#Being american is a fever dream

[sweetpumpkinmouse]

[e1dritchjackal0pe]

𝔖𝔱𝔞𝔱𝔲𝔢𝔰𝔮𝔲𝔢 𝔏𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔰

Summary: Your relationship with Farleigh Start has always precariously walked the line between friends and enemies for years.

But maybe there's something else there, too.

Warnings: 18+ content; MDI. AFAB, Oral (f and m receiving), unprotected sex (this is fiction, please use protection in rl), hints at s and d dynamics; brief, barely there choking, outdoor/technically public sex. Sex while under the influence (takes place during Oliver's party, so drugs for Farleigh and alcohol for the reader). Farleigh being an a*s, but what's new. Reader is American. Heavy denial of feelings in the beginning.

Notes: 14.6 k words. There is an abhorrent lack of Farleigh content on this site, so I thought I'd contribute. Not proofread, divider by @saradika-graphics

𝕻𝖆𝖗𝖙 𝖎𝖎 - 𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔦𝔦𝔦

Honestly, it's a wonder how you always manage to forget the sheer opulence of the Saltburn Estate - even when it wasn't in the throes of a celebration that costs more than your yearly salary. It's like some sort of dream almost. While you're in it the details are all startingly intense. Overbearingly so. Flaunting in front of you with all of its details and sights; like a kaleidoscope. The memories never do the estate any true justice. The soft, rolling lush fields; the crystal blue skies that loom over the tall gray spires. It's all painted behind your eyelids with a haunting clarity. But as soon as you leave - as soon as you wake up - the entire experience never truly feels real. Bits and pieces slip through your fingers. It loses its tangibility somehow and you can't help but wonder if you had imaged the whole thing, even with Felix's number programed into your phone; a physical reminder that Saltburn is indeed a real, tactile place. 

But even here tonight, while walking the halls and strolling through the courtyard, it doesn't feel like reality. It seems as though you've stepped into a fever dream, crossed some imaginary threshold and entered some mirroring realm. The air is charged. Electrifying. And you swear you could feel the magnetic net of adrenaline and excitement prickling at your fingertips. A cocktail of emotions amplified by alcohol and drugs and endorphins. 

Everywhere you looked there were jovial, writhing bodies. People dancing and laughing. Some full on making out - and others dangerously close to toeing the line of having public sex - and others were having a less enjoyable time by collapsing in exhaustion or blacking out in an inebriated haze. One unfortunate soul had thrown up all over the floor boards of the foyer, and you had just narrowly missed being sprayed by the projectile vomit as you had passed. It was like the Exorcist. 

Thank God it hadn't been on one of the Persian rugs. 

It was someone's birthday, it seemed. A little impromptu. Not initially planned. Oliver's - at least that's what you believed it was. The same Oliver that Felix had mentioned during one of your phone calls. He had spoken of him fondly, but when Felix had rushed outside this evening to greet you from your taxi and help you gather up your bags, he had seemed less interested and even a little irritated in the mention of his newest companion - or as harsh as it sounds, charity case (he seems to have a new one each summer). And he had been quick to divert your line of questioning, stopping you with a somewhat curt, "he's just a friend from Oxford. That's all." And that was that. You knew not to press him over it. 

But your time with Felix was cut short when he was pulled aside by an excited Elspeth, who had spared you a quick glance and a "hello, darling," before eagerly trying to get his advice on the party preparations. Which he didn't seem particularly enthused about being dragged into. And it left you to stand awkwardly on your on in the middle of the foyer, trying to force your bleary eyes open. Jet lagged with your will to live paper thin from only having a rough five hours of sleep to back it up. And for a moment you had feared that you might actually pass out on your feet but luckily Venetia had sought you out and saved you from feeling too awkward amongst the others. Occupying the time by gossiping and interrogating you about your time back in the States. All of which, you had confessed have been rather boring. Filled with exams and dead-end dates and careless flings. And even though the initial arrival always leaves you feeling like a fish out of water, you were thankful to have been invited back over to Saltburn. The sprawling, golden fields and fresh crisp air always a welcome reprieve from the loud, chaotic clamoring and the smog blanketed horizon of Los Angeles. 

Even though the wild, scattered throng of sweating bodies that were bumping into you honestly weren't all that different from the clubs you frequent back home. Of course, the sheer show of wealth and splendor that had been rolled out for Oliver was nothing that you had ever seen before with the only thing to rival it (and surpass it, probably) being Felix's very own birthday party that you had been able to take part of a few years back. One that had been themed after a strange but no less entertaining amalgamation of cowboys, space and disco, and the costumes and decorations then had left you in a state of awe, much like tonight. 

Everywhere you looked there was something else to gawk at. Glittering lights, a hired contortionist and at one point you had even seen a swan rush past you out on the courtyard - which you had only felt sad and a little angry for. 

It was pure, unbridled pandemonium. Noisy and cloying with the scent of perfumes and marijuana and alcohol; and you couldn't escape it. Not even when you had gone outside to take advantage of the dark, balmy summer breeze to cleanse your lungs. And everything had been going well until a drunk man had lunged out of the crowd towards you. Wobbling on his feet with a loud wail akin to a war cry as he aimed a narrow tube directly at you. And you only had a fleeting second to wish that it was one of those party canisters full of tensile when he had set it off with a loud pop! And a large, shimmering cloud of glitter had burst over you like a mist, layering across your hair, and costume and skin like a sheen of sweat. You didn't even have time to yell at him before he was scurrying off into the crowd with a demented cackle, probably on his way to find some other unfortunate person to glitter bomb. 

And even worse a quick glance downward had revealed that the drink in your champagne glass had been tainted by a thin coat of sparkling silver. Even if you wanted to be lazy and drink around the floaters, the amount drifting around in the champagne was too much. You probably would have ended up choking on all of it. It was with a defeated sigh that you tossed out the remainder of your drink onto the trampled lawn. 

For the first time tonight you're actually thankful that Venetia had chosen to leave you for some tall, dark, and handsome stranger that she had met near the beginning of the party. You hadn't seen her since, but maybe it's a blessing in disguise. You would hate for her to see the state of her dress. It is just glitter, easy to wash off in the grand scheme of things, and too be fair she had said that she didn't even like the garment. It was just some random piece from another one of the Catton's wild parties - themed after Renaissance art and fables, you think. And she had sifted it out from the depths of her closet with little fanfare.  "It's just some old thing, " she had told you plainly, even though the dress probably cost more than your monthly rent. Clearly, she wouldn't be distressed over some glitter, but you were still having a hard time fighting the sinking feeling in your gut. It was borrowed. She was letting you wear it. And now it was covered in a dust of silver because some guy decided to be a dick. 

It could be worse though. It could have been a glass full of wine that he had dunked on you instead. You suppose you should take your wins where you could get them. 

A part of you thinks about returning inside the manor and calling it a night. Taking a much-needed bath to clean off the layer of glitter from your skin and just going to bed. But really, you aren't sure if you'll even be able to manage falling asleep with the sheer volume of the music playing throughout various sections of the house, and the sound of the raucous cheering and laughter. And you could imagine what Venetia or Felix would tell you, to quit being so reclusive and to get out and socialize. 

You did fly all the way over here. Planned this trip for a few weeks and made preparations with your job and roommate when Felix had called to invite you over for the summer. It would be a complete waste to turn in for the night and huddle yourself up in your quarters. 

And with the fog of alcohol draping over your body you know you should probably put a pause on it for a bit but fuck it, it's a party and you need another drink. 

 You glance around the courtyard, hoping to spy one of that servants that have been forced to parade platers of alcohol around for the many guests but all you see are the scattered throngs of people dressed in fairy wings, strange animal masks, and plastic swords. Honestly, it never amazes you how many people get invited to these events. Even with all of the family members combined, there's no way they all know every individual here directly. There's probably enough to fill a damn stadium. 

In your search your gaze sweeps over the steady bonfires, the temporary lovers grinding against each other and a pair talking amongst themselves - wait. That catches your attention. You feel heat prickling at your chest; irritation rising in some subconscious sort of reaction and as if they have a mind of their own your eyes skitter back over to them to confirm if what you thought you saw was true. And lo and behold, there he is. The bane of your existence. Farleigh Start. 

Your eyes flicker across him from his head to his old-fashioned boots. He's holding some sort of mask in one of his hands. A big bulky thing with long protruding ears and an equine shaped face and you have to squint to come to the concussion that it appears to be a donkey.

 He seems to be talking to someone. A person that you don't recognize but they both seemed to be engaged in some sort of heated stare off from near a rotating pig on a stick. It looks like he's found another unfortunate victim to prod at and humiliate. Not that it was difficult for Farleigh. He was always eager to find someone to harass and belittle. And the more that someone fought back, the more interested he seems to become. He's been a personal thorn in your side for longer than you'd like to admit. 

Of course, you knew he would be here, but that didn't necessarily mean that actually seeing him made it any easier. It had to have close to a year since you've last interacted with him, which had to have been during that awful Christmas party back in the States. Why Graham had invited both of you when he knew that neither of you get along is a mystery. It could have been some lame attempt to get two of his closest friends to finally clear up whatever animosity was between them, but in all actuality it had just made worse. All of the passive aggressive barbs and thinly veiled sneers had nearly reached a boiling point that night when Farleigh wouldn't just leave you alone. Seeming to make it his mission to antagonize you at every turn with childish insults. But as childish as they might have been, they added up over time until you were giving him what he wanted, lashing out in response to his nasty little comments. 

And to think at one point you had actually been excited to meet him. As Graham's close friend and roommate, you were interested in getting to know the guy that he couldn't stop gushing about. The one who he had praised nearly nonstop. Farleigh had been nice enough in the beginning. And you even enjoyed his company for a time. His humor had always been a bit snarky, and the jokes he told were usually at another's expense. But he had been - as much as you hate to admit it, fun. And at one point, you had even considered him a friend of sorts. Or at the very least an acquaintance whose company you enjoyed while you both rambled on about nothing and everything, often gossiping about others. 

It had all been fine between you. That was until Felix had come down to L.A. to visit. He had gone out with Farleigh and Graham to go and sightseeing, which eventually steered into hopping from club to club as the day wanned into night. And when the invitation had extended to you, your relationship with Farleigh had taken a turn. For whatever reason talking to Felix was easy. But that was just Felix you suppose; always able to make friends with just about anyone in the room. And the closer that the two of you had become, the more strained your association with Farleigh had grown until it was filled with nothing but sardonic remarks and passive hostility. And instead of being a sort of surface level confidant, he gradually became a presence that you detested. And your relationship had gone from a mutual respect and cordial conversations to some sort of strange cat and mouse game. The both of you exchanging snarky jabs in an attempt to see if the other would crack. 

You would be lying if you didn't admit that some part of you enjoyed your little spats. And maybe you had hoped that he would be here tonight. Not that you'd ever tell him that. You'd rather trip onto the sharp end of a knife. 

Suddenly Farleigh is stepping towards the stranger, shoulders rigid and body pulled taught, seeping with irritation. And he takes ahold of their face, forcing the shorter man to look into his eyes in some sort of intimidation tactic.  Farleigh's nearly seething. And his expression is firm with an apparent frustration. You don't think you've seen him so visibly aggravated before. You can't help but wonder what the mystery guy may have done to warrant such a response from him. 

And then Farleigh is pulling away, releasing the stranger from his grip with a smug smile. But on him it looks more like a sneer with the way his lips are stretched and showing off his teeth. He's moving towards your direction now, probably intending to head back to the house, and he's yet to notice you. You contemplate leaving. Of slipping back under the cover of the scattered crowd and disappearing before he sees you, but your body doesn't move. Instead, you're stock still.  There's some awful feeling in your gut that seems horrendously akin to anticipation; fluttering and soft and nauseating. 

You should just leave. You could leave if you'd just move. But it's too late. You swear there's some awful full body reaction that occurs when Farleigh's gaze meets yours and he stops in place to assess you. For a moment it's like you've been sucked into a black hole. It's like time has dilated and shrunk down around you until it's frozen solid and suddenly the lively chaos around you falls quiet, muffling down into an insignificant hum in the background. Recognition flickers in his eyes and something else crosses his face too. Something that you don't quite recognize but regardless, it feels as though the both of you are engaged in some sort of wordless exchange. There's another smile growing on his face. It's mischievous but still much more relaxed and familiar than the previous one that he had worn, and you can't help but return one of your own. 

It's then that you're finally able to gain control of your own body, walking backward a few steps before you twist around to slip amongst a gaggle of passing girls with something that is suspiciously close to excitement bubbling in your gut. You briefly use them as cover to get you closer to the house entrance, and they're all too occupied with giggling and gossiping to notice your presence. But you're able to remove yourself from the cluster when one of them drunkenly trips on her skirt, and she saves herself by latching onto the shoulder of one of her friends with a wild laugh. The others all gather around her to jokingly reprimand her as they assist her in righting herself but you're already stepping through the back threshold of the manor, and you're thrown headfirst into the alcohol infused, neon casted mayhem. Party streamers, glow sticks and blaring upbeat music. It's complete madness. You can hardly hear yourself think and trying to work yourself through the tight gaps between people's swaying bodies proves to be a challenge of its own and it's a heavy reminder as to why you had even gone outside in the first place. 

The atmosphere is cloying and thick; you feel as though you might actually be able to choke on it like it's a physical thing. As otherworldly and exciting as this party is, it's another experience entirely when you're being elbowed in the ribs by an oblivious drunk girl who isn't aware of her windmilling arms and all the intoxicated men who think that you're trying to feel them up and flirt with them when in reality you're just trying to get by. And for a split second you feel as though you may never make it out of the tumultuous sea of bodies. That you'll be cursed to wander around aimlessly in the wild, dancing masses for eternity. Subjected to the ear shattering music and scent of spilt wine and bourbon and sweat. 

But then you hear something that sounds suspiciously like your name. It's distant and damp as though your ears are plugged and for a second you had thought that you imagined it before you hear it again. This time louder and there's no mistake that someone is calling you. It has you pausing for a moment to analyze your surroundings and then you catch sight of someone familiar at the far end of the room and for a moment you think that your eyes might be lying to you with the aid of the dim lighting. The deep, saturated, shifting hues of purple and blue and red tinting the chaotic space doing very little to aid you. But someone is waving their arm up the air for you to spot them better and a long glance confirms that you were right in your assumption. The relief that sweeps across your bones is insurmountable and the glimpse of a hand raised up in the air to beckon over you is even more incentive to press forward. And you have to shoulder past people until you enter a small break in the crowd. 

"There you are!" Venetia shouts triumphantly, swaying to the rhythm of the song playing at full blast. "I've been looking all over for you!" 

You don't bother refuting her. Of countering that she was the one who had wondered off without any plans to meet up afterwards. Instead, you just move up closer to her, doing your best to match her movements and energy but you're entirely too self-conscious to actually meet her. And you feel the fleeting sense of relief that she has yet to notice all of the glitter covering her dress or doesn't care. 

