skeevie

Tweeter and Skeeter.

This is long, be warned. I live in a lowish income neighborhood. My little section is pretty nice, but if you go a few blocks in any direction, it gets pretty shitty. That means I’ve had a few run ins with skeevy meth heads and small time thieves.

This started when I moved in to my house. I noticed that on trash pick-up days, people would go up and down the alley where the trash cans go and dig through looking for recyclables. One of them was a guy I called Old Bob.

Old Bob lived a few houses down. He said he collected to buy presents for his grandkids. I don’t think the kids liked pints of Dark Eyes vodka, but he was harmless. So I started bagging up my cans separately so Old Bob didn’t have to dig through my trash.

Then, there were Tweeter and Skeeter. They would roll up and down the alley in a junky old truck with no exhaust that belched blue smoke. They looked like the after pictures from Faces of Meth. After they saw in was bagging cans for Old Bob, they started grabbing them. This didn’t sit well with me.

The next time I saw Old Bob, I told him I would leave my stuff just inside my yard, up against my shed, where you couldn’t see the bag from the alley. This went on for a month. Then, I heard and smelled Tweeter and Skeeter rumbling down the alley. I didn’t think anything of it, then I heard the rattle of a bag of aluminum cans being thrown into the bed of a truck. Those fuckers had gone into my yard to grab Old Bob’s drinking money. That shit would not stand.

I went to the hardware store; I bought a cheap pair of locks and some latches. I put the latches on my trash cans, I would unlock them when I left for work, which was about 15 minutes before the trash truck came down the alley. I also gave Old Bob a key. By this time, we were becoming downright neighborly. I would chat with him and have him help me around the yard and throw any spare cash his way.

After a few weeks, I heard Tweeter and Skeeter again. I heard them stop, then rattle the can lids, then drive off. I came out the next morning and the fuckers had pried the latches off my cans, and stolen the locks, too.

Now I was pissed. They were stealing Old Bob’s drinking money, and they had fucked with my shit. I stopped keeping cans separate, and started dumping used cat litter over everything.

Tweeter and Skeeter would still roll up to my trash area, but they weren’t willing to dig through shit to get anything. Old Bob was still helping me around the yard, so I would hands him bags of cans when he was over, in addition to the extra cash.

Everything was quiet for a few months. Then, we had a bad storm and the gutters on the alley side of my shed got messed up. They were in OK shape, but the underlying board and gotten torn up. It was too late in the day to do anything, but I figured Old Bob and I could take care of it the next day.

That night, I was woken up by Tweeter and Skeeters damn truck. But before I could throw pants and shoes on and chase them off, they were gone. So were the gutters on my shed.

Needless to say, I was fucking livid. After I calmed down, I went to Home Depot to get a new gutter. As luck would have it, I heard the fucking meth-mobile start up in the parking lot as I was walking in.

I wasn’t about to confront them directly, since I like having all of my blood and internal organs on the inside. What in did do, though, was get a good look at their liscense plates.

They were expired (of course) but the layer of soot from burning oil had obscured the sticker. You wouldn’t notice it from more than 5 feet away.

Finally, I had a way to get back at them. I called a relative who knew a few of the local PD. They said the address on the last registration was a house that had since been burned down in a meth lab fire. They never caught the cooks, but they going to keep an eye out for the truck. If nothing else, they would get a ticket and have to put current plates with a real address on them.

I was OK with this, but I wanted blood. I got my wish when the city did heavy trash pick-up.

I put an old grill in my back yard and scratched “Not Trash”, on the underside, along with spraypainting the smokestack white. Sure enough, Tweeter and Skeeter saw it and couldn’t resist. Once they had done that, I spent a few hours on a Saturday driving around the shittier parts of my neighborhood until I spotted my grill sitting in a yard.

I called my buddy with the police contacts and told them where they could find Tweeter and Skeeter and their un-registered vehicle, along with a stolen grill.

A few hours later, Tweeter and Skeeter came home to a few cops waiting for them. Since scrapping from heavy trash pick-up had been good to them, they were caught with a not insignificant amount of Meth and a lot of precursors to make more.

Tweeter has to serve out a 5 year sentence in prison. He also pinned the lab fire on Skeeter, who will be serving 10 years along side him.

Old Bob still helps me out, too.

anonymous asked:

I just don't feel quite so strongly about the ep as most seem to? I mean, it wasn't a good ep and yeah it was shitty to kill Eileen on top of just being bad writing. But it seems that each season has "that episode." I choose to look at the season as a whole. I'm vastly enjoying the season overall and i'm just not having a hard time shrugging this off as a bad ep by bad writers. I too wish they wouldn't keep doing this, but if i was that tired or focused on the bad i'd quit watching.

(cont) That probably came across worse than i meant for it too:P I just mean that that’s my personal attitude and coping mechanism. If i know realistically nothing’s going to make me stop watching the show, I have to process things different and have a certain outlook. Does that make sense? Again, sorry if I sounded rude!

Hey there! And no, that doesn’t sound rude at all. I mean, that’s the attitude I typically take as well…

And I would absolutely NOT have objected to literally anything else in that episode. I would be standing up for every other bit of it… IF THEY HAD NOT KILLED THE BADASS DEAF HUNTER IN THE FREAKING COLD OPEN.

I’d been willing to overlook the grossness of 12.02 and 12.08 (same writers!) with Sam’s sexualized torture and the skeevy noncon of Lucifer impregnating Kelly like that. I’d rolled my eyes at the time travel fuckery in 12.13 (same writers!) and I thought 12.17 was a mostly solid episode aside from Kelly being a two-dimensional character (not the actresses fault, the idiotic writing).

I’d found things to defend in all of those episodes, because the subtextual through-line of the entire season stuck… 

But honestly? Eileen’s death served one narrative purpose: Tearing down two seasons worth of subtextual through-line.

Like, completely negated the entire point of all of it.

It didn’t serve to tell us that Ketch was a Very Bad Man. WE ALREADY KNEW THAT.

It didn’t serve to tell us that the BMoL were terrible people. WE ALREADY KNEW THAT.

There was A LOT of similarity to 10.21, in that it required characters to be idiotic in order for the surface layer plot to work. AND THAT IS SHITTY WRITING ALL AROUND. And I usually find at least ONE thing to defend, because I do try to stay positive, too. I’m sorta notorious for it.

