i'm very limber

hi, i'm crook and i write stuff! they/them pronouns, please! requests are open. 

[nonmortem-somnifratrem]

i have been soft so long everyone is welcome to put their fingers inside and poke around where i keep my heart i have been soft so long everyone is welcome to walk across and back and wear down the bridges i built i have been soft so long everyone is welcome to climb into my skin and nest in the warmth i have conserved

i have been soft too long the doorman has left and there is no one  to welcome everyone in -sr

[babycrook]

@transsammywinchester requested:  twd, shane/glenn, anything goes

(cw: NSFW, suicidal ideation)

There are three soft, barely-visible scars across Shane's throat and Lori is pregnant.

The sun is high in the late afternoon and Maggie is feeding the chickens and Lori is pregnant.

Tall grass tickles Glenn's fingers as he moves through the fields and Lori is pregnant.

He closes his eyes, falls to his knees so he's hidden in the weeds, and he think of when it was simpler. When it was just gather wood, tell stories around the fire, get to know each other. Before Rick and before a dead man's guts had been spread over his face and skin and clothes. Further back, when it was get stoned and deliver pizza and watch old Dragonball reruns until four am. Simpler. No one had scars and no one fed chickens and no one was pregnant.

There's a noise behind Glenn and his shoulders tense, jaw tightens. It's Shane, stomping through to their meeting place in the weeds, not careful or inconspicuous. The way he moves is like an elephant through glass, where Glenn is like a snake through water.

"There you are," Shane grunts and Glenn's hair is pulled up in a fistful and he's brought to his feet. Their kisses are rough. Glenn can't remember how it started, when it started, if it was before Rick when things were simpler or if he was some second-rate Lori. A relationship born in guilt and shame and desperation? That feels right.

Shane digs into Glenn's mouth with his tongue. His lips are dry and coarse and with no hair there is nothing to grab onto, nothing to hold. Glenn doesn't believe he could hold Shane in any capacity. Before long Glenn is on his stomach, a big hand pinning him into the dirt at the base of his spine, another dragging clothes off.

They don't have conversations. Sometimes Shane, when he's fucking into Glenn with sharp snaps of his hips and thick cock pulsing, will whisper racist nothings. My pretty china doll, he'll hiss and Glenn buries his face into the grit of the field and his face is red like when he's drunk. He cries.

Shane likes when he cries. He smacks his face when he turns him over, limbs flailing until the big hands are pinning him again. Shane's smile is a horror show of pleasure and power. He leaves deep purple bruises on Glenn's thighs and pretty pink patches on his face. Glenn thinks maybe he only fucks him because he can't get pregnant, because he's small and pale like Lori, with pretty dark hair and a tentative, contemplative face like Lori. And he can't get pregnant. Like Lori.

When Shane cums he likes to choke Glenn, and that's when Glenn likes it. Hot, thick pumping of cum into his ass and big, big hands around his throat until his vision starts to blur and the red of his face turns purple and he thinks he might die die die. The simplest, easiest task is dying and he wishes for it as Shane bellows his roar of conquer.

They don't talk. Shane dresses Glenn again, even when he's leaking and messy, and he goes back through the field to the camp. Sometimes to the house, sometimes to take a drive. Stomps through the tall grass and the grass does not tickle Shane - only bothers him.

Glenn stares up at the high afternoon sun. The wind pushes the weeds over him, clouding his view of the sky with the tips of grass and straw? He doesn't know if it's straw.

"I'm sorry," he whispers to no one, and he gets to his feet and moves through the tall grass as it whispers back to him against his thighs and his arms and his fingertips.

The sun is going down and it's getting cold and Glenn wishes he were dead.

[25pastmidnight]

hey everybody! so i am always frustrated with a lack of inspiration, and i find random story generators help a lot. however, they don’t always have the kind of content i’m interested in, so i made my own. 

here is my random plot generator. (NSFW)

you can also find it by going into my blog menu and clicking “generator” if you’re not on mobile. if you ARE mobile you’ll have to open it in chrome or safari or something, just add /generator to the end of my url.

i’m happy to accept feedback and suggestions and will consider additions! just shoot me an ask. also-also, let me know if you’re interested in a SFW version and if there’s enough demand i’ll make a second one with some stuff removed.