"I had to go outside and get some fresh air, " you confess and even underneath the low lighting you can see the way that she nearly rolls her eyes at you, but even then, there's a well-meaning smile on her face. 

"You're at a once in a lifetime party, and you were spending it outside?" 

"Just for a minute." But she looks completely unamused by your apparently flimsy defense and suddenly she's grabbing you by the shoulders and leaning towards you like it might seal in her words better. 

"Well, you're supposed to be inside. Dancing and partying and getting drunk." She squeezes her hands against your skin. "Seriously, it's like you're allergic to fun." 

Okay, a little bit rude. And you try to remind yourself that she's just saying it because she's probably drunk. For the most part, all of the younger Catton's (Farleigh included) have a tendency to be social butterflies and party animals. It was something that you had struggled to keep up with when you had officially become friends with Felix. Luckily, he was typically the most understanding out of all of them, and he was aware enough to take notice when you were burning out. It was something that you had thought that Venetia had come to terms with as well, but every now and again she always makes sure to voice her objections. 

And you open your mouth to protest but you hardly get anything out. "That's not tru-" 

"And as your friend it's my duty to ensure that you do exactly all of the above!" She pulls away with a smirk that is entirely all too satisfied, and it immediately has the alarm bells inside your head blaring. "And maybe even a bit more." 

You don't like that last bit. 

"There's someone who I think you'd love to meet!" And you swear you can feel your stomach drop at those words but exasperation bleeds through the discomfort until you're holding back an irritated sigh as she practically gushes some stranger's name. "Reuben!" 

And at the call of his name, the guy seems to appear from the darkness and shifting bodies like some sort of spirit. It takes you completely off guard how closely and quickly he moves, and you have to physically keep yourself from flinching back. The entire situation is jarring, and you feel like an insect pinned to a corkboard with how both Venetia and this stranger - Reuben are watching you expectantly. And it takes everything to muster up a smile that you know must look strained and unnatural. "Hi," you greet lamely, but he doesn't seem to be the least bit deterred or put off. 

And he is cute, you'll admit. Kind, joyful eyes that you think are hazel but it's honestly impossible to tell in this lighting and there's a dusting of freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks. He seems inviting enough if first impressions are anything to go by, but for whatever reason you don't find yourself gravitating towards him or longing for any sort of conversation with him. 

"It's nice to meet you!" He returns, loudly projecting to be heard over the stereo system. "Venetia's told me a bit about you." 

"Uh-huh, " you nod for him to continue or maybe divulge, but he doesn't. He just stands there silently without removing his gaze and you can't tell if it's because he's just oblivious or if maybe he's just socially awkward, but it has you shuffling on your feet all the same, desperate to move or do anything to make this less weird. And you glance over at Venetia who still has that hopeful expression on her face, doing your best to telegraph your discomfort without tipping Reuben off. And she does seem to notice but she doesn't tell him to leave or direct him somewhere else like you had wanted. 

"Reuben said that he's been to America before," she reveals. Apparently trying to salvage this little interaction and cultivate it into something more. 

"Oh, really?" You perk up a bit, or at least try to. "Where did you visit?" 

"Uh, New York. City, " he clarifies at the end before his demeanor shifts into something a bit sheepish and playful and the gold plastic crown perched atop his head glints in the lights. "It was a bit of a bore, I won't lie. But that was probably because I was there on a business trip and not on holiday, so feel free to put the blame on me." 

His attempt at joking does thaw at some of the unpleasant tension that had burdened the air, but even with the initial ice broken there's still just a simple, straightforward uninterest underneath it all. You aren't stupid. It's obvious why Venetia had pressed to introduce him to you, it's obvious why he had agreed. And you don't fault him for trying to get lucky at what might just be the party of the decade (for you at least) but keeping him here and stringing him along is a complete waste of everyone's time. You aren't going to sleep with him. Not tonight or any other night. And then you go to tell him as much, parting your lips to just get to the point and lay all of your cards out on the table but then Venetia is tapping on your shoulder, making you pause to look over at her. 

She has this strange, delighted smile on her lips that's even worse than the one she was wearing when she had invited Reuben over. She nods her chin over to your right, watching eyes trained on something or someone. "Your shadow's here." 

You nearly break your neck to follow her line of sight and your heart skips a beat when you see Farleigh standing several feet away from a gap in the crowd and you have to wonder just how long he's been standing there for. And you don't know why you suddenly feel as though you've been caught doing something wrong. Why your body flushes and prickles with shame and you feel like cringing. Maybe it's because of the way that he's looking at you. How his eyes dart from you to Reuben like he's assessing something. Most of the emotions flickering across his face are unreadable. But for second you think that you catch glimpses or what might be anger or irritation and worst of all betrayal before it leans into something neutral and flat. And then just as you had, he's turning on his heels and vanishing. But unlike you, he doesn't smile as he leaves. He doesn't walk away with a silent invitation to follow. 

And then Venetia is turning to Reuben with a sweet smile and tilting her head. "Alright, you can go now." 

He looks just as confused as you do, and he turns to look at you like he's expecting you to jump in to defend him or at the very least offer an explanation, but you don't have one to give.  You're just as lost as he is and when you don't speak and tell him to stay, he backs away, spreading his arms out in a sort of silent 'what the fuck?' gesture and vanishes back into the throng of bodies. 

"What . . . was that?" You ask, tense with a mutated type of bewilderment and anger. 

"I just wanted to see it." She says cryptically and irritatingly, begins to dance in place before finally disclosing on that little comment. "The look on his face." 

"What?" You snap. 

"Please, the way you two dance around each other is getting dreadfully old. It's boring and tired. I just did something to get the ball rolling." 

This in particular isn't new by any means. You had heard it all before from the two Catton siblings. Their vehement insistence that you and Farleigh had some unspoken attraction for the other that you both refused to act or speak on. It had nearly become a joke for the both of them. To prod and poke at you and Farleigh with to their hearts content. It was something that the both of you had learned to accept over time - somewhat - and ignore. But this. This new and entirely strange. 

"So, what? You were trying to make him jealous?" Your forehead crinkles as you watch her; incredulous and perplexed. 

"Trying?" She echoes amusedly." I succeeded. Did you see the way that he was looking at you? He was practically seething." 

You almost scoff. He wouldn't be jealous; he had no reason to be. And you don't know why Venetia's little ruse has pissed you off, or why that strange look on Farleigh's face had made your heart drop, but it did. 

"The two of you are so dense that it's honestly as frustrating as it is entertaining," she says with pure exasperation. "I mean, whenever you're here, you're practically fused at the hip. Bickering like cats and dogs like we can't all see the truth." She laughs but it's more of a scoff really. "He speaks about you. All the time. Always whining and complaining about something you've done. But it's different. He practically has hearts in his eyes while does it. And it's exhausting." And then she's backing away from you, leaving you to settle and drown in the disarray of your own thoughts and come to terms with that. Does he really speak about you like that? Surely, there's no way. 

 "So can the two of you, for all of our sake's, sort whatever mess you've got going on between you and just fuck already? " 

And then she's spinning away her heels, sending you a wink over her shoulder and the silver chains wrapping around her body in a delicate draped halter glint and twinkle underneath the lights; showcasing that elaborate weblike shape that they've been constructed in. And she just leaves you. Abandoning you in the middle of the temporary dancefloor while you fight with an upstream of odd emotions. You just standing there while you tussle with the urge to find Farleigh and apologize (apologize for what?) and tell him that it was just some weird joke from Venetia (why does that matter?). You don't know why you feel the need to go and try to repair whatever damage Venetia may have just done. What that said 'damage' may even be, you don't know. And you also don't know why you're suddenly heading off in the direction that Farleigh had disappeared in, scanning the crowd for him with some ugly sense of desperation that you don't want to unpack and analyze. Not even as you yield to it.  

You aren't even sure how long you search for; your gaze jumping over every face and person that you see in the hopes that you find him. But the room is packed to say the least, and the odds of you actually stumbling across him must be low. He might not even be in this specific room anymore. And if that's case then you might as well as give up now. The estate is sprawling; if he doesn't want to be found, then he won't be. And you think about giving up. Of turning in for the night and trying to talk to him in the morning when you inevitably see him at the breakfast table. 

But then you see him. Only this time there's no double take or reason to reconfirm that it is him, this time you spot him immediately.

He seemed to have shed his doublet at some point, leaving him in his pale undershirt. His mask is gone as well. And it takes your mind a second to realize that he's not alone. That he's pressed against some girl like he might kiss her. There's a smile on his face; inviting and flirtatious and the tips of their noses brush together as they lean in close. 

You're an unintended observer. You shouldn't be here watching them in a moment that clearly isn't meant for you but it's as though your feet are glued to the floor. It's like watching a car crash. You don't want to look; you don't want to be here but some awful part of you is making you stay. Your muscles have gone still from something prickling and cold and disarming. You can feel it in your chest too. It's making your lungs seize and for one long, paralyzing moment it's almost like you can't breathe. But you don't have a right to be bothered by this. Farleigh's entitled to have one-night stands or flings or to go on dates with people if he wants to. There's no reason why he can't. And there's no reason why you should be feeling shame and betrayal and hurt right now. Absolutely no reason. You wonder if this is what he had felt just a few moments before while you were standing with Reuben and that odd little side of you hopes that he had. 

God, what if Venetia had been right? What if - 

Their lips brush together. 

They're going to kiss, some hideous part of your brain whispers and even worse your body tenses and coils like it's bracing for some sort of dreadfully anticipated impact. This is it. The moment the car crashes and erupts into burning flames. 

But then Farleigh goes still. Pausing as though someone had called his name or he's remembered something. The girl that he's pressed up against leans back with a confused furrow pinched between her eyebrows when he turns his head and his eyes land on you. 

Your mouth goes dry, and your tongue seems thick and useless, and you try to swallow around it. Now that you're here you don't even know what to do with yourself. You aren't even sure what you had gone after Farleigh for. You didn't have a plan to begin with; you didn't know what to say. You have to internally curse yourself for following after him and putting yourself in this situation. It's strange and awkward and it takes everything for you to even manage a smile. To try and look casual and pretend that maybe you had just stumbled across them and hadn't intentionally tracked him down. And you lift a hand up in a lax wave while your mind ceaselessly chants for you to leave. To just go. 

You can feel Farleigh's gaze searing into you, drilling holes into your head even as the girl that he's with leans towards him and you can't hear over the distance or the music, but she appears to be saying something if the way that her mouth is moving is any indication. 

You're quick to turn on your heels and all but nearly speed walk away from the both of them, eager to create as much distance between you and them as possible. You don't feel like you're apart from your body. It's like you're disconnected from it, uncomfortably aware of your limbs and movements as you rush away. And it's like your emotions are stuffing your body full and threatening to tear it at the seams. Emotions that you don't recognize; that you don't want to recognize. 

A warmth and pressure suddenly encircles around your wrist, much like a hand would and for a moment you think that you've imaged it. But then you're being pulled back gently by the strength of someone's grip, and it forces you to stop. You know who it is before you turn to look at them. You can smell the burn of tobacco from his cigarette habit on his clothes, and it blended with the delicate musk of his cologne. The woody notes of amber joining along with vanilla and bergamot and cardamom made your mouth water in some horrid Pavlovian response. It was humiliating. 

Then your eyes are meeting his; dark and glimmering underneath the flashing, sweeping lights dancing about the room. And for one agonizing moment neither of you say anything. It's like you're both simultaneously drifting away and stuck in place. The energy looming over the both of you is foreign and strange, and Farleigh can feel it too if the blank, unsure expression on his face gives away as much. 

And then he's releasing your wrist and you let your arm drop down at your side. He shifts on his feet and the weird tension in his shoulders drop as easily as if it were a piece of clothing and a smirk takes shape on his face. This is the Farleigh that you're more familiar with, with the condescending look in his eyes and a prideful tilt to his head. It puts you at ease. Dulling the nervous butterflies in your gut and allowing you to settle underneath his presence. 

"Well, if it isn't Felix's favorite little pet." It's meant to be an insult. Most would read it as such, but for you it brings nothing but relief. It feels like a consolation almost. That whatever these strange little interactions have been they haven't damaged your relationship with Farleigh (what relationship?) and made things odd. He glances around the room and all of the festivities, the swaying crowd and streamers and flowing alcohol. He wrinkles his nose in a way that comes off as falsely apologetic. "Or I guess I should say second favorite now." 

"Then it's a good thing that I didn't come here for him," you respond easily enough. Internally thankful that the last remaining remnants of tension in your throat hasn't prohibited your ability to speak. "I just know how thrilled you always are to see me, and so I couldn't possibly bring myself to skip out on the trip."  

"Thrilled," he echoes with a scoff. "Is that what you think? Because personally I feel like drowning myself in the pond right about now." 

"No one's stopping you, " you quip back easily, finally slipping back into your old dynamic. 

His forehead scrunches as he pins you with an incredulous look, tilting his head as he moves in closer towards you. "And leave you here all alone? What would you do without me?" 

"Thrive. Live. Experience peace." 

"Sounds boring." 

But you don't have time to respond. He's leaning back on his feet and stepping away from you while he digs one of his hands into the pocket of his costume's pants. And when he removes his hand, it comes out clutching a packet of cigarettes, which he's quick to ruffle around in. "Come on, I wanna smoke." 

You don't ask any questions as he moves, leading you out from the dancefloor and throughout the house. Every so often he glances back over his shoulder like he's reconfirming that you haven't wandered off and left. He guides you up a set of staircases, past the couple planted by the first step who are openly making out and grinding on each other and up into the twisting, changing hallways. 

"Where are we going?" You ask, nearly getting shoulder checked by a pair of girls who rush down the corridor in a fit of giggles. 

"I told you, " he replies and hardly looks back. " I want to smoke." 

You want to press him about. About how suddenly he's unable to smoke inside when you've seen him do at least a thousand times. Even at the breakfast table. He probably does it on the toilet too. It wouldn't be a surprise. You aren't sure how long the two of you walk for, higher up into the highest floors of the house until he's finally stopping and opening a door at the end of the hall. He pauses in the threshold, dipping his head in and looking in like he's checking to see if it's occupied. He could have just knocked. It would have been an unpleasant surprise for the people inside if it actually had been unavailable. But the coast must be clear because he's slipping inside and nodding his head for you to follow after. He shuts the door behind you, closing it with a click and gives you a passing smirk when you shoot him a curious glance. 

You follow him into the room, vacant apart from some paintings and a few pieces of furniture - an old office maybe, and he leads you across the floors towards a pair of large glass double doors.

He tugs on one of the handles, swinging it open, revealing what appears to be one of the balconies. He's outside before you. And by the time you slide up beside him he's already leaning against the chiseled stone railing on his elbows and the cigarette perched between his lips is lit and smoldering. 

The air outside is still warm, sweet and earthy with the scent of moister in the air, like some distant, unseeable storm is brewing. And you can see so much of the estate from this high up. The frolicking people down below in their costumes and those massive, glowing lotus lamps drifting in the pond. But even with all of the guests down on the courtyard engaging in various kinds of trouble; drinking and shouting and singing amongst themselves, up here their voices can harldy reach you. It sounds like a faint murmur on the soft summer wind. And for maybe the first time tonight you actually feel a sense of calm. 