But consider:

HOW MANY REMINDERS HAVE SAM AND DEAN HAD ALL SEASON THAT THE BUNKER WAS NOT SAFE FROM THE MOL?

  • Toni let herself in in 11.23 AND SHOT SAM AND BANISHED CAS
  • Ketch showed up there in 12.14
  • Mick let himself in in 12.17

And even after Mick told them IN ACTUAL WORDS That every MoL safehouse around the world used the same key, and there were theoretically hundreds of them floating around out there… WHY THE FUCK DIDN’T THEY CHANGE THE LOCKS?!

WHY DID THEY KEEP GOING BACK THERE WHEN THEY KNEW THE PLACE WAS NOT SECURE?!

WHY DID THEY TAKE TONI BACK THERE AFTER GOING THROUGH ALL THAT TROUBLE TO KIDNAP HER?

EVEN AFTER THEY DISCOVERED A LISTENING DEVICE THERE?!

Like… Why didn’t they take her to some skeevy motel or something? What was the point of bringing her to the bunker?

Then one of the things Ketch did during their quick jaunt to trap Toni was to disable ALL the electric, water, and ventilation systems AND CHANGED THE FUCKING LOCKS.

Good job guys.

Obviously they weren’t expecting Mary to have been brainwashed and that kinda caught them wrong-footed in that respect, but SHEESH.

And Crowley… I mean, good for him jumping into the rat, but WHY THE FUCK DID HE EVER THINK HE COULD KEEP LUCIFER ON A LEASH IN THE FIRST DAMN PLACE?

AND WHY WOULD ANY OF US EVEN CARE?! I was happier when I thought Amara killed Luci back in 11.22. I’ve tolerated his presence in the narrative this season because there did seem to be a point to it, up through 12.07… but really. I just do not care about Lucifer.

Crowley working with the BMoL smacked of the deal he’d attempted to make with Dick Roman back in s7. I figure he’s the source of a lot of the BMoL’s actually GOOD intel, because in every other respect their intel has absolutely sucked.

Toni scored a hit on Mary with her description of John’s parenting of Sam and Dean tonight, and I assume that came from Crowley. He’s probably been slipping them tidbits from the Supernatural books here and there…

I’m having a hard time believing he’d have slipped the info about the Colt at Ramiel’s house to them, because he KNEW it would blow back directly on HIM if anyone bothered any of the princes of Hell… Seems like a risky move to send the BMoL after him and stir up that nest of hornets.

But at least Sam and Dean know the truth now, that the BMoL are wiping out hunters. That they killed Eileen, and all the rest.

BUT SHE DID NOT HAVE TO DIE.

Really, all Sam and Dean needed to hear were two things, and that would’ve been enough to convey the same level of upset:

  1. That Ketch killed Magda, as well as the soldiers in 12.09
  2. That Mary’s mission at Ramiel’s wasn’t just to hunt the demon, but TO STEAL THE COLT

That’s it. Just TELLING them both these two things (and honestly Sam already knew point 2, but it would’ve infuriated Dean) would’ve inspired the right level of outrage in each of them.

They showed us Mary brainwash-edly killing Random White Hunter Dude and FINE OKAY, but really Ketch and his hellhound could’ve picked ANY “hunter” to kill in the cold open and it would’ve served the same purpose.

The fact that it was a disabled female character pretty much universally beloved by the fandom who was a successful hunter and a friend to Sam (SERIOUSLY?! SAM MAKES ONE (1) DAMN FRIEND AND YOU HAVE TO KILL HER?!) even leaving out the wild rash of Saileen shipping and excitement that Sam might have something with her in canon someday, it’s just sickening to me.

Anyway, I’ve got a headache and I think I’m losing coherency. I think I’ve run through all my steam. 

SPN Hunters and Poverty

Ok the Original Post* was getting pretty long and I wanted to go off on a tangent so I’ve started a new one here:

So like, the audience is supposed to think it’s uncomfortable and possibly wrong for people whose job it is to save the world to have a certain level of luxury. Which is less than the one the people making the story have.

Honestly, I always knew they were there, but for the first time I’m actually kinda creeped out by the class issues in SPN (ok, I lie- the prices Creation charges creep me the fuck out, but aside from that. I mean in the actual story). Like, Sam and Dean are not truly poor anymore. But they do still live partially as working poor. They’re still economically insecure; depicted as, in some ways, working poor people who go into mostly middle-class and upper-middle-class communities, do a horrifying vital service, and then disappear. And it’s romantic, heroic. But it’s wrong.

Like, it’s actually a moral wrong that they should be poor. They deserve to be at least as economically stable as their creators.

We talk a lot about romanticizing violence, but what does it mean that the whole structure of the show honestly kinda romanticizes the poverty of the working class? Walmart is not romantic; it just sucks. @chiisana-sukima

Yes, American SPN Hunters are portrayed, generally, as working class (Winchesters, Campbells, Bobby) or middle class (Asa Fox, Jody, Donna). I think it is important to keep in mind that one reason full time hunters often seem poor is that the majority of what they are doing is a) considered criminal and b) needs to stay secret.  So they have to live under/off the radar.  In order to do that, you need to be either VERY, VERY wealthy (and bribe everyone) or you have to commit fraud on a daily basis. Assuming none of our hunters have endless supplies of cash, being cheap helps with the daily committing fraud process. Here’s why/how:

1) Hunters scam credit cards  - because they can’t hold down a real job and hunt, which means they have no means of income (other than technically criminal activity like hustling pool and looting the monster victims). Also, they can’t BE themselves - they cannot afford to be traced - by the authorities OR by the very smart humanoid monsters they hunt. Scammed cards can get detected really fast if you are throwing money around. Also, scammed cards are only as good as their limit (which is likely to be low) - so you want to make them last as long as possible. Lastly, when your card IS caught, skeevy, ethically questionable places are less likely to report it to the police. So Hunters look for cheap, dive places to spend their fake cash. Note: often some of these skeevy places are NOT less expensive than the Holiday In Express - they just ask fewer questions or will rent a room without a credit card or will forget you were there (or are more used to cleaning up blood from sheets).

2) Hunters are con men - they have to pretend to be authority figures/repairmen/teachers/social workers/lost relatives in order to get the information they need. They need to be ‘noticed’ as little as possible and leave almost record of their stay. Using a credit card leaves a trail - so that means using cash in places that won’t notice cash, and eating in places that see (and forget) lots of strangers. They also need to be hard to find when their identity is questioned. Who would look for the FBI in a skeevy hotel? Those two shifty guys in flannel coming out of the dilapidated Inn on rt 20 couldn’t possibly be the nice men we talked to earlier today…[of course the giant black car and hunter’s ridiculously good looks aren’t a problem, but that’s tv land for you].

