himself on a public transport ship…

Mission didn’t care for the delicacy of their situation, never had. And Starscream peaked under the shawl just as dim, two-week old optics onlined and a button nose creased with incoming displeasure. The whines grew, louder, and longer.

“Shh,” he whispered, glancing at the others passengers who now could hear the grizzling of an infant over the hum of the engines and were glancing his way. “Shh.”

“Oh, how sweet.”

Starscream looked up, and peering over his shoulder at Mission was the water-alien, whispy arms clasped together adoringly. Starscream hid Mission under the shawl again, scowling. It didn’t do much to muffle the crying.

“Thank you.” He muttered venomously, hoping his tone implied enough as he brought a wing forward to shield himself and his sparkling.

The water-alien didn’t seem deterred, not even when Mission’s whines grew to stroppy cries, weak little arms pushing at Starscream’s chest. His wriggling was clearly visible beneath the shawl. Some heads were turning back to see what the growing commotion was. Starscream felt increasingly exposed, but there was little he could do to muffle his idiot sparkling.

He had Megatron to blame for this. Mission’s penchant for making a racket and causing a scene had to have come from his defective coding.

“Go back to sleep.” He lifted the shawl and snapped at Mission.

Mission kicked his stupid tiny legs and cried so long and so fretfully, he began to turn purple from lack of air. Starscream frankly patted his back, reminding him to breath.

“Poor dear.” Another voice cooed, and Starscream found another alien peering down the seat row to steal a glance.

Starscream hissed to ward it off and turned away, only for the water-alien on his other side to start gushing again.

“Oh, look at those tiny wings!”

“How old is it?” Another deeper voice asked, and it took Starscream a moment to release what he had thought was a rock was also now invested in his sparkling.

Oh Primus, he was surrounded.

“Do they have a name?”

“Oh, it has your eyes!”

“May I hold it?”

“Are they teething? I have Zini bones in my luggage-”

Starscream hunched down beneath his shawl, glaring at Mission through a gap. “Why couldn’t you just go back to sleep?” He muttered.

Mission tugged on the fabric and continued to cry, for all forty thousand lightyears of their journey.

[upalldown]

Alex G - God Save The Animals

Tenth album from the Philadelphia lo-fi indie rock musician Alex Giannascoli

8/13

In his later life, the French philosopher Jacques Derrida trained his critical lens away from abstract conceptions of human language and toward his pet cat. How should he feel about returning his cat’s gaze? Should he feel ashamed to let his cat see him nude, vulnerable, on the toilet? If animals cannot express a moral code—if they don’t know that nudity is shameful—are they simply amoral? To Derrida, that’s the wrong question—it’s not whether animals can think, but rather if they can feel. Throughout his enigmatic discography, Alex Giannascoli, who performs as Alex G, has teased out these same thorny issues. On 2012’s Trick, his dog Rosie communicates with just her eyes. Two years later, on DSU, his dog Harvey “doesn’t understand what big boys do,” but Alex loves him anyway. And while the Philadelphia musician is adamant that his songs are not all about dogs, the animals in his life are proxies for his uneasy sense of good and evil. On his latest album, God Save the Animals, he wrings strange beauty from our non-human companions, grappling with innocence and its discontents through their saucer-eyed stares.

In a catalog littered with inscrutable poetics, God Save the Animals stands out for its moments of sharp lyrical simplicity. Rather than sketching out ideas through the barest of sentence fragments, Giannascoli writes with a sense of grounded patience, digging deeper and fleshing out the characters in his stories with extended conversations and commitments. Though his writing has always toed the line between autobiography and autofiction, on God Save the Animals it seems as though the players in his stories—fictional or not—are growing wiser with time. Over the stunning melodies of “Miracles,” he reaches into a whispy falsetto as he considers starting a family. In the past he might have given into despair, but now he warms to the idea: “After all,” he admits, “there’s no way up from apathy.” Across the album, his sense of responsibility is strengthened by the test of time: “You can believe in me,” he sings, warbled, on “Cross the Sea.” “Now you sit with me/I keep you safe,” he reassures on “Ain’t It Easy.” It’s a cautious calmness, interrupted by pitch-shifted vocals and ominous whispers. But even the alien voices lean into comfort rather than their usual eeriness, as on “Cross the Sea”’s repetitions of “I’ll take care of you.”

And then there are the animals. References to pets are more oblique here; names are scarce. But it’s not hard to find man’s best friend peeking out from between the lines. On “Mission,” the bleary-eyed pride of “I did good, I stayed out of the kitchen/I did good, I kept it on track” sounds like the confession of a weary but determined bloodhound. “Runner,” a stunning song about an endlessly reliable companion, tosses off the heartbreaking line, “They hit you with the rolled-up magazine,” a chastisement much more reminiscent of a pet than a human. Does he mean to imply that a person is being scolded like a dog? And if not, what does it mean that we brutalize dogs so casually? The purposely vague subjects on God Save the Animals—whose perspective is portrayed on “Cross the Sea” when he sings, “You see how I make you smile/You put your foot down and I run wild”?—blur the lines between animal and human motivations. There’s a shared ethics built from that ambiguity. Animals, Giannascoli suggests, can definitely feel—fear, loyalty, dignity—even if they cannot quite grasp the need to be saved.

Giannascoli has said that he sees himself more as a producer than a traditional singer-songwriter, and God Save the Animals encapsulates both the folksy quietude of Rocket and the ominous creep of Beach Music. Subtle instrumental embellishments elevate the record: the radiance of a Rhodes piano on “Early Morning Waiting,” the twang of banjo on “Forgive,” and the sharp percussive snap on “Headroom Piano” (named for the renowned Philadelphia studio where the song was recorded). “Runner” builds a simple guitar riff into a warm and gorgeous folk-rock anthem, a rootsy kind of alternative rock in the style of Wilco or the Wallflowers. The song stands out because it stands alone, uniquely straightforward and confident through its verses, gaining momentum without undercutting its earnestness.

There are still lurking surprises: The clear-eyed harmonies and pristine guitar make it all the more gratifying to hear Giannascoli veer off course as he confesses, “I have done a couple bad things,” louder each time, until it’s an unintelligible scream. On “No Bitterness,” he combines his penchant for vocal processing and electronic production with delicate finger-picked guitar and soft drums. Halfway through, the guitars give way to a breakbeat, fueling a hyperpop ballad that works despite its contradictions because of his commitment to being both sweet and maddening at once. If the sounds are blown out, as on “Blessing,” or if room tone leaks in, like on the intro to “No Bitterness,” it feels intentional, not accidental.

It would be facile to call an album with God in its name a religious body of work. An explicit mention of Jesus feels like a half-joke; there are no direct references to churches or holy books. But God Save the Animals does feel like a liturgy of sorts, one that encapsulates Giannascoli’s belief in the healing power of animals and Auto-Tune. It’s also by far his most hopeful record, the dark shadow of early death largely absent from his lyrics. There’s a sense of looking into the future rather than mourning the past: “Forgive yesterday, I choose today,” he sings on the contemplative closer “Forgive.” His voice heaves, as if on the verge of tears, and it sounds like faith.

https://pitchfork.com/reviews/albums/alex-g-god-save-the-animals/