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purplesurveys · 4 years

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825

All About the Letter E

Please List! (at least one)

Animals I Like: Elephants! And emus, mostly because of the Emu War I had watched a video about recently.

Foods I Like: Eggs. All kinds of them. I also like Eggs Benedict, empanadas, eggplants, eclairs, escargot, and I loooove eel.

I Know Someone Who’s (jobs): Editor, editorial assistant, editor-in-chief - surprise surprise, I’m a journalism student haha.

I Wouldn’t Mind Visiting: Egypt and Ethiopia. I also want to go back to El Nido in Palawan.

Sometimes I Feel: Excited, enthusiastic, but mostly embarassed.

Music I Listen To: Ed Sheeran, Eraserheads, Ella Fitzgerald.

Movies I’ve Seen: Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Eraserhead, Emperor’s New Groove, Evil Dead, The Exorcist, Ex Machina (the first ten minutes of it anyway), Eyes Wide Shut.

Names I Like: Emilia, Emma, Elliott, Ezra, Eden, Elizabeth.

And now, onto the random questions!

Do you believe in equality? Of course. Reeeally big on it too.

Early to bed or early to rise? Mmm, neither honestly. I sleep way too late to the point of it being unhealthy, which means I don’t get up particularly early either.

Are you early or late for appointments? I get to the venue early, then show up exactly on time.

Have you ever had an ear infection? I have not. I imagine that would majorly suck though.

Do you go see an eye doctor? This implies that I do it regularly, so no. I did have to visit one when I still could because my left eye would feel like there was something stuck inside of it and it hurt to blink. The eye drops prescribed to me didn’t really help and would only provide short-term relief, but I never got to go back and have my eye re-checked cause we were under lockdown by then. Occasionally I’d still get spells of being irritated.

How many earrings do you wear? None. I ruined my left ear piercing years ago so I’ve had to stick with clip-ons, but I haven’t worn any in a while because I’ve lost most of them, because I’m terrible at being organized with such tiny things lol.

Do you care about the environment? How do you help the Earth? Yes, I reduce and recycle whenever I can; I’m very particular about segregating my trash; I save on paper by always folding a page in half if I have to fill it up; and as icky as it is I always pick up trash at public places when I see it – I’ve since had Gabie pick up the habit too. How often do you exercise? Do you go to a gym or do it on your own? The only exercise I get is going on short strolls with Kimi. I do it for leisure, not for workout-y purposes. I did have a rigorous PE class last sem where we’d have to do like 50 pushups, 30 pullups, five-minute planks, lifting 80-lb barbells, etc every meeting and it was honestly a lot of fun; but I was never able to maintain the exercises we did once the class ended.

What are your favorite things to eat? Unhealthy things like cheeseburgers and corndogs, ~fancier desserts~ like macarons and eclairs, savory food like ramen and curry, and seafood. My tastes are all over the place, lmao.

Do you know anyone who is pure evil? I know shitty people, but ‘pure evil’ is pushing it.

Do you get along with everyone? Not always because I can be quite vocal and that doesn’t sit well with some people; and it’s usually easy to tell if I don’t like someone even if I act civil. I always try my best to be friendly though.

Do you have a certain routine that you go through every day? Yes. I need my routines otherwise my anxiety will absolutely blow up. Spontaneity is fine with me but not when it comes to this.

Have you ever felt like you’ve lost everything? Yup.

Is there anywhere you’d like to explore? The rest of the world. For the most part, there’s no place I’d say no to going.

Elevators or escalators? Escalators because at least it’s in an open area, and if it breaks down I can just go up or down as if it were stairs.

What do you do in the evening? Dinner, play with Kimi and now Cooper, and I usually take my surveys by evening. Sometimes I’ll make a cup of coffee too.

Have you ever been evaluated for anything before? Yes, both as part of a group and just me, individually.

What’s the worst you’ve ever done on an exam? I got the lowest possible grade that my old school offered once or twice. In college, I once got something like a 40/100 in an economics class HAHAHAH

Are you easily exhausted? No, as long as the weather cooperates. If it were hot and humid I’d be a lot more sluggish.

Do you like visiting exhibits? Depends on the subject. < Same. I wouldn’t go to an exhibit that would get too technical on engineering, for one.

Have you ever felt exiled? I’ve felt that in my home many times.

Have you ever felt like everybody was talking about you? Yeah, but I don’t feel like opening up that can of worms right now since it’s a complicated story lol.

Have you ever entered through an exit sign or exited through an enter sign? I’m sure I have.

How have humans evolved over time? In a lot of ways. We’ve lost some tiny body parts, changed our mindsets on stuff like slavery, changed up our fashion sense, removed and added words from/onto our vocabulary, developed our cuisines, etc. I highly recommend Bill Wurtz’s ‘history of the entire world, i guess’ video haha.

