#stuntedly

[ecee2nfha6]

Cute naked blonde gay twinks fucking Jacob Gets Fucked By The Boys Tranny Tiffany Celeste Tribute Fodendo Casada da Bunda Grande de Quatro Couple wife fucking hard Nude da minha namorada safada Pinky&Angel- Real Lesbian Sex Finger Lick Tribbing Scissoring Amateur Porn pala casino temecula British girl fucked on balcony holiday Upskirt teen showing pussy lips at dunkin dounuts Chicago midway area Super Mario: Princess Peach Gives Bowser A Blowjob At His Castle

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Artificial Extract

Epilogue for Sweet Treats AU: by character | chronological | epilogues

Warnings: these drabbles will include dark elements such as noncon, control, intimidation, pregnancy, and other stuff that may not be specified. Take this as you chance to scroll by.

Please let me know what you think <3

🍮🍮🍮

Peter hasn’t spoken to you. Not since you told him the truth. He’s barely around. You don’t do much more than wallow in your anxiety, dreading his return and the moment he chooses to finally confront you. You know it won’t be pretty.

The day seems to be it. You're wiping up the countertops when he comes in. He’s dressed to go out. A dark zip-up jacket and black jeans. His hair is combed neatly and parted to one side. He approaches you and grabs your forearm. You drop the cloth as he drags you away without a word.

He marches you to the door and sets a pair of your heels before you and snatches a coat from the rack, nearly flinging it at you. You put them on as your chest bubbles hotly. Is this it? He’s not going to say anything to you before he disposes of you?

You think of the others, the ones who got away, you heard what the men said about them; what they wished they could do when they catch up to them. You’ll find out first what’s in store for those who can’t live up to standard. You step out ahead of Peter as he nudges you, pointing you down the steps and along the walk.

You go to the car and stand across from him. You look at him across the sleek roof, “Peter…”

He ignores you and gets in. You close your eyes and cringe. It takes you back to your ex and his bitter silences. They usually ended much sooner, always violently. You wish Peter would just hit you. That he would just do something. He can’t do much worse than you’ve already been through.

You open the door and lower yourself into the seat. You pull the seatbelt down and click it into place. He reverses down the long drive. You brace yourself and stare blindly through the windshield. Well, maybe it will be over soon. You have nothing left; you’ve only bought Princess the same spite and you never did have much to offer anyone.

He drives on. You wince each time he reaches for the shifter. He doesn't look at you, doesn't acknowledge you in any way.

You recognise Stark Tower as he drives up, pulling beneath to the garage. You follow him as a daze slowly floods you, numbing you to whatever comes next. You walk beside him with heavy, stiff steps, ankles shaking on your steepled heels.

He presses his thumb to a censor and a door opens, then another, a hallways long and sterile, another, and another. You stop at a steel barrier and he exhales loudly, stalling as if preparing for the next step. The last crumb of hesitation flakes away as he pushes his thumbprint into the ultraviolet pad.

You're met by an unexpected symphony of moans and grunts. Peter drags you inside before he seems to realise. He halts stuntedly across from a long lab table, the contents of which are strewn over the floor.

You see the top of Princess's head shifting on the metal, her hair askew as Tony ruts into her. Her back squeaks on the table with each thrust as she grips his veiny forearm, his hand clamped around her throat. You take a step back as Peter lets you go and clears his throat. Loudly.

"Um, you told me you were available."

Tony looks up, not wavering for a moment as he keeps his tempo. Princess retracts her hand and hides behind her arm as she slings it across her face. Tony pulls his arm back to check his watch.

"Four already?" He smirks and gives a wink, "I won't be much longer… you can wait outside or... Stay and enjoy the show."

You twist away, stimach curdling as you fight the urge to save Princess. Her distress is wrought into her piqued moans. You stomp to the door and Peter follows, catching your elbow before you can leave. He hits the switch to slide the door back.

You walk out together and you stare at the wall as you feel Peter's gaze on you. You try not to show your fear or disgust. It's better this ends, you're tired of being a toy.

"Tony's gonna help," Peter speaks to you at last, "he's gonna fix you, kitten."

You turn to him, a tremor in your cheek. Fix you? You don't say a word. Men have only ever seen you as just that; broken, weak.

[butterbabyflapjack]

WIP w e d n e s d a y

thanks for the tag @gaeadene! 💕💕 here's some Sangwoo being an asshole ✨

“Spit it out, Ballet Barbie,” he simpered. “Use that tongue I lent you.”

She struggled just to swallow, before stuntedly forcing out, “I’m n-not lyin-g, I promise, Sangwoo – I pr-omise! You h-ave to be-lieve me–!”

One corner of his lips twitched, before a lowered scoff escaped him.

“You look so pathetic like this.”

Rough fingers uncoiling from her hair, he tossed her face aside.

“But I appreciate the desperation,” he said, as though doling her a worthless participation award. “It’s a good look on you – the pitiful, snot-nosed groveling. Seems you really wanna win, which is good.” He barely smiled, though there was little warmth to it. “I’d hate to see you lose.”

tagging with no pressure! @athanasius-symposium-of-writings @shintin @l0sercat @vaya-mernda @guilty-pleasure-writings @languidcryptid @chromeedwardian @flaggermuser @possumteeths @brimbrimbrimbrim

[az-cain]

babe I was not expecting Eddie Munson smut when I opened tumble at 2am and like I'm actively not complaining but Bro

sticky sweet

eddie munson x reader ≈ 520 words masterlist here

ik you weren’t asking for it but here’s some more

TW FOR: vaginal fingering, hand kink

—

the summer air was stiflingly hot, smothering your whimpered breaths into eddie’s mouth. sweat slicked both of you, the bedsheets and blankets beneath you damp and salty. his thigh was resting between yours, pressing up into you. the spot between your legs was throbbing harshly. his mouth tasted like weed and the sparks that flew through you felt like lightning and pure heat.

eddie pulled back with a gasp to fill his lungs with air, scanning your body desperately. you mimicked him, trying to breathe properly while still grinding down onto his leg.

“god, princess. you’re so pretty.” he set his head back into your neck, biting hungrily at your neck. you felt his one of hands leave from beside your head, traveling down to tug at the waistband of your plain underwear. the soft cotton gave way easily, and he pulled away once more and sat back to remove them from your legs.

your eyes followed as his hand traced back up your leg, drawing easy swirls and patterns all over your soft skin. when he had almost reached your core, he leaned back over you, ready to meet your mouth again, but you stopped him with a shake of your head. “wanna see you,” you said stuntedly, dumb from the heat and his body. his face cracked open into a wide grin, sweat running in beads down his skin.

“oh, princess. you wanna see how my hands look inside you?” you nodded softly, waiting for him impatiently and rolling your hips towards him. he licked his lips and plunged two fingers into you, his forearm working easily as he curled them inside of you. you cried out quietly, bucking your hips into it. his other hand came down onto your waist to keep it still, a drop of his sweat dripping off of his forehead and onto your belly.

a few sharp giggles shook from him as you whined desperately, clenching around his fingers.

you watched his tendons pull and twist smoothly as his thumb came up to swipe at your clit, pressing into it harshly. “come on, sweetie. let it go.” you nodded, humming his name contentedly as that tightness ratcheted higher inside of you. you let out stunted gasps of pleasure when his thumb pressed down one final time— your core clenching so hard around him that his fingers were pushed out of it, but he just shoved them right back in, curling them quickly against that one spot.

