PLS TELL ME MORE ABOUT ALPHA OMEGA WITCHER AND ALSO GOOD LUCK WITH THREE SENTENCES FRIEND
I'd love to have some sort of grand plan for this TWN a/b/o fic, but it's really just me exploring what a crushcandles witcher a/b/o fic would look like and how many sort of gross but yet sexy details I can cram in there.
Jaskier does not come right back. He's gone for long enough that Geralt has time plenty to clean the camp, washing their wooden bowls, wiping down the knife he used to dress the partridges, collect the bones from around Jaskier's seat. Each one has been sucked dry of meat, so clean Geralt could sell them straight to a healer or potionmaster.
Geralt's still contemplating doing just that when Jaskier comes back to camp, hands behind his back. There's a noticeable lump in the front of his trousers, a dark glossiness to his eyes, and colour in his face. He's the picture of an alpha in early rut, one who just finished marking his territory and kept his cock in his hands too long afterward. He smells like it too when he approaches Geralt, woodsmoke and musk.
"Geralt," he says, "I brought you these." He reveals his hands from behind his back. In them there's a bouquet of wildflowers, long-stemmed and small-petaled. "Since you cooked."
"I cook all the time," Geralt says, taking the flowers anyway. They're freshly-picked, pretty colours, still night-cool except for the stems where Jaskier held them. They smell of sweet pollen, musk and pre-spend.
Geralt's nostrils flair at the smell on the flowers, which is now on his hand. As far as markings go, it's subtle, gentler than piss sprayed on the face or come rubbed across the small of the back, but it's still a mark, plenty possessive.
Happy Friday! I've been lucky enough to have a lazy, rainy Friday where I get to cuddle on the sofa with my pets and relax while reading fic, specifically, the lovely fic that's been recced by @candybarrnerd, also known as icarusinflight on AO3. I had read their fics before, but was very lucky to have the chance to get to know them better through their contribution to the Pride in the Library series. My favorite thing about having guests join in the library is that it gives me the opportunity to make new fandom friends. It's been so lovely to get to know Le better, and I know that you'll love the recommendation they have for you!
Hello! I would like to thank thedrarrylibrarian for giving me the chance to do one of these! When they asked me I was so delighted to say yes, and when I looked through my bookmarks to see if there was anything that I wanted to rec, I knew I had the fic. Something that just hit all the spots for me. Something that really just, it's a me fic. I hope there are some other people out there that will find it enjoyable too!
The Words that Pass Between Us by Overwatched (10,049 words, rated T)
Sometimes, Draco draws pictures of what could have been, had he made all the right choices: Draco in the Slug Club; Draco holding the Quidditch World Cup; Draco holding hands with some nameless, faceless person whose become some sick, secret sort of friend. He’s on every page Draco has touched. He flies with him, sleeps with him, laughs with him. And sometimes, if he pretends hard enough, Draco swears he can feel this person’s breath against his neck; a whispered I love you that has him pressing into the mattress every night, only to wake up alone, wishing it were real.
This is a fic that was made for the HP Consent Fest - if you're what probably passes for fandom old you might remember this fest. It came out of a discussion about how many common tropes (and commonly in hp) have dub-con or non-con aspects and then it morphed into HP Consent fest. The fest gave us some absolutely wonderful fics, and I treasure many of them.
This fic is… it has a feel. It has that feeling of being alone, that feeling of knowing you messed up and are facing the consequences. But also of being mad about that - and also the resentment when you feel like you are being pitied (whether you are or not). It's about being a mess of a person, of being messy as a person. It's a complex mix of a fic, and one that sits deep in the feelings, something that if you read my fics you probably know to associate with me.
The Draco in this fic is not redeemed - he is still hanging onto resentments.
But this fic is one that doesn't shy away from that. It deals with Draco's shittiness, it deals with his pain, and in that actually deals with Draco working on becoming a better person, sits with that and lets you watch who this person really is.