3) Hunters are rural nomads - Notice that, in general, Hunters try to stay out of cities. While one of the main themes of SPN was supposed to be a focus on ‘heartland America’  - but really, woods monsters hide in rural areas, and (in theory) many human-eating monsters are are nomads, roaming for food. Thus Hunters focus on rural America and move around a lot following the monsters. Rural America is full of very small towns/places with no other option than the 1-2 star hotel (or less). One of my fav personal stories is of staying in the ONE motel in the entire COUNTY in TN - and it was EXACTLY the kind of place a Hunter would stay (right down to the friendly diner next door and the truck stop on the other side).  If you were wealthy and wanted to stay in that area - you rented a whole HOUSE/cabin in the nearby picturesque woods  - which is likely to get VERY noticed - or you stayed 30-50 inconvenient miles away.

US Hunters Evolving: Donna and Jody are an exception to many of the above statements. But they are a different kind of hunter - one that fans feel is an evolution of the American Hunter - the regional protectors. Jody and Donna, both suburban middle class, use their actual positions of authority to learn about and track monsters and also to cover up the evidence. They keep their own gerenal area ‘clean’ and call in “full time” nomadic hunters to deal with scarier stuff or stuff they hear about outside their territories. Their positions and training also make them capable fighters - brave, good with guns, etc.

US Hunters Best of a Broken System: Lastly, remember that the US did have a system more like that of the BMOL - academic magicians in authority directing local hunters to kill problems. What the US has NOW is what developed as a stop gap when the MoL vanished. Hunters like Dorothy and Mr. Ketch (shudder) trained others to keep the monsters at bay. They were focused on the find and kill part - not the administrative outlook of “Hey, if we are smart and make enough $, we can do this job better, faster and more efficiently.”  ‘Cause *I* know I sleep better in nicer hotels and I WORK better if I’m really well rested. Sam and Dean are MACHINES, really, - the stuff they pull off given how crappy they treat their bodies…

In Conclusion: Hell, I’ve lost the thread of where I was really going with this…it has devolved into an examination of WHY the class differences exist between US and British ‘hunter systems’. Not sure I’ve addressed @chiisana-sukima‘s concern about the morality of SPN implying that hunters SHOULD be poor or working class. 

Anyone else?

anonymous asked:

I'm gonna say 3:4 for Victuuri because I honestly can't be the only one who had thoughts about Nishigori and the triplets not existing and Yuuri actually confessing his feelings for Yuuko after skating Stay Close To Me like he was so close to doing?

Okay so here’s the thing: I really REALLY object to this concept but here’s how it would pan out, probably. Maybe. 

Yuuri is Yuuko’s Best Friend From Childhood, the Beautiful Boy, the one she still feels a little bit of responsibility for even though two years isn’t nearly as much at age twenty-three and twenty-five as it is at ages seven and nine. He returns from America, heartbroken, and (Provided Nishigori and the triplets aren’t a thing) she’s been keeping her bed warm by herself most nights for the past five years, so why not? Why not.

There’s somewhere in the area of four months between Yuuri coming home and Viktor’s arrival. They go fine, and Yuuri’s family has always liked Yuuko. Maybe Hiroko has started to let herself believe that she’ll be hosting a wedding at Yu-Topia after all. Maybe it will be Yuuko’s stomach she rubs to commune with her unborn grandchildren. Hiroko would be fine with this, if it weren’t for the fact that Yuuri’s smiles still don’t reach his eyes.

Yuuko cares deeply for Yuuri. He’s a pleaser. He wants to make her happy, tries to hard to do it. In bed, especially, he is very attentive. She’s starting to wonder if you can get tired of cunnilingus. Sometimes she’ll trace her fingers down his back, and feel the chub around his hips and wish that he knew how beautiful he is. 

More than that, she wishes she loved him. Because it would be so easy to spend the rest of her life with Yuuri Katsuki, so easy to become Yuuko Katsuki an give birth to three beautiful, brown-eyed and near-sighted children with shy smiles. She convinces herself that it’s what she wants, some days.

When Viktor Nikiforov breezes into town, Yuuri becomes a different person over night, and Yuuko knows what’s going to happen. She knows, and she doesn’t stop it. Doesn’t even want to, because maybe this is what will finally make Yuuri happy.

“I’m so sorry,” Yuuri whispers to her, the day he arrives back from China. They’re standing in the back corner of the skate rental office, and Yuuko has hung the Be Right Back! sign instead of the On Break sign because this won’t take long.

“I know,” Yuuko murmurs, and kneels down with him, because Yuuri has actually lowered himself to his knees before her. “I know, shh.”

“This shouldn’t have happened,” Yuuri whispers against her neck. “I never–I never wanted to hurt you. Ever. Please believe me.”

“I do,” she murmurs. “I do believe you.”

“Do you think I’m a horrible person?” Yuuri whispers.

“Do you love him?” Yuuko asks, 

Yuuri’s eyes go very soft and then, lowly, he murmurs, “Yes. I…I don’t think I knew what love really was, until I met him.”

It’s almost like some sort of singularity occurs for a moment because Yuuko can envision it all–two men coming together in the most carnal of ways, bed sheets twisted, silver hair tangling and brown eyes fluttering. She imagines them laughing as they do it, because laughter follows Vikor Nikiforov around like his dog. Yuuko feels like she should be more upset about it than she is. She’s not angry, though. Or even sad.

“You fucked him, didn’t you?” she almost wants to ask, but feels almost like she’s the one who doesn’t have the right. Almost like she’s the other woman. Instead, she says, “Then no, I don’t think you’re a horrible person.”

Yuuri still cries, and Yuuko still holds him, and then he recovers himself and leaves. Viktor is waiting for him, because of course he is. Yuuko doesn’t even have to force herself to smile at them as they leave. 

Yuuri was never hers, she thinks. Maybe it was just her job to keep him together until the right person came along. And if so, that’s fine. It was worth it.

marino-kun  asked:

Do you take prompt? What about Stiles having a secret crush on Derek but when saw him, taking care Scott's son, he fell in love.