“fuck, eddie!” you shouted, hips pulling up off the bed with the force of it. he worked you through it, only pulling back when you shoved him away. he slipped his fingers into his mouth and licked them off, cleaning them entirely. you watched his hands carefully still, the pretty blues and greens of his veins standing stark against the pale background. he smiled, removing his fingers with a pop. now that you’d gotten off, the heat was back in full force. you leaned upwards and kissed him on the lips with a thank you before tugging him back down to pass clean out.

masterlist here

[gmanwhore]

Francis 2 writing tips no one asked for but. Here they are.

He is a full grown man. He acts childish because he is still experiencing the wonders of being alive but that is a full grown man. He should have a job but he's a doppleganger so he can't have one.

He is not dumb!!!! He's actually pretty intelligent, he is just still learning things for the first time!

He acts a lot like a cat. He rubs up against people and purrs. He also shows affection by biting.

He has a special interest in dopplegangers as well as human emotions! Both topics really interest him!

He sorta talks stuntedly. Ex. "S not fault n I don't really care f it s."

He gets scared really easily.

He also gets attached to people really easily! He clocks whether he likes someone or not pretty well straight away!

He will never. And I mean never. Never ever ever eat a human. He would rather starve.

[writer59january13]

Bully me you, I exemplified archetypal scapegoat

Even as old (dish) married (spooning) curmudgeon, who receives social security disability linkedin with social anxiety) chose the fork less traveled aye pucker with sunken cheeks, (especially without dentures) and raspily suction toothless mouth drawing reminiscent guffaws affecting attempt impersonating plumber

(think unclogging toilet)

please support your local bummer

back in the day one long haired pencil neck geeks palled around with another hirsute nerd - Roger Kummerer, (who both of us graduated Methacton High School class of 1977),

and yours truly readily

admitting, alluding, and attesting

without shadow of doubt

representing the dumber

than rocks of said beastie boys

bandits, donning particolored pachyderm gabardine garb getup trumpeting, especially as Mummer

on each New Year's Day with bare ass tuchus

excellently imitating courtesy said orifice

(as chief motormouth) sound of combo motorboat hummer.

Ah... the joys of amazingly aging gracefully

happily recalling never being

beat into bloody pulp dully

imagining dimming sense and sensibility

before (appearing gratefully dead)

lifeless body dumped into gully

nonetheless all the while fully

maintaining conscious, and forcefully

summoning forth latent powers gleefully

choking living daylights masterfully

delivering just desserts upon Tom Viglione,

whose plaintive laments truthfully

resonate as blessed music

to ears unaccustomed hearing pitifully

sounding long overdue comeuppance

forever disbelieving wrongfully

perpetrated injustice

witnessed impossible mission

fueling an ordinarily meek lad

only in his dreams, he envisions zestfully.

Pugnacious thuggish hooligans... although

decades long since elapsed, whereby hoodlums

jockeyed to rain one after another verbal blow

threatening introverted diminutive boy

who, no surprise did eventually, albeit (stuntedly) grow

(as an aside resembled anorexic Santa Claus ho... ho... ho...)

still wracked, impacted, affected..., this punster, he haint Joe

King, but upholds valuable humor less or mo'

feebly, lamely, and quirkily aspires toward po'

whit tree linkedin with infusing, (no matter ex post facto) freeing mine unsung hero.

[officialbillhader]

Suzanne collins writing a teenager suffering from ptsd >>>>>>> jk rowling writing a teenager suffering from ptsd

[ijustdontlikepeople]

you are my friend. it is nice that you are my friend. good job. friends always. together again soon.

[aeide-thea]

there’s probably nothing irredeemably wrong with me but unfortunately i don’t get enough in-person social affirmation to convince me of that

[comfyswitcherblanketfort]

Pizza, Blankets, and Dildos

due to my tumblr ads recently becoming bearable and nsfw again (thank you tumblr plz keep it this way) and @jaskierswolf having galaxy brain, i have a new headcanon/goofy idea for yall to suffer thru.

my stupid take on modern magic au with jaskier getting truth spelled

surprise surprise, he fucks around and finds out why geralt tells him to behave himself on contracts

he drank something? ate something? flirted with the wrong person? maybe a mage just saw him pining after geralt so hard it physically hurt even from a distance so they interviened? idk, either way, jask and geralt get back to their apartment and jask is acting exceptionally weird. 

geralt asks him if he did anything stupid on their adventure and jaskier answers with a ‘yes and i dont plan on stopping because the thrill keeps me alive’

geralt is not pleased by this but he came to a similar conclusion a while ago so he counters with something like ‘kay but maybe just run the stupid by me first so you dont die’

and gets a ‘but you saving me from certain death is the only way i know you still want me in your life’ and jaskier looks mortified. absolutely fucking horrified that he just said that out loud. 

geralt stops what hes doing (probly hanging his armor up in the hall closet or something ridiculous like that) and tries, very stuntedly, to tell jaskier that he’s extremely important to him even if he doesn’t say it.

cue jaskier having a very normal ‘then why don’t you ever fucking say that to me? ya know? the person who is important to you?’ reaction

and geralt just throws his hands up in the air and heaves a big ole sigh like “what the hell do you want?”

and jaskier pauses for a second and geralt can feel his medalion vibrate as he answers, “Honestly? pizza. i want pizza and my big glow in the dark dildo and a fuzzy warm blanket. its fucking cold in here and its been way too fucking long.”

geralt is not amused. at all. and jaskier is freaking out bc why tf did i say that???

geralt folds his arms and does that disaproval look and tries again, “what do you want from me”

the medalion vibrates again and jaskeir’s face goes bright pink but he phsycially cant stop the brash “damn near the same thing”

and that, my friends, is how geralt and jaskier start sleeping together and having blanket fort pizza days where they just stuff themselves with carbs and, well, each other. 

[babysizedfics]

Hi! I hope ur having a good day. I saw a post abt black cats that was kinda sad but had a happy ending but still made me kinda sad. Do u have any cute headcaonons abt Virgils stuffed cat? Jiji I think? If not that's totally fine. Have some good vibes:💜🖤

aw shoot i hope u feel happier soon i hope this helps but its not rlly headcanons its mor origin story!

jiji is actually a big deal

because vee's regression wasn't revealed voluntarily, it was accidentally exposed and logan was mostly responsible for it (this is why his character arc takes place over the very first parts of the storyline, because of the guilt from this - LABD is his final act for his main emotional development essentially)

but logan is desperate to make it up to virgil, and after things have been spoken through a little bit and logan (and the others) understand what regression is, logan decides a spoken apology isnt enough

so one day he comes to virgil really awkward and blushing and aboiding vees eyes and holding a box with a ribbon on behind his back and hes actually so embarrassed that he wrapped it up like that its too sentimental its too much

but he sits virgil down and apologises again and virge is blushing like no oks no its ok dont apologise again pls just forget it happened

and logans like no see thats the thing i cant just forget this is important

and virgil feels so terrified of whats coming next, will he be kicked out? will logan try to cure him?