"He's a selfish lover, " Farleigh says randomly, flicking the butt of his cigarette to sprinkle the dead ash onto the far grounds beneath. "And a notoriously fast one too. Eliana Merrick said he busted as soon as he put it in." 

He notices the lost look on your face and sighs, twisting around on his feet to lean his back against the railing instead. "Your little boytoy from earlier. Reuben Amory." He spits his name out with something that sounds suspiciously like contempt. Venomous and irritated and he lifts the cigarette up to take another drag. "His father's a friend of the family. To James specifically. That's how he always manages to weasel his way into our parties." 

"I guess I dodged a bullet then." You joke, absentmindedly fiddling with one of the elaborate pearl earrings dangling from your ear. 

"What? He didn't scratch your itch?" 

"No," you shake your head with a light shrug. "He was fine. It's just . . . I don't know, I wasn't interested." 

Farleigh snorts, making you glare at him, eyebrows furrowing. "What?"

"Nothing." But his tone is a little sarcastic, and unconvincing and the nasty smile on his lips reveals as much. "He just seemed to fit the bill of your type pretty well. Well-meaning, polite and a little pathetic." 

You nearly laugh but it comes out as more of a scoff. "That is not my type." 

"Oh, really?" He challenges, moving closer towards you and you can smell his cologne again. The vanilla sticks out the most this time. Delicate and sweet. "What about that guy you used to flirt with at IHop? " 

"He was a server. It's literally his job to be nice-" 

"And then there was your neighbor back at the apartment. The one across the hall with the abysmal amout of plants. And then who could possibly forget, what was his name? Adrian? Who you dated for all of four weeks." 

It has you falling silent, unable to counter his argument even though you have a remark waiting on the tip of your tongue. You've never realized that Farleigh had ever paid that much attention to you and your affairs. It has that syrupy, fuzzy feeling pooling in the center of your chest despite that fact that you're actively telling yourself that it doesn't actually mean anything. It's normal for people to notice things about people that they're forced into proximity with. 

"Wow, I never knew you were so interested in my love life, " you say, gripping onto the rough texture of the railing. Stroking your fingers over the soft groves and bumps. "Maybe you should get one of your own." 

"But yours is always so entertaining," he snuffs out the cigarette and carelessly drops the butt onto the ground near his feet. "You know, with the way that it always seems to crash and burn." 

It probably would have stung to hear if you weren't able to say that you were the one to end all of the relationships that you had been in. That you were always the one to take the first step in severing ties. Even with Adrian you had been the one to sit him down and explain that you just hadn't been able to see it progressing anywhere. The both of you were too different. Your goals and wants in life were polarizing and the only things that had brought you together were superficial at best. You just weren't built to last. 

"Please, like yours has ever been any better." But he doesn't look the least bit offended. Instead, there's a satisfied quality to his expression. Your lips purse and something akin to defeat weighs down your shoulders. "Besides, they were all too sweet anyway. A little too nice. They could never keep up. I'd always end up saying something to hurt their feelings on accident and they would think that I meant it and then I'd get the silent treatment." 

"Not like us, huh?" Farleigh responds a little softly. And he was right. There was always something about your dynamic with Farleigh that you had never been able to achieve in your relationships. The constant push and pull. The competition of your endless banter and insults. The way that you could be completely bare and unrestrained with your words without putting your standing with him at risk. There was . . . an intimacy in it that couldn't compare with anyone else. You had seen the worst of Farleigh. The sneers and jabs and heated sarcasm. And in turn he had gotten the brunt of your own ire and jokes, but it still didn't change a thing. Neither of you ran from it. Instead, you both seemed to revel in it. To seek it out even. It was a type of security that you had never found with any other friend or lover. 

And you don't know what it is, but some invisible element shifts and rises between the both of you. Something that's always been there. Simmering and quiet, building up underneath your every interaction like water boiling on a hot stove. 

"No. Not like us," you admit in a near whisper like if you spoke to loudly that it might disrupt whatever magnetic thrum has fallen over you both. So low that he might not have heard you. But then you see something flash in his eyes. Something hungry and eager and he's moving closer until you can feel his body heat pouring over your skin, seeping underneath the delicate fabric of your dress and into your bones. 

"I hated all of them," he says it like a confession. Hushed and passionate. And you suppose that it is one. Told in total confidence, with a certain fervor like a sinner tucked away in a confessional booth. "I hated them because they should have been me." 

It makes you gasp lowly. And your fingers squeeze around the banister like it might ground you and keep you from floating away. And suddenly Venetia's previous statements are echoing around in your skull; mocking and satisfied. You feel slightly stupid now. Blind. But never in a million years would you have guessed that Farleigh had actually ever been jealous of the men that you had dated. It seems like such a silly concept. Or else it would have in the past, but now here he is confirming the very thing that the two Catton sibling's have been vehemently trying to drill into your head for years. And you like it. God, you actually like it. Some nasty little side of you is completely satisfied and even elated that he's been seething over all of your old flings and exes. It feels good because you've been doing the same thing you suddenly realize. Every time that stinging burn had caught up in your chest at the sight of him curled up with some other person - it hadn't been irritation for Farleigh. It was jealousy. You had actually been jealous. 

"Can I tell you something?" You ask. 

He just hums, low and soft. You can't even glance away from him. Not even if you wanted to. Not with the way that he's looking at you. His stare is heavy and intense, and it feels like you're being held by the throat, forced to maintain eye contact with your breath steadily being stolen from your lungs. "I wished they were you, too." 

It's like something breaks free from you when you say it. It was heavy, oppressive and suffocating and in its absence, it's replaced by a sense of ease and a freedom that makes you want to laugh and maybe even cry. And maybe if you weren't preoccupied with the entirety of your attention zoned in on Farleigh you might would have.

Now he's stepping even closer than before, and now you can actually feel the press of his body against yours. The pressure of it has your lips parting, and you have to angle your head to maintain your shared gaze without breaking it. Then his hand is tucking underneath your chin; the pad of his thumb lifts to brush over you, tracing the shape of your bottom lip with something that feels close to reverence. 

"Can I kiss you?" 

Something inside of you breaks apart at the question, crumbling and washing away like sand underneath the crashing power of a wave. You nod before you even fully register it, and your body is buzzing with a honeyed heat. And you understand that if you do this then whatever relationship you have with Farleigh is going to fundamentally altered. It will be the point of no return and the consequences, positive or negative, will be unavoidable. Maybe tomorrow things will go sour. Maybe by then you'll be back to hating each other, even worse than before. But you want this. Consequences and all. 

"God, yes. Please." 

His lips are soft and warm, and they taste sugary and faintly floral with what might have been the flavors of some beverage that he had drank earlier. There's the bite of tobacco on his skin too, sharp and smoky. It's usually something that you had never enjoyed when kissing people in the past, but right now it hardly even registers. You're too busy getting lost in the feel of him. The warmth of his hands framing your face, the way that he shifts you on your feet and nudges you back against the railing of the balcony. Your hands are everywhere that they can reach, stroking down his chest and dipping down to grip his hips, pulling them flush against you like any amount of space left between you might kill you. 

He groans into your mouth at the gesture, nipping at you lip before soothing the sting with his tongue. It has heat, liquid and thick building between the cradle of your thighs. And you know that it's just kissing, but you can't help but internally berate yourself, because if the both of you hadn't been so horribly bullheaded you could have been doing this the entire time. 

And he pulls away from you all too soon, making an embarrassing whimper bubble up from your throat, but he's hushing you with a soft coo, snickering lightly under his breath when he ducks his head beneath your chin to suck at the skin there. Taking it between his teeth and lips and you can't help to soft, breathless pants that start to leave your chest in response. It's purely possessive and you're sure that he's trying to leave marks there, and you can't find it in yourself to tell him not to. It's like your muscles are melting, going boneless at the sensation of his tongue tasting your skin, licking up the salt from it. You can feel the shape of his smug smile against your throat, and it makes you want to slap him. But instead, you're reaching a hand up to cradle the back of his neck, keeping him close to you. 

You're wet already, soaking through your underwear. It's something that you would have been awfully conscious of in the past with another partner, but here and now you can hardly think around the red fog that's beginning to cloud your brain. And then he's shifting, sweeping a hand underneath the silk skirt of your dress to clasp around your thigh so that he could pull it to the side, allowing him to nudge his leg between the both of yours. 

"Farleigh," you gasp, and he cruelly grinds his thigh against the heat of you, steadily feeding the pressure thrumming there but not letting it build towards anything more. It's frustrating. Mean. And it has you clawing at his shoulders impatiently. 

"Yeah? What is it?" He asks, nipping at the sensitive skin on your ear, making sure to be mindful of your earring. You don't respond at first, unable to with the way that he's still steadily moving his thigh against you. It's simple, but with the way that you're already so pathetically worked up, it feels like agony. "Come on, you can tell me." 

And to make it worse, that hand that had been gripped around your leg is now moving further underneath your dress, slipping between the press of your bodies to settle above where you want him. His fingers play with the elastic band of your panties, teasing, implying more. But then he hooks it in the crook of his fingers and pulls, letting it snap back against your skin. The sting is dull, but it has you gasping regardless. You mindlessly reach for his hand that's still underneath your skirt, taking it into your own. And you briefly fear that he'll pull it from your grip. But he allows you to guide him. He removes his head from your neck to look into your eyes, watching your expression when you finally slip his hand underneath your underwear, and you can feel the shocking chill of his signet ring trailing across your heated skin. He takes over from there and you can't help the way that you arch into him when his fingers finally move down to where you need him the most. His face pinches when he spreads you open, and he nearly groans at the feel of you. "Jesus, baby, you're fucking soaking already." 

Your eyes flutter from the drag of one of his knuckles brushing over your clit and it's like it's directly connected to every individual nerve in your body, making you squirm and moan raggedly. 

"Is this all for me?" He asks, dipping one of his fingers lower, teasingly circling the entrance of your cunt but he doesn't go any further. 

"Yes." Your lungs feel tight and your nipples brush against his chest with each breath that you take, doing little to help ease the tension and desire threatening to tear you apart. "Yes, it's 'cause of you. Please, Farleigh. C'mon." 

"What's the rush?" He taunts, angling his head to take your bottom lip between his teeth and biting. "The night's still young. " 

He rocks his thumb against your clit, smirking at you with pure arrogant satisfaction from the way that you shudder underneath his touch. You know that he's absolutely delighting in the way that you've been practically turned into mush by what is essentially some heavy petting. Especially after all of the years of trying one up each other, you're sure that this is doing wonders for his ego. Like it needs to get any bigger. That little prickle of irritation peeks out from underneath the saccharine haze shrouded over you, and you can't keep it down. "I fucking swear, Farleigh, " you nearly hiss, nudging your hips in the hopes that it'll drag the pressure of his fingers closer. "If you don't do something, I swear I'll-" 

"You'll what?" Comes his immediate reply, the low rasp of his voice sounds completely unbothered. 

"I'll leave, " you say firmly. Or as firmly as you possibly can with the way that the knuckle of his thumb has begun to rotate around your clit in tight, but soft sweeping brushes. But he doesn't appear to be worried in the slightest. He just grins at you. And shakes his head as he lowers it to nudge his nose against yours. 

"No, you won't." He says it so certainly. Like he's omnipresent and has already seen the decided future. Like your fate is already sealed. And he's right as much as it pisses you off to admit it. You won't leave. But you don't want to tell him that and give him the satisfaction. " 'Cause you need me don't you, baby? Need me to make you cum." 

You're nodding in agreement before you even realize it, throwing whatever semblance of control that you had right out of the window. 

"Yeah? Gonna let me taste you?" Just the words alone nearly makes you keen aloud like some desperate slut, and you just barely swallow the sound down. But he must see it in your eyes. The sheer want and desperation that you feel coursing through your body like a drug. The need possessing you might actually be debilitating and you're back to clawing at his shoulders and arms in an attempt to just do something. To pin your focus on something other than the heavy ache between your legs. And you can just distantly hear yourself chanting a string of 'yes' like a broken record. 

He tugs his hand from your underwear, and you can't help but mourn the loss, even when he's lowering himself down on his knees and planting kisses down across the expanse of your body as he goes. But then he's rucking the skirt of your dress up over your hips and tucking his fingers back into your underwear like he's getting ready to pull them down. Instead, he's just staring, and his eyebrows are pinched together almost like he's pained. 

"You really are soaked," he says with a sort of awe. A thrum of embarrassment rings through you when you realize that he's probably admiring the noticeable wet spot that has dampened the crotch of your underwear from your arousal. You try to close your legs, mostly out of reflex but the sharp, reprimanding smack on the outside of your thigh that you get in response makes you freeze in place. He glares up at you and you have to reach behind you to grip the railing to keep from collapsing from underneath the intensity smoldering in his gaze. 

"Keep them open," is his only warning before he all but rips your panties down your hips. Guiding one of your legs up with a hand for you to step out of them, but he leaves your lace underwear to hang from the high heel on your opposite foot; apparently too impatient to fully remove them. And he barely gives you time to think or breathe before he's taking ahold of you by your waist and swinging both of your thighs over his shoulders. 

The feel of his tongue laving over the heat of your pussy in a long, greedy swipe makes you scream, completely uncaring for all of the guests down below. And all some distant, buried part of you can do is hope that you're up too high for anyone to hear you. That no one happens to glance up and see you clutching onto the railing for dear life. There's no build up to it. He's completely unrestrained, apparently having the goal to make you cum as quickly as possible with the way that he's working his mouth on you. Swirling his tongue over the swollen, sensitive nerves of your clit and lapping at the dripping entrance of your cunt like a man possessed. 

You mouth drops open with heavy pants, and your hands scramble across the cool chiseled stone for something to ground you and keep you pinned to reality. You can see the glint of your arousal smearing across his lips and cheeks and the look in his eyes is a blend of determination and a dazed kind of contentment, and you can feel him groaning against your pussy, amplifying your pleasure. And if it wasn't for the way that you could barely stop whimpering and crying out, you'd nearly think that he was enjoying this more than you with his pleased hums thrumming throughout your body. 

He takes your clit into the cradle of his mouth and sucks, and you think that you actually sob but you feel miles away from your body and also helplessly, deliciously trapped inside of it. "Farleigh, " you keen, humping against his face in a debauched display of hedonism. One of your hands reaches down, gripping onto his hair when your eyes roll back from the hot suction of his mouth. 

"You taste so good, baby, " he huffs, lapping at the entrance of your cunt with firm, maddening strokes. "So fucking good." 

It's too much. You feel like you're on fire. Like he's pulling you apart with each swipe of his tongue and putting you back together again one agonizing piece at a time. It feels cruel but it's also utter bliss. Your thighs are shaking from how tightly they're seized, clamped around his head in a tight squeeze. But he doesn't seem to be bothered about it, because when you try to be mindful and spread them open, he just takes them into his hold and presses them back up against his ears again like he wants to be suffocated. And the thought of that alone has something sharp and electric zipping through you. You file that little theory away for later. 