I’m not much of a kid fic person, so this took me a while, but I tried. Hopefully it’s kind of what you were angling for!

*

“Do you think I’m ready for fatherhood?” Stiles asks, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. He’s not freaking out about this. He’s not.

Boyd says flatly, “Stilinski, you’re twenty-one years old. You’re supposed to know how to use a condom by now.“

Stiles’ hand spasms and he accidentally squirts a huge glob of ketchup on his mound of curly fries. Fuck. He has the ideal ketchup-to-curly-fry ratio down to a science, and this is not it. “No, absolutely not what I meant. It’s just. Did you know Derek had a kid?”

Boyd meditatively takes a bite of his burger. “No. But the nice thing about Derek is that he doesn’t go in for personal talk.”

Stiles shoots him a weird look. Of course Boyd would think that was nice. Stiles, though, has been trying to break down Derek’s walls even just a little bit for months now—sitting with him in class, sharing his notes, studying with him in the library and getting late-night waffles together afterwards, little by little pulling Derek out of his shell. He’d thought he was getting somewhere, but obviously not, not if Derek failed to mention this kid even existed.

Which he does. Stiles knows, because he can see him right now, over by Prof. Martin’s pool. Apparently his name is Jamie.

He’s one of only two kids here, which is not really unexpected given that this is the end-of-semester party for Prof. Martin’s honors criminal psych class. Not too many college kids around here with children. Stiles had assumed, like an idiot, that that was true for Derek, too. Or, more like, he hadn’t ever thought to wonder about it. He probably should have. At twenty-six, Derek is older than everyone else in the class except the professor. It’s totally plausible for a twenty-six-year-old to have a kid.

What seems less plausible is that that twenty-six-year-old with a kid would be Derek Hale. He just doesn’t look like Stiles’ idea of a dad. He came into class the first day in a leather jacket and tight jeans with this don’t-talk-to-me smolder, and Stiles spent most of that session pretending to look over the syllabus with the rest of the class while actually wondering what Derek looked like naked. He feels kind of skeevy about it now, if Derek is somebody’s dad.

It seems more and more likely that he is. The kid is a dark-haired little boy, not very talkative, and not five minutes after they arrived, he’d already bitten Prof. Martin’s daughter on the arm and been banished to time-out. That was about when Stiles felt he had to accept that yep, that was probably Derek’s kid.

Now Jamie and Derek are sitting together on the edge of the pool, dipping their feet in the water. Jamie is sniffling, but as Stiles watches, Derek pulls a kleenex out of the pocket of his leather jacket and carefully—tenderly, even—wipes at the kid’s face with it. Derek’s saying something to him, and he’s got this achingly gentle smile on his face that Stiles has never seen before, and then he’s pulling a quarter out of his pocket. At the flash of silver the kid stops crying, looking tentatively interested. Derek winks at him and pretends to put the coin back in his pocket, then reaches up and plucks it from behind his ear. Jamie stares at it, and then at Derek, dumbfounded. Derek does it a second time, faster, tickling the kid’s ear as he “finds” the coin, and Jamie giggles. It’s basically illegal levels of adorable.

Yeah, that confirms it. It’s definitely more than a simple lust-crush thing at this point, and Stiles is fucked.

Stiles looks over at Boyd. He’s busy on his phone, typing out a meticulous, grammatically correct reply to a wall of emojis from Erica. “So…” Stiles prompts. “Fatherhood?”

“I think you’re closer to needing adult supervision yourself than providing it to others,” Boyd decides, hitting send on his text. “You can be the fun uncle, at most.”

“Hmm,” Stiles says, and morosely eats a curly fry.

*

Stiles is over at the cooler on the patio, digging around through the ice to see if there’s any beer left, when someone clears their throat behind him. He waffles and snags a Sprite and turns around to see Derek hovering there, leaning an elbow on the railing.  

Stiles pops the tab open on his can and tries for a casual bro nod. “Hey. ‘Sup.”

“I like your shirt,” Derek says, biting his lip. “I am Groot.”

Stiles smiles and runs a hand down his chest, over the baby Groot on his shirt. “Yeah. I wasn’t gonna buy any more graphic tees, but then I saw it and I was powerless to resist.”

“Have you seen the sequel yet?”

Stiles throws his head back and groans. “No, and it’s killing me. I can’t wait. I’ve watched the trailer like ten times. I’ve been forcing myself to stay in my dorm and study, though. No movies for me. I mean, the way everyone was talking, I thought for sure Professor Martin’s final was going to torpedo my GPA. I’m actually feeling pretty good about it, though. I think I probably got, like, a low A. You?”

“Same. I feel sorry for anybody who didn’t keep up with the readings, though. That would torpedo their grade.”

Stiles snorts. He knows exactly who didn’t do the readings, because most of them are huddled together in a glum little group at the picnic table at the edge of the yard. “Definitely. There was so much on the final that was never even mentioned in class.”

Derek looks at him, lingering in a way that makes Stiles’ skin feel too hot. “I guess now that that’s over with, you can finally see the movie.”

“Yeah.” Stiles laughs, nervous without quite knowing why. Maybe it’s just that when Derek looks at him, it always makes him kind of nervous. “Guess so.”

Derek picks at the peeling label on his lemonade bottle, asks, “Do you maybe want to go see it with me?”

Oh.

On the one hand, YES, hell yes, Stiles wants that, and the fact that Derek wants that makes him feel like breaking out dancing right here, right now, but—maybe Stiles feels slightly less like he should want it now than he did, oh, say, this morning.

In the distance, he can hear Jamie shriek-laughing down on the lawn as Heather tickle-attacks him. Dating Derek—seriously dating, because Stiles wouldn’t be down for casual, not in this case—would mean being in that kid’s life, maybe even eventually being that kid’s step-parent. And yeah, Jamie is cute. So is seeing how good Derek is with kids. But… Stiles’ gut reaction is “Yikes.”

Stiles agrees with Boyd on this one: Stiles should be the fun uncle at most. Stiles as a dad, responsible for the well-being of a small child? Yikes. Double yikes. Infinite yikes.

Derek is still staring at him, his smile fading to something more closed-off, more nervous, the longer Stiles doesn’t say anything. By the time Stiles says, “No, I—I’m sorry. I wish I could, but I can’t,” Derek doesn’t even look that surprised, more… resigned. Sad.

“Okay, well…” he says. “Thanks for considering it.” He nods, once, without quite looking at Stiles. Then he sets his lemonade down on the railing and walks away.

