#And don't ask me about Malcolm

[mann-walter]

I think A Little Life would’ve been more enjoyable for me had the main character been either Willem or JB—well, first among equals because the book concerns the life of four people. Both are fascinating people in their own ways, endearing in the case of Willem. Because for me, Jude is too much. Of course, there are times when I love him, but he can feel like a fanfic character and an average fanfic at that. There’s no sense of balance with this character. Reading him is taxing and not in that enjoyment-of-angst kind of way.

[thedoctorsaysimwrong]

Malcolm meeting Zira and Crowley

" oops. awkward. "

timeline wise it's iffy at best how it would fit ( cause let's be honest, no way any of these two fall for jack as malcolm the way they do for jack 'cause malcolm sucks ) and i started writing a thing about what could make it work timeline wise but who cares, fuck the timeline.

but somewhere after coe jack comes back and he's grieving, he's not well, but he's not unhinged yet. he stays at the bookshop for a couple of weeks, maybe he tolerates months before he tells them that he needs to go back to traveling off earth's surface for a little while because he just can't get better.

and so they lose track of him for 40 years. canon wise, aziraphale and crowley do travel to america from time to time so either they did that for fun or malcolm needed something in soho, but they meet again 40 years later and it's just awkward. and it's different. and aziraphale can feel love, it's there ( he probably always felt a truck ton amount of love floating around jack cause the man loves everything intensely ), but it's under such amount of 'spooky' no no bullshit it's uncomfortable.

jack would try to make the conversation amicable but crowley would probably antagonize him and he would respond in kind, they'd just feed off each other's bitterness and anger at this point. and unlike aziraphale, crowley probably wouldn't be shy in calling out the dramatics and martyr / god complex.

and it's not that they don't feel anything for each other anymore it's just... you know when a friend you really love disappears and come back so different you don't recognize them and you don't know how to act with them or if it's just better to not renew the friendship? something like that.

also there's something to be said about "why did you go and lose yourself when you could have stayed with us and heal"... and they'd be right. but you know.

[incognit0slut]

was i stupid to love you?

in which a lingering glance at Rossi’s wedding threatens your engagement.

content: angst, 4.8k, takes place right after truth or dare (14x15), a lot of dialogue, mention of prison arc, emotional distress, relationship conflict, not proofread a/n: when was the last time you saw me write angst? exactly. this is inspired by malcolm & marie bc i really like the idea of having an argument while moving around the house (also disclaimer i have nothing against JJ i just like being dramatic)

The lock clicks open. The door swings with a creak. Your heels tap against the hardwood in a hollow rhythm that feels almost too loud. There’s a tightness in your chest, that prickling behind your eyes, and a familiar ache pressing up from the pit of your stomach, churning into a faint nausea that you try to ignore. You’re trying to hold it back.

Not here.

Not now.

Spencer doesn’t even look up. The keys slip from his hand with a soft clink as they hit the side table, and he turns away with a quiet sigh that reverberates deep in your bones.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, tossing a glance toward the kitchen. “Think we could order something?”

You trail after him, the sharp click of your heels echoing as you step onto the kitchen tile. “We just came back from a wedding.”

He’s rifling through the cupboard, his fingers brushing over the mismatched mugs and neatly stacked plates before he pulls down two glasses. “I barely ate anything at the reception.”

You watch him, biting back a response as memories flicker to mind. The slice of cake he’d poked at absentmindedly, washing it down with sips of water instead of real food.

It wasn’t hunger he seemed focused on tonight. No, it was his quiet glances across the room you keep on catching from the corner of your eye, and that conversation he’d had at the bar. The one where his posture softened, his gaze so intent you’d found yourself staring at the back of his head, trying not to read too much into it—and obviously failing.

“Why didn’t you eat?”

He shrugs, his back still to you as he fills the glasses with water. “I don’t know,” he says, sounding almost absent, like it’s something he hasn’t really thought about. “I didn’t get around to it, I guess.”

The muscles in your jaw ticks as you bite the inside of your cheeks.

Spencer turns, offering you a glass. “I was thinking of Chinese, or maybe we can check if that Thai place you like is still open.”

You take the glass from him, barely sparing it a glance before setting it back down on the counter. “Whatever you want is fine.”

A subtle crease appears between his brows. “You sure? You usually have some opinion when it comes to food.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You don’t want to eat anything?”

You suppress a sigh. "No. I'm tired."

The soft amber of his eyes dims slightly as he studies you. There's a flicker of uncertainty passing through them before he nods. “Alright,” he concedes. “We don’t have to order anything.”

A faint, humorless laugh escapes you before you can stop it. It tastes bitter, a little unfair, but it slips out before you can pull it back, “You don’t have to change your plans on my account, Spencer.”

“I’m not changing any plans,” he responds. “I’m just making sure you have something to eat in case you’re hungry.”

Your shoes dig uncomfortably into your feet. You shift your weight, starting to pace a few steps back and forth. "It's dinner, you don't have to check on me for every little thing. Do whatever you like."

He blinks, looking genuinely perplexed. "What are you saying? I was trying to be considerate."

"Right. Considerate.”

There’s an unmistakable bite in your tone.

“Yes, because we like doing these things together," he observes, watching your uneasy pacing. "Am I missing something here?”

You shake your head. “Nope.”

"Honey."

The term of endearment lands softly, slipping from his lips like he believes it has the power to melt whatever tension has suddenly crept between you. But it only tightens the knot building in your stomach. It’s stirring the words you’re trying to hold back, tangling them somewhere between your chest and throat.

He calls your name this time, his eyes narrowing into sharp lines. “You’ve been awfully quiet on our way home, and now you’re… honestly, I don’t know why you're acting this way.” His voice dips with a tinge of exasperation. "What’s this really about?"

The words you’ve been biting back feel like a stack of stones in your throat, rising up, up, up, each one pressed tighter by the gnawing nausea in your stomach. You can feel them gathering, and before you know it, they tumble out messily.

“I’m just saying, don’t let me hold you back from getting what you want. I wouldn’t want to stop you from anything—or, god forbid," you add, letting your gaze drift away as if a little distance might soften the blow, “anyone.”

The soft, almost stifled inhale he takes is audible. You don’t even have to look up to see his expression shifting. You’ve known him long enough to recognize the way his shoulders tense, the way his breathing slows as he processes your words. You know his reaction by heart, yet right now, you wonder if saying this was a mistake, if this is the start of something neither of you can take back.

His fingers twitching at his side slip into your line of sight. He's angry.

Maybe this isn’t the time to start a fight.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Your heels click softly as you turn.

“Forget it. I shouldn't have said anything,” you mutter, already moving toward the bedroom that’s been yours, too, for the past year. Although it feels strange tonight, like a space that belongs to someone else. A life you’re not entirely sure you belong in.

“No." His voice is somewhere behind you. “I think you should explain to me what you mean by that.”

You don’t respond, choosing instead to sink onto the edge of the bed, hands fumbling as you try to undo the straps of your heels. You twist the stubborn leather with more force. His shadow fills the doorway.

“Honey.”

Not again.

You decide to ignore him.

“Is there something you’d like to say to me?”

You tug harder at the strap. “No.”

He doesn’t buy it. “You’re clearly bothered by something.”

You shake your head, fingers still fumbling, the leather cutting against your ankle with each pull. “I’m just tired. Can we leave it at that?”

There’s a flicker of frustration in his gaze now, a crease forming between his brows as he studies you. He moves into the room. You barely have the chance to react before he lowers himself, bending one knee to the floor as he reaches toward the strap you’ve been fighting with. “Here, let me—”

“Don’t,” you interrupt, pulling your foot away. “I can do it myself.”

“I know you can. But let me—”

“I can do it myself!”

Your heartbeat thuds loud in your ears, each pulse feeding the frustration that’s wound its way up from your chest. He rises slowly, not a word passing his lips, but the tension radiates off him like heat. He’s close enough that his warmth presses against your skin, although it’s not the kind you usually find comforting. It’s almost suffocating.

You turn your focus back to the stubborn strap, your fingers trembling slightly as you struggle to grip it. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch him slipping off his shoes, one after the other, the soft thuds barely audible over the rush of your own heartbeat. He pulls off his suit jacket, carefully smoothing the crumpled fabric before hanging it in the closet. For a moment, it seems like he’s going to let it go… until his gaze drifts back to you.

You can tell his patience is fraying, and you’re proven right when he asks again, “What did you mean by that? When you said you wouldn’t want to stop me from anyone… what was that supposed to mean?”

You finally manage to tug the strap loose. The heel drops to the floor with a muted thump. “It was nothing.”

“I don’t think you’d say something like that if it was nothing.”

Your focus shifts to the other shoe. “Just drop it, Spencer.”

"How am I supposed to drop it when you're implying... whatever it is you're implying?"

You keep your eyes down, wrestling with the strap in silence. He cuts through the quiet before it has a chance to grow.

“Don’t do that,” he says. “Don’t brush it off like it’s nothing when it clearly means something. I need to know why you said that.”

You kick off the other heel and meet his gaze for the first time since you walked into the room. “You really want to know?”

He reaches for his bow tie, yanking it loose it with one hard pull. “Do I want to know why you’re giving me this attitude right now? Yes. Yes, I do.”

Oh. So this is going to be that kind of fight.

You hadn’t expected it to go here. Fights with Spencer are very rare, usually more a clash of misunderstandings that you both laugh about with limbs tangled between sheets by the time you’ve made peace. But seeing him standing there with the tie hanging loosely around his neck and his five o’clock shadow casting an even darker line along his jaw, it hits you differently.

This is real. And this time, you don’t know if brushing it off will fix anything.

“Fine, let’s talk about it then.” You rise from the bed, tension carrying you to your feet. “Emily’s speech tonight.”

His brow furrows, not quite a scowl, more a cautious crease as he processes your tone. “Emily’s speech? What about it?”

“What do you remember of it?”

There’s a slight pause, and you can tell he's clearly caught off guard by the question. “She mentioned how Rossi and Krystal are twin flames."

“Right. Two souls that are always meant to be together.”

His face is still marked by confusion, but there’s something else creeping in. A subtle tightening around his eyes tells you he’s starting to piece it together. “I don’t understand what that has to do with—”

“You looked at JJ the second Emily made that speech,” you cut him off. “Spencer, you didn’t even spare a glance at your future wife because you were too busy making eyes at the woman who’s apparently been in love with you all these years.”

There. You said it. The words that have twisted around your insides all evening are finally out. And maybe they taste a little bitter, but at least they're not choking you anymore.

A second passes, then another, and by the time the fifth heartbeat ticks by, he’s standing there with his hand on his hip.

“That’s not what happened."

“Then what was it?” you demand. "I sat beside you the whole day, you didn't even try to hide it."

“That’s not—you’re twisting things.” His hand moves through his hair, fingers digging in as his curls tumble forward onto his forehead. “And you know what happened that night wasn’t real. It was a forced confession. She was under duress, we both were. JJ and I are just friends.”

You arch an eyebrow. “You look at all your friends like that?”

His hand drops to his side. "I don't know what else you want me to say. JJ said what she did because she thought we might die. She has a family, and a husband who she loves. We already went through this, I don't understand why this is suddenly an issue again."

“Maybe I wouldn’t be bringing this up if you didn’t look at her tonight like you were ready to break up that marriage yourself.”

A flash of shock and anger crosses his features.

“That’s not fair,” he snaps, his voice sharper than you’ve heard in a while. “Do you really think I’d disregard everything I have with you because of a look? Because of a history that has never gone anywhere?”

“I don’t know what to think. It's not like it happened just once, I saw you looking at her the same way at the bar." You step forward, accidentally kicking your discarded heel as you move. "What were you two talking about, anyway?”

He lets out a tight breath. “She was checking in on me. She… we haven’t talked much since then.”

The corners of your mouth pull down. “Mhm. Another round of truth or dare?”