And that familiar ache is rising up like a high, simmering tide. Building and rushing towards you with a quickness that takes you by surprise and you can feel your entire body winding up and coiling tight in anticipation. He drags you closer to his mouth, scooting you down lower against the railing. You're pretty sure that your back is going to be covered in scratches from the rough texture digging across your skin, but as of right now you couldn't give less of a shit. You let your head loll back on the stone, unable to find the concentration or strength to keep it up yourself. You stare up at the sky sightlessly, just barely taking in the winking glow of the scattered stars above while pure, liquid heaven seeps across your limbs. 

That overwhelming looming pleasure is right over you now, just a few good strokes off. And with the way that he's licking and sucking at you with his mouth it won't be long before you're breaking apart for him. 

"Farleigh," you whimper, choking around a wanton moan, trying to warn him. 

He doesn't give you any verbal indication that he hears you. But the grip on your thigh's tense in response, and he circles your clit with the tip of his tongue before dipping it down inside of you; fucking you with it. You can't help the way you're grinding against him, crying out breathlessly when the point of his nose nudges against that swollen bundle of nerves, urging your orgasm to rush towards you at a breakneck speed that you can't brace for. 

"Farleigh!" You nearly shriek this time while that wild, rush of pleasure crashes down on you with the intensity of torrential downpour. It tears through your body in a way that's almost violent, making you twist under the heat of his mouth and the iron grip that he still has secured around your legs like you've been jabbed with an electrical current. You sob through the brunt of it, probably alarming the entirety of the Saltburn Estate of your current position. And even after the most of it has made its way across your body, he doesn't stop lapping at you, determined to make sure that he wrings every ounce of your pleasure out of you. It isn't until you're weakly nudging his head away from your sensitive cunt that he pulls his mouth away, but he occupies it by kissing at the inner stretch of your thighs. He massages your hips gently and the sensation works to help guide you back into your own body and return a sense of coherence to you. 

All you can do is just sit there and catch your breath, panting raggedly into the night air. You stare up at the stars with complete disbelief while your brain tries to catch up with the fact that Farleigh had just casually sucked your soul out of your body. Sure, you had heard stories of his sexual prowess from some of his past flings before. Heard all of the people gushing and praising his technique in the bedroom, and you had never not believed them per se, you had just never imagined that he was actually this good. 

"You doing alright up there?" He asks and his voice is ragged and a little raspy like he was the one screaming and not you. 

"Yeah," you confirm after a brief pause. "Just give me a minute and I'm gonna suck your dick." 

You can feel him chuckle against you, playful and more than a little cocky but he's more than earned the right to be. "Take your time." 

Thankfully, the strength has begun to come back to your body. And even though your limbs are still a little bit shaky you're more than determined and able to ignore it and push through. You raise your head up look at him, using your arms to shift and lift yourself up. He looks up at you expectedly, eyebrows raising with amusement while he aids you in removing your wobbling legs from his shoulders. 

He must notice something in your gaze; desperation, want, determination, because he just moves to lean back on his elbows with a relaxed smirk. 

"Right here?" He asks. You just nod wordlessly as you lower yourself down on your knees. You could go inside. You probably should. There wasn't a bed in the room that you had entered the balcony from, but there was a couch. Hell, even the floor in there would probably be more comfortable for the both of you than the harsh rock underneath you right now, but you don't want to wait. Not even with the room being so close. Your knees are going to absolutely hate you tomorrow but as of right now, you can't find it in yourself to care.  

He parts his legs for you to settle between them and you're fast to crawl over him while he lifts himself up to kiss you. Your lips connect with teeth and tongue, and you moan into each other's mouths when you reach down to cup the length of him from over his pants. He's hot and heavy, even with the layer of fabric covering him. You're still sensitive from your recent orgasm but when you feel the weight of him against your palm, your pussy flutters and tinge of heat settles in the base of your abdomen. 

"Baby please, just take it out, " he whines. His voice is petulant and quivering. On any other night you would have used it as an excuse to tease him, but as of right now, you don't have the heart (or patience) to. The urgency in his tone has you thumbing at the buttons closing his pants, but it doesn't help that they're so small and that its dark. You have to squint underneath the dim moonlight to find them and your fingers slip more than once. But luckily you manage to pop all of them through their opening in the fabric; even with the way that Farleigh impatiently grinds into the air, trying to use your hand and forearm as something to grind his cock against. 

It's so desperate and dirty but it's also so fucking hot. Seeing him all laid out and begging has a heavy anticipation fizzling underneath your skin, prompting you to grip at the edge of his pants. He's eagerly lifting his hips up, aiding you as you tug the fabric down, working it around the swell of his ass and his hips. And he audibly groans in relief when his cock springs free from the restraint of his clothes. It's so hard that it looks like must be uncomfortable, and there's a steady stream of precum pouring from the tip and trailing down along a thick, throbbing vein in a pearlescent sheen.  

Your mouth waters at the sight, and you have to swallow it in the fear that you might actually drool if you don't. He catches the way you're admiring him, and something smug bleeds into his dazed expression. A reversal from the way that he had outright begged for you earlier. You really want to wipe that look off of his face. 

Then you're giving into your basest desires and leaning forward to lick at the head of his cock with long, steady sweeps, scooping up the salt of him into your mouth. He's rewarding you as soon as you touch him, breathing out a strained, "fuck," while his fingers come up to grip your hair, already knocking a few of the fake flowers clipped along your updo free; honeysuckles and pink camellias. He doesn't force your head down, but he doesn't remove his hold either, gently urging you to keep going and you can't help but concede. Stretching your jaw open further to slip him inside your mouth before slowly pulling off of him with a firm suck, lapping at the slit of his cock when you do. 

He isn't the biggest you've taken, but he's still thick enough for you to feel a slight strain at the hinges of your jaw, but it doesn't deter you in the slightest. You nod your head down to take him in your throat, making sure to be mindful of your teeth as you go and luckily, you're aided by the lubrication of your saliva. You don't stop until you feel the faintest hint of your gag reflex and even then, you have to push off the thought to just keep going, to let yourself gag on him. You'll save that for some other time. As of right now, you want to be able to savor every little movement and twitch and whimper. 

You've just started and it's already so sloppy, wet with the way that your drool smears around your lips and chin, and Farleigh seems to be struggling to keep his hips still, resisting the urge to fuck your mouth. His thighs are tense underneath the palms of your hands, muscles flexing and twitching with frayed restraint and each jerky hitch of his hips is punctuated by airy sighs and moans. 

A glance up from your place between his legs has you appreciating the way that his back is already arching. He looks gorgeous like this, all splayed out with the thick of his eyelashes fluttering against the jut of his cheek bones. You've always had the sneaking suspicion that Farleigh would lean a bit on the submissive side in bed. Always overcompensating with his arrogant attitude and sarcasm, but you didn't think that he'd be this sensitive. You aren't sure if it's just because he might have already been so worked up from eating you out, or if he's naturally just responsive, but either way the way that he's acting is doing wonders for your ego. The power that you're getting from seeing him already so pleased and dazed is filling your head full of a syrupy sort of satisfaction. 

You pull off of his cock with a pop, delighting in the way that he whimpers in protest. You just hum in response, smirking at him while you nuzzle your nose down the line of his shaft and all of his complaints die out once you take one of his balls into the warm cradle of your tongue, reaching up to grip him in your hand while your mouth is occupied. 

He moans raggedly, a string of whispered, "so good, don't stop - please, don't stop." Like you'd ever do that now that you've got him underneath you. And not to sound dramatic, but the sky could split open with brimstone and hellfire and the apocalypse could reign down on Saltburn and you still wouldn't pull away from him. Not when he sounds so sweet. Not while he tastes so good. Salty and earthy across your pallet. And the way that he pants into the balmy night air, already breathless has the heat between the apex of your thighs back with a vengence; burning and wet, and you have to rub them together in an attempt to ease the tension there. 

You can't help the way that you moan around him, lightly sucking at the sensitive point between his balls and the base of his cock while you smear your thumb over his slit. You the use the fluid to aid in few more pumps from your hand before you're licking back up his shaft again, swallowing him back down while your hand switches places to fondle his sack and the cry that he lets out in response is heavenly. Urging you to bob you head down on him in a steady rhythm. You try to remember to breathe through your nose but in your fervor, you often find yourself neglecting to take in lungfulls of air and as a result an oxygen deprived haze has begun to fizzle over your head. But you can't bring yourself to be worried over it. It feels good. The fuzzy, drunken buzz stuffing your skull full while you work his cock is stupidly addictive. 

He must notice the glazed over look in your eyes because he's smiling at you from around the way that his lips have dropped open to release a bout of heavy pants. He drops the hand that had been clutching your hair to sweep his fingers across your face in a gesture that's way too sweet for a guy who's getting head. And it has something soft and sweet blossoming in your chest when he strokes your cheek with his thumb; it makes you feel delicate and adored even while your chin is smeared with spit and cum and your jaw is starting to ache. 

"You're already a little fucked out aren't you?" It's rhetorical, you know, but you find yourself moaning in response regardless. "You look so georgous like this." 

Liar. There's absolutely you look even remotely attractive right now. You can feel the prickle of tears threatening to slip past your water line and down your face, and you're sure that your lashes have begun to clamp together from the damp. Your lips are swollen and there's a sheen of sweat glittering on your forehead. You probably look like a wreck but it still has you melting, and you begin to lick and suck at him with even more passion than before. 

And it must have felt good for him because his head is rolling back on his shoulders and his elbows nearly collapse, leaving him to drop onto his back with a gutted groan. His eyes roll back, and his thighs seize. His white undershirt has ridden up around his ribs, showing off the stretch of his abdomen and you can see the way that his muscles flex and tense with the same pulse of his hips. He's close and it only has you doubling your efforts with even more vigor, desperate to taste him on your tongue, to feel the heat of him in your mouth and throat. The sound of his gasping has changed in pitch, rising into something that sounds close to a sob. 

But then you're being torn off of him without warning and you can't contain your mournful whimper when the weight of him leaves your mouth. Irritation and betrayal flares and you can't keep yourself from glaring at him even while he looks close to wrecked, rambling underneath his breath something that sounds like, "I'm sorry baby, I need to feel you, " as he hauls you onto his lap. 

And your scattered brain is still able to grab onto what he wants. You gather up your skirt to settle your knees on either side of his hips and you're quick to grab ahold of his cock to line it up with your entrance. Neither of you have the mental capacity to tease or draw the process out longer than it needs to be, and you're thankful that he had already ate you out earlier, giving you some semblance of prep. And without any fanfare you're sinking down onto his cock, and your pussy flutters around his girth, stretching until he's buried in at the hilt. 

The shared groans that you let out are ones of relief and pure bliss. Your body shudders at the fullness nestled within the apex of your thighs and Farleigh impatiently grinds his hips up into yours, rocking his pelvis into your clit with a petulant huff. "Come on baby, ride me, " he urges. "Fucking take it." 

You can't find it in yourself to deny him. Or yourself. And he lets you plant your hands onto his chest for support when you lift yourself up with your thighs to begin wildly bouncing on his cock, grinding and swiveling your hips with each downstroke. That thick, heated pleasure is already building up near the base of your spine, and you already know that you aren't going to last long. Not with how worked up you are. And you don't think that he's going to be able to hold off either. 

He's watching you with something akin to wonder in his eyes and his lips are snagged between his teeth like he might be trying to quiet himself. Like he's trying to selfishly hide those punched out little moans. And you don't know why he tried to be hushed now after he's been groaning and whimpering this entire time but that petulant expression on his face tells you all you need to know. He's doing it on purpose, the brat. It has you leaning over him to pepper soft kisses over his cheeks, nipping at his chin and jaw sweetly, before you squeeze your pussy around his cock like a vice and you place your hand around the base of his throat. You don't tighten your fingers around it, but let him feel the pressure of your grip, testing the waters to see if your earlier theory had been right. 

And his body goes taut underneath you while his hips thrust into you with a harsh twitch. A gutted moan follows closely behind, and he grips onto your thighs like he needs it to ground himself and keep himself present. 

"Feel good?" It's admittedly a little condescending but even then, you can't help the softness that bleeds through your tone. He nods his head drunkenly, tilting his head back to bare his throat to you. The way that he's melting underneath the ceaseless roll of your hips and mindlessly fucking into you with deep, heavy thrusts is already driving you towards that tide of heat and ecstasy, and they way that you openly keen reveals as much. 

Your knees are already stinging from the harsh stone floor digging into them and your thighs are already burning with exertion from the ruthless pace that you had set. But you have no desire to stop yet. To switch positions or ask him to take over, not with how beautiful and fucked out he looks beneath you.  

You're both already messy and incoherent, chasing after your pleasure desperately. The noises coming from the place where your bodies are joined is filthy with the repetitive smack of skin on skin and the crude squelching of your cum echoing off of the rock walls around you. And maybe if your brain wasn't practically mush you might would have had the capacity to care, but you just can't find it within yourself while you watch every minute, rapturous expression flit across Farleigh's face. Not while his plush lips are parted for him to gasp, and his eyes have nearly gone cross. 

"Baby, " he whines brokenly. A warning for the way that he's quickly hurdling towards his release from the constant rock of your hips. Yours isn't far off either, simmering and curling within the pit of your abdomen and you can already tell that your orgasm is going to destroy you. It's so close. So, so, so close and you find yourself nodding shakily in response to him. 

"I know, I know, " your jaw goes lax at a partially hard thrust from his hips, muscles spasming around the drag of his cock. 

"Where - where can I- " 

"Inside," you answer, choking on your breath." I'm on the pill - it's safe, you can- " 

He cuts you off with a gutted, shredded groan of your name and his entire body seizes up from the power of his orgasm. The warmth of his release spreads throughout your lower stomach and another choppy, wild thrust from Farleigh grinds his pelvis into the tender nerves of your clit. It just sneaks up on you. Sweeping you up and dragging you down before you can even register that it's ravaging your body and making you scream. For a second you completely forget what it means to have a physical body. You don't have hands, or feet, or a mind. You don't have a favorite song and there aren't any bills to pay, or an apartment back home in America, and the chaotic party downstairs doesn't exist. The cold stone floor beneath your knees isn't there. You're just floating. Suspended in a state of bliss and pleasure. 

For a moment you just are. 

And then your lungs are gasping, filling up with oxygen. Clarity comes back to you in pulses and the feeling in your limbs follows behind. Sensation returns to your toes and fingertips and then your eyes are fluttering open. The first thing you hear is the rapid pulse of a heartbeat and when you breathe the scent of something like vanilla and cigarette smoke nestles within your lungs. It has you rubbing your cheek against the heat of their chest - Farleigh's chest, your brain supplies sluggishly. You don't remember collapsing on top of him but apparently you had. 

