I wouldn't call myself an "expert", per se, but you can if you wanna xD Writer, Dominatrix, musician, freestyle skater, and Pokemon Master. Here you'll find my stories, photos, and anything else I find remotely interesting. NSFW. Don't say I didn't warn you...
"Oh, Kurt. Kurt, Kurt, Kurt." The sympathetic but sarcastic voice echoes from the doorway to Kurt's club before he sees the face it's attached to. "What on earth is going on with you now?"
"Jesus Christ!" Kurt groans, both happy and annoyed as hell to see one of his best friends, Adam, saunter in. "Are you here to lecture me, too? I thought interventions happened all at once. Not one person at a time showing up in drips and drabs."
Adam grabs the chair across from Kurt at his table, spins it around, and straddles it. "I wasn't originally planning one, but yes. Now I think I need to."
"And why is that?"
"Because I love you."
Kurt scoffs. "Well, if you love me, then do me a favor and talk about anything except what you came here to talk about."
Adam nods. "Fair enough."
"Thank you!" Kurt relaxes back in his chair, secure that, for the moment, he wouldn't have to think about Sebastian, or everything he's losing. Adam has always been one of his most loyal friends. He'll keep his promise.
"So what the fuck is this about you staying here in cow town, as you used to call it, when a gorgeous young man and a big empty building await you in New York City?"
Kurt scowls. "Wait - you promised to talk about anything except what you came here to talk about."
"Yes, and I originally came here to talk about your next High Protocol dinner, with a side of the rising price of Nectar mattresses. But you asked me not to. So I decided to talk about your epically atrocious decision-making skills."
"You're not as cute as you think you are, you know."
"Really?" Adam grins. "Because I thought I was adorable."
A Dalton Boy Given Advice (WIP)
It is my goal to finish this this year for anyone who is still reading it <3
Kurt and Sebastian discover that some people can still surprise them...
And others, not so much. (571 words)
Notes:
So, this is a follow up to #38 Common Courtesy. At the time (2018) I had a few people ask for a redemption arc for Melanie's mom. I started writing it, then my computer went belly up. But here it is.
Read on AO3.
Part 76 of Outside Edge.
“Melanie! Come on, Melanie! Stop fooling around, it’s time for your lesson!” Madison isn't scolding Melanie. The smile on her face is evidence of that. The scene on the ice playing out right now is so... unusual, so incongruous, Madison has to play into it.
Just a little.
“Okay, Coach Madison!" Melanie calls, holding back a giggle behind gloved hands. "I'll be there in just a second! I have to help my mom… ”
"MELANIE!! Whoa! Whoa, whoa, WHOA!!"
Melanie spins quickly, gasping when she sees her mom's arms windmilling, her feet threatening to fly out from beneath her. "Mom!"
“Melanie!" Mrs. Dickerson - Melanie's mom - makes her way across the ice, outfitted in at least three layers of sweatshirts and a coat, with a beginner pair of Jackson skates on her feet. Knock-kneed and pigeon-toed, she walks more than she glides. But, as with a lot of adult beginners, one foot works better than the other, so she starts spinning - slowly but uncontrollably. "Melanie, dear... "
"Snow plow, mom! Snow plow!" Melanie yells as she speeds her mom's way. "Grab your knees! Try to stop!"
"I am trying. I'm - ah!” Mrs. Dickerson goes down on her rear before Melanie can reach her. Luckily, she was prepared, wearing a pair of crash pants so thick she probably didn't feel a thing.
“Oh! Mom!" Melanie snorts, even though she's still worried for her mother. "Are you okay?”
“Yeah!” Mrs. Dickerson chuckles, trying to get her arms underneath her. “I just… me and gravity are having issues, I guess.”
“I can see that,” Madison says, gliding over to help. She reaches down to help her newest student back onto her blades. “But don’t worry. In a few more lessons, we’ll have you landing Axels.”
Melanie’s mom looks up from brushing off her pants and grins sheepishly, remembering that the subject of her daughter landing a double Axel is where all this began. “Is that before or after I break a knee?”
“You’re not going to break a knee,” Melanie assures her mother.
“Of course not,” Madison agrees. “Most adult skaters break a wrist long before they break a knee.”
Melanie’s mom stands up straight and glares at Madison. “Nice.”
"It's truth time."
"I bet---" Mrs. Dickerson falls back down on her butt, and the three of them burst out into a fit of laughter.
From the hockey box, Kurt and Sebastian watch, mouths agape.
"Did you have Melanie's mom's redemption arc on your 2019 bingo card?" Sebastian asks.
"Nope," Kurt says, laughing to himself when Mrs. Dickerson goes down a third time. She opts to stay on the ice, splayed out like a starfish. "Not in a million years."
"It's nice to know that people can still surprise us. Especially parents."