Would you ever consider eloping? No. Not to sound ignorant, but I genuinely mostly don’t know what that entails since it’s not really a part of our culture. One thing’s for sure though, I wanna get married with a bunch of people watching.

If you could erase one mistake from your past, what would it be? I wouldn’t call it a mistake because it was who I am at the time...but I hate the fact that my college experience is forever stained with how much I sulked during my freshman year.

When’s the last time you’ve used email? How about sending something through the mail in an actual envelope? For email, it was like a week ago when I had to reply to a company emailing our org to endorse their internship opportunities. I don’t think I ever sent anything to anyone through mail...? I’ve written handwritten letters, but I personally gave them to the person it was meant for.

Do you dye eggs at Easter time? Nah we only did that once.

Is the glass half empty or half full? Depends on the situation, for me.

Have you ever had elbow macaroni before? Sure! My favorite recipe is Mama Lou’s truffle mac and cheese. Soooooo savory and so, so unfairly good.

Have you ever fractured or dislocated your elbow? Never. That sounds awful. I’ve seen arm wrestling matches go wrong and those were bad enough. Do you know how long an era or an eon is? An era is dependent on events, isn’t it? Like the hippie era, the grunge era, etc. My understanding is that they are socially defined and therefore don’t have a set time period. I believe an eon is an very long but unspecified amount of time. I’m trying to remember this without Googling, so I could be wrong, but those are my interpretations of the words. < There ya go. It’s a little too late in the night for me to be up for defining either in my own words haha.

Do you chew the Extra brand of gum? I don’t think so. I don’t think we have that here.

When was the last time someone showed empathy towards you? Few weeks ago when I was horribly sick and dad willingly took care of me, gave me sponge baths, and listened to every single one of my requests.

Did you have an Elf on the Shelf growing up? No. I’m not sure I know what that is.

Is your bedtime closer to eight or eleven? Eight...AM. :(((

Would you go around the world in eighty days? Nah I’d want to stop in too many places. You can’t see a country in a day. < True. While I was very much in love with my cruise vacation, it also meant that I just had an afternoon to explore as much as I can of South Korea and Japan. And I wish I had more time in both places.

Did you turn eighteen in high school, or afterwards? Shortly afterwards. My graduation was in March, I turned 18 by April.

[a-zebra-is-a-striped-horse]

#survey #surveys

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tarithenurse · 5 years

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On my mind, in my soul - 18

Prompt: This will be the last chapter and is based on a prompt by @liesje86: “Uhm. “Simple man” the cover with Jensen Ackles, a white sandy beach on Hawaaï or something, and two identical daggers.” Pairing: Loki x Burglar!reader. Content: Swearing as usual, angst, mention of god and bad parenting, hints of loss, nervousness, fluff, lemons, anger. All sorts of good stuff. A/N: This is the last chapter! o.O Thank you all for the lovely prompts, it won’t be the last time I’ll work like that. I hope this ending is all you guys could wish for...except the spelling etc because I just REALLY wanted to share it, so I’ve not proof read it, meh. Please, reblog etc. if you did enjoy <3

Satisfied

… Loki’s PoV …

There are moments in a child’s life when they look upon their parents and wonder “what if”. What if the parents had never met? What if they never had decided to have children? Then the kid wouldn’t be in the world or maybe they’d be an only child or…

Thinking back, Loki’s thoughts had often been related more to the question of “why”, as in “why did his parents love each other” or at the very least why the love between them was so different and apparently impossible to spill over onto the youngest prince. No, that wouldn’t be fair to say, because Frigga did love her son and she did her best to make sure he knew that. Just like she would comfort him when he was sad or guide him when he felt lost. Frigga, queen and mother, was the one person Loki could come to for support or philosophical discussions. She was the one that saw his future as something bright and blessed, and she would spin tales rivalling the best penmanship to instill a longing within the heart of the young prince for all that was to come.

Mama told me when I was young: Come sit beside me, my only son

… Reader’s PoV …

This. Is. Quality. Stretching towards the cloudless sky above you, it’s all you can do not to spontaneously start giggling at the feel of the ocean lapping over your feet and caressing your ankles. Cool on your hot skin but not too cold that a swim would be anything else than heavenly tomorrow…today’s too late because the jet only touched down an hour before earlier and now the sun is setting across the endless ocean.

For more than a year now, Loki has been escaping with you to the most wonderful places on earth (so far) between working on missions with the Avengers. It’s not a life you expected even with the Asgardian as your partner in crime. Crime. Yeah, not a whole lot of action’s been going on on that front, obviously, and still somehow…you’ve got more than enough challenges to keep your mind occupied. Heists have been replaced by rescue operations; artifacts replaced with weapons. At least the way of working is still relatively the same in terms of intel and planning.

Cool hands snake around your waist, pulling you backwards against the hard planes of muscle of a similar low temperature, making goosebumps spread across your skin.