"God damn," he slurs, prompting an amused, tired laugh from you. For a moment the two of you just lay there, taking the time to return to yourselves and grasp your senses. And with it, reality rises up too. That you're laying here with Farleigh on an open balcony with his cum dripping from between your thighs. And apart from his confession earlier there's some small insecure part of you that's worried that he hadn't fully meant it. That this was just a simple fling. Something to ease the tension that's been brewing between the both of you for the past few years. But you don't get to wallow in your fears for long before he's tapping on your thigh and shuffling up onto his elbows. 

You just hum at him questioningly, not yet trusting your voice. 

"Need a cigarette," he answers. 

That has you moving, lifting yourself from his hips and you both hiss, sensitive and raw when he slips from you. Your knees are tender too, aching and you inelegantly plop yourself on your rump beside Farleigh to give them some relief. And you briefly occupy yourself with your underwear, slipping it back underneath your dress and smoothing out your skirt as best as you can. 

He works on slipping his pants and tights back over his hips, digging into his pocket as soon they've been righted for a cigarette and his lighter. You watch him with something nervous in your gut. And you tell yourself that you're being stupid and overdramatic. So, what if this was just a one-time thing? It was an amazing time. And if this turned out to be some random fling then that would just make it even more special, right? And he said that he was jealous of your past exes but that didn't necessarily mean that he had feelings for you. You had been the one to jump to conclusions and assume. 

And even if by tomorrow he pretends that this never happened then that would be fine. You'd make do. You'd survive. It won't be the end of the world. 

"Do you want to spend the night with me?" 

The question tears you from your thoughts. Saves you from them really and pulls your attention onto Farleigh. His eyes are glimmering from the burning embers at the end of his cigarette, laying some strange quality in his gaze bare. But whatever it is looks uncertain and hesitant. And it serves as reminder that this is new territory for him as well. That he's just as unsure as you are. It gives you a little boost of confidence that you aren't alone in your self-induced doubts. It makes you smile; soft and relaxed and you hope that it helps whatever thoughts he may have running around in his own head. 

"Sure," you say. "But I want to rewatch House of Wax. " 

His face scrunches up in response, but he's already rising up to his feet and holding a hand out for you to take, helping to pull you up on your wobbling feet. "That movie is shit." 

"Well, I wouldn't be able to tell with the way that you wouldn't stop talking the last time that we all watched it." You grip onto his forearms while you find your balance, lowly cursing your heels and unsteady ankles. The energy has shifted into place, as easily as breathing; thawing all of the worries and insecurities that had initially clattered around in your brain as though they hadn't been there at all. 

"That's because the characters were nothing but cliches and one note, " he scoffs and promptly drops his cigarette on the balcony, snuffing it out by grinding it with his shoe. 

"I also need a bath." 

A smile curls on his lips, a little teasing. " Want to share?" 

You stare at him, a little disbelieving. There's absolutely no way that you could do that again tonight. At least not so soon. You're exhausted, barley holding yourself up as it is and you're still clinging to one of Farleigh's arms for support. 

"Really? After that?" You question, eyebrows raising, but you can't keep yourself from trying to joke despite your surprise. "You're terrible." 

Farleigh chuckles, guiding you towards the double doors gently, "Oh, don't look at me like that," he says, purely amused. "I wasn't suggesting another round, you're the one with your head in the gutter." 

You don't reply. Too caught up in the fuzzy way that it makes you feel; his request to share a bath with you. A small gesture maybe, but it also feels wonderfully domestic and intimate. It has you leaning into his side as you step into the adjacent room, breathing in the scent of his cologne, soaking up the body heat that radiates from his skin. Whatever new chapter between the both of you has opened has still left you two with a lot of unsaid questions and answers. You still don't know what you two are. If there's a label to apply to you both of it was just a one-night stand, but you don't have to get those answers right this second. For now, you can just bask in his company and come morning, once you've both had time to think and adjust you can sit him down and have a conversation. And maybe (hopefully) your relationship will finally become something more. 

But as for now, you don't mind spending the night in his room. Of cuddling up underneath the covers of his bed after a nice bath and watching a movie together, even though you know that the duration of it is going to be spent with him criticizing every line of bad dialogue and griping over plot holes, no matter how insignificant they may be. 

It sounds like the perfect night, honestly. 

But still there is still one burning question that's searing at your brain like a hot coal, and you can't keep yourself from voicing it. 

"Do you think anybody heard us?" 

And his answer is blunt and honest. 

"Oh, yeah, there's no way they didn't." 

[agendabymooner]

SOMETHING HAZY !!! CARLOS S. X FEM!READER (18+)

summary: carlos wanted his wife to let it all out. that’s all.

content warning: smut under the cut (minors dni!), not proofread, use of explicit language, established relationship (married), soft dom!carlos, unprotected sex (pls use protection), creampie, sex as emotional outlet, dacryphilia, reader being in subspace, ion know what i wrote it’s just smut, consider this my fever dream (i have a fever)

recommended song: american by lana del rey (i kinda based it off the vibes of the song)

note: y’all should check out something devoured bc there’s not much jenson button love out there 🤭 this was also an idea i brought up to a moot (@daaiissyyyyy) because we had too much fun recommending songs back and forth enjoy xx

something sinful (smut) masterlist

a - n masterlist

o - z masterlist

the spaniard didn’t usually come home earlier than his wife. his flights back to madrid were usually longer and she worked nearby. so it wasn’t everyday he got to go home and relax in front of the television while he patiently waited for her to get back from her office shift. 

what he didn’t expect, however, was the expression on her face when her eyes lit up for a brief moment at the sight of carlos.

it was as if she felt numbness in her system, telling him about her work and how much her boss frustrated her after working for hours on a project she’s dedicated herself to. 

it was one of those things that carlos had heard through the nightly facetime call with her. she spoke enthusiastically about her project while she cooked dinner for herself, to which she’d ask about his media duties and how it went for him after.

it wasn’t anything that carlos didn’t welcome; he loved her so much that her enthusiasm and cheeriness were nothing but a part of his everyday life. 

so to see her like this— less than optimistic and happy without the verge of crying (which she usually did over the little things), it didn’t sit right with him. 

“cariño,” he murmured, stopping her from moving around the kitchen as he pulled her closer to him. pinning her against the counter, she took a deep breath as he asked, “i’m here now. what do you want?” 

“i- i-“ she stammered, “i’m okay, carlos.”

“no, you’re not, bebe,” carlos mumbled, kissing her neck before his head moved up and his mouth nibbled at her ear. “i’ve been married to you for years. i know when you’re not okay.” 

his breath fanned her skin as he said, “tell me what you want, mi vida. ‘m here for you.” 

“i-“ she took a deep breath and murmured, “i just want to let it all out and cry, carlos and i can’t do it.” 

out of desperation, she turned around and faced him with a wobbling smile. “i want you to fuck me ‘til i’m crying and- make it all go away, carlos. please.” 

with a sweet smile, he tipped her head back and softly kissed her. 

“anything to help you out, cariño. let’s get you out of these clothes, hm?” 

it was like she was being split into half. 

his cock, its girth and length, was no contest to her cunt. carlos could still remember the first time her eyes landed on it as if she was wondering how it would fit into her. 

carlos loved the way her eyes would roll back when he managed to fit in snugly, fucking her while being pleased by the way her legs trembled and shook as he continued pounding into her. 

but right now, it was all about her. all she wanted was to have an outlet for her emotions. that’s what she was getting. 

he watched the way tears fell down her temple as he smiled gently. his smile differed from his actions, thrusting until he completely bottomed out of her and rolling her nipples between his thumbs and index fingers, eliciting a whiny moan from her as she incoherently spoke. 

she felt like she was being split into half, yet she wanted him to break her fully. 

“‘los, wan’ more,” she whimpered, her eyes shut tight as she whined.

“i know you do, mi vida,” carlos murmured, pounding hard as her toes curled and her heels dug into his hips. “so eager for me.”

“fuck, carlos, please~” she opened her eyes for a moment. carlos saw nothing but haze in her eyes, her thoughts were already driven away from the insanity of her reality at work. 

good, carlos thought. all he wanted was to distract her from the stress. 

“you look so pretty, mi corazon,” he mumbled, his fingers pulling away from her tits to wipe her tears away. “so, so pretty.” 

“te mereces algo mejor, mi esposa,” you deserve better, my wife. carlos continued. “so much more than those people, bebe.”

she was already too fucked out to even consider what he was saying, sobbing as she begged him for more. “carlos, please fuck me harder. i wanna cu- hah~ fuck— please—“

“shh,” he tutted quietly, his fingers now trailing down to rub her clit as she let out a sharp cry. now thrusting harder and faster, carlos moaned at the way her walls clenched around his cock as he mumbled, “so fucking good for me, mi amor. cum for me, bebe.” 

her legs twitched and heels dug into his hips as she whined, “gonna cum, ‘los! i’m cumming— ah- hah~” 

she felt nothing but euphoria, her vision turning white as she let out a quiet scream. “oh, oh~” she whimpered, feeling him paint her walls white with his pleasure as they both let out choked moans. 

carlos’ breath fanned her neck as he gathered his breathing. then, he gently pulled himself out of her. she let out a whine, telling him to continue stuffing her and that she felt empty without his cock inside her. 

he stood for a brief moment, watching as her body limped and a mix of her and his pleasure oozing out of her cunt. 

with her mind still hazy she murmured, “carlos, want you.”

“i know, mi vida,” he said softly. “i’m just gonna clean you up then we��ll go to sleep.”

“but—“ she sobbed, tears falling down again. 

“no more thinking,” he told her gently, yet his words demanded her to listen. he leaned over to press a kiss on her forehead as he mumbled, “not tonight. we’re gonna go to sleep and you’re gonna listen like a good girl, hm?”

she relented, wanting to please him as she nodded. a pout still played on her lips, not happy with his words but regardless she said, “mmm…okay.” 

carlos smiled lightly. it was nice to know that she got her emotions out already— she clearly needed that more than anything. 

[black-rose-writings]

Things I have gathered about Danny Phanton without having ever watched the show (from posts and fanfics):

There's ghosts and they're kind of assholes, but they're also all friends and have christmas parties. Their presence is treated as a mild annoyance by everyone except the ghost hunters.

The main character is a dead 14yo. Sometimes. He's also trans.

There are adult professional ghost hunters around. Literally all of them seem like they are just taking out their serial killer urges on ghosts. "Man is the real monster" trope in action. At least some of the ghost hunters are a Men In Black parody.

The dead 14yo actually the most competent at removing ghosts from the mortal plane.

There is another 14yo who is not dead and also hunting ghosts. She's somehow also more competent at it than the adults.

The MC's parents are ghost hunters and want to torture him into perma-death. That is somehow not the biggest problem with their parenting.

(Like, I get that adults in kids' media need to be kinda dumb and immature for the premise of the show/book/movie/whatever to work, but I'm getting the feeling the adults in this show cross the line of 'plot necessary dumbass' into 'fucked up and abusive' territorry.)

One of the ghosts is tiny, piloting a giant mecha suit and dedicated to skinning the MC and hanging his skin on his wall. He somehow also has a cool rocker girlfriend and thinks this will impress her. Jury's out on whether or not that's a good strategy.

There is a ghost called the Box Ghost, who demands to be taken seriously. Nobody takes him seriously.

The MC's nemesis is another dude who is sometimes dead. He looks like a vampire and swears in food. He also wants to kill the MC's dad (for mostly valid reasons) and bang his mom (for no good reason at all) and adopt the MC as his son(mostly because of his hangups around the parents, not because said parents suck at being parents). In a villainous and fucked up way, because he's the main antagonists. He's also a billionaire, has a cat, and is weirdly obsessed with american football (IDK jack shit about american football, but the level of obsession is treated as not normal by the characters so I will assume it is weird and just how americans be like).

There were 3 seasons, but half of the fandom is convinced the third one may have been a fever dream because it's so bad.

There was a finale that everyone pretends didn't happen because it sucked.

There is at least one time travel fix it episode and the time travel ghost wears way too many watches.

The MC has two living friends - Wade from Kim Possible, but thinner and leaves his house, and a jewish goth vegan.

The MC has a clone and she's a baby and a gremlin.

The ships all have the weirdest fucking names.

Somehow half the named characters being dead is not the angstiest part of the show.

I kinda want to know how someone came up with it and what drugs they were taking. IDK if I want to try some or avoid them, but it would be good to know either way.

[artyandink]

Five-Star

Summary: You’ve been dating Dean Winchester, which is nothing short of a fever dream. A brilliant fever dream. But when you decide to test him on how much he wants you, you don’t get the answer you expected to have.

A/N - Welcome to the Karak Chaii-verse! I had an idea to write Dean with an Indian POC, since I’m one myself. Creds to @zepskies and her brilliant Midnight Espresso-verse, and you should definitely check that out. This is a small drabble that I thought up.

Your family had moved to the US around a year after you were born. That’s because the monsters in India were far more dangerous than in America due to the origination of them from the depths of Indian mythology, such as a rakshasa or arunasura, but you found that here was far more escalated.

At least, you’d found out when you met the Winchesters.

You came from a long line of crazy good Indian hunters, so you were already a great one yourself. Back in India, your parents would pose as part of the CBI, but you had to resort to finding someone who could make you a believable FBI badge once you turned eighteen and got into hunting solo, which was around 1997. There you met Bobby Singer, who hooked you up with what he called the ‘All-American Hunting Kit’, which consisted of an array of fake IDs and a lore book. You were glad your training, done by your dad, was done by the intensity of monsters in India rather than here, otherwise it’d be harder to get by.

On a hunt for a vampire and wraith hybrid in Grant Pass, Oregon, you came across the Winchesters, the shorter of the two having dubbed the hybrid ‘Jefferson Starships’. That man was Dean, and you were taken by his charming, goofy attitude that switched to an attractive sort of intensity when faced with imminent danger. You just didn’t expect ‘imminent danger’ to be the mother of all monsters.

Once your parents had found out that you were hanging out with the Winchesters, who were at the centre of any and all supernatural trouble in America, they sent you a thousand calls telling you to get your ass out of there before you got killed. You being you, you didn’t listen. Not when you knew that you’d get withdrawal symptoms from not seeing the million dollar smile of Dean Winchester, which quickly won you over (and his lips too, which knew damn well what they were doing).

As for Sam, you quickly saw him as your little brother figure, who also helped you manage your unruly hair by recommending the right hair products that you now had stocked up. You’d both nerd over monsters, you’d tell him about all the ones you’d encountered in India while Sam told you stories about all that he and his brother had gone through.

Which was no less than a lot. And you thought India was a harder place to live, by what your parents told you. Here there’s the friggin’ Apocalypse.

Dean was obviously your favourite Winchester. He’d told you he really liked you about two years and a half after you met amid averting eyes and stammered words as he spewed compliment after compliment, standing there in the Bunker’s kitchen like a nervous melon in his grey robe, black shorts with hot dogs on them and black undershirt with fuzzy hair.