“I can’t believe you’re using that against me." His hair flops forward as he shakes his head, falling messily over his brow. "If there were anything unresolved with JJ, I would’ve said something. But I didn’t, because there’s nothing there."

“And yet, she’s always been an important part of your life, hasn't she?"

He tilts his head. "What are trying to say now?"

Your tongue darts out, briefly brushing your lips. You're not sure you should say it, but it feels like a door has swung open—a door to words that have been waiting for their moment.

You take a slow, deep breath, filling your lungs with as much air as you can.

“When you were in prison, you put her on your visiting list ahead of almost everyone else. Doesn’t that say something about where she stands with you?”

He exhales sharply, dragging a hand over the back of his neck.

“She’s part of the team,” he says, as if he’s trying to spell out something he’s already explained a dozen times. "There were strict rules, I already told you that only a handful of people were allowed to visit. It wasn’t like I could just put anyone on the list.”

“But you could’ve put me on there!”

The familiar burn of tears prickles at the edges of your eyes, but you blink them back, refusing to let them fall. An explanation or protest is poised on his lips, but you’re already moving, closing the distance with a single, decisive step. A finger lands on his chest.

“I was your girlfriend, Spencer. Were you that determined to keep me out? Was the thought of seeing me really so unbearable? Do you even understand how hard it was to sit at home, knowing you were locked up, feeling completely helpless? Do you have any idea how much I hated myself day after day because I couldn’t do anything to help you?”

Your lips quiver. You feel like your heart is about to leap out of your throat.

“I was out here, just… waiting. Wondering if you were okay, if they were treating you alright, if you even had someone to talk to. And meanwhile, she’s there, with you. Every single time, she’s the one who gets to be by your side.”

Your nail digs into the fabric of his shirt.

“So forgive me if I can’t just let that go. Because when it mattered, it felt like you didn’t want me to be there for you. And now… now I don’t even know if you need me the way you seem to need her.”

Your breathing turns shallow, each inhale catching in your chest. The tears you’ve been holding back are dangerously blurring your vision. You swallow the knot lodged in your throat.

“I need a minute.”

Without another word, you turn and walk out of the room, leaving him standing there in stunned silence. You slip back into the kitchen, leaning against the counter as you finally reach for the glass of water that’s been sitting there untouched. You take a sip, barely feeling the cool water on your lips, when you hear his footsteps behind you.

“You think I don’t want you in my life?” he demands. “You think I somehow need her more than I need you?”

You set the glass down. “What part of ‘I need a minute’ do you not understand?”

“You really expect me to wait quietly after you unloaded every doubt you’ve ever had about us?”

You life your chin up. “Yes, I do. I need space to think right now.”

“What more do you want to think about when you’ve already convinced yourself that I’m always going to fall short? Is it so hard to believe that you’re the one I want?”

“You want to know why it’s so damn hard to believe?” You turn towards him. “Because every time I try to let this go, there’s always something. A confession. That—that not-so-subtle look. And when those things happen, it reminds me that I’m not as close to you as she is. I’m fucking tired of feeling like I’m fighting for space in your life.”

“Do you think I want you to feel like that? Do you think I’d go through everything we’ve been through if you didn’t matter to me?”

“Then explain to me why I wasn’t on that list!” you cry out. “Explain to me why, in one of the hardest times of your life, you couldn’t make space for me?”

“Because I was trying to protect you!”

A heavy, dreadful silence falls between you. He takes a step back, his eyelids fluttering shut briefly, and when he opens them again, there’s a softness in his gaze that mirrors the gentleness now threading through his voice.

“I know it probably doesn’t make sense to you, and maybe it never will, but I couldn’t stand the idea of you seeing me like that. Living through it was hard enough, but having you there, seeing me so helpless… It would have crushed me. I didn’t want that to be your memory of me.”

His Adam’s apple dips as he swallows, a quick, almost anxious movement you’ve witnessed countless times.

“And when JJ came to see me,” he continues, “the way the inmates looked at her, the things they said after she left… it was disgusting. I couldn’t—wouldn’t—let that happen to you. I couldn’t live with thought of you being subjected to that because of me.”

You lower your head with a sigh. “I don’t care if they looked. I don’t care what they would’ve thought.”

“But I care,” he fires back, taking a step forward. “Because you mean more to me than anyone. All I wanted was to keep you safe, and maybe I didn't handle it right, maybe I made the wrong call... but it was only because I—" His voice drops into an even more gentle note. "Because I love you."

Your heart stumbles, an uneven beat that feels almost bruised, pounding hard against your ribs.

"I-I love you so much. More than I know how to put into words." The ache in your chest sharpens as his hands come up to cup your cheeks. "I don't like fighting with you. I hate it, actually. I hate seeing you look at me like this."

You also hate the way he’s looking at you. There’s a depth to his annoyingly pretty eyes that makes it impossible to hold up your defenses without feeling them crumble. You let your eyes flutter closed.

“Why don’t we… call it a night?” He suggests. “Let’s lie down. We don’t have to talk about this now.”

The blackness behind your eyelids does little to quiet your mind. Nor does his voice. Or his touch. Instead of offering peace, his presence throws every glance, every moment of tension from tonight into sharper relief.

You draw in a breath, trying to find some comfort in his palms against your cheeks. Yet, even this can’t smooth away the doubt that’s settled in. With a resigned sigh, you release the breath you’ve been holding along with the words that have been pressing at the back of your throat.

“You haven’t explained it to me.”

The shadows in his gaze seem to deepen when you open your eyes.

“What do you mean?”

“We’ve been going in circles, but you haven’t explained to me what happened tonight,” you say quietly. “Why did you look at her, Spencer?”

His thumb absently strokes your cheek in a way that feels more hesitant than reassuring.

“Be honest with me,” you press. “Was there a part of you, even the tiniest part, that still wanted something with her? Some small part of you that… wondered what it might be like?”

The silence between you presses in from all sides, broken only by the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant, muffled ticking of a clock on the wall. It’s the kind of quiet that sharpens even the smallest sounds, yet his lack of response feels like the loudest thing of all.

You pull back from him with an incredulous laugh.

“Unbelievable.” The word barely makes it past your lips, then louder as you start to move, pacing the length of the apartment. “Unbelievable.”

“Wait,” he says, trailing after you, “I didn’t even say anything.”

You stop short by the couch and whip around to face him.

“You didn’t need to! You—you hesitated," you stammer, searching his face for any flicker of denial, but it’s there, plain as day, that split-second of doubt you caught. “That was already an answer.”

He inches closer. A hand closes in on you. “Please—”

You flinch, pulling back, and every muscle in your body tightens. “Don’t. Don’t touch me right now.”

His hand falls to his side. “Please… let me explain."

You watch his hand drop, fingers twitching like they’re not sure if they should retreat or reach out again, but he keeps them there, hovering in some invisible line you’ve drawn. He looks at you with those big, pleading eyes, and for a split second, you almost feel bad for him.

Almost.

A bitter sort of smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. "So now you want to explain?"

He takes that as permission, and his voice comes in low, almost cautious. "When I first started at the BAU, I had… maybe a crush. A passing thing, barely anything, really. But that was fourteen years ago.” His hand scrubs through his hair in a frustrated sweep. “Fourteen years."

Your brows pull into a frown. “Why am I only hearing about this now?”

“Because it was nothing,” he says, almost too quickly. “I was young, it didn’t matter. I didn’t think it was worth bringing up.”

“Oh, I get it now. All those old feelings came rushing back the night she confessed, didn’t they?”

He mirrors your frown, a visible line of tension etching itself between his brows as he protests, “It’s nothing like that.”

“Then what is it?” you press. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks a whole lot like you’re caught between us because some part of you is still hung up on what might’ve been with her."

He shifts uncomfortably, and you notice the muscles in his jaw clenching the moment his gaze falters, dipping away for just a heartbeat before he looks back at you.

“It’s not that I don’t know what I want,” he starts to explain. “I didn’t expect her to say those things, and, yes, it threw me off for a moment. But that doesn’t mean I’m looking back, or that I want her. I want you.”

You shake your head, feeling a tired sort of frustration settle over you, and walk over to the couch. The soft cushions give slightly beneath you as you sink down.

“If you really wanted me, this wouldn’t be happening. You wouldn’t have let her get into your head like that. And now, you expect to believe that none of it meant anything?”

He’s quick to follow, closing the distance in a few tense steps. “It’s not—” His hands flex open and close at his sides. “You’re acting like one single look tonight is enough to decide I’m not committed to you. Do you really think I’d let some confession I didn’t even ask for get in the way of what we have?”

“It’s not just about that single look. It’s the way she could say something and suddenly, you’re pulled back to something you swore you’d put behind you. How am I supposed to feel secure when she still has that power over you?”

“And what am I supposed to do, then? Apologize for things I don’t even feel anymore?”

You flinch at the sharpness in his voice. A low, frustrated noise rumbles in his chest when you don’t respond.

“You’re always going to question me no matter what I say, aren’t you?"

You glance over at him, catching the disheveled strands of hair falling over his forehead, and it pulls you back to that night he came home after that dreadful night. He’d walked in looking worn in a way you’d never seen before, his whole posture weighted down as if he was carrying more than just the fear of being held hostage.

You remember sitting with him on this same couch, fingers brushing his, and asking what was bothering him.

JJ said she loved me.

Your heart lurched, a quick, quiet ache that you tried to swallow down. Really?

Don’t worry. It’s not true.

But with that same haunted look in his eyes right now, you can’t help but wonder if it really was just a well-intentioned lie.

“One glance and you’re accusing me of things that are never going to happen,” he starts again. “Do you really think so little of me? After everything we’ve shared, you really think I’d betray you like that?”

In true honesty, you don’t believe he would ever cross that line. But the doubts still linger, fed by those small hesitations, the moments when his eyes seem somewhere else. It’s not that you think he’d betray you. It’s that a part of him might still be holding onto something he won’t let you see.

“It’s like you don’t know me at all.”

Now those words you might actually believe.

“Maybe I don’t,” you say quietly, eyes drifting to the ring on your finger. You twist it absently, remembering the night he proposed. How he’d stumbled over his words, his cheeks flushing as he tried to make the moment perfect but ended up rambling in that endearing, nervous way of his. You’d laughed, reassured him that it was exactly right, that you didn’t need grand gestures. All you needed was him.

And yet, you don’t think he needs you as much you need him.

A hollow ache settles around your hand as you slip the ring off.

“What are you doing?”

You stare down at the gold band in your palm, blinking back the sting of tears.

“Tell me what you’re doing.”

Panic. Desperation. There’s a sudden rush of melancholy in his voice, a heaviness that wasn’t there a moment ago.

You swallow the lump in your throat. “I don’t know,” you whisper. “I—I don’t know anything right now.”

His face crumples, and in a sudden, almost instinctive movement, he drops down to his knees.

“No, no, you do know me. I’m sorry… I’m so sorry. Isn’t this—” he stops, then dips his head, trying to catch your gaze. “Isn’t that what couples do? They argue, they mess things up… but they work through it, right? Right?”

You look down, feeling the cool weight of the ring pressing into your skin.

“Spencer…” you begin. “I trust you. I do, and I’m sorry if I made it seem like I didn’t. But… I need to feel secure. I… I need to know that I don’t have to wonder or worry about where I stand. I never thought you’d be the one to make me doubt that.”

There’s a sharp ache in your chest.

“I didn’t think it could hurt this much. Not from you.”

Your pulse ring in your ear.

“I can’t—” The words catch in your throat, a stinging burn rising as you force them out. “I can’t be your wife when I’m constantly questioning if I have all of you. When I feel like… there’s always a part of you that isn’t mine.”

“I’m yours, honey. I’m always yours.”

“I wish I could believe that.”