The fic deals with recovery a lot, and finding comforts, and the pain when that is challenged
They don’t see him tugging at his hair, angry he will bear this Mark forever, wondering if his father will ever come home, and wondering how anyone – let alone himself – could find forgiveness in their heart for everything he’s done.
This fic is a character study, or a love letter, or both. To Draco but also every character in Harry Potter, every character who was a person too, with their own hopes and loves and desires. In reading this fic again for this I was reminded of just how much and all the reasons why I love this fic, and made tender all over again over it.
I hope if you read it, you find some of that love in it.
Thank you so much, icarusinflight, for the joining me in the Library today, and providing an excellent rainy day read! I know the library patrons will enjoy your recommendation as much as I did!
❤️ As always, if you find a fic you enjoy, please remember to leave the author a kudos or a comment! ❤️
Oh no I MISSED OUR SHARED AGE AGAIN. I am always like yes two days apart but I don't think about it until my birthday 😂 HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY MY FRIEND
OMG LE i woke up this morning with EXACTLY the same thought how do i not keep track of the days when it is literally two days after my birthday 😂😂😂 if i was EVER going to know the date it should be THE COUPLE OF DAYS EITHER SIDE??? we are disasters but HAPPY BIRTHDAY back to you my birthday neighbour!!!!!! 💗💗
Hello!! This is probably not what you want from the asks but I've just moved house so i would love to hear your thoughts about HOW DRACO AND HARRY WOULD GO MOVING IN TOGETHER!
OH MY GOSH YES! Le!!! You gift of the universe!!! I got so excited to see this!
I’m sorry it took me a bit to get my thoughts together on this; I’ve never moved before so I took some time to imagine what it would be like. I’m seeing a lot of sassy banter and fond eye rolls with them, though.
(Congrats on moving, by the way! I hope you’re settling in well!! Don’t try to do too much at once and tire yourself out! 💙)
~
I feel like Draco would be incredibly stiff about moving in together. Everything would have a place hidden away, right? Especially when influenced by an upbringing of such rigid, formal decor. Sure, there were some frilly, decorative things in the Manor, but it was never placed with the intention of being useful or pleasant for those residing within the house. Every object was just indicative of status. So most of his personal belongings - things of emotional value to him - were kept hidden away. Having those things out in the open would make things feel messy, make him feel vulnerable. He wouldn’t want that.
On the other hand, Harry would be much more cluttered and lax. He wouldn’t be messy, really; I mean, he didn’t really have anything of his own for years, so he was excellent at keeping things tidy. Everything had a place in his cupboard, though there were only a few trinkets to have a place.
Regardless, he would like to have comfort items strewn around the house. They made the house feel more like a home, and Harry desperately wanted to cultivate one of those.
When they moved in, it would be a little chaotic. Harry’s boxes would be rather mismatched, and Draco’s would be so well packed that you couldn’t see what was inside them without digging through layers of protective packaging. Blaise and Ron both offered to help with the moving; it was nice to have a few extra sets of hands. Though Draco would be more than a little uncomfortable watching Weasley carry boxes of his valuables and handle his furniture, he was capable of sucking it up for Harry’s sake… mostly.
When the guys had left (through floo and after a beer and takeout each for all their help), it was up to Harry and Draco to begin the process of unpacking. I’m sure you can imagine how pleasant that would go.
“No, Potter, the cups can’t go there!”
“Why not?”
“What do you mean, ‘Why not?’ Surely you don’t plan on walking across the kitchen for a glass and then walking all the way back every time you want a drink?”
Harry shrugged. “I mean, I don’t mind.”
He pursed his lips to avoid chuckling at the annoyed eye roll Draco gave him. “Put the glasses in that cabinet. The one by the sink.”
He pointed toward the one he wanted, long finger curling outward like the cast of a wand directing his desires.
“But that one’s already full.”