You’d cut his nervous ramblings off by pulling him in by the lapel of his robe, lips puckered in surprise as they met yours as the tangy taste of cherry and sweet, buttery pie crust flooded your taste buds and even more so when Dean quickly took control of the kiss, hands tangling in your hair and grabbing at soft curves like his life depended on it.

One thing Dean loved about you was your cooking. Your mom had taught you a wide array of Indian dishes that you could cook, and the moment the first bite of your rajma and rice graced Dean’s mouth, it was hook, line and sinker. You’d taught him how to eat chole bhature, roti and sabzi and which masala was which so he could know what the hell did you put to make him fall for you over and over again.

You were scrolling on your YouTube shorts one day when you came across a video of a woman asking her husband what his favourite snack was to see if he’d say her or not. You didn’t look like the definition of a snack right now, with your unwashed hair tied up in a bun that your mom taught you to do with no hair tie whatsoever in grey sweatpants, Dean’s undershirt and fuzzy mismatched socks, but you decided to try it out anyway as Dean came into the bunker’s living room, approaching you from behind with a delicate yet possessive cup of your chin and a kiss to your temple.

“Hey, sweetheart.” He greeted in that low voice of his that was effortlessly seductive even when he wasn’t trying, his hand sliding down to comfortingly rub over your chest and shoulder as he passed by. “Doin’ ok?” He sat down beside you, arm around your shoulder as his fingers began to play with your hair, warm green eyes trained on you.

You nodded, setting your phone aside. “Doing alright, yeah.” Then you decided to try out the question. “Dil, what’s your favourite snack?” You called Dean dil sometimes because it meant heart in Hindi, and he had yours.

The question got a chuckle out of him as he jerked his head to the right in amusement. “Awh, sweet girl, that’s hardly fair. I’d say beef jerky, but that new thing you, uh, introduced me to really raised the bar.” His brow furrowed in thought for a moment in contrast to the large grin on his face. “The aloo whatzitsname.”

“Aloo lachha.” You corrected with a giggle, barely holding back the urge to say what the answer was.

“Yeah, that. Or, uh, pie, but that’s a dessert and not a snack. Maybe that rajma stuff, but that’s a meal.” He continued rambling on any and all snacks he’d added to his palette since meeting you, until a bout of laughter from you slowed his roll. “What? What’s so funny, huh?”

“So… your favourite snack isn’t me.” You teased with a smirk, which got the cogs in his head turning. “You failed, sorry, honey.”

The words got a raise of his eyebrow and a slow and subtle roving of his eyes down your body and a bite of his lip. To him, you looked absolutely delicious. Like the best thing at a five star restaurant.

He stood up with a low grunt, facing you before grabbing you by your hips, hoisting you up so fast that you had to wrap your sweatpant-clad legs around his waist with a small shriek. “See, baby, that’s where you’re wrong.”

He leaned forward, capturing your lips in a bruising kiss that bordered on reverence and somehow the intention to devour at the same time, which had you moaning already. His tongue slipped into your mouth, briefly getting a taste and giving you the distinct flavour of the aloo chaat you had made for lunch mixed with beer before he pulled back and nipped your bottom lip, groaning at the feeling of your fingers now tugging at his hair.

“You…” Dean paused for a breath and a low chuckle, staring at you hungrily. “You are the whole damn buffet.”

TAGLIST:

@k-slla @hobby27 @supernatural-jackles

[curioussubjects]

How is there a throuple on prime time TV?And why are they the medical staff on a luxury cruise?

I'm still not sure how Doctor Odyssey is a real show that's airing every week and not some fever dream, but since it seems to be that it is a real show, here's why I think it's yet another medical procedural drama...and on a cruise!

While polyamory has become more widely acknowledged in the mainstream, it's hardly normalized or even common in both media and people's lives. Likewise, queer representation, especially that of bisexual men, is still far from being without controversy (if it's allowed to be represented at all, as Supernatural fans like myself well know).

So, again, how in the world is Doctor Odyssey, which very explicitly centers the developing sexual and romantic relationship between Max, Avery, and Tristan a thing that exists? Or, to put it another way: if we have a story that is unusual for most people and even uncomfortable for many of them, how can that story be told without alienating the audience?

The answer: tell it in a way that feels familiar, and maybe a little detached from reality. So, medical procedural drama on a cruise! Ok, let me explain:

Why a Medical Procedural Drama?

Not only has the the genre been a staple of American television since the 90s (thanks, ER), it's a type of story that is told in formulaic ways. It is, after all, a procedural. Both its familiarity and predictability allow the audience to sit back and enjoy the story unfold with its expected beats. This type of TV is meant to be fun and easy to watch. Such shows might give you some current issues beats to ponder as you watch, but they're not making you do a lot of work.

But why medical as opposed to law enforcement, which is a much more common type of procedural? Because, thanks to the legacy of shows like Grey's Anatomy and House MD., medical dramas have a lot more leeway to be dramatic AND unrealistic while somehow preserving the veneer of realism. It's this allowance for dramatics and breaches of realism that create a comfortable bubble of "sure this might as well happen" that prevents the audience from being alienate when faced with a wide variety of topics that can be as accurate or fantastical as the plot demands.

Polyamory, within this broader landscape, can be a Very Special Episode that just so happens to span every episode, and viewers can be carried through that plot by the familiar patterns and conventions of the genre.

Why on a Cruise?

Oh, aren't medical procedurals so cliché? How can we make it interesting?? I know, put them on a cruise! We haven't put doctors on a cruise yet! (totally 100% real conversation on ABC)

Sure, the cruise premise stinks of gimmick, but what if that's the point? Surely, most people would see a show like Doctor Odyssey and imagine that what makes it different is that it's set on a cruise. Yeah, that's not completely untrue, but the cruise serves a much more important purpose than being a differential on a pitch.

In fact, the cruise, like the medical procedural, is another liminal space that allows for multiple ways to engage in fantasy or reality as the plot demands. Mainly, and most crucially, though, the cruise is a bubble, an illusion, which is a point the show itself makes in the pilot episode. It is unmoored (heh) from the expectations of land, like accurate representations of healthcare, or say...monogamy as default. As such, the cruise makes not only for a dynamic choice of setting, but a very intentional one.

Reality Check:

The interplay between genre and setting is crucial. The audience, with all its expectations, of what a medical procedural drama is know what they're tuning in for, and they can easily imagine the dramatic (or ridiculous) nature of the cases that will be present in a luxury cruise. True enough, as I mentioned before, the pilot episode starts by being very honest that the cruise is an illusion: the captain shows and describes all the craft and skill that goes into creating a safe space for passengers to engage in fantasy. The genre savvy audience is then invited into aligning not with the cruise passengers, but with the crew.

Except Doctor Odyssey isn't really about the medicine, or the cruise, is it? It's about Max, Tristan, and Avery. So the audience is given a choice at the metanarrative level: be the passenger or be the crew. Be aware that the point of the story is the polyamory or tune in for medical staff...on a cruise! Win-win! What I think is fun and clever about all this is that no matter who you choose to align yourself with, you can't ever truly escape reality lurking in the wings. The polyamory is simply there no matter how resistant the audience, but the setting and the genre create a buffer around it.

Sure you can have a threesome on a cruise, it's like Vegas. No big. Nothing threatening to social conventions. It's not real. But reality has a way of reasserting itself: in the tragedies that befall the passengers on the ship, or their mishaps, or the cherished memories they'll look back on. And while the crew upkeeps the illusion, they aren't immune or completely separate from its effects (good and bad). No one can divest themselves from what they experience on the cruise and neither can the viewer.

Through genre convention and its setting, Doctor Odyssey (and I mean, look at this title alone lol) navigates the unfamiliar waters of accepting the richness of the human condition (to echo Captain Massey), and brings the audience safely to shore with a new understanding of what relationships can look like.

And this is how Doctor Odyssey managed to get produced and make it to air, and we get to be unhinged about Tristan, Max, Avery, and the YEARNING. Thanks for coming to my Ted Talk etc.

[lovelytsunoda]

purple haze // charles leclerc

summary: writing a novel is a long an arduous process. luckily for y/n, she has a very supportive partner in crime, and when it all works out, he's the only person she would want by her side.

pairing: charles leclerc x author reader

warnings: alcohol consumption, talk of deadlines, book referenced is a good girls guide to murder by holly jackson. gets a lil steamy towards the middle but nothing comes of it. still not sure how i feel about this one, but i havent written for charles in forever and i got an idea i really liked but i don't know if it worked out when i put it on paper.

by the time y/n closed her laptop, she felt like her fingers were going to fall off. she leaned back in her desk chair, gutted to find that the monaco cityscape outside her living room window was now pitch black, as might had fallen on the city.

her first book had been a red-wine and oasis fuelled fever dream, the last three chapters being written to ‘don’t look back in anger’. and now, the final edits were done.

“I’m so proud of you, mon tresor.” charles gushed, bringing her another glass of wine.

“the last three years are finally paying off. a good girls guide to murder is done, and the world is ready to meet pippa and ravi.” she grinned, clinking her glass against her boyfriends.

she had poured three years of her life into that book, and Charles had been by her side for all of it. through numerous rejections, edits and late night idea-vomit, nobody was prouder than charles was so see it work out for her.

and now he knew she needed a break.

taking her hand in his, he gently dragged her out of the desk chair and towards the couch, placing their wineglasses on the coffee table as he urged y/n to sit on the ground between his legs.

his hands were warm as he began to massage her shoulders, attempting to release the tension caused by the last round of edits, which she had worked on almost from sunup to sundown.

“there’s still so much to do.” she whined, tilting her head back to look up at her lover. “now there’s arcs and extra promotions and finding advance reviewers and-“

charles cut her off with a kiss. “none of that right now. right now, you and me are going to finish this bottle of wine and watch something pointless on tv.”

smiling to herself, y/n got up from the floor and moved to the leather couch, slipping seamlessly into charles' lap and nestling against his chest. his body was warm, and his sweater soft. even if his cologne was a little bit too strong, he made her feel safe. treasured.

"that sounds perfect." she hummed, gently turning his face so she could kiss him. "thank you for supporting me."

"always, my love." charles smiled before kissing her again.

SIX MONTHS LATER

it was half past five in the morning when the phone rang. charles could sleep through just about anything, but it was the vibrations of the phone against her side table that woke y/n.

she looked over at her sleeping lover, pressing a gentle kiss to the smooth skin on his shoulder blades before slipping out of bed and creeping into the hallway to answer a call from her agent, cecelia.

"cece, its five in the morning. couldn't this have waited?"

ceclia cleared her throat. "i've just heard from the american office. the preliminary numbers for the new york times list are in."

"fuck. how did we do?" she closed her eyes, holding up her crossed fingers and praying to every god she wasn't sure she believed in.

and when cecelia spoke again, she almost dropped her phone.

"okay. thank you for letting me know, cece."

she slipped back into the bedroom, bare, dry feet sinking into the plush carpet at the end of the bed before she sat down at the end of the bed, gripping the phone so tightly that her knuckles had gone white.

"mon amour." charles rasped, exhaustion in his voice as he rolled over onto his back. "what's wrong?"

"i just got a call from cecelia." she started, trying not to let her emotions show through. "she's just been on the phone with our american agent with the new york times numbers."

charles sat up, one of his warm hands going to rest on her thigh. "and?' he asked hesitantly, his piercing eyes meeting her uncertain ones in the dark.

"i made the top ten." she shouted, grin spreading all across her features.

making the new york times list had made everything worth it. all the sleepless nights when she had woken up with an idea she was scared to lose, all the rewrites, the weeks of writers block. the rejections, the aggravation, the insecurity.

this was it.

she had done it.

"i'm so proud of you." charles beamed, folding her into a hug. "i knew you could do it, my brilliant girl."

she dropped her phone on the bed, red-faced and giggly as she kissed him, allowing her hands to wander across his toned chest. "wanna show me just how much?"

THREE YEARS LATER

the theater was almost silent when the lights came up, the end credits of the final episode fading out on the screen. she held her breath, fingers gripping charles' hand so tightly that she thought she might break the fragile bones in her husband's fingers.

oh, yeah. they had gotten married about a year after her book had come out, while she was in the middle of writing as good as dead, the conclusion to the series.

since a good girls guide to murder had come out, her life had changed for the better. she felt more secure in herself and her talent, and the words had never come easier when she started writing the sequel, eager ton continue the story. she had since written two more books to complete the trilogy, as well as two standalone novels: five survive and the reappearance of rachel price. around the time that rachel price was announced, she had gotten another call from cecelia, asking if she and charles could come to london and meet with representatives from the bbc.

they wanted to turn her first book into a tv series.

she had been hands on from the beginning, throwing herself into her work and doing her best to make sure that the version of the story the readers saw on screen was the version that she had visualized when she'd first explained the storyboard to charles, the driver helping her connect everything on their living room wall with red yarn.

and now was the time. the time to see if it had all paid off. the theater was filled with minor celebrities, influencers, and the tiktokers who had made her book blow up in popularity.

it all came down this night.

"it's okay. whatever happens, you know you did your best." charles whispered in her ear, running one hand up and down her bare back. underneath the flimsy straps of her red dress.

she closed her eyes, taking a deep breath when the roar off applause began to drown her.

she rode the rush of emotions, allowing the tears of gratification and relief to ruin her mascara as she let her body go slack, resting against charles as she watched the room rise in a standing ovation for pippa and ravi.

"we did it. we made it, charles." she laughed, tilting her head up to kiss him.

"no, cherie. you did this. they're all here for you."

she watched as the event's host, a former spice girl that charles knew through his paddock connections, stepped out into the middle of the small stage set up at the front of the theater.

"and now, the moment i'm sure you've all been waiting for, a few words from y/n /y/l/n-leclerc!"

she wiped her eyes and fixed her hair, taking a deep breath before she walked across the stage, taking the microphone from geri halliwell, and turning to face the crowd.

in the front row, there was charles. her one true love. her biggest supporter.

and in that moment, she truly allowed herself to believe that she had made it.

[hotvintagepoll]

Propaganda

Rita Moreno (Singin' in the Rain, West Side Story)—She’s an EGOT, an absolute legend for how she navigated her career as a woman of color in the fifties and sixties. Her performance as Anita in West Side Story is why I go back to that movie so many times. She is an icon and she is the moment.

Elizabeth Taylor (Cleopatra, Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof)—iconic actress with purple eyes and a double row of eyelashes, the real ebony dementia ravenway of old hollywood. known for her stunning tastes when it comes to jewelry and her incredible, incredible advocacy during the AIDS crisis.

This is round 6 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]

Rita Moreno propaganda:

"Amazing showstopping actress in her one big memorable role as Anita in West Side Story. She sings and dances with unmatched joy and energy, and then breaks your heart with her acting. Rita took a role that felt as a stereotype to latina women and made it compelling and multifaceted. Her subsequent career was filled with mostly side roles, but she still managed to excel in whatever Hollywood threw at her."