There’s a slight falter in his voice. “Don’t—please don’t do this—”

“I can’t keep pretending it doesn’t hurt.”

He falls silent, and for a moment, the only sound is the rough, uneven rhythm of both your breaths filling the space between you. Then, like something inside him finally cracks open, he sinks down, pressing his forehead against your lap. The sudden weight of him forces a broken sob from your throat.

“Please,” he begs, fingers clutching at your sides. His chin presses deep into your thigh. “Tell me how to fix this. I can’t— I can’t lose you.”

“Spence…”

“I love you,” he blurts out, the words tumbling from him in a rush. “I love you.”

But what is love, really? Is it just a word people reach for when they’ve run out of things to say, a way to patch over bruised hearts and broken promises? Or should it feel like something more solid, something that doesn’t leave you questioning or aching? You can’t even tell anymore.

You wonder, too, if maybe you’ve been wrong all along. If this feeling in your chest isn’t love but something dressed up as it, something that fills the gaps while slowly hollowing you out. Because here you are, clinging to a love that somehow makes you feel like you’re both needed and unseen. Everything and nothing all at once.

You feel like a fool.

“I want to go to bed.”

His head lifts from your lap, a flash of surprise darting across his face, as though he hadn’t expected you to say anything at all, let alone that. “Yeah, okay, let’s go to bed. We’ll… we’ll figure this out in the morning.”

“I’d rather be alone.”

The words hit him visibly. His mouth opens, an argument forming there, but he catches himself, letting the silence stretch before he nods slowly.

“Then… I’ll stay out here. On the couch,” he offers softly. “Just… in case you need anything.”

A pang cuts through you at the thought of him stretched out on the couch, his legs too long, his shoulders folded in to fit the cramped space. But the idea of sharing a bed right now feels impossible.

You reach down, holding out the ring towards him.

“No,” he says firmly, gently pushing your hand away. “Don’t do that. This… it doesn’t mean we’re giving up. It just means we need time. That’s all.”

You’re not sure if your mind will change in the morning. The ring presses into your skin, but finally, you close your hand around it, nodding faintly before you peel away from him.

The tears start the moment the bedroom door clicks shut behind you. It spills over in a jagged, helpless cry that sounds nothing like you imagined heartbreak might sound. It’s messy, a kind of aching grief that feels too big for your chest, clawing its way out with no grace at all. You can practically hear how pathetic you sound, and yet you can’t seem to stop.

Even when the hem of your dress trails across the floor. Even when you finally collapse onto his side of the bed. There’s no stopping you. With the ring sitting cold in your hand, your tears keep coming, soaking into the pillow as you cling to the last trace of him woven into the sheets.

[mediumgayitalian]

Nico hates three-legged races on principle. One, because they force him to pronounce the extra syllable in legged, which makes him think of William Shakespeare -- Billy, as he insists Nico calls him. Ugh. Two, because they are stupid. And three, bonus, because they are stupid enough to merit saying that twice.

It's inefficient, is what it is.

"It's fun," Will coaxes. He winks, or tries to. He really just blinks both eyes and Nico melts but for propriety's sake, and because it is ridiculous also, he pretends he doesn't. "Plus, it's not so bad if it's me you're tied to, huh?"

Nico glares at him for a moment. He is grinning, now, wide and cheeky, ignoring the genuine Distance between his hips and Nico's and the general calamity that is sure to cause. They are not only about run a three-legged race, but they are going to lose. Which is worse.

(Practice, Chiron insists. You never know what the real world will be like.)

(Bah.)

But as he opens his mouth to snark something along the lines of I don't actually need you to qualify, I just need your leg, so don't piss me off, he comes to a realization that snaps his jaw right closed.

Tied to, Will had said.

A grin of his own spreads over Nico's face. He hides it quickly.

"On your marks, racers!" calls Chiron, stamping his hoof. All fifteen teams of the meet hobble over to the starting line, pushing and shoving. Will and Nico make their ridiculous, sauntering way.

"Actually," Nico muses, as they shift into position. "If I'm gonna have you tied up..."

"Get set!"

He moves just enough to brush his shoulder along Will's bicep, tilting his chin up to stare right in Will's round, pretty face, tilted in confusion.

Nico lets his mouth curve into something wide and wolfish.

"I'd rather it be somewhere a little more private."

"Go!"

The rest of the teams tear off. The advantage they have is staggering -- Chiron had offered, safe distance away, if Nico would prefer competing in a weight class perhaps closer to his own, and Nico had snapped his disgust so loudly campers jumped several paces away. It had, possibly, been a tad arrogant, and if Will had not sighed in exasperated fondness Nico may have swallowed back his pride and accepted the offer.

...Well, maybe.

But it is his own fault, regardless, their predicament. In no way and on no planet would they have in any way won, by any margin. They are simply no match for Ellis and Malcolm, when the freakishly reedy rivals manage to set their differences aside.

But the total dead weight on Will's end is a surprise.

The flush, he had expected. Nico relished in the anticipation of the redness high on Will's cheeks, the heat pouring off of him, the curl of his shoulders up by his ears and the high bend of his cracking voice.

What he was not expecting was for each of Will's freckles to go supernova.

In a sudden, cracking flash, like sunlight bursting through stormclouds in tiny little pinpricks, every little dot on Will's body -- of which there are many -- shine a beam of pure, hot, white line in every direction, enveloping him like a nuclear waste facility lit aflame. Between every white-bright light is bright red heat, like lithium flame, so hot the air around them kind of warps. Were it not for Nico's tough jeans and long-sleeved shirt, he may have fried off his skin. As it is, he feels sunburn.

"What did you do to him," asks Lou Ellen, aghast. She and Cecil have not only paused but have doubled back, hobbling over to gawk.

Nico grimaces. It is probably a bad sign if two of Will's closest friends have not seen him react in this way. A quick glance around confirms that all racers are gawking; spectators, too, stopping where they stand to stare at the sheer light pouring off of Will until it burns so brightly they have to look away.

"Hey," Nico whispers, poking his friend in the ribs. He regrets it immediately, sticking the smarting burn on his fingertip into his mouth. "Are you -- Will? Are you still...present?"

His soul is, at least. Mostly. His facial features however have become entirely obscured by a glowing red so bright it is white, like the sun behind closed eyelids.

Oops.

Nico spares another look at the racegrounds. Still people watch, mouths open -- gaping or whispering to one another, curious. Several appear to be scribbling notes onto paper. Kayla appears to be taking diagnostic photographs. (Or, at least, Nico gives her the benefit of the doubt.)

The race track is wide open.

"I promise I didn't actually try to turn your brain off for this," Nico says. He carefully does not promise never to do it again, in case Will is present behind the glow and holds him to it. "But I am going to use this to our advantage."

Nico pulls his sleeves over his hands and grabs both of Will's, tugging them to the finish line. Nobody stops them.

"Notice how I said 'our'. See, we're a team."

Quickly they cross the finish line. Nico stands for a moment at the end and ponders his situation, wondering if he should let Will calm down and perhaps stop while he is ahead.

But as Will's light fades, the bright red flush high on both his cheeks becomes clear and cherry-toned, and the red does ever so bring out the absolute mortified agony in his eyes mixed with slow-blinking confusion, like the last time he forgot to eat for five days and passed out directly on top of a rock, giving himself a grade 3 concussion.

"What -- happened."

And, well.

Nobody really got hurt.

"Nothing," Nico assures quickly. He pats Will's still-red cheek, smirking. "Yet."

[disasterofastory]

A shocking night (Brahms Heelshire x Reader)

A shocking night // Brahms Heelshire Masterlist Brahms Heelshire x Reader Kinktober 2023 - 2/14 Warnings: shower smut, a bit dub-c, dead bodies

Summary: You meet Brahms, the living one, for the first time.

It's so quiet you can hear the rapid beating of your heart as it tries to break free from the hold of your ribcage. Your chest heaves as you pant and gulp for air. Your lungs burn. You can feel the wild rhythm of your pulse at the tip of your fingers. It makes your limbs numb and frozen. It makes you stop from running and escaping this hellhole.

The entrance door of the mansion seems far away. Too far away.

Your eyes are on the man. He is the only one still alive. The other three lie on the ground, bloody and motionless. They chose the wrong house to break into. Your attention falls on them for a second before snapping back at the one who stares at you from behind his mask. The white but dirty porcelain is familiar. Too familiar.

"Brahms?" Your voice is high and panicked. At first, you think he doesn't even understand your question. He tilts his head to the side before nodding. His posture is still tense and ready to jump at any second if you dare to move even an inch. His broad chest moves up and down as he pants. The white shirt he wears is dirty and bloody, too. Everything is.

How is it possible? You heard about the history of the family who hired you. Malcolm told you about their son who died in the fire that still marks the outside of the house. That's why you were so accepting to take care of a toy. You had no idea what secret they hid among the tall walls of the mansion.

"Y/N?" Your heart stops beating for a second when a high, childlike voice pulls you out of your thoughts. Your eyes focus back on the man in front of you. "Yes?" You ask back, gasping. "Are you going to leave?" He asks. It's a dangerous question. You hear the silent warning underneath his words. "No, Brahms," you force yourself to speak. "I won't leave you." He nods. Even through the mask, you can see the satisfaction that your reply brings to him. "Did they hurt you?"

Did they hurt you? You have to think about his question. You don't remember. Everything happened so fast. In one second, you were asleep, and the next, you woke up at the sharp sound of breaking glass. You went to see what it was, and before you knew it, chaos ensued. Brahms broke through a mirror and killed everyone. Well, expect you.

He steps closer, and your back presses against the wall as you try to keep your distance from him. His hand lands on your shoulder, sliding over the curve until he reaches your neck. His touch is surprisingly gentle.

Oh, now you remember. One of the men grabbed your neck when they noticed you. Your head is still dizzy because of it. And because of everything else. "I'm fine," you tell him. "Please, Brahms." Tears gather in your eyes as you stand still in his hold. "Please, don't hurt me." The man frowns behind the mask as he moves his gaze from your neck to your face. Your face is wet from crying. Your eyes shine with tears and panic. He shakes his head. "If you are good to me, I will be good to you." His words do nothing to calm you down, and his thin voice makes you want to cry harder. How is it even possible? The boy, the man in front of you, should be dead. Taking a deep breath, you reach for his hand still on your neck. His fingers curl around your fingers instantly. "We have to do something with… them," you tell him, glancing at the lifeless bodies behind Brahms.

You are not even sure what you should do. Call the police? You are sure Brahms wouldn't let you, and you would end up in prison without a question. Nobody would believe you. But maybe being behind bars would be better than staying here.

"I will take care of them," Brahms says. His voice is normal now, and you are surprised at how good it sounds. "What will you do with them?" You ask him. "I will take care of them," he repeats his previous words, and you get the hint. "Okay," you nod. "Take care of them, Brahms." At your instruction, the man's posture straightens. He almost seems happy that you told him what to do. "I will go and make some tea, okay?" You ask him. He is not happy about letting you go out of his sight, but the promise of warm tea after he is done makes him relent.

You know this is your chance to escape, but you can't make yourself do it. You are too afraid. And too tired. You sit at the kitchen island for what it feels like forever. You hear Brahms moving around in the other room, and you can see his dark form outside, but the greenery of the garden hides what he is doing. Well, you have a guess, anyway.

"Are you done?" You ask him when he appears under the door of the kitchen. He is even more dirty than he was. His boots are almost black because of the mud outside.

You have to clean up everything tomorrow. You stop at the thought. What? There is no way you will stay and play nanny after this madness.