but logan shyly holds up the box and virgisl heart races because hes anxious about receiving and opening presents, its too much pressure

lo can see he is distressed and internally curses himself for not thinking about that, so he hurriedly undoes the bow and opens the box muttering 'uh i thought perhaps, since you have a dinosaur toy to embrace maybe...' and he pulls out a soft fluffy black cat toy 'you might appreciate having your favourite animal to hold too'

and virgil is just staring at it blankly so logan panics and keeps talking 'i cant forget about this because it is clearly an intrinsic part of who you are and.. well we care about you virgil, all of you, and if this makes you happy then... oh god you dont like it my apologies this was ridiculous i--'

virgils hands silently reach out a little, very shyly. he's looking down at their laps and logan doesnt comment on the way his lips appear to be trembling and he pushes the toy into virgils hands

and virgil squeezes his fingers in the fur and bites his lip as his eyes well up because he has never received a soft toy from anyone since he was an actual child, he always buys them for himself he never imagined anyone would get him one and soft toys are a huge huge comfort to him and its one of his favourite ever animals next to spiders

and he whispers 'thank u' surprised by how light and shaky it was, hes fighting his littlespace tooth and nail, he doesnt let himself regress but he does let himself bury his face in his new toy's fur to hide his tears for a few moments

'will you.. uh, name it?' logan asks stuntedly, clearly unsure if he should go or interact or how to interact

and virgil clears his throat and lowers the toy but cant help but hug it tightly to his chest 'uh.. i dunno, i guess' he pretends he hasnt already got a name 'i guess maybe.. maybe jiji i dunno..'

logan nods and its genuinely awkward for a few seconds and logan gets up and goes towards the door then turns back, then to the door again, then back and says 'i am glad you like your present. Please... do not feel afraid to ask for help should you ever need it' and hurries away

virgil doesnt take that request very seriously and logan doesnt realise he wants to play an actuve part in vees regression til several weeks later but jiji is still symbolic of logans acceptance of baby vee

[ziracona]

[The Kid – (FGO-adjacent AU) 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, ?]

“Ready?”

I let out a slow breath and hold it halfway. “Go.”

We’ve practiced this to as near perfection as a person can. So many times it was exhausting without actually using my phantasm once at all.

Sure hope this works I think, watching the clock she moved over to the front wall with us. We’ve been through it, so careful, so thorough. I’m facing the window, just in case. Unless something goes really wrong, she’s activating her summon spell the second I fire, and my bullet won’t make it far enough through the air to hit the glass before its mana is consumed, but just in case, figured it was safer to not face a wall that has people anywhere past it.

Kid’s got sound barriers set up—she kept saying it was nothing, but that’s more magecraft than I’ve ever known, which is none, and pretty damn useful if you ask me, but aside from that and her summon circle on the ground, all we got to depend on for this to work is the good will of some spirit on the throne, and each other.

I can feel the flow of mana from her to me, the connection heightening, the strain on me as I try and summon enough from her to use Thunderer, the pain in my chest and shoulder amplifying exponentially. It’s okay though; I feel alive. Excited. Ready for this. We’ve got a plan, and we’re gonna make it work. I believe in it.

“It's time for a duel,” I say, hand at the ready by my hip, everything familiar and electric in the room around me. Behind me, I hear her incantation too, but I tune it out and focus on my part. She’ll be on pace; she’ll do what she has to, just right, and so will I. No matter how impossible or desperate, because we got to, and we know we can. “Go ahead,” I challenge the world itself, sure we’ll win, “You draw first. I’m faster.” I feel the flood of manna, everything about me amplified and wired and I can sense time slowed around me—no, I’m sped up, I’m on par with time itself, and my gun’s in my hands and leveled and my finger’s pulled the trigger as the word, “FIRE!” echoes from my lips.

Behind me, I feel a massive surge of energy ripping me backwards the moment my shot fires. It’s like a tide flowing out only to be dragged back in, but faster and harsher. She calls on the mana as I produce it and it is ripped away from me, just right, just perfect, exactly like we planned, and dear GOD, it hurts. I didn’t think it would, because usually using up your mana is about the only way you can die painlessly as a heroic spirit, but I realize as the source of the pain clicks as my shoulder, it’s not, it’s that I’m not healing, I’m falling apart, and it’s not the mana loss that hurts, it’s that it��s not healing me and I’m back to dying.

My gun clatters from my fingers and I drop with it painfully, no strength to stand. I can see my hands half transparent, crackling. I’m trying to dissolve. No; no no you don’t, I tell myself, biting down on the inside of my cheek, trying to focus. I forget everything but maintaining my form and channel what I have into it. Cut off my abilities, my ability to sense things, everything but keeping my spirit core intact.

“Billy!”

I hear her calling me. Try to turn my head the other direction so I can see her, and am able, just barely. She sounds ragged herself, and she looks it. Pouring sweat from what she just did, hands on her knees to keep herself up, but she’s looking at me, pale and overcome with worry.

“It’s okay,” I promise, trying not to laugh at the way my voice sounds like I’m about to die and how un-reassuring I must look in a heap on the floor, “I’m okay, just need to catch my breath.”

She believes me though, and I see relief on her face. She smiles. Then there’s worry. “Did we do—”

Something happens. She jerks, and her eyes widen, and then her eyes shut and her knees go out and I’m watching in shock as she collapses like I must have just done, onto the hotel room floor in a little heap.

“Ritsuka!” I call. She doesn’t move. What happened? What—she was fine! Just— What could have gone wrong? Why—

There’s someone there. I’m so barely holding on, I don’t sense them coming, but my eyes work just fine, and I see boots as they approach from the hallway, and I’ve found Thunderer and dragged myself to the side to have it leveled by the time he’s made his next step.

He stops when he hears the hammer click, and looks down at me. He’s tall, and even barely holding on, I know he’s a heroic spirit, not a human. He takes another step.

“Don’t!” I warn, gun still leveled.

“If you were going to shoot me, you should have done it when you had the element of surprise,” says the heroic spirit, surveying the room, not me, “You’re about to vanish, and you know even as a Gunner you’ve only got the mana for a shot or two, so you’d have to kill me or it would be over for your master and you, but you didn’t. You warned me.”

He takes another step which brings him almost to Ritsuka, and glances down at the little heap and tilts his head.

“Don’t hurt her,” I warn, struggling to push myself up onto an arm. He’s right, and I know it, but it doesn’t mean I won’t try. And I’m pretty sure I could get at least five shots off before I’m gone completely. But I haven’t yet because I’m hoping I won’t have to.

The spirit glances at me, then back at my master, and stoops. “Which means you must suspect I’m the spirit she just summoned.”

Oh thank God.

“You are?” I check, adrenaline slowing a little.

He puts a palm on her back and I tense, but he looks over and says, “Relax, Gunner. …She’s only fainted,” then adds, raising his hand again after a moment, “Trying to support two servants alone, I’m guessing she has a reason for something that stupid.” He looks at me again then. “Who are you?”

“You’re the spirit she summoned?” I ask again, because he hasn’t answered.

He seems almost amused by that, exhales, and gives a little gesture of acknowledgement with an arm. It’s only his word, but for the life of me I can’t think who else he’d be, and if he was anyone else, and meant either of us harm, he could have easily accomplished it already, so I believe him.