Draco’s brow furrowed. Confusion and exhaustion etching across his brow. “Of what?”
“Plates.”
A pause. A long, uncomfortable pause. And then Draco sighed, rubbing his hands across his face. “Circe’s tits, Potter, you’re insufferable.” He turned, looking into the hall at the boxes lining the floor. “Help me find which box the sheets are in. Let’s go to bed. We can deal with the kitchen in the morning.”
Harry looked down at the cup in his hand. “I’m almost done.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I’ve just got-”
“We’re not keeping the cups there, Potter,” Draco said, turning around the corner to start searching for the box with the sheets.
Harry sighed, putting down the glass and following Draco into the hall. He was hunched over a stack of boxes, tugging the cardboard open in search of a flash of cream, a dash of Harry’s favorite burgundy blanket that Draco despised. Reaching around Draco, he wrapped his arms around the silky shirt over Draco’s stomach and nuzzled his head against the nape of Draco’s neck. “You’re a pain in the arse sometimes, you know that?”
“I believe you’ve mentioned it before.”
Harry smiled. “Then it’s a good thing I love you.” He kissed Draco’s neck, smiling at the pleased little sound Draco made when he found the sheets. Scooping up the box, Harry carried it down the hall to their bedroom.
It took as long for him to make the bed as it did for Draco to find their pajamas haphazardly stuffed in the boxes on the floor. Draco changed first, tossing Harry’s clothes across the bed. All that was left were the pillowcases and a few blankets, which Draco was happy to take care of while Harry dressed.
Before he changed, Harry fished the snitch out of his pocket and placed it in the glass holder beside his bed. He always kept it close, too deeply personal an item to part with yet. The casing was worn, faded in spots, but still shimmered elegantly in the light. Next came a few coins, his watch, Sirius’s ring, Harry’s wand. A bit of a mess for a bedside table, but certainly good enough for now.
Then he dressed, glancing around the room as he did so. Draco’s wand was on his bedside table, exactly parallel to the length of the bed. There was a glass of water, too, clear and crystalline, poised on a coaster (where Draco had managed to find it, Harry would never know). Their walls were still bare and closets empty, but the day had been a start, and they’d managed to conquer enough to feel satisfied. Though, Draco disliking his kitchen organization was a bit of a setback…
Slowly and carefully, Draco reached into the bottom of the box and pulled out Harry’s blanket, fanning it over Harry’s half of the bed with a disgusted but accepting look on his face. Draco loathed it, finding the Gryffindor colors and fringed edges absolutely revolting, but still he let it stay on Harry’s half of the bed. He understood how important it was for Harry - his first apartment gift from Molly - to have it near.
He smiled, making a noise that caught Draco’s attention.
“What?”
“If you can tolerate my blanket even though you hate it, maybe I can find a way to compromise on the kitchen.”
And it was like the world had lit up in Draco’s eyes, his face curling into that excitable grin that always made Harry’s heart melt. And Harry remembered exactly why he loved Draco so much, why this big step, while exhausting, was worth it. His smile was contagious.
in support of wildfire relief, @candybarrnerd donated $20 and requested Dean/Crowley. Thank you for donating!
to get your own personalized fic, please see this post. (no longer taking prompts)
Crowley comes back to the hotel room early, or early at least for his new companion. When he opens the door it's eleven in the morning and it's dark, inside, the curtains heavy and mostly-drawn, and the reek—
"Good heavens," he says, and there's a masculine groan from the bed. "Could you at least have them washed, first?"
He flicks the switch and the lamp by the television comes on. The television which is—smashed, the First Blade thrown through the screen and sticking absurdly out of the shattered glass. Excellent. In the bed there's a tangle of sheets and bodies, and he comes and stands at the foot with his hands in his suit pockets, mild interest on his face. His new Knight sits up, yawning. "I was sleeping, you know," Deanna says, and Crowley can very much see that.