When Brahms nods, you push the other mug his way, and he sits down in front of you. "How will you-?" Before you can finish your question, he pulls on the mask, and you get a glimpse of his thick beard and lips. "Oh." For long seconds, none of you say anything. Brahms just stares at you while sipping from his cup, and you look back at him with several unanswered questions. "Brahms," you break the silence after a while, clearing your throat. You are still afraid to say the wrong thing and anger him. As it seems, he has a sure place for dead bodies. He says nothing but watches you, waiting. "You were here the… whole time?" He nods. "And the… doll? It is just a toy, isn't it?" He nods again. The thought of him watching you without your knowledge sends unease down your spine. He was there the whole time, and you did know nothing about it. "Your parents," you continue. The words roll down your tongue slowly and carefully. "They wanted to protect you." You heard about him killing a little girl. Brahms nods, putting down the mug onto the wooden surface. It's empty. You have not enough courage to ask him why he did what he did. "You…" Your throat tightens. "You killed those men so easily." He reminded you of a feral beast, taking down those men easily and quickly. Even when they begged, Brahms didn't have mercy in his heart to throw them out and let them run away. "They hurt you," he says. His gaze falls on your neck, watching the dark bruise already forming on your soft skin. It makes him angry. "You came out to protect me?" He looks into your eyes again as he nods. "Will you hurt me?" He thinks for a long, horrible second and shakes his head. The dark curls on the top of his head frame the porcelain mask on his face. "The mask," you continue. "You can take it off." His muscles tense, and he shakes his head again. "Okay," you nod, looking at the clock on the wall. "It's late Brahms. You should take a shower and go to sleep." "No," he replies, and his voice is childlike and high again. You frown at his answer. "Do you want to go to sleep like this?" You ask him. He is dirty and bloody and sweaty. He shakes his head. "Then go and shower. You will sleep better." "No." "Brahms," you sigh. "It's late, and I'm tired. Please, just do as I say." After watching over the doll for weeks, you fall into your caretaker role automatically. "Will you be there?" "While you shower?" He nods. "If you want me there." You have to force your face not to grimace. "Will you bathe me?" 'No' is your first reaction, but you keep it yourself. He is so calm now. You don't want to do anything that can disturb it. "If you want to." He nods again, standing up. "Then go and get some clothes and meet me in your room, okay?" You can see he wants to argue for a second but decides against it at the end. He must be tired, too.

While you wait for Brahms in his room, your eyes are glued to the doll in the middle of the bed. He stares back at you. The dim lights reflect in his glass eyes. You are almost angry at it. There were moments during your time here when you foolishly thought taking care of a toy wasn't the biggest waste of your time.

A thought gets stuck in your head, and you frown. Your eyes are still on the doll when you hear the real Brahms's arrival. "Brahms," you say his name. He stops, watching your back until you turn to look at him. He holds his clean clothes against his chest. "Your parent. They won't come back." Your question sounds like a statement, but the man nods anyway.

You need several deep breaths to calm yourself. Upsetting Brahms won't lead you anywhere good.

"Come," you break the silence after a while. Your voice is surprisingly steady. "The sooner you get cleaned, the sooner we can go to sleep."

In the small space of the bathroom, Brahms seems even bigger. He towers over you easily, watching you put his clean clothes on the toilet through his mask. His heart is wild in his chest. He imagined you this close to him so many times before. Of course, he acted on his desires several times, but now you are awake. You know about him. And you will stay. "Take off your clothes, Brahms," you tell him, trying to look everywhere else but him as he slowly does as you say. "You don't like me?" His voice is a mix of his real and childlike pitch. You gulp. "Of course, I like you, Brahms." "Then why don't you look at me?" He is confused. You don't like how he looks like? Maybe you would prefer Malcolm instead of him? The thought angers him. That man is weak and incapable of protecting you. You force yourself to look at him. "I just thought you would feel uncomfortable," you lie. Oh. The man calms down within a second. How nice of you. "Now go," you tell him, pointing at the already running water. For a moment, you think he will obey again, but at the last second, he grabs your wrist, trying to pull you with himself. "Brahms!" You gasp. "What are you doing?" "You are dirty, too." "I will take a shower after you go to sleep." "No." "Brahms!" You don't stand a chance against his strength. The sleeve of your shirt is already wet. "Get in with me!" The anger is clear and powerful in his voice. Blood freezes in your veins at his sudden aggression. "Okay! Okay!" You gasp, afraid. With a quick step, you are under the water, too, letting your clothes get soaked and stick to your body.

Being so close to him, you don't have any other option but to stare at his bare upper body. His skin is several shades darker, with dried blood and dirt on it. His chest is covered in dark hair that barely hides his hard muscles. How can he be so fit while living inside the walls?

"No," he breaks the silence when you reach out for the sponge. "I don't want that." After his last outburst, you decide to let it go. Pouring some soap in your palm, you smear it all over his chest. Your lungs burn for air as you stare into nothing, trying not to think about what you are doing right now. You can feel his muscles quiver and move under your touch. "Am I a good boy?" Brahms asks, making you look up at him in surprise. "Yes," you reply. "You are a good boy." "I protected you." "You did, Brahms." "And good boys get rewards, right?" You gulp. "I guess you are right." "Then take off your clothes." Fuck. "I will take off my clothes if you wash your hair. I can't reach it." The man thinks about it for a second, then nods. By the time you reach for your shirt, he is already washing his hair.

Brahms's heart thuds in his chest as he watches you get rid of your clothes. Soon, you are bare and soft in front of him. Your hair is soaked, and small drops of water run over your skin, caressing the parts he wants to touch, too. His large palms almost burn with need, and his fingers twitch with need. "Am I still a good boy?" He asks, staring down at you. He doesn't even try to hide the fact that he is mesmerized by your breasts. Your nipples are hard peaks almost grazing his chest. "Yes." Your reply is barely louder than a whisper. "Then I can wash you too." It's more of a statement. "Brahms, I don't think it-" Your words end in a startled gasp as he tugs you closer without your permission. His hands are large on your back. His erection is pressed between your bodies. The friction makes him grunt. He caresses your skin, starting on your back and slowly but surely slipping to your front. His thumb flicks over your nipples, playing and teasing them. "Brahms!" You want to sound stern, but your voice trembles at the pleasurable feeling that goes straight between your legs. When he tugs on one of your nipples, your back arches on its own. He knows your body better than you think, and his little secret pulls a naughty smirk on his lips. "Y/N," he says your name, almost whining. "You said I am a good boy." "You are," you tell him. "But you shouldn't-" Your moan is loud and clear in the small room. His long fingers slip between your legs even when you try to close your thighs. "Let me get my reward," he says, on the edge of demanding. "I am a good boy, Y/N. I protected you from those men." "You did," you cry out, feeling him on your most intimate part. His fingertips graze over your slit, opening you up to caress you some more. He isn't sure what he is doing, but it doesn't stop your body from reacting. You feel yourself getting wetter and wetter. His breathing is heavy next to your ear, and his hips rock against your stomach. He grinds his cock to your skin for some friction and whines every now and again. "Teach me, Y/N," he says. "Tell me what to do to be your good boy." If he is a good boy, you won't leave him. You won't even try it. "M-my clit," you tell him, reaching down for his hand to lead him to the small buddle of nerves. "Rub it, Brahms. Here!" He does as you say, watching your face to see what feels good and what isn't. The man draws small circles on your clit while his fingers get soaked in your juices. He can feel the familiar pull on his balls as he continues to grind against your body. Your soft stomach feels like heaven on his aching cock. Your hands snap up to his shoulders, grabbing onto the man to keep your balance. Your legs shake, and your thighs open for his curious fingers. He feels proud when he notices it. "Call me a good boy," he pants demandingly. "Tell me I'm your good boy, and you won't leave me." His fingers on you move faster, rubbing and teasing. "You are my good boy, Brahms," you tell him, gasping and moaning. Hot coil burns in your stomach as you feel your orgasm approaching. "So good!"

You almost fall against the tiles when Brahms squats down in front of you. Your nails scratch over the wall to find your balance. For long seconds, you forget how to breathe as you stare down at the man's curly, wet locks in front of you. You can feel the cold of his mask on your thigh as he pushes it out of the way. "Brahms!" Hearing his name falling out of your lips in a shocked cry makes his cock jerk and leak even more pre-cum.

The scent of your arousal is thick and heavy in his nostrils. Saliva gathers in his mouth as he takes several deep breaths to burn your smell in his memory. When one of your hands finds his hair in a strong pull, he doesn't waste any more time. He leans closer and closes his lips around the small bud he teased a few minutes ago. The vibration of his moan strikes over your body. Your taste floods his mouth, and he can't help but crave more. He devours your pussy like his life depends on it. His tongue flicks over your clit, and his cheeks hollow when he starts to suck on it. "Fuck!" You scream, letting your head fall backward. "Brahms!" Your hips grind down on his face with fastened pace as you chase your release. His muffled whines and moans echo in the small bathroom, mixing with your cries until both of you reach your highs and fall over the edge. His cum lands on the ground until the still running water washes it down the drain while your pussy gets cleaned by his tongue. Your muscles twitch and jerk under every swipe on your sensitive center. "Good boy, Brahms," you gasp for air. "You are my good boy."

[tiazennie]

I love...

Genre: Fluff (VERY MUCH) Jeno X Reader Warnings: Some harsh language andd that's about itt (lemme know if there's moreee :DD) Background: Your boyfriend asks you for a list on things you love about him but you weren't very sure of that idea as you find it hard on expressing your feelings towards him. Although, he had other plans. heavily inspired by the song Chest Pain (I love) by Malcolm Todd, haha LMEW:P ·˚୨୧꒰∗ɞ̴̶̷ ·̮ ɞ̴̶̷∗꒱୨୧˚·

"Really? You can't name one thing you love about me?" Jeno exclaims as you chuckle in response. "Seriously, I love everything about you I just can't seem to narrow it down one by one!" You say before putting your phone down and facing him, lips slightly in a pout which makes you chuckle. You wait for his response but he was persistent on ignoring you. You sigh before talking, "Fine, I'll try to write it down for you. But don't be surprised I do bad." You huff out and you see Jeno's eyes light up and his lips forming into a smile as he tries to hide it which makes you laugh softly. "I won't I promise." He says before crossing his chest and raising his left hand, you chuckle at the sight before laying down comfortably. "Then, we better sleep, you wanna receive it tomorrow right?" His response was a slight nod with a big smile, making your heart quench at the sight of your beautiful boyfriend. You just can't seem to comprehend the fact that the guy you've been dreaming of since freshman year was beside you, sleeping. You pinch your self a few times thinking it was all just a dream, and you would wake up to your bed alone. But instead, you feel the pain of your fingers nipping your skin and Noah still on your bed sound asleep. "Maybe this isn't a dream after all." You whisper to yourself before facing him with a slight smile, knowing you'll see him again tomorrow with both of you having swollen eyes and puffy cheeks from your oh so good night sleep.

"Y/n, Y/n, c'mon now. Wake up!" You hear vaguely and you guessed it, it was your boyfriend Jeno. Desperate for your small little note. "Jeno, I swear to God if it's still 7 in the morning I am going to kill you--" "But it's 8 in the morning." He whines still shaking you from your sleep, you could tell he was doing this to annoy you, and boy was it working. "Fine! I'm up." He stands up before cheering and giving you kisses all over your face. You shoo his face away lightly before standing up and entering your bathroom, but he pulls you back to the bed with him. "What-- I thought you wanted to me to het ready--" "I change my mind, let's just stay like this for a while, okay?" You soften at his word before melting to his embrace. Giving you a sense of comfort and secureness to his touch, and you could feel your self getting lulled back to sleep. Maybe you could add this to the things you love about him. ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Fin

(HELLO EVERYONE OMG I MISSED THIS APP SM, LMEW my account got hacked a while ago so I needed to find a way to get it back ANDD also I got major writers block SO I HAD A LOT TO CATCH UP ON ESPECIALLY ON WRITTING HUHUUH,,,, anywayy I hope you loved this as much as I loved writing it haha.. LOVE YOU GUYS SO SO MUCHH, wish to not get writers block ever again cause IT IS HARD. Please stay hydrated luvs, and hopefully you get a good night/day><) -Ria-

[abbysimsfun]

Sims In Bloom: Generation 2 Pt. 156 (Lady Ravendancer's Secret)

"That's my great-grandmother, Lady Ravendancer," Mortimer confirmed.