“Billy the Kid,” I answer his earlier question, “You?”

“An Archer,” he answers, turning his attention back to Ritsuka and sliding his hands under her back and legs to lift her up.

“Hey!” I say in disbelief, “That ain’t fair—I told you! We’re on the same side.”

He stands up with Ritsuka in his arms and gives me a disdainful look. “You didn’t have to answer, and you don’t need to know.”

The asshole! That’s just so rude. I’m kinda speechless though. I guess it doesn’t matter that much, because at least we got help, but damn.

Above me, the heroic spirit turns away with Ritsuka.

“Hey! Where are you going!” I call after him. I’m a little more solid, and I try to make it up, but stumble trying to make it past my knees.

“Relax,” he says, glancing back at me, “I’m only putting her on the bed. You seem awfully attached for-“ he starts in that same aloof, evaluating tone, and then Ritsuka shifts in his arms and groans.

As she moves her head up, the Archer glances down at her, and her hair slides out of her face and she opens bleary eyes and squints up at the face looking back down at her.

“Dad?” she asks in a raspy voice and the aloof air completely drops from the Archer’s face as it drains of some of its color and he gapes back at her with the wind knocked out of him, and suddenly I like him a lot more and am no longer really feeling threatened at all. He stares at her for a good three seconds before remembering to move.

He looks at me then, with that same almost cornered expression, and I’m a little thrown too, so I say, “What, are you?” without thinking that through, and that I think almost takes him out.

The guy still doesn’t answer though, he just stares back at the girl in his arms, then stuntedly resumes his walk towards the bed.

“Dad, where…” she tries, then her eyes slowly close again and she just shifts and nestles her face against the Archer’s shoulder. He does not look at me this time, and I finally make it to my feet and stagger over after them, using furniture to support me. I make it to the foot of the bed about the time he straightens up after setting her down.

When he straightens back up, he looks more like he did before, and the air of cockiness and ability is back up, but I ain’t forgot what I just saw, and I don’t mind it this time.

“Still not gonna give me a name?” I ask as I come up opposite him on the other side of the bed.

“You don’t need it,” he replies.

“Even if I promise not to bring that up again so long as you tell me?” I ask with a grin.

“Don’t,” he warns, but he sees the look on my face and I see him have to expend effort not to smile. He relaxes a little too. “So,” he says after a moment, exhaling and placing his hands at his waist, “Since our master isn’t up, do you want to tell me why I was summoned, Billy the Kid?”

“You oughta know,” I say casually, crossing my arms, “You answered her summon.”

He kind of stares past me into space for a second, and his brow furrows. “…I did,” he says, like he somehow wasn’t aware until just now. “Entry was a little bumpy,” he offers me by way of explanation, glancing back over, “Unless I’m still lacking information, though, all she asked for was someone to help who knew magecraft, because there was a threat all of us on the throne, and her.”

“Yeah, why are you an Archer?” I ask.

“Sorry you didn’t get the Caster you were hoping for,” he says, waving a hand carelessly, “But I was a mage before I was this, so I should do.”

“Oh, perfect!” I say, meaning it, “I get along better with Archers anyway, and your Independent Action is gonna help a lot with both of us hangin’ on by a thread.”

“I’ll say,” he agrees, glancing back down at Ritsuka, “Although it’s more amazing she’s actually maintaining both of our forms alone, without support.”

“She’s okay?” I check.

He gives a nod. “Fainted, probably from the strain of suddenly expending a massive amount of energy, but she’s adjusting surprisingly fast.” He gestures, and I see he’s right. She’s already stopped sweating, and her face is almost its original color again.

Good. I was worried there for a second, but she’s quite the gal.

“I’ll wait till she’s up to give you the full run-down,” I say, circling back, “But the short is we got a group of Mages who got the idea it would be economical to use our manifestations’ connection to our Saint Graphs on the throne as a sort of battery, by trapping us on the edge of death based on how we died in life, so we’re too weak to run off or fight them.”

“Fucking Mages,” he sighs, not remotely surprised, because honestly—yeah.

“Weren’t you a mage?” I say with a grin.

“And?” he challenges.

I give him a friendly nod. “Fucking Mages,” I agree happily.

“How bad?” asks the Archer, “How many of us?”

I shake my head. “Not sure. I was their first.” I gesture to my shoulder. “Supposedly anyway. But could be a number of us back at the place, or none. Regardless, they got their research, and there will be more if there aren’t already, unless we wipe it clean.”

He gives a nod, and gestures at Ritsuka. “And her?”

“Your daughter?” I ask.

“Gunner,” he says exhaustedly, rubbing a hand across his face.

“She’s just a kid,” I answer happily, “Was in the same building for research they were conducting, and found out what was goin’ on, didn’t like it, and busted me out.”

“Really,” he says, glancing at me, then studying her, impressed, I think.

“I know,” I say, “Last thing I’d expect from a mage, even a little one, but she’s sincere. Don’t know a whole lot of magecraft, but apparently she’s got a manna supply big enough to support she said twelve of us at once.”

“Wait, are you serious?” asks the Archer, losing his cool façade again for a second.

I give a nod, grinning, “I know, right? That’s why she was there—little mage anomaly.”

“No wonder you thought this wasn’t a terrible idea,” says the Archer, looking back at her, “And you called in another one of us because she was having trouble healing you fast enough to hit them back?”

He’s quick. I nod. “Me and any forces we pick up on the way if they got more of us-“

“—because anyone they have would be closer to disappearing than you are,” he finishes, nodding slowly.

“Can you help?” I ask.

He rubs the back of his neck, thinking, but not about that I think. “I can, though-“

Below us, Ritsuka groans and shifts on the bed, and we stop talking as she blinks and then opens her eyes. It takes about half a second for her amber irises to clear, and then she bolts upright like she did before, completely awake, and I grin at the familiar sight.

“Whoa! –Billy! –Uh,” she bounces from one to another of us with her gaze, then settles on the Archer, mouth a little open. “Oh,” she says in a very small voice, “Hi.”

He gives her a nod of acknowledgement.

“Did I summon you?” she checks.

He tries not to smile in a way that makes me think he found that way funnier than I’d expect for some reason. Like it’s a familiar sight to him too somehow.

“You did,” he answers, keeping a straight face, “Archer class, at your service.”

“An Archer?” she asks, looking from him to me.

“I know you were expecting a Caster,” says the Archer with great self-assurance, “But I can assure you I can do what you need.”

“He was a mage before an Archer, back when he was alive,” I tell her, “—An Archer’s way better anyway. They’re easier to supply mana to, for one thing, and they’re usually a lot easier to get along with.” I’m definitely partial a little because it’s my own secondary class, but I’m also not wrong. Lots of personality types seem to crop up a bunch for specific classes, and Archers are mostly easy to get along with—for me, anyway, but I figure since Ritsuka seems real up my alley, she’ll probably get along pretty good with ‘em too.

“Oh,” she says, absorbing that, “Well, nice to meet you,” she turns back to the Archer and offers him a hand to shake, “I’m Ritsuka Fujimaru. Thank you for answering my call; I really appreciate it. I need you, so thank you for coming to help.”

He seems a little taken aback by that and hesitates a moment before smiling in a different, much more genuine way, and taking her hand. “Of course. Good to meet you, Master. I’m sure I’ll be of use.”