"It’s Rita!! The EGOT herself! She can act, she can sing, she can dance, a triple threat. Obviously absolutely iconic as Anita in West Side Story (her part of the Tonight Quintet is the sexiest part of the film, fight me). But before that she was the amazing Zelda in Singin’ In the Rain!?! Thanks Zelda, you’re a real pal."

"She continues to be amazing but also she's got legs for days."

"THEE iconic rita moreno, EGOT winner, civil rights activist, theatre legend. watch her documentary "Rita Moreno: Just a Girl Who Decided to Go for It". also her rendition of "fever" on the muppet show"

Elizabeth Taylor:

I've been trying to steer clear of the absurdly-big names, but damnit, those violet eyes got me. The *talent*, the *presence*, the string of marriages and (temporally out-of-bounds) work in combating AIDS and pioneering in the concept of the celebrity fragrance line.

Not only did she have gorgeous violet eyes and lashes for days and one of the hottest voices ever, she was also a big supporter of the gay community

Child actress turned starlet, Liz dominated films as one of the greatest screen legends of classic hollywood. If your protagonist has violet eyes, they're imitating hers.

A Legend. She was serving milf rage in Whos Afraid Of Virginia Woolf. A Star in every sense of the word.

She was renowned for the beauty of her eyes; they were a dark blue but could look violet in certain lighting, something that photographers would actually touch up to look even more so in pictures. But even more striking was a genetic mutation that gave her a double row of eyelashes. She was also famed for her string of husbands -- 8 marriages to 7 men. Two-time hubby Richard Burton once said she was “a wildly exciting love-mistress… beautiful beyond the dreams of pornography.”

Her EYES. Early and loud support for gay rights and AIDS victims. Married a bunch of hot dudes, Burton twice!

just look at her. she's gorgeous. there's a video somewhere of her applying her eyeliner in the mirror and I think about it all the time

THE Hollywood actress of all time. Not only was she known for her long dark locks and blue-violet eyes, she also had one of the wildest life stories ever….. She’s Carrie Fisher’s stepmother because her father Eddie Fisher cheated on Debbie Reynolds with Liz. She was knighted as a dame of England. She was married to seven different men, one of them twice. She was also very kindhearted and did a lot of charity activism.

Asides from being an iconic actor, she did a lot of philanthropy and co founded the American Foundation for AIDS research. She’s sometimes considered one of the last great stars of old hollywood

[creature-wizard]

What the Project Monarch alter programming conspiracy theory is (and what it's not)

When I talk about alter programming conspiracy theories, people often get confused as to what I mean, so I figured I'd write a post to clear things up.

First of all, I am not saying that DID systems can't be indoctrinated or conditioned the same way literally any other human being can be, or that abusive people would never try and manipulate or exploit specific alters. That's not what I'm saying at all.

What I am talking about is a set of alleged practices first described by a number of far right conspiracy theorists, who claimed that the CIA was operating a program called Project Monarch, which was allegedly part of Project MK-Ultra.

Now, the existence of Project MK-Ultra is very well-known. The CIA did in fact conduct unethical human experiments in an effort to actually practice mind control. However, it didn't work out because drugs and the human brain don't actually work the way they thought they did. It's worth noting that these experiments were in part fueled by a fear that Russians were already masters of mind control, because as far as they were concerned, communism had to be more than just a political ideology that was at odds with America's own capitalist system; it had to be something so evil that it could only be forced on people using the most diabolical of methods. They were terrified that American POWs were being turned into Manchurian agents, and they figured that if this a thing the Russians were doing, then they should try and take advantage of this, too. Again, Project MK-Ultra was horrible, but it didn't produce the results they wanted, because Manchurian agents are nothing more than the fever dream of a terrified western capitalist.

Meanwhile, there is no evidence that Project Monarch ever existed. None. Nada. Not a shred. Despite allegedly being practiced by thousands of people in all levels of society since at least the mid-20th century, not a single piece of primary literature or documentation has ever turned up. Keep this in mind going forward.

If you've never heard of Project Monarch before, here's the gist of this conspiracy theory: Supposedly, Nazi scientist Dr. Josef Mengele wasn't actually performing eugenics experiments, and the Holocaust wasn't actually about genocide at all. It was actually a cover for mind control experiments. After the war, Dr. Joseph Mengele was brought over to the US in Operation Paperclip, where he taught the CIA everything he knew. Project Monarch was established by the CIA in order to plant programmers and programmed slaves everywhere in society for the purpose of establishing the rule of the New World Order, which had supposedly controlled Nazi Germany and had now infiltrated the US government. Supposedly, one of the New World Order's big goals was to destroy American conservative Christianity, especially Protestantism. Literally anything that a white American Protestant hyperconservative would find objectionable was supposedly the work of the NWO.

The alleged practices conducted under Project Monarch were broadly labeled "trauma-based mind control," or TBMC. While some people today use this term to refer to any form of punitive conditioning, the term originally had a very specific meaning. Let's talk about how TBMC in its original context allegedly worked. The basic concept goes like this: a very young child (sometimes even a baby) will be put under brutal torture in order to force them into dissociation. If the procedure is successful, the victim's mind will split and form a number of completely blank alters. Somehow, the programmers know which blank alters are potentially useful for programming, and which aren't. Each usable alter will be programmed with a code or trigger that will allow programmers to access the alter (force it to front) later. Supposedly, the host alter will have no memory of any of this.

During each programming session, the victim will be tortured into a dissociative trance, and the desired alter will be accessed. At this point the alter will be taught (typically as traumatically as possible) whatever they're supposed to learn, like how to assassinate someone, how to do complex mathematics at superhuman levels, or how to pose as the perfect Christian housewife.

So theoretically, someone who's basically your regular churchgoing mom could be sent a greeting card with a picture of something like a cute little Scottish terrier, have her assassin alter triggered, and go kill some local politician with some futuristic piece of technology that makes it look like he just died of natural heart attack.

Allegedly, millions of people have been programmed like this, and the average Monarch slave has an average of 1000 alters. Meanwhile, the supposed symptoms of alter programming are so broad that just about anyone with any kind of trauma or mental health issue could be diagnosed with it, and there is nothing they could do to falsify it.

Again, there is literally no evidence that Monarch programming is real. Josef Mengele was not brought to the US in Operation Paperclip; he fled to South America and died in Brazil. The Nazis (including Mengele) were very much all about those eugenics, and claiming otherwise is laughable. Not a single group, institution, or individual has ever been found in possession of programmers' manuals, nor in possession of the codebooks and books of programming records that supposedly (and would have to, if this was really happening) exist out there. Not a single person claiming to be a deprogrammed slave has ever demonstrated any of the numerous skills they were supposedly trained to be hypercompentent in.

Additionally, once you start digging into the actual sources of this conspiracy theory, you start seeing the exact same tropes that feature in The Protocols of the Learned Elders of Zion and early modern witch hunt manuals. They've been given some updates to resonate with the fears of post-WWII American WASPs, but it's ultimately the same scapegoating and fearmongering that sent millions of people to their deaths.

It's obvious that most of the people who believe that Monarch programming exists haven't actually read works like Trance-Formation of America by Mark Philips and Cathy O'Brien, and They Know Not What They Do: Illustrated Guide To Monarch Mind Control, The Illuminati Formula Used To Create A Total Undetectable Mind-Controlled Slave, and Deeper Insights Into The Illuminati Formula by Fritz Springmeier and Cisco Wheeler. If they did, they'd be pretty hard-pressed to deny that these books are some of the most hateful garbage ever written. These books are chock full of xenophobia, racism, and a general hatred of anyone who isn't a hyperconservative Protestant. Pseudoscience and pseudohistory are rampant throughout, as are now-failed predictions about the alleged future plans of the New World Order.

Some people out there have asked me, "well, what about this other person talking about it?" I promise you, the stuff they are talking about ultimately comes from these books, which were published throughout the 1990's. This includes Unwelcome Ozian, whose books Chainless Slaves and Rules of Programming contain text that's straight-up copied from some of these books. People like Dr. Alison Miller and Dr. Ellen Lacter cite Svali, and Svali's own work describes the exact same NWO conspiracy theory as the works of Springmeier and Wheeler.

I encourage anyone who isn't likely to get triggered by talk of extreme violence (including sexual) to actually read these books so you can see for yourself just how bad they are. A huge part of the reason this conspiracy theory has so much traction is because few people actually know where it comes from, and just how completely ridiculous the whole damn thing is. Just about everything QAnon was on about is packed into these books.

And finally, while dissociative amnesia does indeed exist, we also have evidence that people can confabulate memories of events that never actually happened. Rock-solid evidence, in fact. This is literally what happens every time someone goes under hypnosis to try and remember a past life, and "remembers" a past life in the medieval period filled with anachronisms and historical misconceptions. If you'd like to see some extremely obvious examples of memory confabulation for yourself (some of which don't even involve hypnosis), you can click here and here.

(By the way, the terms "RAMCOA" and "OEA" were created by the ISSTD, for the purpose of making these types of conspiracy theories sound respectable within legitimate psychiatry.)

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Analysis: Cannery Row (Cultural References)

John Steinbeck’s Cannery Row (1945) opens with the following declaration:

“Cannery Row in Monterey California is a poem, a stink, a grating noise, a quality of light, a tone, a habit, a nostalgia, a dream” (1).

Set in a fictionalized version of Cannery Row in Monterey, California, Steinbeck uses his cast of homeless people, drunks and prostitutes to express profound truths about humanity. 

Abacus (6): A counting device that was used before the creation of calculators.

Belles-lettres (64): A type of literary work, one that is usually expressed in essays, poetry and deals with intellectual subject matter.

Beret (123): A soft hat that has no bill and no brim. Often worn in the military.

Billings, Josh (61): The pen name for Henry Wheeler Shaw, a respected humorist of the 20th century.

Black Marigolds (171): A poem written by E. Powys Mathers.

Bloomer League (140): A baseball league that was comprised primarily of women that started during the early 1900’s.

Carborundum (90): Another name for silicon carbide, which is the sole chemical compound of carbon and silicon.

Chalmers (154): A type of car that was created and sold during the early 1900’s.

Chorea (144): An illness that causes involuntary movement in various parts of the body.

Collier’s (magazine) (139): Founded by Peter Collier, Collier’s Once a Week debuted in 1888 and went on to become one of America’s most popular magazines.

Count Basie (114): A prominent figure during the swing period of jazz, as well as a good example of big band style.

Dadaist (122): An artist or a writer who practiced Dada, a movement that rejected traditional art and contemporary culture.

Daisy Air Rifle (104): A brand of rifle created by the historic Daisy company.

Distemper (134): An infection in dogs that can be diagnosed through symptoms of a runny nose, poor appetite, and coughing.

“Fighting Bob” (111): A reference to Robert M. La Follette Sr. fight against Washington and other politicians who choose to enter WWI.

Ford Model T (61, 106): A truck built by Ford Motor Company.

The Great Depression (16): A result of the 1929 stock market crash, which left many Americans without money or jobs.

Great Fugue (163): A musical work by Beethoven.

Goiter (97): The enlargement of the thyroid gland.

Influenza (89): An infection more commonly known as the “flu.” It was responsible for claiming the lives of millions worldwide before effective vaccines were created to treat and prevent it.

Knights of Columbus (130): A Catholic organization that seeks to aid family members within the organization who are in financial need.

Knights Templar (130): A group of knights who originated in Jerusalem during the year of 1119. Though shrouded in mystery, the Knights Templar are believed to have protected the Holy Grail.

Laudanum (107): A mixture of opium and derivatives of alcohol.

Masonic Lodge (104): A meeting place for Freemasons or former Freemasons.

Mastoids (89): The skull bones that house the ear.

Mastoiditis (90): Mastoiditis occurs when an infection in the middle ear spreads to the mastoids and then causes an infection that produces fevers and headaches.

Monteverdi’s Hor ch’ el Ciel e la Terra (119): A song by the Italian musician Claudio Monteverdi, who lived in the 16th and 17th century.

Novena (88): A prayer that is said over a nine-day period that requests a special favor from God.

“Panama Pacific International Exposition of 1915” (111): The 1915 Worlds Fair that was held in San Francisco, California.

Petrarch (119): A famous writer of the 14th century who is credited with being the founding father of Humanism.

Point Lobos (64): A state reserve on the central coast of California in Monterey County.

Prohibition (72): A move by the United States government to reduce the amount of alcohol consumed in the United States through limiting individuals and businesses who sold alcohol.

Purse Seiners (67): Fishing boats equipped to fish with a purse seine, a kind of fishing net.

“Remember the Maine” (111): The sinking of the U.S.S. Maine, which was the catalyst for the Spanish-American War.

Rimbaud (124): A 19th century French writer who is most remembered for his contribution to the symbolist movement.

Robert Louis Stevenson (61): A Scottish author who is most famous for works such as Treasure Island and The Black Arrow.

Saturnalia (112): The week of December 17th-23rd during which a feast was held by the Romans to celebrate their dedication Saturn’s temple.

Scarlatti (129): Last name of Giuseppe Domenico Scarlatti, an Italian harpsichordist born during the 17th century who later moved to Spain and continued to practice music there.

Sculpin (135): A kind of small fish.

St. Francis (of Assisi) (144): A saint in the Catholic church who is known for his great love for God, animals, and the sick.

Treasure Island (64): A book written by Robert Louis Stevenson.

Vaudeville (109): A form of American variety entertainment that marked the beginning of popular entertainment as a lucrative business.

“White Sale” (103): A sale either of household goods, or when a store drastically reduces their prices for a short period of time.

Source ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References

[zahri-melitor]

Batman v Ra's Al Ghul, by Neal Adams: A Bronze Age fever dream of a comic, written in 2019-2021.

Neal Adams caps off his over 50 year career with DC comics by...them letting him write a book for the first time in a decade.

Now, Adams is famous for his Bronze Age artwork, not his writing, and it's deservedly so: this is not the comic you would pick up if you were interested in award winning writing. But I have to say, it's actually something far more fun than 'good writing'.

I think the easiest way to describe the incredibly wild vibes of this title are 'Adams writes a multiverse Bronze Age time travel AU fic', where the cast technically consists of a modern set of characters (Dick is Nightwing and both Tim and Damian are Robin), but all of the characters are drawn, talking and acting like they just walked off a page in 1974 or so.

For assistance, that's: Dick in the yellow with the very 70s black vest; Tim in the blue t-shirt; Damian in the red t-shirt; and Bruce in the suit. You end up keeping track of them in this title by their haircuts.

Bruce and Damian here cannot remember anything about being Batman and Robin; Dick and Tim appear to have shown up with a fantastical story that cannot be proven (as I said, this has INCREDIBLE reality hopping AU vibes).

Some of the characters have been mindwiped. Some of the characters are robot duplicates. A whole list of characters Adams helped create show up largely because he created them (seriously Kirk and Francine Langstrom show up for a couple of pages mostly to give Dick and Tim an airlift into a difficult to reach entrance to the Cave). Nobody sounds particularly in character at any point, but that's not really a problem in this comic, because what it really is is a giant jolt of Bronze Age style writing nostalgia direct to the brainstem.