"And that guy kinda looks like Malcolm, don't you think? He's got the same angry look on his face, anyway." Holly grimaced at the mention of Ash's father. "Isn't Lady Ravendancer wearing the medallion Heather and Spencer saw in the Selvadorada museum? That was inscribed for her by a Malcolm A. Landgraab!"

"Where in the book did you find these?" Mortimer studied the photographs, which had no writing on the back. "Judging by the style, it looks like they're from the 1920s."

"I didn't get a good look at the page before I noticed the pictures. But it was near the back I think. The 'unstable spells' section. Declassify? Does that sound right?"

Cassandra and River joined the excitement over the discovered photos. "What if Lady Ravendancer was having an affair and learned about the Landgraab curse?" suggested Cass. She'd studied occult lore in high school and knew a little about different spells. "She was a good-hearted sorceress, right? What if she died trying to decursify her Landgraab lover, but it backfired?"

"It would mean the curse isn't just a story, and the necklace Heather and Spencer found in the jungle isn't a hoax." They looked quietly at their hands as River spoke. "Who's going to be the one to tell Heather while she's going through a custody fight?"

"Maybe...maybe we should wait," Holly suggested carefully. "At least until she and Conrad get custody back. I know how much Heather values the truth, but Mom says she's been really depressed lately. The clinic's about to shut down for a few weeks for final renovations, so she won't have anything else to think about if we tell her now."

"If we hold off, it'll give me more time to look into this," suggested Mortimer. "I want to make sure that's really the same Malcolm A. Landgraab whose name was on the necklace in the jungle, and I want to know if there's more I can find to confirm the way she died."

They agreed to wait as they left the library, making their way to the Gothic mansion in Mortimer's family name. "Maybe I can convince you to move here if you see the place up close," he said to Karl.

They stepped inside, overcome by the scent of dust and mothballs, but still awed by the classic old furnishings. They moved from room to room, examining the dark but luxurious abode.

"If no one lives here, who left the cooking ingredients on the dining room table?" Michael asked his dad. "Is it a ghost?"

River truly had no idea, but he erred on the side of reality with a frown. "Maybe someone working for Goth x was in the place recently."

"This old house belongs to Mom's family?"

"It does. It might even be older than our house back in Henford."

Upstairs, Mortimer and Cassandra had found an old chess set in a bedroom. "A match for old time's sake?" he suggested, and Cassandra offered a polite smile.

"Sure, dad. Red or black?"

"You can choose."

Cassandra chose black - her favourite colour - and Mortimer arranged his red pieces on the other side of the board. They played their first few moves in silence, and Cassandra watched her father while he looked carefully at the checked squares. He was better with writing; she'd have to be the one to speak first.

"I was never angry at you for leaving. I just wanted to make sure Mom was okay and then River and I got married and I moved to Henford. It's not that I haven't wanted to spend more time with you. But I feel like you don't want to call."

"I do want to call, but I never really addressed it with any of you. I know Dexter best through updates from your mother."

"So why don't you change that? I heard you and Karl talking about retirement, and you can write anywhere. I know for a fact Dexter wishes he had the kind of memories with you that Alex and I do."

"I invited him on this trip, but he said he was going camping with his girlfriend."

"When it's time to tell Heather the truth, go to Brindleton Bay and get to know him better. We've all forgiven you for the affair, and none of us misunderstood why you moved out, but you're the one whose stayed away since."

"She's right." Karl emerged in the room at the top of the stairs with Cass' youngest son, Sammy, taking a seat on the edge of the perfectly-made bed. "I think I could retire here, you know. I think I want to call in a ghost hunter before we might move in, but you were right when you said the place is big enough for family to come visit. It might not feel as far away as I think."

While Mortimer and Karl considered the logistics of such a move upstairs, Holly and Kris were getting fresh air with their girls outside.

"I think I need to go to Brindleton Bay for Heather," announced Holly. "Hopefully she'll get Ash back in the custody hearing, but Mom thinks Heather's really struggling."

"I still can't believe the Landgraabs did this."

"I know. If I ever set eyes on Malcolm I'll..." Holly glanced cautiously at their daughters. "I think I should take Betta for a few months to make sure she's coping with the baby coming and Lavender running wild. I can afford the time off work, and Betta's not in school yet."

Kris had never argued with his wife because they'd been on the same wavelength since they started dating in high school, and to her latest announcement, he nodded easily. "Tetra and I can take care of things in the city while you're gone."

Though the family had spent a nice vacation learning secrets and lore, their trip couldn't last forever, and it was time for the narrative to circle back to the main household, anyway. ->

<- Previous Chapter | Gen 2 Start | Gen 2.1 Summary

Gen 1 Start | Gen 1 Summary

WCIF Poses & Sims: Malcolm A. (for Admiral) Landgraab and Lady Ravendancer Goth are posed with @nefaricussims' Moment of Peace and @starrysimsie's You and Me posepacks in the jazz club (the shot from the teaser post on the weekend was also from this pack), and with @simmerianne93's Couple poses 02 on the beach.

Many living versions of Lady Ravendancer Goth are up on the Gallery, but I grabbed one from user DarkChadmeister. For Malcolm A. Landgraab, I downloaded a Gallery-submitted version of the Landgraab sailor of Sims lore. But in my head the boating admiral was Malcolm Admiral Landgraab's father and looked a little more like a gentleman than this swashbuckler. Malcolm A., who called himself "Admiral," went out west to become a successful rancher in my headcanon, and I gave the upload by Levkoni red hair - a Landgraab trait until they started marrying blondes!

I changed some of their outfits in CAS, but I'm so grateful people put stuff like this on the Gallery. Otherwise, I'd have to play through the tarot collection of spend lifetime points on it before getting my own Lady Ravendancer in-game, and I love players who go to the trouble of creating and uploading minor lore characters I want to use but don't want to make myself!

[the-monkeies-girl]

*reader talking with Malcolm's wife, and she complements readers hair beads made by the female apes*

Reader: aw thank you, I never get compliments often *side eyes caesar*

Caesar: *gives the "bitch what" look*

This is the funniest thing because imagine that night, you're in the nest tangling your hair out of the beads and Caesar is watching with baited breath because he genuinely does think that you are beautiful. Like, he's aware he does not verbalize it often, he knows that you called him out earlier in front of Humans. You're deathly quiet as you pull the beads out, almost placing them down pseudo-aggressive.

"You... are angry."

"You think so?" Caesar is quiet and huffs out of his nose from minor frustration. Why... Were you like this sometimes? He did not know, he did not understand but he chose to press on regardless, "Why?" "No reason, just tired I think. Long day at the dam helping my fellow Humans." You uttered, turning to face him finally and unbuttoned your flannel shirt so you could snuggle into an oversized t-shirt for bed. "You know, they're just so nice."

Ah. So... That's what this was about. His green gaze falls to your bare chest and then back to your eyes as you're holding the t-shirt in your hands, raising an eyebrow, "What? Do you have a staring problem?" Anger flares for a moment as does his nostrils at the absolute audacity of the tone that you used. "I... Do not understand... Why you are being this way." "Would it pay you to give me a compliment?" You uttered and slid the shirt on much to Caesar's digression as he was no able to see less of your bare flesh. "You know, we humans, as tough as I might appear to be. We like that. Compliments. Telling us that we're pretty, or funny, or smart---"

"You know I feel that way, why is it important for me to say it constantly?" "I'm not asking for constant." You rolled your eyes and trailed towards the nest and quite frankly, threw yourself in and tangled yourself into the animal hides that kept you warm when Caesar was not with you. "Geez, you really don't get it."

Caesar grunts, following you into the bed and before you're aware of what was happening, you're pinning flat on your back and he's hovering over you with a hand on the entire scape of his stomach, your skin lighting itself on fire in sudden arousal as you made eye contact with him and felt yourself sink back a bit a the intensity. The nest creaked under you at the sudden shift in weight as Caesar commandeered you and almost had you in a straddle.

"Do you want to hear how much I want you?" You were going to utter a yes but nothing came out, surprised by the bluntness of his words. He was brash, this you knew very well, but he kept these thoughts to himself for a reason you figured, having pressed a bit too far into the rabbit hole but there was no denying that the hold he had on you was exhilarating. "How much... Your scent... Drives me..." Caesar drew his head down and rested it in the crook of your neck. "how I want to... pick at your skin with my teeth. Every... single... part..." Hot and heavy breathing erupted between the two of you as you squirmed out of heady arousal, Caesar's voice tearing into the deepest piece of his baritone that he was capable of reaching and it felt like he was rumbling against you like thunder. All the more enticing, all the more alluring. "You do not understand the want I have to always be near you, to have myself inside of yo---" "I-I was just asking you to call me pretty every once in a while, Ceasar. No-nothing that serious." Swallowing softly, you knew exactly where his sentence was going to end and cut it short out of minor embarrassment that he was able to get you so flustered with just tones and words. He got quiet above you and let his hand drift upwards to encase one of your breasts that caused you to arch against him. "You are pretty."

Well, that was better than nothing, you chuckled to yourself, feeling the heat rise in your navel as you pulled your arms around him to tug his larger body against yours without reserve.

[marimayscarlett]

WE HAVE BEEN FED!! 🙌🏻♥️🖤

Hi 👋🏻

We really have been fed, with the warmest and cosiest meal I could imagine today - a relaxed and enthusiastic Richard 🥹 I might sound a bit irrational here, yet I have to say that these interviews, especially the audio one, really gave me so much joy and warmth and strength! I couldn't help it, I already noted down some of his answers from the audio interview (with the YouTube channel 'Guitarristas'), so here are three moments I really enjoyed (even though nobody asked for them):

- Richard on the topic of heavy raining throughout concerts: "I always feel more for the people out there, like being in the rain and being cold and stuff like that, than for myself. That's why I always say "Listen, I don't wanna have an umbrella or something", because it [...] looks so stupid, you trying to protect yourself. Which, on one hand, you know, when you only considere playing, it would be better; but, you know, in that moment - who gives a fuck? You know, just be part of everyone else".

- Richard on his development in the studio: "When you start with a band, you know, you're a baby. You don't really understand a lot of things, you know. Even, like, production in the studios, you're relaying on other people, and then [...] you, like, grow up and move along, you have experience being in the studios and be more confident about certain things, things are changing. [...] There's a lot of parameters which have changed, that brought us to a certain kind of aspects of sounding records. I think with 'Mutter' I was on the peak of doubling myself 24 times sometimes. And I was just so into playing guitars that nobody could stop me, which was probably a lot annoying of other people."

- Richard on the differences of guitar gear between Paul and him: "Very different (laughs). Yeah, we're very opposite, which is sometimes very hard to manage. But what we did, like, at least the first five records, with the help of our producers, we basically created a sound which was one sound rather than having two sounds. [...] For me, it was always important to actually have the stereo signal of the guitar left and right the same. Because we also played the same riffs in the same way - it wasn't like that we played it differently like Angus and Malcolm [from AC/DC]. So we basically...left and right was always the same soundwise and the way we played."

Especially the last part touched me somehow: he talks about how different he and Paul are, and yet they are united in the same sound that he values so deeply. What I found quite charming: The YouTube channel that hosted the interview inserted this image into the video during that part 😊:

[accihoe]

Christmas Surprise

Pairing: Sergeant!Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

Summary: I don't want to spoil it, read and find out 💕

Warnings: mentions of war and army stuff

A/n: Merry Christmas, folks. I hope you all have a blessed day. I think it's kind of obvious what the story is about, but I hope you like it.