“—Oh, please don’t call me that,” she hurries, flushing.

He furrows his brow. It’s fun to watch this happen to someone else, mostly because it makes me feel connected. We don’t get to socialize on the throne—it’s like being frozen while you wait to be sent out, sort of, so we don’t get to spend time with other Heroic Spirits outside of summons, and at least half the time, we forget everything that happened to us while summoned once it’s over, so. Our lives are barely something you can call a life, the way the Throne makes us exist, and even with our own kind, we don’t get to have much in the way of real relationships. Even if you get lucky enough to partner up with another spirit for a while on a summon, it’d be a rare thing to have enough down time to get to talk to them about anything like what being stuck as one of us after death is like, or how we feel about it. We all kind of know, sure, but, it would be nice to get to talk to someone else about it sometimes. And I see him having a lot of the same thoughts I did, and it’s nice, because I don’t just think the way I feel about what happens to me is probably about the same to a lot of us, I get to see it is.

“Master, I mean,” adds Ritsuka, still holding his hand, “I don’t want to be that. –I-I know that’s what Mages all call themselves when they summon one of you, and they usually call you Servants, but it seems wrong, and I don’t like it. I mean, you’re all some kind of hero or great warrior or artist, and I’m just a mage, and either way, we’re both people, and you were nice enough to come when I asked for help. I don’t want you to feel like I think you have to, or like I’m going to try and push you around. I’m just lucky to have you here to help.”

His expression changes, surprised and I think touched, because it’s a soft expression, and he smiles. I haven’t seen him give completely real smile before, and it makes him almost look like a different person, a younger, less hardened one. “I see, Miss Fujimaru. That’s an unusual way for a Mage to choose to act, but I think I understand it. I’ve felt the same way before myself. What would you have me call you, then?”

“Uhm, --oh, Ritsuka is just fine,” she says, reassured by his response and happy with it, “You don’t have to call me Miss Fujimaru either.”

“Ritsuka,” he agrees with a nod of I think respect, which I also don’t think this Archer gives just anyone, and certainly not this fast, “I’m an Archer class servant, but I ought to be able to help you with your magecraft as well. I go by Nameless.”

Oh, so you’re just gonna tell her before she even asks you? I think without any real vitriol because I can’t blame him one bit, the way she is.

“You don’t have a real name?” she asks, like it makes her sad.

“I do, but I don’t use it anymore,” he replies, straightening a little.

“What was it, if it’s okay to ask,” says Ritsuka, “I’d rather call you your real name than ‘Nameless,’ unless you hate it or something.”

“…Emiya,” he offers her after a moment of relaxed contemplation. She seems to have gotten him to drop his guard a lot in about one minute.

Emiya I think, running that through my head. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him before, and it doesn’t ring a bell either. I have no idea what heroic spirit that would be, which is weird. That’s a family name, so maybe I’d remember if I heard the whole thing, but I kind of just think we’ve never met.

“First name?” she asks.

“I prefer my surname,” he replies, “Though just Archer is even more optimal.”

“Oh,” she says, I think not sure why he won’t tell her, but respecting his choice, “Well, it’s good to meet you, Emiya. Thank you again for answering my call. Uhm.” She glances down at herself, then over at me. “You’re okay now?”

I give a nod. “Right as rain.”

She smiles, then turns back to Emiya. “I guess I passed out for a minute. Did Billy tell you anything?”

“He gave me the gist of your situation,” replies Emiya, “But no details about the group beyond what they’re doing.”

“Okay,” she says, zeroing right back in on mission mode incredibly fast, “I’ll catch you up, then! –Oh, you are okay helping us, right? Since you came? –You want to, I mean?”

He seems incredibly bemused, and smiles at her again. “Yes, I believe you weren’t actually overselling it when you said all of us on the Throne would have a vested interest in stopping this from happening when you called for a spirit. I’m here to assist you.”

“Great,” she beams, “Okay—I’ll go grab the papers and map, and –oh—do you want anything to eat or drink?”

His eyebrows raise. I keep hoping he’ll look at me, and he feels my gaze finally and glances over at me and I give him a I know, right? grin, and he struggles not to smile back. I can tell he very much gets it. Some kind of a Master. Or, not a Master, by choice, I suppose. Some kind of a mage.

“Thank you,” he says, “I’ll accept whatever you’ve got.”

She hops up out of the bed, seemingly totally recovered now, and hurries off towards the kitchenette, and he goes after her, saying, “But tell me; you were hoping for someone to help you with your magecraft, and I understand the general situation, but what is the issue specifically you’re hoping for help with?”

“Oh,” she says, pausing for a second. She loses a little enthusiasm to embarrassment, but pushes on, “Uh. Well, I have enough mana to actually support several servants—”

“Your Gunner informed me,” says the Archer.

“-Oh, okay. Well, I do, so I should be able to keep anybody Ur-shanabi—sorry—that’s the group who’re doing this—or did he tell you that already-?” He’s shaking his head, so she keeps going. “Uh, okay, so, I should be able to keep any heroic spirits there from vanishing, but I need to be able to heal them. And, I can’t. I couldn’t heal Billy. Except really, really slowly.” She looks down at her shoes. “And I should be able to. I know mages always do that, for spirits they summon.”

“I see,” says the Archer, taking all of that in stride with surprising ease, like some of it is familiar to him almost. He considers. “Is it alright with you if I check your circuits?”

“Huh?” says Ritsuka.

I pretty much trust this guy, based on my intuition and how he’s acted, but I edge a little closer, just in case. Feel like it’s my job, after everything.

Emiya holds up a hand. “I specialize in tracing the structure of things and understanding how they work. If it’s alright, I can easily see if there’s any issue with your circuits themselves. If there is, I can probably help you fix it. If not, it should give me a good idea of what to do.”

“Oh—of course, then,” she says excitedly, trusting him entirely immediately, “Go ahead. Do I just stand still?”

He gives a nod. She does, squaring her shoulders and her stance, and he places his palm against her shoulder, whispering something I don’t quite catch. I feel a little surge of mana, and she jerks a little but not the way you do when something hurts—more the way you do if you touch unexpectedly but not painfully cold water—then holds still again. I’m curious, because I really don’t know much about magecraft at all and never have, so I get closer and watch. The Archer registers that, but he stays focused, brown knit, and eyes scanning things I cant see. Little blue-green crackles of light appear in geometric patterns along her skin for a moment which is almost alarming, but they’re gone just as fast, and he straightens up.

Ritsuka looks up at him questioningly.

“You really are connected to an almost unbelievable supply of mana,” says Emiya like he still can’t quite believe it, “Unfortunately, you don’t have magical circuits designed for utilizing it. Unfortunately might be a poor choice of words though, because being human, if you did, you’d probably kill yourself using it. You do have a good structure of magical circuits, though, and there’s nothing wrong with them, they’re just mostly unactivated. You never received formal training?”

“Not any training at all, really—well, my mom and dad taught me a little, but, only small stuff,” says Rituska, holding up a hand and squeezing her fist open and closed curiously like she’s trying to visualize what he’s describing.

He gives a kind of affirmative Hm sound of a that makes sense variety. “I can show you how to activate them,” says the Archer.