The boys she's picked up look worn out. One redhead with ridiculous muscles, one tall brunet—oh, that's obvious, dear—both clearly trying to sleep through interruption, like they're hungover and fuck-exhausted. Probably both true. Crowley looks over both of them. Decently attractive, decent cocks, but neither of them quite a match for her. She sinks back onto her elbows, giving Crowley a considering look. "What have you been up to, anyway? You bailed on me at the bar."
Crowley pushes one bare male foot out of the way and sits on the end of the bed. "I do apologize, darling. Hell had some business that needed doing."
Deanna rolls her eyes. "Business," she says, and drops fully back to the pillows, stretching. "Boring. This is why I have to make my own fun."
"So I see," he says, smiling at her, and then he whacks the redhead on the thigh. "Up. You've done your duty. Get out."
Another groan, but they do wake up, and don't seem surprised to see him. They roll painfully to their feet, dredge up jeans and shoes, smile awkwardly but a little fearfully at Deanna before they go. She tucks a hand behind her head, waves at them, and they scuttle out like they're making an escape.
"What do you do to the poor things," Crowley says.
Deanna smiles at him slow, dangerous. "Oh, like you don't know," she says, and Crowley's very old, and very bad, and he's fucked nastier, crueler things than her, and even so that smile makes something warm swirl, in the corroded pits of him.
She's naked and doesn't care, because she doesn't care about much, anymore. It's thrilling, after all those years of her trussed up in that ridiculous flannel, her hair tied practically back in a ponytail or a plait, clunky boots and a bitchy expression. Now—she arches her back, turns onto her side, and it's all that clear golden skin, unmarked by anything but unexpected spatters of freckles, here and there—on the small of her back, where her body arrows down to that perfect fat arse—and, of course, her mark. The thing that makes her dangerous. Crowley smiles to himself, looking her over. Like she wasn't dangerous already.
"You want to take a picture?" Deanna says, propping her head on her hand. As though Crowley hasn't already. "It might last longer."
"Now, darling," he says, and dares to set his hand on the delicate bone of her ankle. "You'll last forever, you know that perfectly well."
She sweeps her eyes down to evaluate his hand, but apparently the flattery was just enough and she smiles, too. "Hm," she says, and sits up, and shakes her hair back over her shoulders. "Well, immortal or not, I want breakfast."
"Anything," Crowley says.
She rolls her eyes. "I know," she says, and pulls her foot out of his reach, but she leans forward, hands planted on the bed so her shoulders curve in, her tits pushed forward, tempting. "Because you're spoiling me, aren't you? Kinda obvious."
He shrugs one shoulder. "So I'm obvious. You're the most precious thing in my kingdom. You get what you want."
Deanna clucks her tongue, eyes going sarcastically wide. "Lucky me," she says, but Crowley's had enough experience with her over the last month to know that she enjoys it, vile hedonist that she is.
She gives him her breakfast order and he calls it down to room service, watching her go over to the window, pull open the curtain to look at the morning. "As quick as though your life depended on it," he says, to the hapless operator, and she smiles over her shoulder at him. In the light she's haloed, delightfully ironic. When he hangs up he says, "What would you like to do today, my dear?" and she says, sweeping the curtains wider, "That's for me to know," and, predictably, "for you to find out."
Not as clever as she thinks she is, but her power's such that it doesn't quite matter. Crowley's stuck here with her until he can work out a way to manipulate her into something more useful. She draws a bath, bubbles and all, and when the room service arrives he carries it in and she eats, rather disgustingly, there in the water—bacon, a burger, chips with enough salt on them that it must sting, but she groans at how good it all tastes, so he supposes it doesn't matter. When she's done with the bath she stands up, dripping everywhere, and puts her hands on her hips, and screws up her mouth. "Wash my hair," she says, thoughtlessly demanding, and Crowley says, "Of course," and strips down, and turns on the shower, and when it's hot enough to blister living skin he holds out his hand and she walks across the tile and steps under the stream, and sighs blissfully as the suds still clinging to her skin wash away, and he stands behind her and goes to work, massaging her scalp, letting the heavy weight of her hair turn to wet silk under his hands, servile as a maid, doing what his Knight desires.