Read this pls❤️

Xxxx

"It's a pity James won't be making it this year. He's scarcely been around for Christmases since Papa passed, and Y/N seemed to have changed that, I thought. Though I suppose he is part of the army now, and they need him for war and all that."

"I was under the impression that all soldiers in training got Christmas off. But I know nothing about military matters, so don't trust my judgment."

Y/N stood in the hallway as her sisters-in-law spoke, Rebecca and Rudy (I made Rudy up for the sake of the story). Her heart beat heavily in her chest as she stared at the framed sketch of James Buchanan Barnes, drawn by Steven. G. R. .

With a smooth of her hands down her apron, she walked into the kitchen. The chatter instantly and awkwardly shifted to the peas that stood on the counter, and Rudy scattered to look for the rolling pin, that was tucked into the front pocket of her apron.

"It's alright, I heard. And Rudy's right. Jamie was supposed to come home four days ago, but for some reason him and his commando friends got refused dismissal or something."

Rebecca sighed, setting down her eggnog, and went to Y/N, laying a hand on her shoulder.

"Y/N/N,"

"Becca, it's quite alright. I really understand your concern, I do. I just feel bad for Jamie. He often spoke of his fondness for Christmas."

Rebecca gave another sad sigh and looked at Judy, who understood the silence.

"Well, on a different note. We've managed to scrounge together some canned versions of James's favourites. It ain't the real deal,"

"But it's pretty damn near."

Rebecca finished Rudy's sentence, allowing a little humour to fill the space. Y/N chuckled lightly, picking up a can of peas. This Christmas would be their 5th without Rudy's husband Joe, their 3rd without their father, and their 16th Christmas without their mother. And now, it would be their 3rd with Y/N, and 1st without Bucky. The three sisters (minus Y/N, merely Bucky's girlfriend, but they went by that nickname), were left to spend Christmas by themselves.

A knock at the door pulled the three women from their thoughts. They shared a look: that was not a feminine knock. It could mean one of three things;

•James was home by some miracle

•They were about to geat dreaded news about James

•The old man next door sent by his wife for sugar

•Rebecca's secret admirer (though this thought was only shared by Y/N and Ruby, and had James been there, him too)

"I'll go get it."

Y/N rushed to the door, heart pounding excitedly. To her dismay, it was Tom, the butcher's son. Y/N's heart sank and her smile faded to an annoyed expression.

"Tom. What can I do for you?"

"Merry Christmas, beautiful."

Y/N sighed, about to close the door when he handed her an envelope. Y/N cocked a brow, hesitant to take it.

"What's this?"

"It's from the post office. Mr. Bennett asked me to deliver it to you. Says the sender pleaded."

Y/N reached to take it but Tom pulled it back.

"Uh uh, first, Malcolm sent you something, and you need to take it before I give you your letter."

Y/N groaned, rolling her eyes.

"I am not obligated to take it."

"Well I'm not obligated to give this letter to you. It's just a favour."

Y/N narrowed her eyes and pressed her lips into a fine line.

"Fine."

Tom picked up a wrapped tin box and handed it to Y/N. Her gut sank, she knew what was in the tin. Tom placed the letter on the box and left. Y/N retrieved inside silently and placed her belongings upstairs in her room. She locked her door and ripped open the paper, sighing heavily when she saw the note on top of the expensive boots she'd been dreaming about.

Just a glimpse of what a real man could give you. Merry Christmas.

The note read.

She felt too bad to open the letter she knew was from James.

-Fast forward to eating time-

After the girls had dished up and said Grace, they sat at the table, ready to eat. Another knock sounded at the door, a man's knock. But a specific pattern belonging to only one man.

"James!"

The three girls said together and got up, but Y/N beat the rest to the door. The door was jerked open, blowing Y/N's hair from her face from the friction. Her stomach swarmed with fiery butterflies when her eyes registered the man before them.

"Buck,"

His signature grin spread across his face before he stepped forward, dropping his bags. Before she knew it, her lover was crushing her bones (just about) in a hug. Y/N's arms wrapped around his neck as he stood on a step lower than her. She felt his figure move as he inhaled her scent.

"What are you doing here? I thought you weren't allowed?"

"I'm not. But no command from any general jackass is gonna stop me from seeing my baby on Christmas."

Y/N laughed, pulling away to flick his forehead before hugging him again. The 'three sisters' made quick work of fixing Bucky a plate while he freshened up upstairs. Y/N couldn't keep her eyes from James as they ate the lunch. She could see the beginning of stress on his features, the slight fatigue from training, but there was something else.

He'd always been a pro at masking his true feelings, but the usual "Bucky shimmer" in his eyes was missing. He tried hard not to lock eyes with Y/N over lunch, but he couldn't keep his eyes from her. Though it'd been a mere two weeks, he'd missed her.

"Becks? I feel something is the matter with James. But I don't want to worry him asking, or pry, he just- oh I don't know he seems off."

Rebecca put down the plate she was washing and turned to Y/N with her own signature look.

"If anyone knows him well, it's you. So I'd say to trust your gut."

With that, Rebecca returned to washing the dishes. Y/N smiled faintly at the tilted floors of the Barnes' kitchen and nodded to herself.

"If it's alright with you, I think I'm going to have a word with him. See if he's alright."

"It's fine by me. Judy's the one you should be worryin' about. Now go, shoo, before she comes back from her rendezvous in the powder room (yes I'm implying that she's taking a dump)."

With a giggle shared between the younger girls Y/N scurried upstairs, knocking on the door of the guest bedroom, her bedroom for the holidays.

"Give me a moment."

James called back.

"Jamie, sugar, it's me."

"In that case give me two moments."

Bucky sassed. At least he was being himself. Y/N pushed the door open, thankful it wasn't locked. She instantly knew what was off. The stupid boots from Malcolm.

"What happened to respecting a man's privacy?"

He frowned at her.

"Darling I don't believe you get much of that in the army, and besides, I don't want us to spend the little time we have together on the blessing of a day brawling about a stupid third party inconvenience."

"So the fella you've been seeing is called 'stupid third party inconvenience?'"

Y/N shook her head with a soft laugh.

"I'm not seeing anybody, James."

"Then what's this?"

He pointed toward the boots, that remained untouched. Y/N sighed, putting the lid over them.

"My letter is right next to them. You didn't even open it. Though perhaps a mere letter that I split my ass to get to you isn't 'manly' enough is it?"

"James, language, and please, let me explain."

His furrowed brows dropped slightly, and Y/N took his silence as her opportunity to explain.

"You remember that rich kid whose father owns the country club?"

Bucky nodded apprehensively.

"I accidentally knocked my bag off a table a few weeks back, and he assisted me in picking up my belongings. He hasn't left me alone since. He's had his friend, or more like servant Tom deliver things to me ever since. Tom wouldn't give me your letter unless I accepted his gift. And I knew what it was going to be, but I was so horrified at his gesture, that I felt too ashamed to open your letter. I'm sorry."

".....Well he's not man enough to enlist."

James said after a moment of silence. Y/N chuckled through her nose and nodded.

"And he's not man enough to deliver the gifts himself."

Y/N nodded, smoothing a hand down James's arm, and then took ahold of his hand.

"You're all I want, Bucky. Believe you me. There's no overly priced pair of boots that could make me change my mind about that."

It was Bucky's turn to laugh at her comment.

"But does he know you've got a suitor?"

Y/N nodded, an irritated expression across her features.

"He knew when I dropped my bag, he knew when I was at the train station to send you off and he waited there to talk to me. And the gifts have ampled since your departure."

Bucky's jaw ticked, and Y/N felt his fingers clasped around hers twitch.

"What do you say you and I pay him a visit and return his gift?"

"Isn't that a little rude, especially on Christmas day?"

"Dollface, we're amidst a world war, I couldn't give a damn about being polite to a jackass who's tryna steal my girl."

"Buck you know he'll never succeed, right?"

"I do trust so. But still, I want to rub it in his face."

"James, baby, come on. If we give him a reaction, he'll probably like it. It'll give him the impression that he's getting to you."

"You were always the clever one in this relationship. So what do you suggest we do, miss smarty pants?"

Y/N hummed, pretending to think as she rubbed her chin.

"Well, for starters, you never call me that again. And, perhaps you and I dress nicely, beg Becca to use her camera, and post him a picture of us with Christmas regards written on the back."

"Not mean enough."

"There's a twist?"

James cocked an eyebrow, intrigued.

"I'm wearing the boots he sent."

James's face broke out into a boyish grin.

"Sounds more like it. I'm in. Get dressed, dollface, I'll use my baby blues on Becks."

"Work your magic Sergeant."

Y/N called as he left the room.

Xxxx

Fin. Merry, merry Christmas, people. I've derailed a little, I'm sorry. Never forget the true meaning behind Christmas, and never forget that you're loved.

Lots of love and best wishes

(Yes I am planning on a pt.2 depending on how well this does)

[poppuppink]

WE GOING TO TALALA WITH A DOLL? PART 3

Summary: The first day all on your own with Brahms, things were good. It was fine until Malcom showed up. "Maybe you were better off getting a different grocery boy.", Brahms thought as he wreaked havoc on Malcom.

TW: Brahms making creepy moves, stalking, obsessive behavior, LORE BECAUSE THE FIRST FILM MADE ME FEEL EMPTY, I spelled Malcolm wrong, but I don't really care Word Count: 3.1k

The day the old couple left for their trip, you were oddly uptight, as if the silence proposed an unwelcome presence rather than isolation. You held Brahms at your hip, ensuring to have finished all the tasks left in the handbook before you decided to relax. Even though the old couple had left early in the morning, most of the chores were attended to by then. It wasn't long before you finished everything that needed to be done without breaking a sweat.

Brahms in one hand, you sat on the couch with a huff and relaxed your shoulders. You gazed at the phonograph that played loudly on your left as the weight of Brahms leaning onto you provided a sort of comfort from the isolation inside the mansion. It hasn't even been a full day alone, yet you've done all the chores and had time to spare. The reception or internet connection did not exist within the Heelshire estate, which was another factor you were curious about, but never had the guts to ask the couple in person. With the boredom eating you up, you decided to explore the mansion with Brahms.

Yes, you have already explored portions of the estate to fulfill the tasks in the handbook, but that doesn't mean you had the luxury to explore all of it without your hands tied up with work. So while you had the chance, you stood up with Brahms and headed up the staircase that connects to the second floor, where the bedrooms were situated. The music settled down as you ascended the carpet-furnished stairs. Steps creak along with the wood of the handrail, demonstrating the senility of the mansion growing alongside the Heelshire family. The sounds fill you with slight excitement with what's to expect from the second-floor rooms.

You glanced at Brahms and made a comment

"Brahms, I'll be exploring some rooms upstairs, okay? I'm bored and I want to learn more about this place while I can; is that okay, Brahms?"

You slightly moved the hand holding onto the doll, making it seem like a nod of approval.

You smile, "Thank you, Brahms!"

As you giggle at the childish display you enacted, you fail to notice the creaks of the mansion walls following you. The echo in the mansion made it hard for anyone to tell where any noise could be coming from; that was all that Brahms could thank for living inside the dingy display of his current location.

He had kept his eye on you ever since he spotted you entering the mansion doors all those days ago. His parents had already given up after countless nannies ran from his hauntings within the walls, but he applauds his parents' persistence to at least ease themselves of the guilt of having their child living among them in secret.

Brahms was impatient and wanted you now, but he backed off when he remembered his obsession with past nannies and how it led to disastrous outcomes. Sure, he may have displayed serious obsessive tendencies toward his nannies to provide him with love his parents could not admit giving him, but it's been years since he last remembered an authentic interaction with another person. So he settled to test your determination to stay within the mansion with his immoral tactics. Gifts he'd already started working on to give you and, at the same time, small scare tactics to prepare you when he does show up.