"Yeah." A sharp sound, like a slap, breaks through the mirth and captures Kurt's attention. He looks over his shoulder towards the locker rooms, their doors open since there's a workshop going on on the ice next door. Kurt leans right to peek in and catches a boorish man loudly dressing down his hockey player, a boy probably no more than ten. He's dangerously close to tears, a trembling hand pressed to his cheek. "I wish it happened more often."
Sebastian tracks Kurt's gaze, sees what he sees, and sighs. His shoulders slump, hope for humanity gone, and he heads for the door. "Don't worry, babe. I'm on it."
Aziraphale and Crowley are trapped in a room with no conceivable way out... (761 words)
Notes:
This is a little blurb of a story where I sort of wrote myself into a corner and didn't do anything about it XD
Read on AO3.
"Having any luck, dear?" Aziraphale asks, gingerly turning the page of a yellowing manuscript, utterly unfazed with whether his husband finds an answer to the puzzle he's working on or not.
"No. Not yet," Crowley says, strolling around the perimeter of the room for the 50th time. Nothing has changed, of course. It's a standard study: mahogany desk covered in papers, walls lined with bookcases, a leather sofa and a matching wing chair, a large globe in the corner, a sextant on a pedestal, and a few odd crystal carafes that Crowley has already sampled from... excessively. Something new catches his eye, and he makes a beeline for it. "Wait a minute, wait just a minute!" Crowley starts cranking a lever on the wall, spinning it clockwise, then counterclockwise with all his might. It makes a horrid grinding noise but accomplishes little else. He lets the lever wind down, then looks around, but nothing in the room has changed. "No. No. That's... not it."
"Would you quit puttering and give it a rest?" Aziraphale groans. "All you're doing is making an awful racket."
"At least I'm trying to get us out of here! You're reading! How is that going to help us?"
"You never know... "
"I bet you those books are props, here for aesthetic purposes. There're no clues in there!"
"I didn't think there would be," Aziraphale replies haughtily. "But that doesn't matter. I strongly suspect that this may be a first edition Sartre!"
"Marvelous," Crowley grumbles, retreating to a small table and pouring himself yet another drink. "Some use you are."
"I am a great deal more use than you - banging on walls and jiggling door handles! And may I point out, if these books are props, so is that cognac."
Crowley knocks back his glass, then pours another. "Can't be. Tastes just like alcohol."
"Yes, well, chalk that up to your vivid imagination, my dear, because I'm fairly certain that's lantern oil you're ingesting."
Crowley examines the remaining dark liquid critically. "No. Can't be. Then what were the first three?"
"A lava lamp, glycerin dyed to look like bourbon, and surgical spirits."
"Spirits? Alcohol! One out of four ain't bad!" Crowley proclaims proudly.
"Isopropyl, dear. Not the drinking kind."
"For the love of... !" an exasperated voice barks over their heads. "You guys have been in here for three hours! And you've made no progress whatsoever!"
"To be honest, though, that's got to be some sort of record," a quieter discorporated voice adds.
"Shut up! Don't encourage them!"
"So?" Aziraphale mumbles, not looking up from his book.
"So... " the first voice mocks. "This is a beginner-level escape room! This puzzle is the first of four! It's supposed to take twenty minutes tops!"
"I barely think it's our fault that we can't solve it," Crowley says. "You've obviously miscalculated."
"Urgh! A class of 3rd years was in here yesterday! It took them five minutes!"
"A whole class of educated youngsters?" Aziraphale scoffs. "Well, there you are. There were far more of them than there are of us. They had numbers on their side."
"Argh!! Just... get out! We have another group waiting!"
Crowley springs up angrily from the corner of the desk. "That's rude, innit? Treating paying customers this way. I'm going to write up one of them Yalp reviews about you. Let everyone know you're being unnecessarily mean."
"Good for you! As long as you do it OUTSIDE!"
Aziraphale carefully closes the book and sighs, running a hand sadly down the cover. "I apologize. I know we're all quarreling and that apparently we're at fault or something. But do you think I could... ?"
"Oh, take the book!" the voice bellows. "As long as you leave, take it and go!"
"Oh, bless you!" Aziraphale leaps giddily from his seat. Book pressed gently to his chest, he heads for the door, which has magically opened at the other end of the room. "May your day get infinitely better from here on out!"
"It will once you two leave," the beligerent voice mutters. "And for God's sake, you! In the dark glasses!"
Crowley's head snaps skyward. He spins two complete circles in a vain attempt to see who he's talking to. "Me?"
"Yes, you! Go to A&E before your insides melt!"
"See, dear? You can't complain about them now," Aziraphale says, subtly nicking another book on his way out. "They care about you."
"Ngk. Probably afraid I'll sue. Besides, I've had my insides melt before. It's not all that bad a thing, but I wouldn't recommend it."
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