*

Stiles doesn’t really feel much like partying after that. There’s nothing like rejecting your crush—after a whole semester of trying to get them to ask you out, no less!—to ruin the mood. And anyway, he’s already eaten and socialized and done his time sitting around in the sunshine. He’s probably going to have sunburn all over his face and neck tomorrow to go along with his Derek-asked-me-out-and-I-said-no moping. He can be both emotionally and physically miserable at the same time. Great.

When he opens Prof. Martin’s front door, heading out to his Jeep parked up on the road, there’s a man jogging up the porch steps. He slows when he sees Stiles, shooting him a friendly enough smile.

“Everyone’s out back,” Stiles says. The guy looks a little older, like Derek’s age, maybe, and he has a tattoo on his arm, two thick dark lines. He definitely wasn’t in their class this semester. “Are you a friend of Professor Martin’s?”

“No, actually, I don’t know her. I’m Scott. I’m a friend of Derek’s. I’m just here to pick up my son for his dentist appointment.”

Stiles isn’t sure what his heart just did in response to that, but it’s probably nothing good. “Your son as in, the little boy who likes to bite people?”

“Yeah, it’s a bit of a phase he’s been going through,” Scott says apologetically, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “We’re working on it. Hope he wasn’t too much of a problem today. Derek asked Professor Martin if he could come, and she said it would be fine, so…”

“Yeah, it’s been good,” Stiles manages to say through his inner mantra of Stiles, you idiot.  

“Awesome. When Jamie heard Derek was going to a party, he just got so excited, you know? Kira—my wife—she tried to tell him it was a grown-up party, but he was really insistent. He’s kind of obsessed with Derek right now. Everything Derek does, Jamie wants to do.” Scott laughs a little. “You should’ve seen how excited he was when Kira hinted he might get a jacket just like Derek’s for his birthday.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles says faintly, because that mental image is almost too cute to handle. Also… apparently he isn’t leaving yet after all.

*

Stiles lingers as unobtrusively as possible on the back patio until Scott has collected Jamie from Derek, and then he heads over. For once, he’s able to sneak up on Derek, even though this time he’s not even trying. Derek’s clearly lost in his own head, standing alone over by the pool and staring down into the still water.

“Hey, Derek,” Stiles says, drifting to a stop a few feet away.

Derek jumps a little, then sees who it is and looks even more startled.

Stiles snorts. “Sorry, dude. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t,” Derek says, unconvincingly.

“Right, well. I just… I was just wondering if you still wanted to see that movie.”

Derek eyes him, wary and kind of puzzled. “Thirty minutes ago you said—”

“I know what I said. What I said was stupid.”

Derek’s expression doesn’t change, except to look incrementally more confused.

Stiles sighs. He’s just going to have to say it. “Thirty minutes ago I thought you were Jamie’s dad, okay? Now I know better.”

Derek uncrosses his arms. “Oh?”

“Yeah. And I figured… The date was probably going to go pretty well, and then there’d be another one and another.”

“That’s confident of you,” Derek says, cautiously pleased.

“Well,” Stiles shrugs, “I think I’ve spent enough time with you by now to know we’d be pretty great together, and honestly? I’m crazy about you. Any relationship with you, I would work like hell to make it work.”

Derek looks a little stunned.

Stiles forges on, hoping he’s not creeping Derek out. “So yeah, I figured if I said yes, it wouldn’t be just one date. And I figured I shouldn’t just jump into that without being prepared for what it might mean. Long-term.”

Derek steps in a little closer, and he’s just staring at Stiles and not saying anything and it’s wreaking havoc on Stiles’ nerves.

So, of course, he keeps talking, and talking. “Before you get creeped out, trust me, I know you’re just asking me out, not proposing marriage or whatever, but listen, I’m not going to jump into something with you if I’m not ready for the possibility of it getting serious one day. When you showed up with Jamie, I thought things getting serious between us might include your kid, and… Honestly, I’m not sure I want kids, and that’s not even getting into whether it’d be a good idea to give me a child. I feel like that could actually be a very terrifying idea, both for me and for him.”

“Stiles—”

“I mean, I’m happy enough seeing other people’s kids once in a while and then sending them home to their parents, you know? So I guess what I’m trying to say is, finding out you don’t have kids was basically the best news of my life because now I can say yes, like, the most enthusiastic of yeses—”

Derek kisses him. Stiles agreeably stops trying to talk, letting his eyes fall shut and his hands drift down to twist in Derek’s shirt. Who needs talking, anyway, when he has Derek gently coaxing his mouth open with his tongue. That’s the kind of communication style Stiles can really get behind.

After the third wolf-whistle from over by the picnic table, they reluctantly break apart. Derek looks satisfyingly dazed. Stiles feels like he probably does, too, because wow.

“I guess that was a yes to my yes?”

“That was a ‘Stiles, shut up before you run out of oxygen.’” Derek smiles. “And it was a yes.”

Awesome.

(end)

they’re gonna go on a date uwu

anonymous asked:

Could you write a fic with the prompt “Stop being so cute.”? (I don't know if you want a specific character but if its directed at Evan then that would be cool~ )

I did this with tree bros, I hope that was okay!


Evan’s fingers shake as he spins the dial on his locker, groaning when he overshoots the third number and has to start inputting the combination all over again. One to the left to 18, two to the right to 3, three to the left to 45. He sucks in a deep breath before trying to pull his locker door open. It makes a horrible metal-on-metal screeching noise, but it pops open nonetheless, revealing messy binders stuffed to the brim with crumpled loose leaf and battered textbooks littered with tiny doodles of dicks. In Evan’s history textbook, one of the previous owners used the eyes and nose of every pictured historical figure as a base for drawing a dick. While Evan can appreciate the effort there, the fact that he has to scramble to cover up his book whenever a teacher passes by his desk does nothing to help his anxiety and he wishes that he could Wite-Out the copious amounts of male genitalia, but that would probably end in him having to pay to replace the textbook and his comfort is not worth a couple hundred dollars.

A tiny scrap of paper flutters out, landing on the sticky hallway floor. Probably another one of the notes Jared has taken to slipping in his lockers between classes. They usually involve dick jokes or sarcastic commentary on Evan’s behavior during their shared chemistry class—because apparently Evan needs to be told how pathetic it was when he dumped watered down hydrochloric acid on his hands and refused to tell the teacher, preferring instead to let his hands tingle uncomfortably until he could wash them after class—or whatever juicy piece of gossip that’s been circulating through the student body. He sighs as he leans over and collects the paper off the floor, bracing himself for a sentence or two on how ridiculous Evan looked when he was startled by a loud noise and nearly dropped his beaker.