“I should have known you’d abandon me with the unpacking in favour of this,” Loki mumbles into you hair.

You turn partially in his arms, wanting to be able to kiss him but not wanting to give up the scenery beyond the glittering sea. “Can you blame me? Look at that view!”

Leaning back from the embrace, the god’s attention isn’t on the sunset. “Breathtaking.”

Then he holds you close, preventing you from saying anything until the sun finally disappears beneath the horizon in a display of orange and purples and anything in between. Breathtaking, yes.

… Loki’s PoV …

Unpacking had, in truth, been a simple task for the god who simply had left the butler with that responsibility (with the exception of one specific piece of luggage) and as the chef was already preparing the lavish dinner, Loki had found himself pacing. Restless. Nervous.

That very same insecurity still hunts the pale man all through dinner. He dotes on [Y/N], feeds her bites from the ridiculous amount of tiny dishes that have been prepared and offers her cool wines. But Loki can barely swallow a morsel himself.

His gaze is locked on the softly coloured lips that send him a shy smile. They are small talking, and it’s a challenge to stay focused on the subject when joy sparkles in the [Y/E/C] of the perfect woman’s eyes. Nimble fingers fidget with glass or delve into the silken hair that by now has become messy from the travelling. Messy, but oh so right, bringing attention to the wildness that bubbles just below the surface of her.

That’s who she is. His wild kitten. Intelligent, fierce, approaching any challenge with a calculative silence until she succeeds and lets go of the inhibitions for a while. Morals? [Y/N] never claims to be an angel, yet she has managed to show the god a different way – the way Frigga spoke of hundreds of years ago when Loki was a child in need of comfort and hope. Life had indeed turned out slightly different than what his mother had predicted because there is no Asgard and royal life (even as nothing more than a prince) and no plans of ruling or being distinguished beyond the scope of mortal man. It is…simpler.

“Hon?” [Y/N] manages to get through the fog of thoughts.

Her furrowed brows don’t relax until he has promised that everything is fine. “I was merely thinking…of you, in fact.”

“Oh?” A coy smile dances on her mouth. “Am I in trouble?”

“When are you not?” Loki can’t help but laugh. “You could be the Goddess of Mischief. Do not feign innocence when we both know it was you that swapped out everyone’s underwear.”

[Y/N] disguises a grin behind the wineglass, and when she moves the glass from her lips a seriousness has returned. “But what were you thinking? I know it was something serious…”

Boy, don't you worry, you'll find yourself Follow your heart and nothing else

… Reader’s PoV …

You watch with both wonder and concern as the god they call Silver Tongue struggles with his words, opening and closing his mouth several times as a faint red sheen crawls into his eyes where the pupils are blown. That bad? Reaching for his hand, you’re afraid he’ll pull away, but he doesn’t. Cold and slightly damp against your palm…and trembling.

”Please, Loki…” you begin softly, stroking his knuckles with your thumb.

The cold spikes and he pulls away, breaking a piece off your heart. ”Excuse me.”

He doesn’t even stop to pick up the chair after he topples it over in his eager to get away from you. Why? A cold, his cold, has gripped your chest so hard you have to struggle to breathe. What did I do wrong?

You’ve wanted to deny the signs, but this can’t be unseen. For weeks now, he’s become increasingly withdrawn, preferring solitude or simply losing focus, and it’s been getting worse even with a short respite after he and Thor had been away to some other realm or planet or whatever. For a few days things had seemed normal, then it started all over. This is the worst yet.

Bit by bit, lessons you’ve let from your new co-workers (especially Natasha) start to surface, diluting the self-deprecation with a healthy amount of anger and determination. Trucker turd! Your own chair screeches across the marble floor. I’ll be damn if I let him make me feel crappy on a vacation like this! And with that in mind, you march off the way Loki had gone.

You find him in the bedroom, crouched by his suitcase with the back to the door.

“Okay, listen up, mister!”

Hands on your hips and a solid footing, you plant yourself a few steps behind him. Gorgeous bedroom. The thought zips through your mind unwanted and you push it aside for now, ignoring the probably gorgeous view from the huge windows and balcony beyond…and the grand bed to your left which you’d been hoping to “break in” tonight rather than scold a god. But that’s life sometimes.

“I know, [Y/N],” Loki admits quietly, the tenderness in his voice catching you by surprise, “I’ve been…absentminded and distanced lately.” His back is still toward you, but you know the sort of pain showing in his eyes anyways. “You deserve more than that, I know, because you are…you have changed my life and me for the better.”

“Darling…”

The distance isn’t even reduced by a single step before he motions for you to stop. To wait. His shoulders rise and fall before he finally straightens his back and swirls around to face you. Still on his knees. Oh… Turquoise eyes root you to the spot. Big hands holds a footlong box.