What great luck to find you still as kind as ever even when left alone with him. His previous nannies all left him alone on a chair, covered up sometimes to dismiss his stare. He hated that and punished them with loud bangs in the walls and shredding their belongings into pieces. He felt no remorse for his actions when they cried, but soon fell into a depression period when they left the estate. During those times, he'd need at least a few months to recover before he started to shake the mansion with his tenacious cries for another person to come over.

He sighs dreamily as you hold his doll tight in one hand and even make a silly gesture with it as if it were him you were talking to. He followed you up to the second floor, his footsteps making intentional noise to scare you slightly but just sounding off right as you made your own noise on the stairs. He doesn't want to spook you off the face of the earth, surely. He only wants to prepare you to not run when he appears to you in person.

As you reach the second floor, you pass by the family portait. Pause in your step, you glance sadly at the little boy in the picture. Stories about Brahms weren't always discussed in the estate; the couple talks as if he's still alive and neverchanging. It breaks your heart knowing the doll in your hands was to cope with the Heelshires' dead son

You continue to walk and soon reach Brahms' room. His room was kept in a fraction of time, no matter how many years have passed. The toys and trinkets on the walls age in trend among the generations. The closet holding onto clean clothes fit for a boy of one age, always washed and returned inside, but never added with more or disregarded in numbers.

His toys and books filled the room as if it were always in use, but you know the only thing that keeps them in motion is because the couple made sure that you always had some time to play with Brahms, either by reading or playing with him. What was most surprising about the room was the title of the books. While everything was meant for an eight-year-old, the page contents that littered the shelf were worded for adults of at least 20 years of age.

You take out a book and open it to a random page. A fake gasp of surprise leaves your mouth

"Brahms, you shouldn't be reading this!" You jolt slightly at Brahms and return the book

"Those books will fill you with weird ideas, Brahms. Next thing you know, you're acting like Erik Destler." You snort at your own joke before one of the toys caught your attention

Strange

The toy plane on the drawer was facing towards the door and not at the wall. You were sure the toy moved places, since the Heelshires had made it adamant for you to play with Brahms and his toys. Therefore, you always tried to appease them by ensuring the play things were arranged the same way you saw them the first time you arrived at the mansion.

Behind your fixated eyes, Brahms watches your observation. He was the one who moved the toy for you to notice, which he thought you'd notice later this evening during your nightly routine with his doll form. He was already excited to make his presence known and love you with all his might, but he was also refraining to do so due to past experiences. You see, Brahms was already desperate for attention from other people; his parents knew all too well why. Isolated from society and even the few people of this mansion has pushed him to crave for attention with his growing desire to be loved.

Yes, his parents do love him, but the pride and guilt has set boundaries within the family from ever truly presenting their love for one another authentically. So when their guilt started to weigh more, just as the walls groan when they treat the doll with more love than their own son, they decide to find a replacement to fill the void. Though to keep their image from further harm, they were looking for nannies to accustom their lives within the mansion and for Brahms to do what he wishes to them. It was sickening knowing that their son was neglected even by the very people they hire and train to care for his dummy version. Brahms retaliated each nanny's treatment with even more sickening outbursts.

He huffs at the memories of anger towards his previous nannies, but soon shakes off the loneliness they gave him when he glances back at you. A smile finds its way on his face as your reactions to just a small detail was better received than he expected. At first, he was prepared you would start to freak out and call or even invite visitors to calm your nerves, but you only sighed in understanding? How strangely interesting you are

You're not gonna lie, you're fucking scared

You agreed to the job out of sympathy and the easy pay, but isolated here with a doll resembling an old couple's son and their habits with it? You really want to book it out of here. At the same time, it was somehow endearing in a way that if for some odd reason the mansion's hauntings were caused by Brahms in some way, it was oddly nice that he was interacting with you. I mean, it's not always when you're haunted by a deceased person, especially not one from a mysterious and odd couple. Nevertheless, the haunting noises scare you slightly (to some point to literally run out of the estate), but never enough to see yourself out. So what to do? Well, you decided to make it less scary, through forced comedy.

"Brahms, have you been playing without me?" You cover your mouth in shock

The hand on Brahms moves the doll like a puppet, enacting the reaction of being caught

"Oh Brahms, did you grow impatient? I promised to play with you after the chores, didn't I?" The doll bows its head in guilt and you let out a giggle

"That's okay Brahms, we can play later after we explore the mansion, okay? Wouldn't you like to introduce me to your nice home?" Brahms nod in excitement, just as the real man nodded behind the cracks.

"Good, we still probably have a few more minutes to explore before Malcom comes over." At this, you make Brahms look away to scoff

If only you knew that the real Brahms is literally repeating your own actions in real time. Brahms was impatient as is setting his gifts and scares for the long run, but the grocery boy? Well, even a second with him makes him infuriated.

What better way to deal with a problem with violence? Well, not brutal harm, at least. Brahms was aware that the food and sole transportation in the house was the grocery boy, so killing him off would make it hard for both you and him to survive. Besides that, he believes the vehicle could be of use for interesting scenarios he planned out for both of you.

(He cannot drive)

As Brahms gets lost in his thoughts, you've exited the room and walked through the hallway. Besides the intricate design of animal heads littering the walls, the small door leading to the attic catches your eye

Shit

You weren't supposed to enter the attic until later tonight. Brahms scrambled from his position behind the Ram's head and makes way to the attic with quick and quiet feet. It took him a few years to find the creaks in every position of the house, but it was worth it to memorize and avoid the unnecessary fright he could give you.

You hummed in curiosity before you placed Brahms on top of a table, facing him towards the attic door.

"Brahms, you wouldn't mind if I go up there right?"

The unmoving doll just stares in silence. You smile and start looking for the attic hook. The attic was never explored or mentioned by the Heelshires, so your growing curiosity stayed as is whenever you passed by the close contraption.

Once you've found the hook, you start tinkering around the latch to let down the ladder. With one pull, you already anchored yourself away from where you believe the ladder could hit you.

It didn't though? The door seems to be stuck for some odd reason. Which would still be an odd reason if you knew that Brahms was fighting against your weight pulling the stick and gravity from opening the door.

His mask starts to build up with moisture as you soon start to jump with the stick with all your might. Regardless of your strength, Brahms was victorious when he heard you huff in defeat.

The disappointment latches on to you when the door refuses to budge at all. It was no joke that you were putting your trust out there for the Heelshires to see your determination to keep their own in good grace, but if such a place like the mansion could operate well even after decades of housing the couple, just what kind of secret does the attic hold to be stuck? It doesn't help that the attic hook was clean and used; why would it still be accessible to others if the attic was always this stuck shut?

Before you could ponder some more, it dawned upon you that the blaring sounds of a car horn and the jangle of the gates rang in your ears.

MALCOM

Placing the hook back, you grab Brahms and start rushing down the stairs. On the other side, Brahms scrambles alongside you when he realizes who was outside.

Just as you reach the last few steps, the carpet turns with your heel and soon you're falling with Brahms in your protective grip.

A yelp and groan escaped your lips as the pain resided on your left shoulder. The ringing from the fall is still present as you get up, not aware that Brahms yelped with you. His hands gripped the edge of a hidden door, but he refused to exit when his plan for you flashed before him. Never blinking eyes follow your every move, and just the stare alone was probably why your nerves were steeled even after the fall.

Just outside the mansion was Malcom who's been trying to get your attention to open the gates. In his front seat, a small bouquet of flowers lay. He was already taking his chance to shoot his shot with you, even when your interest was solely on the money.

"Hello? ____?" He shakes the gates to make more noise of his known presence.

Just as he went back to his car to honk again, he heard a scream from the mansion. He looks back to the doors and sees your form rushing towards him. Letting out a sigh of relief, he gets in his car and start the engine.

"Malcom! I'm so sorry, did you wait long? I was busy exploring and I kinda lost track of time." You explained in a hurry, huffing for air every few seconds

"Oh it's fine, love. I didn't wait long at all." Malcom reassures you and waves at Brahms by your hip.

The kitchen was rather unique for the Heelshire mansion. It was furnished in light and white color, a large contrast compared to the main rooms. If the mansion felt like an upper class delight, the kitchen was homey in its entirety than any other room.

"Besides the bread box to your left, the cupboards will brim with these fellas over here." Malcom gestures to the bread buns in your hand and to the table with canned goods.

"Oh okay. Would that mean these go here too?" Your other hand rests on the crackers and points at the ceramic cookie jar

"Oh no, those belong in the larder."

Turning on your heel, you scrunch your eyebrows at Malcom

"Come again?" You asked

"Sorry love, I meant the pantry." Malcom smiles and motions to the closed door near the fridge.

"Ah, got it."

As you and Malcom work in silence with the occasional flirty comment from him, Brahms sits idly on the counter you placed him on; just right beside the real man glaring daggers at Malcom. The flowers Malcom gave you were crushed under Brahms' grip. The vase that held the flowers was replaced with flowers Brahms personally picked himself. He may be stuck in the mansion for over two decades, but that doesn't mean he never learned from the books and his dad on what kind of flowers a person like you would enjoy.

In all honesty, the flowers Malcom got you made you feel uncomfortable. Not just the fact that it was out of romantic interest, but you were also scared if you rejected his advances, you'd be in the same position Greta was in with her abusive ex-boyfriend. Malcom ranted about something to do with a harsh rain storm coming soon and advised you to prepare for a blackout during those times. You nodded in agreement, already thinking about how to cozy up the mansion and clean where daylight cannot reach.

"I can help board up the windows around here, if you'd like. The Heelshires call me up sometimes when a storm comes along. You wouldn't believe how updated they are about the weather; they always came prepared to protect their home from the ceiling to the smallest pebble on their land!" Malcom joked

"Oh yeah?"

"Oh, if only you witnessed them last spring-" He points outside the window to the garden wall next to the mansion, "Those plants rooted near the wall keep the flood water from entering the walls."

"Oh, you did all that?" You asked in surprise, and Malcom nods at your words

The mansion was huge, no question. To secure all that to keep their home intact was a lot of work, but to make one man work alone? That's weirdly questionable. Could they not have hired more people? Besides Malcom, the driver and gate men were the only people you noticed throughout your time here.

Your concerned look gets a word out of Malcom

"It wasn't all bad, love. The Heelshires love this home, they'd do anything to keep it in tip-top shape." He gives a thumbs up

As you exit the pantry, Malcom slowly starts to make even flirtier comments. Brahms watches the entire fiasco happen, the flowers thrown away into a molded mass of goop. He moves to another section in the kitchen out of your sight, opening a compartment on his end to grab the ice pick near the freezer. If Malcom can't take a hint, he'd give him a reason to stop coming by.

With quiet steps, Brahms exits the Manor and approaches Malcom's car. Lifting the hood of the car, he spots the coolant expansion tank. Ice pick in hand, he stabs the plastic container with force as his other hand grips the ridge of the car from jolting along. Liquid oozes out of the tank and Brahms huffs in satisfaction, closing the hood. He quickly bolts back into the kitchen walls to find you gone.

Where did you go?

[chrisgirl03]

Like him

Disclaimer: if you do not like the name I used in this story you can changed it or you can not read it up to you- nova

Matt and nova have been together for 2 years, out the whole 2 years of the relationships matt and nova weren't very arguementive. For some reasons they always seem to agree on everything but for today they didn't get along.

Nova- I don't understand why you so mad im going to party you act like i go hangout with him

Matt- im not mad at you for going to a party, i just don't want you to be around him or near malcolm

Nova- well im not going to be around him i don't know why you act im going to cheat on you or i have cheated but it don’t matter because im going weather you like it not

Matt- Im not deal with your shits today

Nova povs

I left matt house to head home to get ready for my best friend party as i was driving i decied to call my best friend charlie

charlie - hello

Nova- girl tell me why me and matt just got into this big ass argument because i wanted to be go to damn party

Charlie- what the issue with party

Nova- because malcolm was going to be their and matt does not like him or get along with him

Charlie- matt is being so dramatic for no reason he act like you sleep in the same house as him you only be here for an hour

Nova- i know he doing the most but it don't matter i told im going whether he likes it or not but im drive Charlie i will talk to you later

Charlie- bye girl

I finally made it home it was like 7:30ish I started the shower. I got in after that I got dressed and did my makeup and I was ready to go, right before i left i decided to text matt to see if he was okay after the fight.