“Really?!” asks Ritsuka excitedly, “Just like that?”

Emiya gives a nod. “It won’t exactly be ‘just like that,’ though. It takes time to learn magecraft, like any skill. Building magical circuit ability for practical use is a bit like building muscle. It takes time, and overuse will damage your body. I can show you how to activate them period, but once you have, it will take practice before you can use your mana for anything complicated.”

“That’s okay,” she says, completely happy, “I just need to have enough I can give you magical energy to heal.”

“Well then,” he says, “I think I can fix your problem.”

[co-habit-ation]

{Offness is hard to convey in words. Sure there's creatures like the Thing so twisted and easy to assign horror to. But try instead to explain the off putting nature of someone whose eyes are just too human or isn't human enough.

Then there's the fine line between off and body horror. Someone whose off smiles too wide, but they have a human amount of teeth. Also blood dripping from random parts of people while smiling is creepy.

Dialogue can make this easier. Take Possibly in Michigan for example. You can watch the video and see all that's strange but the audio is the truest key to what's off. They talk stuntedly, both tired and energetic, both fearful and gleeful, the distortion definitely adds to it.

They're humans but so wrong.

That being said monsters are different. They are their own version of bent. For instance ghosts/ zombies are clearly rotten corpses.

I see Ghosts like BEN and B3G retaining some of their death appearances but hardly any. Such as BEN having water drip from his mouth every so often or blue lips and wrinkled skin about his hands. And B3G having invisible slashes that bleed at random.

And demons are either human or warped beings. For this au I invision HABIT specifically having elongated canines. It's rather bare but he's stuck in human like beings.

How is this relevant? Because I hope for writing a dream sequence for this blog. It's basically me writing out my thoughts.

Also Coffee spurred me on to look at Possibly in Michigan again by accident. Then my YouTube feed led me to remember I had something more planned for Bloody Painter and Tom Stevens. That will start after I finish the fic which is mostly done!}

[lotussokka]

as much as i love excruciating friends-to-lovers mutual-pining angst, i really like the idea of bakoda making the transition seemlessly.

theyve always had a level of physical intimacy bc in a legitimately dudebro way as best friends and fellow warriors. ultimately what changes their relationship is emotional intimacy.

after kya dies, bato sees hakoda is drowning in his grief bc of the watertribe expectancy to keep everything bottled up. so he starts rather stuntedly opening up to hakoda about his feelings in ways that toxic masculinity had stopped him from doing previously bc he knows allowing himself be vulnerable will help his friend do the same and heal.

eventually hakoda starts talking about his fears about the war too and then later about his wife’s death and his guilt that his search for someone to teach katara is likely what tipped off the southern raiders to attack their village looking for a waterbender. they get better at being emotionally vulnerable with eachother over time and their relationship grows closer and deeper now that theyre not holding the other at a distance but it remains purely platonic until after bato returns to the fleet.

theres no big dramatic moment that changed things between them and where they started seeing the other in a different light. maybe it was that a few months previous, they started talking about being attracted to men and talking through their internalized homophobia together. maybe it was being separated from eachother while bato healed at the abbey. maybe it was bato realizing he felt like sokka and katara’s father when they went ice-dodging, not like their pseudo uncle as he had before they went to fight in the war.

theyll never know exactly when they each started having romantic feelings for the other, but they remember the evening when bato asked, “koda, can i kiss you?”

and he responded hesitantly, brow furrowed, “in a friendly-testing-things-out way?”

“no. i’ve developed feelings for you — romantic ones — and it seems like it’s mutual.”

“it is.”

“so is it okay if i kiss you or do you need time?” bato asks gently, knowing hakoda’s chieftainship and his mother’s NWT conservativism have made it harder for hakoda to fully accept his attraction to men.

hakoda’s voice has a hint of awe as he whispers, “yeah. yeah, you can kiss me. i’d really like that.”

the kiss is a bit clumsy — both of them a bit out of practice other than the heated kisses theyve each shared with hookups from time to time. they break apart with a soft laugh, leaning their foreheads together. their eyes full of affection as their eyes meet.

“damn, i feel like a nervous kid with his first first crush,” bato says and hakoda’s gentle smile widens.

later that night as they lay in their tent, hakoda says, “thank you,” he turns to make eye contact with bato, “i wouldntve had the courage to make the first move.”

everything changes after that night, and yet at the same time, nothing really did. their intentions changed and over time more of their intricate rituals fell away between them, but they never question it. theyve loved eachother since they were children and that love becoming romantic is never an issue between the two of them.

[patricianandclerk]

H.R. (Part 1)

The year was 1990.

The angel Aziraphale[1] was drunk. It was not that he was often drunk. He was not. However, the occasions wherein he approached a bottle of anything nice – or, as was the case tonight, anything dreadful – were those when he spent his time in the company of the demon, Crowley[2]. Being drunk was a rather occasional affair, one that the two of them embarked on together, on either ill tidings or extremely healthy ones…

Aziraphale was nowhere near Crowley, now.

(Crowley, as it happened, was in his London flat many streets away, squinting over a spot-the-difference puzzle in a puzzle magazine he’d stolen from a copper on his tea break that morning[3], and occasionally laughing at the Golden Girls as it played on his television.)

Aziraphale was alone, standing in the little entrance hall outside of one of his favourite clubs, the Hyacinth and Vine. On the other side of the heavy doors, he could distantly hear some song playing from a cassette tape, some Queen song he had heard countless times from the Blaupunkt in Crowley’s car.

He brought his glass, mercifully cool, to his head, and held it against the red, burning skin, closing his eyes shut. He felt very red all over, and very drunk, and very miserable.

This was the sixth wake he’d been to in two months.

There were so many of them. How many more would there be?

It merely felt so… senseless, and senseless it was, and senseless it would continue to be, and he felt so utterly hopeless in the face of it all. Seeing all these poor young things perish so dreadfully, and if that wasn’t bad enough—

The young man’s girlfriend, she’d spoken so eloquently, even with her voice thick and hoarse from crying. “People like us, we have to fight for the love we get, and Pat fought for every minute of his, every minute we could spend together. You can’t let these things pass you by, he used to say. No point being scared. You just have to love as much as you can, when you can, and he did, and for that I’m— I’m so glad.”

“Mr Fell?” asked Robert, the club’s proprietor, pushing the door open, and Aziraphale turned to look at him. He was aware that his eyes were wet, and Robert exhaled to look at him, reaching out and gently brushing his shoulder. “You alright?”

“No, dear,” Aziraphale murmured, aware of how clumsy his tongue was in his mouth with the drink. “Not really. I don’t suppose you’d be so good as to call me a cab?”

“Yes, Mr Fell,” Robert said softly, nodding his head, and dipped back inside.

Aziraphale drained his glass. It was a good deal fuller than it really ought have been, certainly fuller than it was when he took a moment outside the doors.

Perhaps that was why, when he fell into the back of the black cab, he gave completely the wrong address.

--

Crowley glanced up when the extremely annoying and high-tech theme of his doorbell[4] interrupted him, and he snapped his fingers, pausing the Blanche mid-speech. The fact that pausing live television wasn’t yet an option to wider society did not occur to him: if he could pause a video cassette with a snap of his fingers, it followed on that he could pause anything else, and so he did.