Like this, Deanna's a contradiction. Infuriating, a little stupid, satisfied by dumb physical pleasure. Not, in those ways, so different from her human self. What he hadn't expected was this strange descent into—girlishness. When the soul corroded, what was left tended to be cruelty, inventive meanness, power-hunger, but then that was after a good, long bit of endurance on the rack as the humanity was carved away, slice by slice. Deanna's change was instant. Human one moment, demon the next. What's left is certainly cruel when it suits her, but what intrigues Crowley, what's keeping him indulging her whims beyond his need for her power, is how she has utterly rejected the constraints she put herself under, when she was simply Deanna Winchester, daughter of John, big sister to Sam, hunter who put the fear of god into monsters and demons alike. He'd expected fucking and drugs, random murder and a lack of empathy, and he'd gotten all of those—he hadn't expected her to demand a trip to a fancy salon for a two thousand dollar haircut, or shopping for lingerie that made his unbeating heart throb to see her in it, or wanting to be—pampered. Treated like a precious jewel. Something she couldn't accept, from her brother's hands. Something she hadn't known, before, how to ask for.
He works the conditioner through, carefully. It's the one the terrified stylist had recommended, and so Crowley had bought it for her, of course. "That'll have to sit," he says, and Deanna sighs, arching into him like a pleased cat. He smiles, kisses her wet shoulder. "I suppose I'll entertain you, shall I?"
"I suppose you shall," Deanna says, so he twines her hair up into a sloppy knot at the base of her neck, and turns her around under the water, and she smiles at him indulgently when he goes to his knees on the cold tile. "Mm. I like you from this angle."
He lifts one of her thighs over his shoulder, kisses the soft inside. "I do live to please," he says, and she cups the back of his head, and when he licks into her cunt it's a soft, sweet heaven, just enough salted tang to make his lips burn. She balances easily, her body perfectly under control, and he cups her arse and settles in, licking deep, nosing her clit, spreading her. Slight taste of spunk from the boys who had her during the night and he imagines what it must have been like—her egging them on, vicious and cute by turns. They might've had her mouth, her cunt, her arse—both at once, perhaps, while she gripped their hair and told them that if she didn't come, they'd be sorry. She killed one man for that, early on, and Crowley had ordered the body removed and soothed her pout and said, darling, if you'd like to come, all you need to do is tell me. It was the first time he'd licked into her when there was blood on her hands but not the last, but it felt right, like that. Centering her in the things that mattered: death and pleasure, what her existence would be, free from conscience and second-guessing.
She comes beautifully, pushing into his mouth and pulling at the back of his hair hard enough that it hurts. "Oh, good," she sighs, and he suckles at her clit a little longer, until it must be oversensitive and throbbing, but she just humps against his face and laughs, pleased. "Overachiever."
He tips his head back, smiles up the expanse of her belly. "Always, my dear," he says, and she rolls her eyes and pushes his face away, and so he stands up, uncoils her hair, rinses it to softness under the water. When they're done she yawns, and he says, "Nap?", and she nods and walks naked and wet back to the bed and flops down, luxuriating.
"Get me off again," she says, and so he sits beside her and slots two fingers inside her cunt, and massages her to a second orgasm while she does absolutely nothing to help, and she drifts off with him still inside her, her damp hair a river of golden-brown on the white pillow, her lips softly parted, utter confidence in every line of her.