Instead, he finds a barely legible phrase scrawled in the messiest chicken scratch Evan has ever seen. The writing looks like it was erased and rewritten about a dozen times, making it seem like whoever penned it wasn’t sure how to phrase what they were trying to say—or whether they should say it at all.

Keep reading

Made a new OC monster babe. Name’s Trish. She’s a ghoul. She’s the gal you go to if crave blood and body parts but have too big of a conscious to take it from the living/don’t wanna get your hands dirty/don’t wanna get caught. Ghoul’s are like the trashy cousin to vampires, who see them as basically vermin since they’re halfway between a vamp and a straight up zombie and their moral compass is almost always pointing south. Ghoul’s are also known for eating the dead, seducing humans, and taking coins. Trish just found a way to satisfy all her needs.

anonymous asked:

I had this crazy idea about Genma/kakashi like, imagine Bookstore-Owner!Kakashi chilling behind the counter reading some porn when his door slams open and this very annoyed but super sexy Florist!Genma storms in heading straight for Kakashi. Genma slams his hands down on the counter, glaring at Kakashi and says "I swear to god if you don't have a book on flower meanings I'm going to murder my customer." And Kakashi discovers Genma's hot and florists couldn't give 2 shits about flower meanings.

(Thank you anon, oh my god I’ve been fiddling with like 15 different WIPs for the past 6 hours and didn’t realize that THIS is what my brain was looking for, but IT IS PERFECT.)


Kakashi is about halfway through the display copy of the newest Icha Icha book, idly swirling the dregs of the mocha Obito had brought him earlier when he stopped in to yell about Kakashi needing to fend for himself for dinner because he had a date goddamnit—Kakashi is skeptical, because this is Obito, and he’s willing to wager an empty stomach that whatever bastard has set their eyes on Obito is going to end up needing a trip to the emergency room when they show their creep colors before the second course—and vaguely contemplating whether he should reorganize the self-help section again. It’s always amusing to tell people who ask him where things are in it that he can’t help them, because they need to help themselves, and the joy those moments provide keeps Kakashi more or less sane on lazy days like this.

Sometimes he thinks he should have opened that dog-grooming parlor Gai suggested, rather than a bookstore, but then he remembers the Poodle Incident that followed shortly after and is quietly relieved all over again.

Then, without warning, the door slams open with a force that’s usually reserved for hurricanes, setting the cheerful bell above it clanging like it’s rolling down a mountainside. Kakashi startles, almost dropping his coffee, and looks up just as a pair of hands in fingerless gloves slam down on the counter.

That, Kakashi thinks, eyeing the man as he lowers is book, is a very tight tank top and a lot of very, very pretty golden skin. And muscles. Sweaty muscles, and while one would think Kakashi got more than enough of those living with Rin, who actually enjoys training with Gai and has the six-pack to prove it, these ones are particularly ropy and lovely.

The guy’s face isn’t all that bad either, even if his expression is currently just about the same level as deadly Obito’s was after that especially disastrous date with that Madara creep and the introduction to the quasi-cult he hosted in his basement.

“I swear to god,” the man says, and the words might be even, there might be a flower tucked behind his ear, but the spark in his eyes is very close to incandescent rage, “if you don’t have a book on flower language I’m going to murder my customers.”

Ah. Kakashi closes his book carefully, studying the man. That would explain the apron wrapped around his hips, embroidered with a smiley sunflower and the logo of the flower shop down the block. Kakashi hasn’t ever had reason to go in before, but now that he knows eye candy like this works there, he might just have to change that.

“That depends,” he says, offering the man a lazy smile. “Did you want Victorian flower language, hanakotoba, Hindu flower language…” It takes effort not to laugh at the expression of mingled horror and disgust that crosses the man’s face.

“God damn it,” the florist sighs, dragging his bandana off. Chestnut hair falls into his face, and he smooths it back with a grimace. The muscles in his arm and shoulder flex in ways that kind of make Kakashi want to bite them.

Kakashi isn’t staring. He’s just…observing. That’s it. Definitely not ogling. Or drooling.

“You’ll probably get the most mileage out of Victorian,” he offers, as soon as he can scrape up enough brain cells to do so. “They tend to be the most common, too.” He pushes up, stepping around the desk, and it’s a narrow space filled with displays, so he has no choice but to brush past the florist on his way by.

On an entirely unrelated note, the man has a truly fantastic ass.

“You’re a lifesaver,” the florist sighs, tucking his bandana into his back pocket and following Kakashi up the staircase to the second floor. “I’ve been open a month and I already have people asking for bouquets that are subtly vengeful or possibly interested if you try harder or—fuck, I don’t know. Why not just get a damn card? If I have to Google this shit one more time I’m going to scream.”

Kakashi chuckles, finding the correct book and pulling it down from the shelf. And if he stretches a little more than he might otherwise, making a very subtle show of it, well. No one who would mock him for it is currently here (a true miracle, and Kakashi thanks all his lucky stars for it) so he’s really got nothing to lose.

“Of all the pitfalls of the flower business I had considered, that wasn’t one of them,” he says, turning to offer the hardcover to the man. “This is the only copy I have, and it’s leather-bound and illustrated, so it will cost more. If you want to wait a week, I could order another version.”

The man smiles, and wow. Kakashi can practically feel his brain shorting out. The scowl was hot; the smile, a little crooked and very warm, lighting up his hazel eyes, is nothing short of gorgeous. “This is great, actually,” he says, taking it carefully to avoid touching it with his dirt-streaked gloves, and that is yet another mark in his favor. Kakashi appreciates a man who takes care of books. “I can display it in the store and write it off as for the business. Thank you.”

“Not a problem.” Kakashi wonders if he should push his luck, but for all his muscles the florist doesn’t look the type to deck someone for making a pass, so he decides to take a chance. “You know, I’ve got a one-time-only sale going on right now.”

The man glances up, one brow rising, and damn. Kakashi is bought and sold. Take off the price tag, no returns. He makes his smile as charming as possible—Obito calls it skeevy, but Obito also keeps dating assholes and weirdos, so he doesn’t get an opinion—and offers, “Buy me coffee and you can have it.”