“I wish could tell you all the reasons I love you…but there’s not enough time in the universe for it.” A dextrous tongue swipes his bottom lip. “Lady [Y/N] [Y/L/N], will you allow me to be your husband?”

With those words, he flips the box open to show the contents, but the world is becoming a blur to you, spinning the room slowly. Oh. Oh no. Not…how…

“But Loki…I’ll die from you!” You can hear it yourself, how broken your voice is.

As the first tear falls and your vision clears a bit, you see the man you love put the box aside and stand. His strong arms encircle you, holding you tightly against his chest. A part of you wants to push away, to save him from the real pain later by leaving him now because after all: it had been your plan to leave him eventually, so he didn’t have to see you grow old and die.

“My dear, I know your reasoning,” he whispers in your ear, soft kissing landing on your cheeks and lips, “I would not want to miss out on even a second of your life, I’ll be by your side forever because nothing can change what I feel. Please let me…if you truly love me.”

Pulling back as much as his embrace allows, you frown at him indignantly. “I do love you!”

“Then please…” He guides you to sit on the foot end of the bed before retrieving the box once more and kneeling again. “Please let me be yours.” The dark wood is padded on the inside with golden silk, cradling two nearly identical daggers perfectly. “I know of the Midgardian customs with the rings…however I thought you would appreciate the tradition from Vanaheim where the betrothed couple each carries a twin dagger, bound by magic and echoing the heartbeat of the person that carries the twin…”

“I’d always be able to sense you…”

He nods, proffering the box. And they’re gorgeous too. Of course he’s right in thinking you’d prefer this over a ring. The handles appear to be frosted glass with smoky tendrils of Jotun-blue at the centre and a bead at the very end while the blade itself is silvered and perforated by runes.

Those spell out Loki which means the other dagger has your name on it. Lifting the Loki-blade, you recognise the quality of the craftmanship.

“That would be the one you would carry…if you choose to…” the god trails off.

Carefully, you return the weapon to its place. Then you close the lid and set the box aside before sliding onto the floor.

“I hate the idea of breaking your heart…but I hate the idea of being without you too. If one day you realize you can’t watch me grow old, then promise me we say goodbye as friends.”

“You mean…that –”

“– is a yes.”

Mouths clash cold yet passionate, the fervour growing with each stroke of tongue tips or nibble at the other’s lips and soon Loki’s pushing the straps of your dress aside gently. Every inch of skin is lavished with kisses that make goosebumps break out and you nipples harden against the lace (which is all that remains as cover). Once the soft cotton hangs from your hips, the god’s roaming hands come to rest at your waist. You know what he’s about to do, but it amazes you regardless. It always does. Lifting you to your feet as though you weigh nothing at all and standing you on the bed. Loki’s nose presses against the skin of your belly or, if he stretches a bit, the cleavage where he can inhale your scent while his hands bring the dress the rest of the way down. Probably holding it back rather than letting it fall for the simple purpose of enjoying the slow reveal of your body.

“My love.” Kisses are peppered onto your hips. “My queen.” Hands roam the back of your thighs. “My fiancée.” A long arm reaches up along your back to release the hooks on the bra. “Mine.”

You vaguely hear where the lacy clothing lands, but not really because Loki’s mouth and hands are at your breasts, the Silver Tongue of his working the kind of magic that’s reserved for you only. Moans fill the room as the god slides down your panties to allow access to a hand, fingers skimming through the folds and teasing you in just the right way by adding pressure with the hell of the hand whenever possible.

Even with your fingers entwined with Loki’s black hair, it’s hard to keep balance on the soft bed and you’re grateful by the time he lays you down and positions himself to continue the work between your legs. Languidly. Broad licks supplemented by pressure administered by a thumb to your clit to have you pussy aching and clenching helplessly around nothing. You on the verge of cumming when his lips close around the little bundle of nerves.

“Please, Loki.”

“Hmmmm?” The sound sends vibrations into you, but he detaches before it sets off a climax. “Not yet, my love.”

Fuck! It wouldn’t be smart to say that out loud. The man thrives on teasing to the point that it nearly becomes torture, so you adopt a different tactic and suggest with a purr that he be the one to be treated.

Obviously, he can’t resist to see your lips wrapped around his cock and soon, Loki’s the one to groan and beg for release either in your mouth or deep within the needing cunt. Oh, the delicious revenge is sweet. Now you’re the one to move slowly, crawling up his body and trailing kisses (and bites) along the way until your straddling him with his erection sliding between the slick folds in a manner that stimulates your clit just perfectly. Fingers digging into your thighs, he lies and watches as you succumb to an orgasm, juices dripping onto his balls and the throbbing shaft.

“Please…” he nearly whines as you start to come down.

A nod is all he needs before he’s flipped you both around and sheathed himself fully in you, setting off a new wave of ecstasy which he somehow manages to wait out, still as a statue. But you see his struggle. You see it in his eyes that are turning crimson, and you feel it on his body temperature which is dropping.