[babycrook]

hi new followers!!!!

i love y’all already and i wanted to say hi!! so requests are always open. but here’s an actual request for prompts from my favorite fandoms and some themes i like! come get to know me and my writing because i want to give you guys as much as i’m capable of <3 this list is in NO way comprehensive, so always feel free to ask for your favorites!

fandoms:

preacher

the walking dead

sherlock

MCU

grey’s anatomy

teen wolf (seasons 1-3b)

breaking bad

LOST

harry potter

themes:

i love writing angst and smut! i’m queer and love queer romance and stories. i have a soft spot for addiction, relapse and/or recovery stories. my guilty pleasures are cheating plots and teen!aus. i LOVE alternate universes and fandom mixing. i don’t have any hard limits when writing kink or trigger-worthy content, so go wild. also, some of my favorite ships are jessidy, molliarty, rethaniel and sauljesse! c: 

[babycrook]

That preacher fic was so cute and well written, thank you! Just what I needed today.

thank you SO much, that’s so sweet!!! i’m headed to bed and this was the perfect thing to see right as i lay my head down c:

[babycrook]

@geeknessisaquiver requested:  Preacher OT3 cuteness

( cw : marijuana )

jesse's cute when he's stoned. it's a little bit like when he's drunk, but softer. blurrier. his edges are like a cartoon's outline, usually. a metaphysical representation of the way he keeps cassidy and tulip out, how he keeps all his anger and memories locked in. but when he's stoned? he's all wavy lines and gentle touch and a big, adoring smile. everything weeps out of him, all his love and gratitude and playfulness comes steady from his heart and all over the other two.

tulip is, on the other hand, sharper after a few hits. on her feet. pacing a little, looking out windows for too long, like she's planning at all times. ready for anything. her head snaps in the direction of a joke after it's told and it takes her a second to brighten into a big, earnest smile. but when she does she lets out a laugh so warm it could melt the arctic.

cassidy likes to get them stoned. not just because they loosen or they laugh, but because sometimes jesse melts into the couch and watches he and tulip. eyes a little heavy, half smirk planted firmly into one side of his face. cass thinks jesse might feel sneaky doing it, might think he's getting away with watching the two goofballs run around the room trying to escape each other's tickling hands.

there aren't any worries during a three am smoke session. no one's dying. no hell cowboys on their heels. no dog to protect, no son to cry over, no friendships ripping at the seams. it's just jesse's hot stare and tulip's overflowing laughter.

cassidy thinks maybe, by now, he's in love with them both. maybe he's been in love with tulip so long that her love for jesse has become contagious. and then cassidy remembers nights on the balcony with beers. naps on the same pew in the church. unfair games of truth or dare that always ended in blood. those were just the two of them, just cassidy's heart thrumming against his ribcage when jesse smiled.

she thinks she's sneaky too, but cassidy catches tulip and pins her to the ground somehow. she must have let him because he knows she could take him down in an instant. but he's got her wrists pinned under one hand and he's jabbing at her ribs with the other while she squirms under him, laughs loud and joyful and jerks and kicks.

"get off'a me, you son of a bitch," she cries as she laughs but her hips don't buck, her boots never catch cassidy's spine. he lets go of her wrists to really dig into the silly spots, into her collarbone and waist, tickling viciously and she never pushes him away. just wraps hands around his upper arms and laughs, laughs, laughs.

jesse's voice is like the rumbling warning sign of thunder in the middle of a sprinkling rain.

"c'mere," the voice of god commands and a flash of anger strikes tulip's face, but she isn't compelled to move. it's cassidy who lifts from on top of her, gets to his feet and is dragged by the tickle in the back of his brain to stand in front of jesse custer's smug smile. the way the man looks up at cassidy, from beneath a dark line of eyelashes and with one brow cocked curiously, catches him by the guts and drags him a step closer than god's command. "you like ticklin' my girl, cassidy?" jesse asks in the smooth tones of his own voice.

"aw, leave 'im alone, jesse." tulip's propped up on her hands on the floor a few feet away, watching the scene with the remnants of a smile still on pretty lips. "we was just havin' fun."

jesse's gaze (hungry, cassidy decides is the right adjective) turns to tulip and he nods real slow, blurry-like. no edges. he adjusts a little. leans forward so his elbows are on his knees and his hands are clasped in front of him, just a twitch from touching cass' legs. cassidy doesn't wait for an order to kneel down in front of the man, eyes on his level, watching his face search his own.

"you want to have some fun of your own, eh, padre?" cassidy growls softly, tone low and lusty, and he leans in a little so he and jesse's faces are close enough to feel warm breath between them. "been feelin' a wee left out?" jesse closes the gap. kisses cassidy so much softer than he's expecting, tongue chancing an escape onto cass' lower lip. jesse's cute when he's stoned.

fingers wander over cassidy's chest, gently tuck into his neck under his collar. a thumb presses against the hollow of his throat, sinking the breath out of him until he's pulled onto his knees between jesse's, his own tattooed hands diving into dark, thick hair. the kiss grows deeper and longer and cassidy pants through it while jesse starts to tug too-violently at curls. their lines blur together, cassidy's soul making up for the little bit of jesse's that was lost. he's about to crawl into the man's lap, lifting from the floor --

"distract the enemy!" tulip's voice rings and cassidy shouts as his body is slammed to the floor, tulip's knees on either side of his hips. jesse's beside him in a flash, holding his arms above his head while tulip's finger creep into his ribs and stomach and collar and he screams with laughter, world going soft and wild all at the same time as his two favorite people torture him.

cassidy likes to get them stoned.