Brown eyes flecked with green and gold widen, and then the man laughs, bright and warm, and grins.

He has dimples. No one should be allowed to be simultaneously that cute and sexy.

“I don’t know,” he says thoughtfully, rubbing a light finger over the engraved cover. “This looks more like a buy-me-dinner book, unless you like really spendy coffee.”

“Well.” Kakashi makes a show of considering it. “I suppose I can make allowances, seeing as I’m the owner. And since it’s in the name of keeping you from murdering people.”

“A civil servant, huh? I like a man who knows his civic duty.” The florist reaches into one of the pockets of his apron and pulls out a pale green card, flipping it between his fingers as he glances up at Kakashi through long lashes. A pause, and then he flips to Kakashi, just the barest edge of a smirk pulling at his mouth. Kakashi catches it—without fumbling, which, score—and the man steps away with a lazy wave. “I close at six. Give me a call or swing by whenever.”

Kakashi watches his retreat—and damn, that is one fantastic ass—and only glances down at the card when the bell on the door chimes again. Genma Shiranui, it reads in neat, darker green lettering. There’s a business number and a cell number both printed under it, a small smudge of dirt on one corner, and it takes a concentrated effort for Kakashi not to beam like a fool.

“Genma,” he repeats out loud, and chuckles a little at his own ridiculousness as he heads down the stairs.

There’s the thirty dollars he was charging for the book sitting in front of the till, with the flower that had bene behind Genma’s ear resting on top. Kakashi picks it up, spinning it between his fingers, and…

He’s read that flower book, and he remembers perfectly well what meaning a white violet holds, even if Genma doesn’t have any idea. What a perfect twist of fate, Kakashi thinks, and snags one of Rin’s teacups for a makeshift vase.

White violets mean let’s take a chance on happiness, and Kakashi is more than willing to do just that.

Made With Adrenaline

An angsty sterek drabble – written during a delirious 2am bought of inspiration – as promised♥ Based very loosely on this prompt.

rated G, 2.3 Also on ao3!

“Yo, dude.”

The mans eyelids twitch - an absent flutter that sets off a deep, nasally inhale.

“God, you could’ve told me you’d be passed out when I found you.”

Before his mind has caught up, his eyes open. He blinks, focusing his vision, performing a routine sweep of his surroundings. A little girl with a green beanie over tangly blonde hair is kneeling in front of him. He watches the pom-pom on the top of her hat bobble as she talks.

“I’m totally gonna be late for school. You said this would be quick.”

His eyebrows furrow. There’s a pressure in his head, the pulsing ghost of something forgotten that’s desperately trying to be remembered. He tries grasping for it and falls through air, and keeps falling, and falling. There’s nothing. No ledges or vines or steps to catch his bearing on.

He can’t remember.

He can’t remember in the way that, if remembering is a skill, a task to be performed, he’d have never been taught how.

Keep reading

Dragons

This is going to be a long story. 

Some of you, those who have been following me for a while or seen me at conventions, know that I am *trying* to branch out into designing toys rather than just making them. There are a lot of reasons for this, primarily so that I have time: time to design new things, time to rest, time to do literally anything other than crochet delightful sea creatures - you get the gist. 

It’s not that I don’t love making things, I do. And I’m certainly not going to stop making things; I’m pretty sure I can’t, to be honest. But I have to admit that it would certainly be much easier on me, at least for my wrists, to have sewing machines do most of the work. 

So. The dragons. 

I finally made enough money to get a run of plushies made, and I decided to start with my red dragons as my first line. Dragons were one of my most popular items, but they were a lot of work to make, so I figured they would be perfect as plushies. 

I decided to go with Gann Memorials for my production. Now that I’ve already made my mistakes, I’ve had a lot of people tell me that I should never have partnered with Gann, but since nobody felt the need to tell me anything about them previous to my giving them quite a lot of money, that’s who I went with. I did have one person tell me that they were “skeevy”, but since she wouldn’t go into any detail or even use any other words to describe them, I assumed her issue was personal in nature and dismissed it. I wasn’t planning on spending time with these people, I reasoned, just entering into a business arrangement with them. I don’t care if they’re skeevy. I care if they’re competent. 

Well, now I know. 

We began in July of 2015, a year and a half ago. I made the initial phone call (which was grand, because I have social anxiety and calling people on the phone is one of my least favorite things to do). Chris Gann (hereafter Chris) was a genial guy, very much a salesman - but, since I was looking to buy things from him, that was pretty much what I was looking for. We set up an account for me. Promises were made, verbal assurances; they specialize in quick turnaround for orders, I’d have them in less than three months (assuming that I don’t take forever making alterations, of course), they have very high quality standards, et cetera. 

A few days later he set up a Basecamp account. Basecamp is an app for communication between people working on a project together. I can definitely recommend it; it works out beautifully for that precise thing. The account was started July 27. 

So far, so good. 

On August 11, he sent me the first sample images. They needed some tweaking, but I was starting to get excited. I made my recommendations and he went off to relay them to the production team. 

On August 19, he sent the second sample images. These were very close. I accepted this version:

Cute, right? I think it’s cute. Grumpy, but not off-putting; now that I have a little more experience under my belt, I can see where I would make further changes, but it’s still very cute.  

September 1: Chris tells me that the dragons will be shipped to me in October. 

September 7: Chris informs me that these guys are going to need tags. I hadn’t thought about that, but I whip up an acceptable tag design (it’s not great but it’ll work) and send it off to him two days later. I don’t hear back from him until October 2nd, when I ask for a shipping estimate; Chris assures me that they’ll ship by the end of the month. 

October 21: Chris asks me to approve the tag design that I had sent him. I’m a little confused, but I approve. The day after, I approve of the shipping mark and I start to get myself emotionally prepared to receive a large shipment of toys. 

October 29: I check up again on the time frame. Chris says he’ll ask. 

November 2: Chris says that they’ll be shipped by the end of the week. 

I want to point out here that Chris told me they would be *delivered* by the end of October, not shipped at the beginning of November. I’m a little unhappy with this, but you know, things happen. Whatever. I’ll probably shop around for the next line of plushies due to this delay; he hasn’t lost my business forever at this point, but neither has he pleased me to the point where I would go with his company again as a matter of course. 