Nova- hey matt im sorry for the argue with I didn't want it to go that way whats so ever I just hate when you get like that

Matt- babe im sorry to for even acting like that and for start a fight with you, I do trust you I don't know i just didn't wants you around him

Nova- it's fine I be at your house after the party i'm only be here for an hour and i'm spend the night

matt- okay I see you later love you

nova- love you too

I finally headed out and made it to the party and I saw Charlie we hangout the whole time and we took pictures I was heading into the kitchen to get a drink and I saw Malcom and I know he saw me because we made eye content and he started walking my way.

Malcom- hey how you been nova

nova- great

I said as I was grabbing my cup

Malcom - you look nice i like your outfit

Nova- thank you

Malcom- how matt doing is he great ?

Nova- he great, it was nice talking to you but I gotta get going

Malcom- you too

nova povs

I had to hurry up and end the conversations because if someone could of record me around him and a fan saw im honestly fuck matt would lose his shit

i lost charlie and so i took a couple sips of my drink and i texted her

nova - where you at im finna go and you won't believe what just happened

Charlie - talking to this cute guy also what happened

nova- i talk to Malcom well mainly he talk to me ask how i was doing and how was matt i low key confused why he would have a conversations with because he knows matt does not like him at all and plus if matt ever finds out that me and him talk he would lose his shit like really he going to be pissed.

Charlie - i know let hope he never finds out that you talk to him we can talk about this later

Nova- well see you later im head out

i ended up leave out to head to matt house because i was low key get tired as i walk to my car i texted matt to let him know i was on my way.

i finally made it to matt house and i walk into matt room he was already laying down i took my shoes off and hope right in the bed with him

matt- you look cute

nova- thank you

matt - i need to tell you something

nova- what

matt- me and my brother going on the surprise party tour

nova- omg bro im gonna miss you so much

matt- you don't have to miss me if you come with me on tour

nova- i guess i'll come with you on tour when we leave ?

matt - next week

nova - really matt, thank for late heads up

matt- you welcome

it been a weak and we leave for the surprise party tour everyone got on the tour bus and we been drive for hours. we finally made it to the hotel and we all went to sleep.

we made it to san antonio texas and the boys have a show and i was get ready for the show and i left my phone on the desk and me and matt shared hotel room and as i was in the bathroom getting ready all i hear is my phone going off i ask matt to head me my phone and as he walking into the bathroom

he said why the hell do malcom have your phone number

nova- what are you talk about

matt- you have a text from him it fuck says hey it malcom

nova- well i don't know how he got my number matt

matt- you fuck do stop play fuck dumb nova

nova - can you hand me my phone

matt- oh you want your phone now

matt slammed my phone on the ground and it broke so bad matt said her your fuck phone and walk off.

@sturniolo04

[crepesuzette2023]

Hold up ,,, Mal called Paul his love in his diaries?

Yes. In his autobiography. He also analyzed their relationship in his diaries. For some context, here's a longer passage from Ken Womack's book, Living the Beatles Legend (Chapter 31).

As January 1970 came to close, Mal began drifting into an emotional slide that had been developing over the past several years. "Seem to be losing Paul," he wrote on January 27. "Really got a stick from him today. He let me down," and ominously added "Fixing a hole," "Pepper," and "directorship" to a growing list of disappointments. Apparently, the conversation had turned yet again to the issue of Mal's servile role in Paul's life, with the roadie believing that the association was bounded by friendship and love. "A servant serves," Mal wrote, "but he who serves is not always a servant," he added, echoing John's philosophy from December 1968. "Love is as sharp and piercing as a sword, "Mal reasoned, "but as the sword edge dulls — you sharpen it. So love's keenness needs honing — needs honesty." *

[...]

On February 11, Mal joined John and Yoko for a lip-synched performance of "Instant Karma!" on Top of the Pops, with the roadie, clad in beige suit and a light-green tie, playing the tambourine. By this juncture, Mal's long-standing relationship with Paul was in freefall. A few days earlier, he have been awakened by a 1 p.m. telephone call from the Beatle. It went "something like this," he wrote in his diary:

Mal: yeah? Paul: I've got time at EMI over the weekend. Would like you to pick up some gear from the house. Mal: Great, man. That's lovely. Session at EMI?! Paul: Yes, but I don't want anyone there to make me tea. I have the family – wife and kids there. Mal: [thinking to himself] Goes my poor head, "Why????" **

By the next week, Mal found himself behind the wheel of the Apple van, moving Paul's gear from EMI Studios to Morgan Studios, another Northwest London facility where Paul could work incognito. At one point, Neil cornered Mal about Paul's surreptitious recording sessions, demanding to know more. "Where's Paul?" he asked, to which Mal tersely replied, "Not telling you."

In other instances, Mal ordered a Mellotron for Paul, while keeping him fully stocked with plectrums and other gear. In late February, Paul asked Mal to move everything back to EMI, where he was set to record "Maybe I'm Amazed" in Studio 2. For Mal, everything came to a head at 7 Cavendish Ave., when "my long love, Paul, to whom I have devoted so many years of loyalty, turned around to me and said, I don't need you anymore, Mal." *** *, ** : Evans, "Diaries." [1963—1974.] 10 vols. Malcolm Frederick Evans Archives. Entries from Jan 27 & Feb 5, 1970.

***: Evans, Mal, 'Living the Beatles Legend: Or 200 Miles to Go.' Unpublished MS, 1976. Malcolm Frederick Evans Archives.

[cordjefferson]

Hi! Not sure if you still answer questions on here, but I feel lost as a screenwriter right now. In my final year of film school, I’m afraid the “industry” we are about to be let out into no longer exists. I don’t want to go back to journalism, but I also don’t want to fail at screenwriting in vain. I’ll keep going, but just wondering if you’ve ever found yourself in a similar place. Hope you’re well.

A few days after Trump was elected the first time, I called my dad to complain and commiserate. He listened to me worry for a few minutes and then he said, "You know, when I was a young man, it was common to wake up and find out that Medgar Evers had been killed or that Malcolm X had been killed or that Martin Luther King Jr. had been killed, or that another person had been lynched somewhere not too far from where I grew up. It was terrible, but we had to go on living our lives."

It was a helpful reminder that shit's always sucked -- in many ways it used to suck worse. That doesn't mean your fear is unfounded. You have every right to be afraid as all the world's ghouls circle their wagons in an effort to eternalize their wealth and influence, thus making our already intractable problems feel even more intractable. But the great news is that now is the perfect time for you to make your art.

Hard times can make for excellent work. Consider that punk rock and rap blossomed under Reagan. I'm currently in the middle of a novel called The Oppermanns, which follows a trio of German-Jewish brothers in 1933 Berlin dealing with the rise of Nazism. It's a great book on its face, but the whole piece becomes even more interesting when you discover that it was written by a German-Jew in real time as the Nazis rose to power.

Even if what you write isn't taken seriously at first, making art is never a failure. Artists aren't athletes, meaning you don't need to produce your best work before you turn 35 and your knees give out. Creativity is a lifelong pursuit. You'll only get better at it the more you live, learn, and grow. And because the winds of industries and the world are always changing, allowing their vagaries to scare you into inaction would be a death sentence.

I had a very long dry spell in the year 2014. I went to meeting after meeting trying to get into a TV writers' room and was rejected over and over again. After almost nine months of being told no, I finally emailed my manager one night to say that I was going to quit "working" in TV and go back to what was left of my journalism career. He asked me to stick it out for one more month, and two weeks later I got an interview with someone who hired me. Work has fortunately been pretty steady ever since. So, of course, stubborn persistence is also a valuable tool in all of this.

I can't imagine I'm saying anything that you don't already understand somewhere in your heart. You know that you've picked a challenging career. The arts are infamously cutthroat and chancy, and many of your contemporaries are going to quit somewhere along the line. It's a tough road to hoe, and the only thing that makes it at all tolerable is the ability to find value and joy in the making of your thing, whatever that may be. If writing something feels like it's been done in vain because you don't sell it or it doesn't become a hit TV show, I recommend you don't do this work. Only do it if the doing of it is what sustains you, because the doing of it may be what has to sustain you forever.

I'm rooting for you from afar. XO

[denaliwrites]

Best Behavior

Ian Malcolm x GN!Reader

Catch and Release Prompt: "Behave"

Summary: The way this could've easily been smut.

Requests: Open!

Warnings: Excessive use of filler words.

"I really need you to behave, Ian," you said as you made a sharp turn, guiding the two of you deeper into the office building.

"Uh, don't I -- don't I always?" he asked, trying to will his smirk into nonexistence. He wasn't very good at it.

"Do you actually want an answer to that?"

"N-no. No, I, uh, suppose not."

You turned to block his way suddenly, looking over his outfit -- his usual black attire -- and making slight adjustments. A straightening here, a brushing there. You finished by removing his sunglasses and tucking them into his pocket.

He let you fuss over him -- he didn't usually, but this time maybe he understood how important this was to you, how much you really, truly wanted this. Or maybe it was the borderline manic look in your eyes.

"I, uh -- I'll miss you, if you go," he said quietly as you pulled away.

You looked up into his eyes with a small smile. "You could go with me."

"Oh, I don't think that's, uh... wise..."

You shrugged. "The offer is on the table. The guy on the phone said there's a spot for you, too."

With that, you turned and stepped into a meeting room, where two people were already sat waiting. They both stood and greeted the two of you, before motioning for you to sit and taking their own seats.

"Dr. Malcolm," the older gentleman said.

His lawyer interrupted, "Have you changed your mind? Do I need to go make copies?"

You turned to look at Ian, and he turned to look at you. And just like that, all illusions you'd had of him "behaving" shattered. For all his posturing and preaching about chaos and order, he himself was more often than not an agent of chaos -- at least, he had been in your life.

"I, uh... I'd love to see this, uh... this park you're building, Hammond."

You sighed. Of course.

"Can't let you have all the fun, after all," he said to you, winking with a shit-eating grin.

"You and I apparently have very different ideas of fun."

[cursedvida]

your last ask reminds me of this post: https://www.tumblr.com/mortalityplays/751567991841423360?source=share

people are refusing to recognize that Mae is one of the main characters and that she's going through her own arc that will likely carry on and expand in the next film. It's so exhausting listening to ppl complain about how she's a bad person as if doing something bad makes her a bad character.

Yes, but it's because you've made a very good point: they don't perceive her as a co-lesd of the saga. They see her more as a companion to Noa (similar to Will, Malcolm, or Nova). For them, Mae isn't a character on her own but an extension of Noa, so they always read her as a complement. Add to that the fact that she's a woman, we have all the ingredients for her not to be seen as an autonomous character but rather someone whose actions are marked by how they should or shouldn't affect the protagonist.

The post you shared is a 100% yes to everything because basically the standards of fiction and its narrative resources are rooted in white heteronormative vision. Every creative piece has a perspective, and ours is heavily influenced by this because ultimately it's what has always predominated in the media. But the good thing is that nowadays we have plenty of information and means to be critical of it and understand where the root of the problem lies.

Returning to the topic of Mae (sorry for the rant, but I can't help it with this), it's precisely as you say: Mae is going to have her own story, her own path, and her own character arc in which she'll likely experience many conflicts and moral doubts. This first movie has only laid the groundwork for that because now it's not just about the rebellious apes; it's about apes and humans in conflict, and she's the visible face of an essential part of the equation.