[babycrook]

soft: a quick rethaniel drabble

( cw : nsfw, D/s dynamic, mama title )

rebecca is soft. her skin. the fine baby hairs at the nape of her neck. her pretty pink lips and her round dimpled cheeks. even her giggle is soft, her pitchy voice as she begs him to drag her pants off her ass.

he does, and her thighs are soft too. his big hands can grab so much of her thighs; she’s so little and he’s so huge. he drags her closer to him, tucks her hips between his knees as she stands in front of him at the end of the bed.

the softness of her hum as she kisses him wraps up his heart and tugs it out of him - only she can rip the heart from his chest and crush it into wine for two. make violence romantic. make it soft. nathaniel drags out the kiss until her soft hum becomes a soft groan and her soft fingers are in his thick hair. until she’s got one knee sliding up and over his thigh, carefully perched so he can feel the warmth of her, but can’t feel the silken lingerie he bought her yet.

she’s so soft. so, when he runs his hand up her belly and is met with a sharp, stinging slap across the face he’s shocked. he looks up at rebecca, her face pinned into accusation, and his eyes are wide with surprise. lips parted as he touches the redness beginning to form on his cheek.

“did mama say you could take that off?” she chastises, and the softness of her voice juxtaposes so firmly the punishment she’s promising without saying. “baby boy’s getting greedy.”

nathaniel lets his breathing slow into calm and his eyes hood into contentment. he smiles, just with one side of his big mouth, and leans back onto the bed to make room for rebecca’s slow crawl into his lap. her knees are on either side of him and she peers down at his slack face with a mischievous smile. “ask mama permission.”

he wants to but god, he’s so turned on his mouth will barely function. he works his jaw from side to side and drags eyes down her front, then back up to her gaze. with a rough swallow, he manages to make noise. “may i undress you?” his voice croaks, heart races, cock aches against her. she tilts her head in answer, placing a thumb on his lower lip to pout it out. he tries again. “may i undress you, please, mama?”

rebecca’s big smile is worth every ounce of pride he lets loose. she nods her approval and he leans back up against her body, sliding hands up her back this time. she lets him and she lifts her hands in the air and god, her skin is so soft and sweet, and nathaniel buries his face in her breasts and takes a deep breath and her hands in his hair are anything but soft. her teeth digging into his throat are anything but soft.

the hand around his throat as he cums is anything but soft.

[babycrook]

I came alive the first time my eyes laid rest on his face. A man who would not have me. A man of such grace who looked upon me, Mary of Magdala with kindness. In a world of sickness and of sin – chaos everywhere – a man looked upon me with serenity in his heart. And he laid his hands on me and he healed me of the sin in me and the sickness in me and put my chaos to rest. He brought me peace. I found myself at his side on the day of his death. It was a memory I would hold forever. His hands and his feet covered in red and his face looking upon us. I could see nor hear no one else, only his eyes and his quiet, slow breath. My time with him had gone so quickly, it was hard to believe and to accept that he was leaving us – that he was leaving me. But to believe and to accept was something his followers found themselves learning quickly. I stayed as he withered, while others with weak stomachs and cold hearts turned away. The fear in my heart was as strong as ever – or was it loneliness? There were only a few of us left waiting for some miracle to bring him down from the cross and back to our arms. I prayed and listened for God, tears falling and hands shaking. He said nothing to me, as he often chose to do, but I still whispered my pleading thoughts to him. Let him live. Let a miracle strike down as I had seen happen so many times before. Bring him to life and make the Romans believe as I believe. Please, God, please let this be. And in the typical fashion of God the Almighty, a moment I can not scrub from my memories passed. The Roman guard on watch brought up his spear to ensure the death of Jesus Christ, my dear friend and saver of my life. With a cry from my lips the only thing to cause him doubt he dove the blade into Christ’s side and he was dead in a sickening instant. I was mad, my heart crushed and my faith shaking. Why had I assumed God would listen and spare me this pain when it was only his son that had done that for me? The prayer did not end. I stayed there through the night, and I spoke to Joseph of Arimathea and told him to bring the body down. The body was removed, for I am Mary of Magdala and I have drank the blood and eaten the body of Christ and as I say to the Apostles of Christ, they do. I lead the Jews to the burial of Christ and I spoke there with many others, prayed to God for two nights and three days. I wept at the stone door and cursed myself for not keeping my savior close. My only friend, taken from me when there was so much the people could learn from him. And on the third day, as I lay on the ground at the foot of the tomb in my misery and in my sorrow, he rose. He rose and he came to me and I reached for him and the happiness inside of me spilled over as I cried onto his feet. And he said to me, do you know what that bastard said to me? He said, “get off me, Mary, you’re getting my robe dirty.”

[olympvus]

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