November 5: Chris sends me pictures of the final product. There’s not much in the way of variation from what I had already approved, so I assume all is well. He also tells me that I’ll be getting extra product on their dime. I am pleased by the prospect, as that would mollify me about the delay. Unfortunately, it turns out not to be true. 

Novemter 18: I receive the boxes. I do not believe in putting things off, so I opened them immediately and went through my product, counting and sorting carefully. I am widely dismayed by what I find. 

I ordered 350 dragons. It’s a small order, in the way of these things, but it was what I could afford. I did receive exactly 350 dragons, but they were not what I had approved. Every aspect was correct and acceptable *except* the most important part of any mammal, toy or not: the face. In this case, the eyes. Of the whole order, 17 dragons had split seams (not a big deal, I’m handy with a needle and I understand that they underwent significant squishing in order to fit them into as few boxes as possible to make shipping affordable); 46 were correct, as in their eye placement and shape were in a range close to what I had approved of; and a whopping 286 of them had what I have to call drastically incorrect eye placement. Here’s what I mean: 

The eyelids are too low and placed at the wrong angle, making it look sleepy (still sellable, but not what I paid for). The eyelids are, by the way, glued into place. 

These eyes are totally wrong (and, may I remind you, glued into place, so I can’t fix it without cutting the eyes out completely). That’s just… wrong. 

This guy has to be my favorite. One eye is significantly larger than the other one and has been placed about a quarter inch higher; the eyelids are entirely wonky - and still glued into place. 

Dec 3: Chris tells me he is trying to work things out with the factory; I send him the above images for clarification. He says he may just have me keep what I received and he will replace the entire order on his dime. 

I am, at this point, entirely depressed. I feel like a failure. I have a certainty that this issue will not be corrected, and even if it is, it won’t be corrected in anything like a reasonable time scale. I feel that I have wasted a very large sum of money and way too much time and it makes me angry and hugely, vastly, deeply disappointed. 

January 5, 2016: Chris asks me if the appearance of the dragons I received is somehow different from the sample I approved. I wonder to myself if he has working eyeballs, or at least knows someone who does, but I respond in the affirmative and re-send all of the pictures, including the one I approved for reference. All of these pictures are still in the Basecamp account. All I have to do is scroll to look at these exact same pictures, but I send them again anyways. I also ask for honesty, here; if he’s not going to fix this, please at least have the decency to tell me about it so I can move on with my life and not have to expend my energy trying to get something done here. 

January 7: Chris takes umbrage at the notion that he might just possibly not bother to fix these glaring mistakes, as he is nothing if not forthright and good. I point out that the delivery took much, much longer than he had initially told me, and that the extra product that was supposed to be included with the shipment never showed up. 

January 8: Chris says that he  misspoke about me getting extras; there will not be another box forthcoming, he was mistaken about that. He does graciously allow me to keep the gigantic pile of unsellable, wasted material that they sent me, and promises that he’ll have the dragons remade at his expense and the issue with the eyes will definitely be fixed in the next batch. (This also turns out to be untrue.)

January 9: Chris tells me that the next batch will ship out after the Chinese New Year. This makes sense to me; holidays always mess up shipping times, and these are travelling across the planet, after all. I settle down and assume they’ll be here in six to eight weeks. 

April 20: This is more than six to eight weeks, you will notice. Chris tells me to expect a shipment some time late next month. I have given up on ever seeing these damn things. 

September 23: Chris sends new pictures for approval. It has been over a year since the first time I went through this process; I was told that I would have them in under three months. Over a year. I’ve moved to a different state by this point and yes, I was snippy. I pointed out that in the FIVE MONTHS since I last heard from him, my address had changed. 

I liked the new ones. These looked angrier. If I got dragons like these, I would be able to sell them in exchange for money. 

November 16: Chris asks me for my delivery address. Again. I ask if this indicates that they will be shipped soon, but there’s no response. 

January 10, 2017: Gene Gann, another employee of Gann Memorials, informs me that I should expect my shipment by mid-February. 

February 8: Gene asks me for my phone number, which I supply, so the shipper can get into contact with me to set up a delivery time. 

February 15: The shipper calls me. We set up a delivery time. 

February 17, 2017: I receive six boxes full of dragons. They have the same qualities of the first batch, only there are more of them this time. Four - I repeat, four - are correct, in that they match the above picture. A further 189 are in sellable condition, looking sleepy or disappointed rather than angry but otherwise having no defects. 27 have split seams, only three of which I bother fixing since the other 24 have devastatingly bizarre eye placement. 303 dragons go into boxes with glued-on, incorrectly placed, wrongly sized eyes. 

In the end, I’ve received a total of 243 dragons that are in a sellable condition. Only a small portion of those actually resemble what I ordered. 589 dragons can only be sold as misfits. I put some in grab bags, feeling guilty. I see them in trash cans at conventions and can’t really blame anyone. 218 dragons, which should have been sold at a profit to fund the next line, are utterly unusable. I have scrapped them and am using their stuffing to fill other projects. 

I am bitter about the entire thing. I am angry. I am never, ever going to do business with Gann Memorials again, nor will I recommend them to anyone, as I cannot with good conscience do so, because if they had an experience anything similar to mine I would be wracked with the most horrible guilt. 

I *am* going to try again. As tempting as it is to simply give up, to assume that there is something lacking about my character, that there is something about me that makes things like this happen, I won’t do it. I’m saving up for another line of plush toys. I am shopping around for a different company to work with. 

My hands are tired and my blood pressure is high, but I’m still going. 


(I want to put in a disclaimer that I am not assuming anything about the personal morality of Chris or Gene Gann. I do not want them attacked or thought of in any wrong way because of how all of this went down. This was a business deal, and sometimes they go sour. This could have been a series of misunderstandings, mistakes, communication errors, unfortunate events, what have you. I don’t know what’s going on in their lives. These are things that happened, and they will affect who I do business with going forward, but I don’t assume that these are bad people. I don’t think I could encourage anyone to have a business relationship with this company and these people, but if you want to have a beer with them, I’m sure they’re very nice.)

anonymous asked:

Have you read a manhwa called Blood Bank? Its a gay bdsm thing between a vampire and a human and listen. I thought I was going in for the smut but like 20 chapters in i was living for the plot and characters. And unlike a lot of yaoi type comics it doesn't have weird skeevy tropes and the relationship is consensual and it even has fleshed out good female characters and positive heterosexual relationships. It's like captive prince; thought I was getting smut and got a ton of good plot too

Ooooh, I am intrigued.