He rolls his thumb over her swollen clit, idly, just enjoying the slickness on his fingers, the easy response of her body. This girl. It had been a mistake, he'd thought, when he heard that Michael's vessel had been born female. The apocalypse thwarted, all those centuries of careful planning all ruined. Still, Lilith and Azazel did their parts, and when Sam was born it was thought that it would all work out—a victory for Hell, when Lucifer broke free and took what was his. Crowley watched, waiting, working his way up the ranks. When Deanna came to hell Alastair worked her hard, vicious, and Crowley had come and watched, of course—they all had, all of them with rank high enough—and she screamed, and broke, and when she stood under Alastair's proud hands and picked up the razor for the first time, Crowley didn't think he'd ever seen anything so perfect. He'd looked at her eyes, though, rather than what her hands were doing, and he'd seen something—a flicker. A hope. Alastair hadn't paid attention, glorying in his victory, and Lilith was focused on the work of the seals, now that the first had been broken. It was only Crowley, there, looking into Deanna's eyes, who saw what could be.
He makes calls, while she sleeps. His majordomo frets at him, tediously. He arranges for a clue to be dropped, to have some lackeys of Abaddon's find the hotel. She'll kill them, like she's killed all the others, and that'll be one more problem solved—two, in that it'll entertain her. He hadn't expected, when he retook his throne, how much of his time would be spent on entertaining someone who was, technically, his subject.
Deanna wakes up slowly, in the early evening. Crowley's sitting at the side of the bed, waiting for her. "Mm," is the noise she makes, and he raises his eyebrows, indulgent and curious. "We should have fun, tonight."
"What sort of fun?" he says. He slips his hand over her belly, where it's slightly soft. Too many years of burgers.
"I want—" she starts, and hums, thinking. "Music. Beer."
"Done," he says, and she grins at him, and then snakes a dangerously strong hand around his wrist, squeezes. He looks down at that, and back up at her face, and says, dry, "Unless you'd like something else, first."
"Ooh, see, I knew you were smart," she says, and he sighs but shifts around, on the bed, and settles between her open thighs, and she's still soft and a little wet and he pushes his fingers in and applies his tongue to her clit and gets her off twice, that way, insistent and hard. Easy, when one doesn't require breathing.
After the second she's loose, happy. Her thighs sprawl wide, her cunt open and dripping-wet. He drags his fingers down and plays with her asshole, and she allows that, and when he pushes his fingers in past the tightness she arches her hips into it, and so he fingerfucks her idly that way for a while, flicking his tongue against her clit and ignoring her relentless cunt.
"You'd just do anything, wouldn't you?" she says, dreamy. "Always taking care of me, Crowley."
"Of course, darling," he says, lifting his head, and she's looking down at him, from her place in the pillows. She's pinching one nipple, the skin red and hurt-looking; her other hand's tucked behind her head, and it shows off the mark on her arm. His eyes are drawn to it, always.
It's beautiful, on the pale soft skin. Viciously red, as red as her hurt nipple or her used cuntlips, swollen and sore. All the corruption in her stemming from that point. "My eyes are up here," she says, amused, and he looks up to find her smiling oddly soft, her teeth set gently in her lower lip.
He slips his thumb up through her slick to sink into her cunt, squeezing her inner wall between his fingers. She shifts her hips, spreads her thighs a little wider. She says, idly stroking the underside of her tit, "I want your dick," and that's—a rarer pleasure. He hadn't much indulged, before her. She says, "I want you to come in me," and that certainly won't be a problem. She says, "I want it slow," and that's—
He moves up between her legs. She's still sprawled, watching him, eyes a little sleepy. His vessel has a cock big enough to please, he made sure of that when he chose the poor bastard, and he's certainly hard now, after this long of playing with her body. He teases the tip over her clit and watches her eyes flutter, and drags it through her split wet and teases at her entrance, threateningly thick. "Don't fuck around," she says, and he laughs and says, "Sorry, darling," and pushes inside, and she's as deliciously wet and hot as she is on his fingers or tongue, just the right amount of tight, and he gathers her thighs up around his waist and tips her into the angle that'll be best for her, and rogers her slowly, deep, crushing his cock all the way to her cervix and watching her face flinch with it before he pulls back, does it again, and again.