“Let me see you,” you whisper hoarsely, “the real you.”

Loki knows how attractive you find the Jotun form and happily complies with your request. Each body part enlarges – some parts more than others, thank goodness, but you still feel the swell of his cock within you, stretching your walls a bit more.

“God, yes!”

Rolling his hips, the partner in crime pulls out almost completely before thrusting back forcefully, making you scoot up the bed until you can reach and stem against on the headboard, and each stroke Loki gives is met by a tilt of your hips. Teeth find the crook of your throat, latching on hard enough that it will bruise tomorrow and softly enough for the pain not to be too much.

… Loki’s PoV …

He sees [Y/N]’s eyelashes flutter as she arches against his blue body. Heat against cold. The walls of her cunt clench and pulsate, sending tremors through her perfect shape and breaking the cry that falls from her lips. And Loki is right at the precipice with the woman, toppling over the edge and into a sea of bliss. It is all he can do to keep himself from collapsing onto [Y/N], rolling off instead to lie panting next to her.

She is still shivering, when the god regains his strength enough to focus his seiðr to care for her before finally pulling the light of his live into his arms.

“I love you,” she smiles drowsily, “all the time.” She doesn’t bother to stifle a yawn,

Her temple is hot against his lips. “I love you too. Always.”

There is no answer save for the gentle breathing.

Always.

Baby be a simple kind of man Oh, won't you do this for me, son, if you can

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hekate1308 · 5 years

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Owe No One Anything, Chapter Four

Chapter Three

This was worse than she had thought.

If whoever was behind this (and she was rather inclined to agree with Crowley that this was Heaven’s work) could make Aziraphale throw his beloved books away…

She needed to get a closer look though, so she entered.

The gaze that was bestowed on her made her all the more glad that she’d decided against taking Crowley with her. There was nothing of the friendliness or even decency Aziraphale normally showed people he barely even knew; there was no recognition; and perhaps, worst of all, his expression was utterly and completely blank.

“Oh I’m sorry” she said, “I thought this was a bookshop”.

“It used to be” Aziraphale told her shortly with no sign that he recalled ever seeing her before “It’s closed now.”

And he let another few books drop into the box. She managed not to wince.

At least it gave her all the opportunity she needed to study his aura.

What was left of it.

Oh God.

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Crowley was impatiently waiting next to the Bentley when she returned, feeling slightly ill. “And? Did you find anything?”

“He’s… it…” she took a deep breath. “I think you should know that he’s closed up shop and is busy throwing away his books…”

She realized it had been the wrong thing to say when the demon hurried past her. “What – Crowley! You can’t! What if he sees you –“

But she could only run after him as he ran towards and right by the shop, turning the corner. Thankfully Aziraphale seemed to be busy inside since he wasn’t visible through the windows.

She found Crowley near the bins, staring at the discarded boxes full of books, making distressed noises.

“These – theses bastards! Look at that! All his first editions – oh my God that page is crooked, he’ll have fits –“

“Crowley” she tried, “We can’t –“

“I know” he sighed, proving that he hadn’t lost every bit of sense, “I know.” He snapped his fingers and the boxes disappeared. “There; they’re safely in storage now.”

“Won’t he notice?”

“Do you think” he challenged her, “He will care?”

A part of her wanted to lie. “I think we should find some place to talk.”

Crowley looked at her then, and just like that she could tell he knew that what she had seen was bad. “There’s a coffee shop nearby… Aziraphale loves it. Follow me.”

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Once they were seated – and it was just a place that Aziraphale would have enjoyed if he was his usual self, rather than whatever they had turned him into – Anathema took a deep breath. “This may sound strange, but his aura looks… clean.”

“Clean? What does that mean, clean?”

“White. All the edges scrubbed of. It looks like…” she paused and searched for a metaphor. “It looks like… someone reset him to factory settings.”

“Factory settings” Crowley snarled, “So that he’d be an obedient angel?”

“That’s my best guess. Sorry I can’t say more.”

Crowley apparently hadn’t listened, for he suddenly asked, “Do you think he’s still in there?”

And with startling clarity, Anathema realized that if she said no, they’d lose both of them at once. There was no doubt in her mind that Crowley couldn’t and wouldn’t live without Aziraphale. “I think” she said carefully, “That it’s almost impossible to extract so many pieces of someone’s aura and still leave a functioning… person. Therefore, it should only be hidden away.”

“You mean they took everything that didn’t fit Gabriel’s view of a pferct angel and just… made him forget about it?”

“Something like that.”

Despite everything, Crowley seemed to take that as encouragement.

After a few moments of silence, she began, “Maybe that’s the way back to him?”

“What do you mean?”

“He was an angel with factory settings once, wasn’t he? And he still fell in love with you.”