It was a funny time to be calling – nearly eleven at night.

Hastur didn’t know how to use a doorbell, and Ligur wasn’t even in the habit of knocking, so he knew it wasn’t one of them; Dagon was uncomfortable with any location that wasn’t at least a little damp, and had never stepped foot in Crowley’s flat block; Beelzebub never visited.

He hadn’t ordered anything, but then, maybe someone had given a delivery boy the wrong address?

Hm.

Sliding from the sofa, he moved toward the door, drawing it open in one smooth movement. In one far less smooth movement, Aziraphale fell into his arms, and began sobbing against his breast.

“Ah,” Crowley said, and kicked the door closed.

--

Let us survey the scene.

Aziraphale was sitting at one end of Crowley’s extremely sleek, extremely expensive, extremely leather, sofa. It was black and white, and looked as if it belonged in a very modern museum, but it was actually surprisingly comfortable. From the back of one of his hidden storage spaces[5], Crowley had drawn out an extremely thick and fleecy black blankets, which he had wrapped around Aziraphale’s shoulders, and was slowly turning tartan. There was a mug of steaming cocoa in Aziraphale’s hands, which had been dreadful, made as it was from Crowley’s extremely rich, dark, real cocoa; in Aziraphale’s hands, it had become more sugar than anything else, and was rather nice.

Crowley was sitting on the other end of the sofa, his knees drawn up to his chest. He was barefoot, in silken red pyjamas that rather plunged at the neckline until it became more of a navel border, for whatever ocean battles you liked, and Aziraphale, drunk and rather out of himself, was having to be very careful not to allow himself to spend too much time looking at the thatch of chest hair Crowley had decorated his body with.

Aziraphale sniffled.

Crowley watched him warily.

“Er,” he said, stuntedly, “you’ve never actually been to my flat before.”

“I knew the address,” Aziraphale mumbled, and looked about Crowley’s living room, which was made of rather foreboding grey marble on every side, and had a rail of red and gold curtains against the broad windows, which showed a marvellous view of the London skyline on the other side of the Thames.

“And you were crying,” Crowley said.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said. “I know.”

“Er,” Crowley said, rather lacking the script for this situation. “Why?”

“You needn’t sit so far away, you know,” Aziraphale said, staring down at his own hands where they gripped the cocoa mug. “I’ve not anything contagious.”

Crowley stared at the angel, feeling the old thread of distant bitterness, mixed up with aching want, make itself known. “Do you want me to get closer?” he asked, his voice sounding less superior and cold, and more brittle and fragile. You go too fast for me, Crowley. The words echoed in his mouth, all but tangible in the air, but Aziraphale didn’t seem to hear the constant repetition of them like Crowley did.

He didn’t look up from his cocoa as he said, in a miserable way that evoked a pang from Crowley’s heart, “Yes, please.”

Crowley inched closer. His sofa had never seemed quite so long when he bought it, but now it seemed longer than ever, and his movements up the seat of it felt infinitesimal, barely bringing him closer to the angel… Until he was close, until he was close enough almost to touch, and Aziraphale turned his head to look at him. He sipped at his cocoa.

“It was Pat Mullarkey’s wake,” Aziraphale mumbled.

Understanding dawned, and Crowley bit the inside of his lip. “Another one?” he asked. It was only February. How many did that make, this year…?

“He was thirty-nine,” Aziraphale said, and he exhaled hard, feeling the threat to cry make itself known again. “Oh, Crowley, I barely even knew the boy. Just that— You know, I’m in the Hyacinth and Vine once or twice a week, and he came into the shop once or twice… I recommended he read Maurice, you know, and he came back in with a cake he’d baked for me. Isn’t that so lovely? He was so— He was so happy with the book that he…”

Aziraphale trailed off.

Crowley knew what Aziraphale was like, in Soho. He knew he went into various little clubs, that he’d saved a few of them from getting raided, when that was a concern, that he had his favourites… That he kept a big section of Gay and Lesbian books in his shop, always, always, had done since long before that had been what the section was called.

“He said it was so important, you know,” Aziraphale murmured. “To think that people like us could have happy endings.”

“He have people that loved him?” Crowley asked. He watched the tightness in Aziraphale’s face, the way his fingers gripped the mug, and swallowed.

“His family—” Aziraphale started.

“Don’t care about them,” Crowley said. “He have people that loved him? Full wake? Lots of people talking about how much they loved him, and how much he loved them?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said haltingly.

“S’all that matters, angel,” Crowley murmured, softly, comfortingly. It… it made sense, he supposed, that Aziraphale would like those humans. It made sense, when they felt like outsiders, when they had secrets from their families, when… It wasn’t the same. But Crowley understood why one would be comforted, and he ached to comfort Aziraphale himself, to reach out, to touch him…

“I’m very drunk, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, and he put his cocoa mug down rather more heavily than he meant to on the coffee table, watching it slosh slightly – although it didn’t dare slosh enough to drip onto the table.

“That’s alright,” Crowley said. “You’ll sober up eventually.”

Aziraphale inhaled.

How much longer? Every moment he spent with Crowley, every minute, he felt the space between them like a canyon, like it was some impassable distance between them, and yet Crowley was so close, within his hand’s reach, so easily… Aziraphale looked down at Crowley’s foot, scarcely a few inches from Aziraphale’s blanket-clad thigh, at the shine of black scales on its sole, tantalisingly within reach; at Crowley’s ankle, thin and shapely, ever the envy of every man he passed when shapely ankles were of a man’s concern; a smidgen of his pale calf, visible beneath the silk shift of his pyjamas.

“I’m so frightened, Crowley,” Aziraphale said softly. “I don’t— I don’t want to Fall.”

“You won’t Fall,” Crowley said, alarmed. “Angel, no, you won’t—”

Aziraphale touched Crowley’s ankle, wrapping his hand loosely around it, and he felt the cool, pale skin beneath his palm. It was so much more intimate, he realised, his cheeks hot with a burning flush, that merely brushing shoulders or touching hands in the course of a conversation, merely by virtue of the touch being deliberate, of the fact that he was reaching out, to touch him, to touch him—

“Angel.”

“Please. Come— Come closer. I shan’t bite.”

“I might.”

“Oh, don’t,” Aziraphale said, detesting the whine in his voice, “please, Crowley, please—”

“I won’t,” Crowley said. “Not when you’re going to shove me off in a second. I won’t, angel, I won’t come close just so you can push me back again, and you’re drunk—”

“I won’t,” Aziraphale promised, aware of the way he was begging, of the desperate ache that thickened in his own voice, “please, Crowley, I cannot bear the dearth between us, I have felt the pain of it for so long, and I cannot thrust you back from me anymore, please—” Aziraphale had thrown open the blanket, asking with his body as much as his slurred words, fear thudding in his veins, but Crowley crawled closer in tiny little increments, as if he feared he might burst into flames.

He didn’t.

He came until his knees were laid in Aziraphale’s lap, awkwardly crouched upon his scaly feet against Aziraphale’s side, and Aziraphale threw the great blanket about him, his arm wrapping tightly around Crowley’s waist and pulling him closer.