"Good," she sighs, and he dips his head, kisses her collarbone, dips lower and kisses the top of one full sweet breast. She settles her hands on his shoulders, oddly light, and he doesn't change his pace but pushes in harder, and she makes this little gulping sound and so he knows to keep that strength. She's stronger, but he's not weak, and he can please her, tweaking her body to do his bidding at least with this, if with little else.
It's not just her body he knows how to work, though. "Do you want more, darling," he says, softly, and she groans and says, "Fuck, Crowley—god, yeah, yeah—" and he says, dragging his lips up to the tender skin by her ear, "Do you want it to hurt, darling," and she fucks her hips back against him and he goes a little faster, rougher, sawing in, knowing his dick's thick enough that it does hurt, enough for her to feel it the next day, to make her soiled soul reach in and heal it for her, and he slips a hand down between them and rubs her clit, slippery but rough, and her hips buck and she wraps her legs around his back, demanding, and he lifts on one hand enough to see her eyes closed, chasing her pleasure, and he says, looking at that pretty face, "You want me to fuck you like Sammy would, don't you," and she practically growls and says yes, deep in her chest, and he gathers up her hips and nails her hard, and she arches and moans and says like that, like that, which of course he knows because he watched them, together, over and over, Sam's big body braced over hers, their heads close together, their hands twined, their stupid, connected souls trying to get closer, any way they could. He finds her hand, laces their fingers together and pushes them down into the bed, and she starts to come then, her breath quick and high, and he fucks her through it, her body seizing around him, wanting—not him. Wanting something else.
When he comes, as he's been required to do, he pushes it deep inside her. It gushes up, spilling against her womb, filling. He's used to orgasm but still, with her quivering all around him, it feels good—better, almost, than the human blood had—and he groans and holds and then bends his head and applies his mouth to her mark, where her forearm's pinned to the bed—gets the swollen heat of it under his tongue, the skin bitter, there. Bitter.
She breathes under him, allowing it until she doesn't. "Get off," she says, and he lifts his head, licks his lips. Shifts his hips and drags his cock out of her tightness, and sits back on his knees between her legs. She drips, and slides her fingers down to tuck them inside, pushing his semen back inside herself, her eyes distant. This, too. Familiar. When Sam pulled away, that last time, distressed and disgusted and not forgiving her—he went to clean up, and she watched him go and tucked her hand down, like if she kept the warmth inside it was like keeping him, too.
Deanna's eyes refocus, after a moment. "I want steak for dinner," she says.
Crowley laughs, and climbs off the bed. A snap of his fingers and he's clean, and he redresses while Deanna's still holding onto the strange echo of a lived life. He wonders if she even realizes what she's doing. He nods at her, naked on the bed. "I love you exactly as you are, darling, but you might need to put on at least a scrap of fabric so as not to alarm the waitstaff."
"Lame," she says, but rolls up to her feet, and goes to the pile of random clothes she's accumulated from his indulgences. She selects a black bra, and drops a dark blue dress over her head that she snaps her fingers for Crowley to zip for her, and no panties. She will almost certainly fuck the bartender in the bathroom, before the night's over. She tosses her hair back and doesn't bother with makeup, not that she needs it, and rips the First Blade out of the television and tucks it into the thigh sheath she adores. Easy access. "Okay," she says, impatient, like it's wasn't her who wasted half the day with fucking. "Are we going, or what?"
The Impala reeks as much as the room did, but less of spunk and more of cigarettes, spilled beer, grease. He sits in the passenger seat—Sam's seat—and watches her drive. The Rolling Stones, loud, on the tapedeck. She cranks it louder when Paint It Black comes on and grins, and says, "God, this rocks, doesn't it?"