“He had already given his flaming sword away when we first met” Crowley argued. “He wasn’t… this. He said… He tried to…” he swallows. “I hardly doubt he’d be amenable to me courting him now.”

There was something almost quaint about his use of the word courting, but she didn’t mention it. “Still, though… if the rest of him is somewhere in there, there is a chance you can bring him back.”

“I suppose you don’t know any magic tricks?” he asked, sounding resigned.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t. Someone else is going to be, though” his hands tightened around his cup of coffee “when this is all over.”

A demon, of course. They were supposed to be wrathful.

And yet… remembering Aziuraphale’s empty eyes, Anathema couldn’t find herself sorry for those who had done this to him.

“Alright…” Crowley mused. “So. They took away his memories. They’re making him give up his bookshop. I strongly assume he won’t be eating or sleeping anytime soon, either.” He sounded as if he were in pain. “And they’ll make him do all sorts of miracles and blessings, I suppose.”

“That won’t be that bad, surely?” she ventured forth.

“I wouldn’t put anything past Heaven” Crowley said bitterly. “Say what you want, but when they and hell… let’s just say things happened a year ago, and – I at least was supposed to get a trial in Hell. Heaven was just out to destroy Aziraphale.”

And now they were doing exactly that little by little, Anathema thought. Stripping away the things he liked to do, his memories, his love for Crowley. Turning him into nothing but an obedient soldier doing their bidding.

She’d not mentioned it to the demon because it would only hurt him more, but even the clothes Aziraphale was wearing weren’t his usual style. They were too white, too clean, too pristine. And no ornament in sight.

And if Heaven was indeed as vindictive and out for blood as Crowley claimed, then it was more than likely…

“Whatever you do” she said quietly, “Promise me to be careful. If not for yourself, then for him.”

Crowley looked at her through his sunglasses and nodded. Just once.

She’d have to be content with that.

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“I don’t know why you bother. You should know by now that there is nothing to be done.”

“There is always something to be done” Aziraphale answered before he could stop himself, and hated himself for it. That thing simply had too much of Crowley’s voice and mannerisms for him to ignore it completely.

“Why can’t you just take the easy route for once?”

“Because” he said simply, “It won’t lead me back to him.”

Not-Crowley rolled his eyes. “I am telling you, most likely he’s dead by now.”

As always when he brought up the possibility, Aziraphale’s hands tightened around the book he was holding. “Then” he said quietly, “Seamen else is going to be dead very soon.”

“Yes, you if you’re not careful.”

Aziraphale glanced at him.

Not-Crowley groaned. “Really? Now his existence is the most important thing in the universe?”

“It always has been” Aziraphale admitted. “I just didn’t know it.” And when he had known it, in that burned-down church, he’d pushed the feeling back down, not ready to come to terms with the fact that he loved one of the damned.

“Obsession, that’s what it is. Not love.”

Another point to prove that this wasn’t just Aziraphale talking top himself. He would never doubt the love they shared again, he’d sworn to himself on that bus ride back to Crowley’s place a year ago; and he was not going to break his oath now.

Not-Crowley sighed and sat down next to him. “You don’t even know what they did to you, not exactly.”

“I know it hurt” Aziraphale said quietly.

And something else, too.

He might right now be locked into his own mind, but that was still a good thing. Because it meant –

He could fight and get back to Crowley.

And that was what he would do.

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He didn’t know how much time had passed, either in his mind or out of it. It could be that he’d only been here for a heartbeat, although he doubted it, seeing as he’d needed a few weeks alone to realize something was wrong.

How long had Crowley been out there, alone?

Well, not quite alone – they did have a few friends these days, but what could they do? They were lovely, but human.

Aziraphale sighed and concentrated back on the book on ancient spells he’d had since… oh… the mid-nineteenth century, hadn’t it been? Shortly after he’d told Crowley about his plans to open a bookshop, it had one day appeared in his place.

Despite everything, the memory made him smile.

Now, if only he could find out what sort of spell –

And suddenly he realized something.

He was all split into parts. The parts of him that were apparently a “perfect” angel who didn’t love a demon – or at least the parts that would have returned out like that, if he hadn’t found a friend and soulmate in Eden’s serpent – they were out there, doing God knew what; then there were the parts of him he chose to show to the world, and especially Crowley – those were here, wherever here exactly happened to be; and then was not-Crowley, part of his subconscious and at the same time probably at least slightly ebbing controlled by Heaven.

It was all about parts. Pieces. Elements.

And that meant –

Well, wouldn’t it just be logical if the other angels had chosen to take different parts of spells too, then? At least it would explain why Aziraphale had never heard of this before.

He began to read again, very carefully this time.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

“Alright” he muttered to himself “And then there’s the Enochian memory spell – “ He wrote it down.

This was bad.

Apparently they had taken ingredients from five different spells and mixed them all together to do this to him.

And to Crowley.