“Oh,” he whispered against Crowley’s breast, which wasn’t cool, as his ankles were, but was warm. He could smell Crowley’s cologne, could smell the floral shampoo he used in his hair, and he felt the silk of Crowley’s pyjamas under his fingers, and then, oh, oh, Crowley’s arm wrapped about his head, his fingers curling in Aziraphale’s hair… “Oh, Crowley…”

“Angel,” Crowley whispered against his forehead, and Aziraphale felt him bury his nose in Aziraphale’s hair, pressing against it, felt Crowley clutching at him as if he might well drown without him. Aziraphale, drunk, felt as if the world was swaying about them, so maybe Crowley was right, maybe they would drown if they weren’t holding one another, just like this—

Crowley leaned down, and he pressed their faces together, and Aziraphale gasped, expecting a kiss, but it didn’t come: Crowley clutched at his cheeks, cupping them in his surprisingly soft hands, and his nose rubbed against Aziraphale’s, their noses tip to tip.

“Sober up,” Crowley whispered.

The fear lurched within him like a wave. “Can’t,” he mumbled. “Can’t, Crowley, can’t—”

“Sober up,” Crowley growled, and the wine evaporated out of Aziraphale’s veins with an uncomfortable wrench to his dulled emotion. Aziraphale shuddered, his fingers gripping all the tighter at Crowley’s back and at the side of his thigh (when had his hand got there?), and he exhaled, squeezing his eyes tightly shut.

He felt…

He felt everything now.

He felt the weight of Crowley’s body, half in his lap and half leaned against his chest; he felt the shimmer of Crowley’s pyjamas and remembered when he’d actually bought them, in a shop in Manchester a few years ago, and had threatened to get a matching pair for Aziraphale as he’d giggled and said red silk wasn’t his style; he was aware of Crowley’s breath against his mouth, slightly sweet-smelling and of soft exhalations.

“See?” Crowley asked, his fingers touching through Aziraphale’s hair, and oh, it felt so lovely, so delicate, so intimate, like when the hairdresser washed his hair but so much sweeter, so much more full of love, why had nobody ever touched him like this before…? “You’re not Falling, sweetheart,” sweetheart! Sweetheart! Oh, his heart would burst, “I got you, I have you.”

“I won’t push you away,” Aziraphale whispered. “I want— Oh, I just want this, Crowley.”

“I want everything,” Crowley replied, feeling like he’d shatter. Aziraphale’s body was everything he’d ever imagined, and he’d imagined it a lot: plush and warm and soft and just yielding enough that Crowley could wrap right around him if he wanted to… “But this is enough.”

“You could,” Aziraphale said, and his tongue quivered in its bed, his eyes remaining tightly closed: the terror gripped him like some tight, iron manacles, but he ached, oh, he ached and he yearned and he wanted, and they were touching, now, they were touching, and he had wanted so long for this love, for Crowley’s love, to accept it, to give it in turn, to have… “You could kiss me. If you wanted. I—”

Crowley’s mouth was on his, and Aziraphale could hear the noise he was making, a desperate little keen of noise in his throat, like he could scarcely believe what was happening. Aziraphale gasped against his lips, and he squeezed Crowley tighter, letting Crowley’s lips move against his own, and oh, oh, he could move his own, just— Just so—

Six thousand years.

Six thousand years…

“Aziraphale?” came a voice from behind Crowley, and Aziraphale felt as if he had been plunged into horror itself when he beheld, in the midst of Crowley’s minimalist décor, the archangels Michael and Uriel, standing stock-still and staring at the scene before them.

"I can explain," Aziraphale choked out, and when Crowley moved to scramble from his lap, his hands acted purely on instinct, and clutched the demon all the tighter.

[1] Aziraphale, a.k.a. Mr A.Z. Fell, Principality of the Eastern Gate, bookseller, and often-patron of certain gentlemen’s clubs in the London vicinity.

[2] Crowley, a.k.a. Mr A.J. Crowley, Tempter of Eve in Eden, businessman of vague description, flash bastard extraordinaire.

[3] And the bastard had looked very bored for his fifteen minutes, too, especially since Crowley had ensured his tea order had been wrong and that his scone had been stale. And his radio had conked out, too.

[4] It played a different James Bond theme for every day of the week, and was the absolute horror of his neighbours, as the sound carried for two storeys in each direction, and echoed loudly in the corridor of his flat block.

[5] Crowley liked to appear rich and exclusive, and the best way to appear rich was by seeming not to own anything at all.

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[writer59january13]

Bully me you, I exemplified archetypal scapegoat

Even as an old curmudgeon, aye pucker and raspily suction, albeit toothless mouth drawing reminiscent guffaws affecting (think feeble attempt impersonating plumber plunging -

unclogging backed up toilet), flushed with satisfaction, now snakes into following non sequitur,

whereby then upperclassman,

whose name Scott Lambert

I suddenly remembered modest fellow one year my senior

- donned tee shirt “please support your local bummer”

yes folks back in the day, one long haired pencil neck geek palled around with another hirsute nerd - Roger Kummerer, (who both of us graduated Methacton High School class of 1977),

and yours truly readily

admitting, alluding, and attesting without shadow of doubt

representing the dumber

than rocks of said rolling stones

foo fighting beastie boys

allied with Smokey and the bandits,

the latter donning outsize particolored grey pachyderm trunks, Tuscaloosa so far away;

especially as Mummer doth strut

on unseasonably warm New Year's Day sporting polar bear look-alike

gabardine garb getup trumpeting, merrily squeezing Charmin

rubbing her/his tuchus

excellently exhibiting posterior

as chief motormouth sound of combo motorboat hummer.

Mein kampf elapsed distressfully even now scores of decades later

ah..., the joys of amazingly aging gracefully

recalling happily never being beat into pulp daily courtesy

imagine dragons saving me hide

'though dimming sense and sensibility

before (appearing gratefully dead)

lifeless body dumped into gully,

nevertheless all the while fully

maintaining consciousness, and forcefully

summoning forth latent powers gleefully

choking living daylights masterfully

delivering just desserts upon Tom Viglione,

whose plaintive laments truthfully

resonate as blessed music

to ears unaccustomed hearing pitifully

sounding long overdue comeuppance

forever disbelieving wrongfully

perpetrated intimidating injustice witnessed courtesy mine doppelgänger, who wanted to strangle the m****r f****rs yearningly

fueling an ordinarily meek lad

only in his dreams, he envisions zestfully.

Pugnacious thuggish hooligans... although

decades long since elapsed, whereby muscle bound hoodlums

jockeyed to rain

one after another verbal Hawaiian punch,

and bandied fist viz physical blow

threatening introverted diminutive boy

who, no surprise did eventually, albeit (shamefacedly, sneakingly,

and stuntedly) didst grow

(as an aside resembled anorexic Kris Kringle ho... ho... ho...),

which long sleeved Santa suit rendered invisible liver spots; said epidermal splotches black and indigo

wracked (in my pinion), impacted, and affected..., this punster, he haint Joe

King, but upholds true value

nudging anonymous reader to chuckle

thru contrived written words y'know

good humor less or mo'

yours truly aspires toward po'

whit tree linkedin with infusing,

feebly, lamely, and quirkily (no matter recognizing ex post facto)

impossible mission reporting punks to principal, hence describing, envisioning, forsaking passivity as defensive modus operandi status quo finally freeing mine unsung

inner foreigner juke box hero.