"It certainly does," he says, and gets her grin aimed his way, and thinks, there'll be the murders tonight, of Abaddon's boys, and there'll be music, and there'll be steak, and she'll fuck and kill and have fun, and really, the longer they go, the farther from Sam, the more she's his. One day, he thinks. She'll kneel for him. His Knight. For now—he texts a lackey and gets them a table, at the restaurant she's aiming for, and he relaxes back into the filthy vinyl seat, and thinks about diamonds.
candybarrnerd replied to your photo “My June knitcrate arrived! #unravelyourknitcrate...”
omg excuse me a knitting lootcrate?? do you mind if i ask - how do you find the wool? would you rec this?
I very much love KnitCrate--I’ve been getting it since December. For $25 monthly (including shipping), I get two skeins of yarn and two patterns (one crochet, one knit). Plus i get the two sock patterns, even thought I’m not getting that yarn. They also have a sock crate (one skein) for $20 monthly.
The yarns are not acrylic. I’ve gotten alpaca, wool, this one is a cotton/linen blend. Some are high twist, some are chainette. They’re all different.
In May, when they couldn’t get their supplier to work out because of world events, they sent out bare yarn and KoolAid and instructions to dye the yarn. I thought this was incredibly creative, and well, it obviously jump-started my fun dyeing yarn, too.
It can be paused at any time.
You can try a box for $5 if you want to test it out. If you’d rather have me email you a link directly, drop me an email (tryslora at gmail) I can email you a code (full disclosure: if you sign up to keep going after the first box, I get a month free). If you don’t sign up, take the $5 crate and then cancel, it’s cool!!!
July’s yarns are really pretty cottons. I think it’s going to be a shawl pattern, too.
Content/Enticements: Road trip, flirting, bed sharing, painter!Harry, romance in Italy
Summary: Ginny and Pansy force a lonely Harry to join them on their road trip through Italy. They fail to mention that Draco will be joining them too.
Author's Notes: I really hope you like this, Icarus! I love road trip fics so I was thrilled to see your sign up, and I had to choose Italy as I love the country so much
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
hellloooo yess i would like to ask you a writer ask. Can I please ask #5 for cabbage patch kids?
Oh love this, thank you beautiful!
5. Did you make an outline for Cabbage Patch Kids? Did you stick to it?
The short answer is no - I very, very rarely make outlines for fics, especially one-shots. I tend to get a sort of mood in my head, and an idea for where I want the story to end up. For Cabbage Patch Kids, I knew I wanted Billy to hate vegetables, and I wanted it to end up that Steve influences him into trying them for the first time.
However! The story massively evolved from what I originally pictured. I initially had this idea that Steve would keep on encouraging Billy to try vegetables, and Billy would keep refusing, but eventually he would capitulate. But as I was writing I felt like Billy was under so much pressure from everyone else in his life - his dad, Max, his friends, himself - and I really liked the idea that Steve was the only person not pressuring him in any way.
So what I did instead was have Steve be the only person to just accept that Billy doesn’t like vegetables, so that when he was cooking for them he left greens out of the meal without making a big deal of it. It felt like Billy really needed someone to accept his boundaries without question, let him have a weird anti-vegetable stance if he wanted to, not pile on any pressure to change.
It also became vaguely cyclical, in that Billy also refused to pressure Steve in any way, even when he knew Steve was keeping secrets from him about the Upside Down. And I didn’t plan that at all either, it just evolved as I was writing.
And of course, in the end, in the absence of pressure, both of them capitulated anyway - Steve was honest with Billy, and Billy decided to try some vegetables. The story felt like it came full circle, which was really interesting for me because I hadn’t planned it that way whatsoever. It’s actually so cool that you asked me about this fic in particular, because it’s one of my most it-wrote-itself stories that I’ve written.
Thank you so much for the question!
Read Cabbage Patch Kids here, and I’d love to answer more of these questions if anyone feels so inclined!