If some time had passed outside – and it was very probable – then Crowley must by now have realized something was wrong with him.

The poor dear would be so worried, and perhaps a little heartbroken, that Aziraphale didn’t recognize him.

He closed his eyes for a moment as he remembered that word again. Please.

Don’t worry my love, I will return to you.

“Fine” Not-Crowley, who had just spontaneously appeared next to him, said. “You know how they did it. Great. A+. Now what? Doesn’t mean you can do anything g. You certainly can’t cast spells yourselves; nothing here is real, you can’t get to the ingredients…”

“Doesn’t matter” Aziraphale answered simply, “I will just have to take control again.”

“You what?”

“I’ll have to take control over my body. It’s mine, after all.”

Not-Crowley shook his head. “You’re delusional.”

“That may be” he replied, “But hope springs eternal, as the humans are so fond of saying.”

-------------------------------------------------------------

“It is rather disappointing that the serpent is not already dealt with” Gabriel said, “But otherwise everything is going according to plan.”

It truly was. They’d made Aziraphale abandon his silly hobbies as well as the old-fashioned and impractical clothes he had been wearing; and ever since they had sent him back to earth he’d been one of their most diligent and trustworthy operatives, never questioning an order, and not wasting a single thought on that demon.

The spell, even if he said so himself, had been one of his more brilliant ideas.

“Yes” Michael said, “But I would like to know how he escaped.”

This was troubling Gabriel a little, too. Aziraphale had had orders, and he was suppose to follow them now. And he did. Apart from the fact that the demon Crowley was still out there. And now he was warned.

But there was another possibility…

After all, they were supposed to love one another, weren’t they? It seemed incredibly that a demon would even consider itself capable of loving anything, but still. It seemed Crowley laboured under the same delusion they had healed Aziraphale from.

And that –

Now that they could use to their advantage.

Chapter Five

#my writings #ineffable husbands #aj crowley #aziraphale #good omens

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valardlisbet · 7 years

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An Art Life

There is no good and evil, no right and wrong -- there is beauty, and there is violence. Already you see, I am at odds with the Society. Worse, an artist! Mine is an ever unsteady parity between an abundance of both forces: beauty and violence. The pleasures of the hyper-sexual aesthete, checked by the sickening turmoil of the metasociological nihilist. And: earlier today I forgot the word "shoulder".

I was on the bus, a lovely broad had taken the seat in front of mine. I thought: what a striking slope, I wonder if she realises she has such a nice... and after a moment I thought of "shoulder" but felt misled. I thought of "shoulder", but my mind showed me a picture of an elbow! I felt foolish, reprimanded my brain for making such an obvious blunder. In the same moment, I realised that the picture were wrong, but the word correct. What an ordeal! Losing words, mixing up shoulders and elbows! I decided not to indulge vexation, and attributed it to the previous three days spent almost entirely in front of the chess board. There had been little time to read, and only one opportunity to leave the house in that span (on the second day). The language centre of the brain must have holidayed in that time. Although I did manage to write a mediocre poem with an exceptional phrase: Shine the room with a choir of pussy. That pleases me.

It had been an enjoyable three days, obsessively hunched over the chess board (listening to the Brahms String Sextets, and Hindemith's Das Marienleben -- Glenn Gould recording of course). A new, borderless, mahogany board, with extra large squares. I prefer the larger, two and one-quarter-inch squares, paired with tournament style pieces (the slighter sort, with a king that stands three and three-quarter-inches tall) because it allows everything on the board to have enough room. It's much better for playing and certainly for study -- patterns are more readily apparent, there is an elegance and respect in the berth afforded each individual piece. The special side table I have ordered is due to arrive tomorrow, or Thursday. I'm excited. It's an elegant piece and the dimensions are just so, so that the board will sit flush on top of it, and stand at a most agreeable height for playing and studying.

It could not have arrived at a better time. The days previous were morose. Abysmal. My world was devoid of beauty and filled with violent repulsion. The details are boring, you know -- so I won't bother with them. But I felt the upset in the balance and it affected me. Unable to work, or read -- left to grapple with my brutality.

In a quiet moment, I thought of Isme and laughed.

You see, although excess feelings of cruelty and sadism might seem a natural opportunity to engender some spirited play between a sadist and a masochist (or dominant and submissive), that is rarely true in practise. Generally it is such that those feelings are contrived or assuaged rather than harnessed or merely controlled.

There are opportunities for the latter, but it is uncommon and more intimate -- requiring a great deal of trust, understanding, and tenderness from both partners. More an act of compassion and love (albeit not necessarily romantic love) rather than those being born of lust.

In this case the submissive partner willingly, and dutifully subjects themselves to receive the cruelty of the other. An agreement of exchange: to accept the tolerable, finite physical pain as a means of ameliorating the unbounded, existential grief of the other. The violence received is met with compassion, a kindness -- a release, and beauty delivered in response.

It's unusual as I say -- requiring even more vulnerability from both partners than normal. So I laughed thinking of Isme, having not seen her for a spell, and not played for longer. It would have been inappropriate, a grossly overreaching endeavour. Albeit a pleasant fantasy which satisfied me at the time. I didn't think she would mind.

Afterwards though, I was left more uncertain of my actual ability to realise that in its truest form -- not being a true sadist. Are pseudo-sadists able to ever truly benefit or find release from genuine sadism? I couldn't be sure.

Although I am not a true sadist or a natural sadist -- I am sometimes a rather creative one. When I am so inclined, and the variables are right, it is a role I play with virtuosity. To do so requires a great amount of thought and ability. So the subject must be absolutely keen. Otherwise, why bother? Each mise en scene must be tailored to the subject, but suit the author. The rate and intensity of play must be continually calibrated and controlled. The roles and nature of play must be suitably manufactured, but never lacking in the feeling of spontaneity. Done correctly, it is an art-form that sits poised between sex, theatre, psychology, and sport. A sort of lubricious theatre of the absurd, set to titillate and challenge the physical and psychological resolve of its eager participants.

No wonder the average citizen is so shaken by the mere thought of it! It is one of the truest ways to examine and establish the equipoise between beauty and violence.

Perhaps an example. Vi was an remarkably keen subject. So keen in fact, that it were often necessary to withhold and then be exceptionally cruel when satiating her masochistic nature. One evening provided such an opportunity. She were nagging to play. I say: Oh! You want to play! Are you absolutely certain. Her eyes begged, and she answered with a quiet, subservient: Yes sir. Okay! After instructing her to disrobe, she is situated in the centre of the room and blindfolded. Everything now must be taken very slowly. Deprived of sight, other sensations are able to develop, curiosity, excitement, and anticipation must be allowed ample time to build. I often like to use Japanese Noh Music by The Kyoto Nohgaku Kai, it is beautiful and very capable of producing the right atmosphere for my performance (theatre after all!). Then, to slowly begin preparing the scene. During this time there should be no verbal communication with the subject, certainly all enquiries must be ignored. It is important however, to penetrate their space from time to time and even begin teasing with various tactile sensation. If all of this has been handled deftly, the subject will have started to self-lubricate -- easily tested by gently running a finger between the inner lips of the vulva.

After setting the scene and successfully performing the overture, I tell her: You wanted to play, and now we shall play a game. A game I devised for you. Throughout the room I have placed seventeen brass tacks. The tack side is facing up. The game is not over until you have collected each of these tacks and returned them to me. Each time you successfully return a tack to me, I will reward you. However, should you happen to land on one and prick yourself -- there should be no complaint, not a sound. Anything greater than a wince will be punished. Do you understand?

Yes sir.

So she set off, nude, on her hands and knees. Cautiously, starting to feel the dusty the ground for my tacks. While I was left to drink my scotch, appreciate the Noh music, and be excited by the sight of my beautiful subject going about her task.

I was glad the first tack were a retrieval, not a prick. A positive start to the game affording an opportunity for pleasure. Gentle flicks of the tongue on the perimeter of the vulva, glancing once or twice across her hood, met with shivered responses and ample lubrication. After short praise and encouragement, she set off again.

She managed the first prick admirably. With nothing more than a wince, she managed to collect the tack and offer it up with a small thread of blood where it caught her hand. The management of this pain meant she did not forfeit her reward, and I delivered it graciously, with tenderness.

The next prick was not so lucky. Very unlucky in fact, and a valuable learning opportunity. The relative smoothness so far combined with an increasing desire to finish the game and fuck meant that she grew careless. A misplaced knee was set without much caution and she doubled over in pain. The tack had struck well, but she had realised at the point of impact and it had not made it all the way in. I told her to collect it from her knee and give it to me. Of course her crying out meant a punishment -- in this case: some deliriously hard spankings, administered with the hand. Accompanied by some role-appropriate badinage: That was foolish, not taking more care where you were going! Yes sir. You'll want to be more careful now, won't you? Yes sir.

So the play continued with pleasures and punishments. Other implements were brought in for both, and for teasing in-between while hunting. A fantastic game! And once she finished collecting the final tack we had both become overwrought with anticipation -- the fucking was fervent and served a beautiful, bestial apotheosis to the involved play.

No good and evil, no right and wrong -- there is beauty, and there is violence. Infuriatingly simple, yet so delicately complex when the balance is struck well. Indeed, a beautifully orchestrated chess match is another salient example of the balance between beauty and violence.

I look forward to returning to my board this evening (although I will be tempted by a volume of Wittgenstein ordered some days before, waiting for me now upon my doorstep), to lose myself in that engrossing caper. At odds with my Society, yes -- but absolutely enamoured with an art life that constantly offers me so much more.

#Prose #V. Alard Lisbet #chess #art

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