They don't make comics like this anymore and reading one written in the 2020s like this reinforces why.

Deadman's brother Aaron and sister Zeea show up; his brother is busy pretending to be an alternate Australian version of Batman called Marvin O'Hearn, and his sister is a psychic running around in the most 70s outfit imaginable controlling things and mindwiping Bruce on Ra's orders.

(And yes, if you too just asked 'Boston Brand has siblings???' the answer is 'kinda sorta but definitely not these two', however given Adams was writing Boston in 1968 at one point he's got as much right as anyone else to claim there are additional siblings)

There's a group who PRETEND to be the Court of Owls but secretly are a group of industrialists called The Money who want to control the world via paying for legislators, judges and industry (and yes I realise that sounds exactly like the Court's thing, but Adams was almost 80 when he wrote this, he can have an expy Court if he wants one).

Bruce pretends to be Matches for a good chunk of the back end of this comic and it actually acknowledges that Matches Malone was a real gangster before he died and Bruce stole his identity (something other writers and the fandom often forget), because Adams wants one more spin with the character he designed.

There's also a moment in the sixth issue where one of Ra's pet scientists tries to sell a panel of Gotham execs on a perpetual motion machine based on electrolysis as his replacement for the current Gotham power generators and at this point I lost it giggling at the portrayal of Ra's as a cheap charlatan.

(There is also a sneaky joke that only works if you know what British salad cream is; there's this sequence of the kids talking about Alfred making sandwiches with 'crappy salad dressing' instead of mayonnaise, only this tray has been made with mayo...and it's a hint that Alfred has been replaced by a robot. I laughed; I suspect it might be non-obvious to American audiences)

This is not a comic to read if you are interested in 'main continuity' or 'coherence' or even 'good writing'. However if you want some wild antics that feel like someone's 3am fanfic AU written in pure Bronze Age vibes and to see the last work of one of Ra's Al Ghul's creators? Give it a chance. You'll never be able to predict what's on the next page.

[kings-highway]

Fanfic Writer Review

Thanks you the wonderful @mania-sama for tagging me for this and letting me inflict my thoughts upon all of you <3 love you asshole :)

Many, many words below the cut!

“How many works do you have on Ao3?”

Sitting pretty at 47! I have deleted a few fics in the past but I have never orphaned any or posted anonymously, so the count is accurate.

“Your top 5 stories by kudos/likes?”

In the Woods of Japan - 1,969 kudos

Should surprise nobody to find this one is my most beloved! Ironically this is also the second story I ever posted to Ao3 - writing it was like a fever dream, posting a chapter almost every day or every second day for a bit. I truly, truly think that writing this fic was one of the best decisions I ever made, if you all and the haikyuu community hadn’t shown me so much support, I have no idea what I’d be doing now - it broke me out of a 3-4 year dry spell where I hadn’t written anything at all, and has directly led to me not only writing regularly now but finishing original stories as well and truly even if it’s not my favourite piece in my library, I will never regret deciding to attack Daichi with a bear. Also shoutout to the only story I ever let Daichi be bisexual in. Finished writing this story and then stole his labels forever. Bitch never figured out his identity again.

All for the Love of an Energetic Redhead - 1,185 kudos

The success of this story is so funny to me. Sometimes I have an idea on whether or not a story will be well received, and other times the story is Energetic Redhead and you post it and are immediately flabbergasted by how many other people wanted Kags and Ushi to get blackout drunk and fly around the world. Ironically, the only reason this got written is because I don’t have the art skills/patience needed to make a comic I wanted to, based on the only two red-haired characters, but wanted to push my “two autistics vs. two energetic but VERY different redheads” agenda. It would have gone something like “several panels of Ushijima and Hinata standing side by side, Ushijima is distracted by something while Hinata motor-talks about all things volleyball. Ushijima suddenly interrupts him, realizing who he is and saying: You are not my usual redhead-” and the panel is interrupted, cutting to Kageyama trapped in a dark room with Tendou.”

Competitive Fake Dating - 1,061 kudos

Sometimes as a fanfiction writer, you have to remind yourself that you are a fanfiction writer. It’s all fun and games writing massive, sprawling stories with deep themes and complex character relations. But this is fanfiction, bitch, sometimes you have to make your blorbos kiss for points.

Imperfect Facial Symmetry - 916 kudos

Oh, what can I say. This one truly is special to me. 100% one of my favourite fics of all time, there are only very few things I would change about it, but most of those being wishing I could go back and add more, drag it out. I don’t like stories or headcanons that make Tendou out to be attractive or even “attractive in a weird way” I think his character is far more interesting if you allow him to be conventionally unattractive, and I think pairing it with a version of Ushijima obsessed with the limitations of his own self expression, to rewire the definition of “attractive” into “lively” and “expressive” is such a good representation of why I love this ship specifically. There are a lot of headcanons present in this story that I since used in pretty much every other. God I could talk about it / them / this story for fucking ever.

American Summer - 882 kudos

Sequel to #1, In the Woods. What can I say, you go for a bear, you escalate to an American named Adam. I did NOT want this story to be the way this story ended up. Earlier drafts of the story included stargazing on the top of a rented motorhome, losing your virginity in the back of a car, getting into a fight with a couple of 22 year olds outside of a bar, visiting national parks, overcoming jealousy for your boyfriends’ trauma-bonded found family, and slowly beginning to let go of that trauma. INSTEAD after writing a couple chapters I remembered you can’t legally rent a car at 18/19 in California and I had to rapidly adjust, and apparently instead of a coming-of-age vacation my only other idea was serial killer so. Uh.

“Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?”

So-so. I WANT to reply to every comment, but I have a really severe kind of social anxiety, so I don’t reply most of the time. I’m too afraid of looking really conceited and egotistical, if I reply to a comment about the things they like about the fic with the things I liked about the fic or just agreeing with them, I’m just hyping myself up as if I wasn’t the author and keeping all the attention on me, if I just thank them and nothing else, I feel like I’m not appreciating it enough and they’ll be offended by my shorter response, if I make a joke or be funny, 90% of the time I don’t get a reply back, and then I sit there with a stomach ache of anxiety wondering if they were annoyed by me trying to be silly. So. I really, really, try my best to reply to comments, especially at the last chapter of a longer fic, or if there’s a direct question I’ll always answer those, but otherwise I get nervous and can’t bring myself to hit enter on the responses. But I love all the comments I receive so much and I really am trying to get better at engaging with people.

“What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?”

Has to be Astrophilia. I don’t enjoy angsty endings most of the time, I don’t think the world needs more stories about people failing to be happy, or suffering needlessly with no reprise. Astrophilia was originally going to be a hardcore angst ending with them definitively dying in space/losing the ability to communicate with Earth, but as per the previous reason given, I just didn’t see any value in that story, and wanted to give it more of my usual spin. (No hate to people who do like angst, I just don’t.) Most of my angst is found in the middle of my fics, where it belongs :P (the catharsis of recovery is important to me!)

“What’s the fic you’ve written with the happiest ending?”

All of them? I think ignoring the one-shots that exist only to be fluffy, and thinking about what really qualifies a happy ending, I would have to go with Soulmake Adventures. Sure, there’s no fairytale happy ending to it (which is the point of that story) but in that I think that’s the happiest ending. Each character is explicitly given long, healthy lives filled with new experiences and growth and change, and are not bound to static one-note love stories. Their happy endings are not defined by the satisfaction of the romance story that was contained in Soulmake Adventures, but each of them achieving a level of self-actualization that allows them to take control of the choices they make and live for themselves first.

“Do you write crossovers?”

In theory? Yes. I just don’t have a reason to :)

I would LOVE to do a SK8 + Haikyuu crossover though. I think Langa and Kageyama need to be locked in a room together.

“Have you ever received hate on a fic?”

Not really. One comment comes to mind but I also don’t feel like giving enough description that would allow someone to track it down, feels mean to put a spotlight on someone, especially because I've never received hate, with such a strong word. Just… disappointment or confusion.

Oh, except for this one time this crazy person told me I’d stolen the plot of Sharkboy and Lavagirl. smh.

“Do you write smut? If so, what kind?”

Yes? No? I think sex and physical intimacy is one of the most interesting ways to explore relationship dynamics and emotions, so I tend to use sex a lot in my stories, but as most would know I rarely, rarely write graphic sex. “Smut” I think has the connotation of sex that’s meant to be hot, which I’ve never done. If you see characters fucking in my stories, there’s a purpose to it. BUT that being said never say never. Sex is just sex, if I think of a good story idea that uses it, then it will be.

“Have you ever had a fic stolen?”

I think? I had a ton of my stories being hosted on one of those data scam sites or whatever. I truly just. Whatever.

“Have you ever had a fic translated?”

I think so! I’ve had many people approach and ask me permission to, but I can’t say for certain if they ever got completed. I think so.

“Have you ever co-written a fic before?”

No! I do love the idea of collaborating on a fic, but I hate the idea of co-writing. There would have to be a premise that lets us write our own halves (dual perspective, maybe?) that’s relatively separate. Otherwise, the actual process of two “writers” on a fic sounds absolutely terrible. What, gonna share a google doc and take turns writing lines? I would go crazy with control-freak energy. BUT the idea of collaborating on a story in other ways and sharing credit for ideas and working together to make it good would be awesome.

“What’s your all-time favourite ship?”

*glances at my Haikyuu themed fanfiction blog and Ao3 account*

S… Sculder… (Mulder/Scully - X-Files)

It’s really really hard to decide, “all-time favourite” comes with a huge weight to it. Amy/Rory from Doctor Who is also really fucking high on that list, as is Ten/Rose to be fair. But then I think about where I am currently, and in terms of energy/thought put into a ship, that shit has to be DaiSuga, right? In terms of favourite, clearly… but… if we’re going with Haikyuu, a relatively recent love of mine, I think UshiTen is more compelling…

BUT if we’re talking about ships that take up my brainpower, ships that live rent-free forever in my head, it’s going to be my original characters, always. I have a handful of personal characters from original stories that never leave my thoughts. The real answer would probably be two of my OCs. If you know you know.

But that’s a stupid answer so I’m gonna go with Sculder because they are perfect.

“What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?”

There are SO many WIPS that’ll never get finished, but I think the answer that serves this question the best is a WIP in my scrap folder called “The London Reconnection,” which follows Suga about 5 years post leaving Japan to study English Lit in London, and is working towards his masters. He had effectively lost a lot of his cultural roots and really enjoys the lifestyle of London, especially the teas, and although he had always planned on eventually going back to Japan after getting his masters, as he gets closer to that, he’s started considering staying in London and staying forever. Which, at the time, doesn’t hurt so bad - he hasn’t spoken to anyone back home in three years, and the last time he went for Christmas, he didn’t even bother checking in with his friends… though a wrench gets thrown into his confidence for what he wants and his plans for the future when, literally out of nowhere, Daichi shows up in the library he works at with his little sister, having come to support her while she receives an experimental treatment for a rare disorder, and they’re expecting to stay, possibly indefinitely. Suga hadn’t spoken to Daichi in quite a few years, but had always considered him “the one that got away” (though they had never officially dated.) So suddenly, his perfectly curated London lifestyle is tipped on its side due to the dropped-in presence of an old, familiar face and one that can barely speak a lick of English, let alone blend into the London culture. Cue English lessons, lots of metaphors about teas, identity, and falling in love with someone you used to know intimately, but don’t really know at all anymore. I think about it like 3 times a week but more than likely will never write more than the 4k or so I put down for the first chapter…

“What are your writing strengths?”

Fuck if I know, my man. I think dialogue? I get a lot of compliments regarding how natural my characters feel, how much they seem like real people, so I think that has to be one of the strongest points of my writing. I also think I’m very funny. Humour is 100% subjective so this doesn’t really count, but I love some of my own jokes in my writing. Write to make yourself laugh, friends, that’s the key.

“What are your writing weaknesses?”

The fact that if a scene bores me I’ll just straight skip it. I tend to rush scenes that would be realistic simply because I don’t care about them, certain characters or plot lines getting abandoned because writing the necessary scenes for them to really work just sounds boring. Even if I think the scenes or characters are good and important and very interesting, if it bores me I just… can’t force myself to do it. I also really struggle with combat and action sequences, anything that requires “choreography” of any kind, I think I tend to under-explain each scene in an effort to avoid over-explaining an action sequence, which results in muddied and confusing character motions with little context.

“What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?”

I don’t think I have any thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic? I’m sure this is related to some kind of fan-debate about this, but… I’m not sure what the camps are. If I write Dialogue in another language in a fic, and the perspective character doesn’t speak that language, I italicize it but otherwise write it like normal dialogue. If the character does speak that language, I italicize it but write it in English and make a note in the dialogue tag that it was in whichever language. I think, though don’t hold me to this, spoken dialogue should always be written in a way that the reader can “hear” which would unfortunately have to include the phonetic anglicization of languages that don’t use the latin alphabet IF you’re writing in English (or converting it to whatever language you’re writing in.) This is due to the enjoyment of the reader being able to “hear” the story or keep the immersion. If I’m reading a story, and it presents to me, in dialogue, a string of sanskrit, just skipping over that without hesitation. No idea. Character may as well not have spoken, can’t hear it. BUT if it’s in the text of the book, describing the writing they’re reading, signage, or anything else, then it should stay in its original written form, perhaps translated elsewhere in the story if needed. I don’t think authors are required to translate spoken dialogue if the perspective character can’t understand it. HOWEVER that is also my opinion for, like, original fiction stories. Because fanfiction is supposed to be for sharing, I can understand wanting/expecting a translation of whatever cute or funny quip the characters are making in the language. I, personally, have never provided translations for any of the languages I use in my fics. Sorry.

“What’s a fandom/ship you haven’t written for yet but want to?”

I have no interest in writing fanfiction for other fandoms. As mentioned above, if I had to pick one I might go with SK8, but I’m not really a “fanfiction writer” in the sense that when I read/watch media I get overwhelmed with the urge to write stories for them. I don’t even really read fanfiction. Haikyuu is special in that, these little fucks satisfy my creative urges and that’s all they have to do, it’s not really about any hyperfixation on the media or interest in writing fanfiction as a whole, y’know. Besides, if I started writing for other fandoms, that would give Daichi a break from me and I can’t allow that.

That being said, ships I haven’t ever written for… I have a SemiShira WIP in progress that hopefully will be finished Kogagoshi as well I’m a fan of, if you can believe that. FukaTora, too. Honestly I have a dozen AsaNoya WIPS, and considering they’re one of my favourites the fact that they’ve never been more than a background ship/side pairing is a SHAME. Same with AranKita.

“What’s your favourite fic you’ve written?”

Time Enough to Risk it All has to be my favourite, just because it’s, well… it’s what it is. I think it’s tight and well contained, it doesn’t suffer from my usual rambling, missed plotlines or dropped ideas that I scrapped after I started posting. It feels cohesive and tightly knit and it ends the same way. Not too many things going on. However, I will say, Imperfect Facial Symmetry is really high up there as well, as is The Stoplight Demon even though it was not everyone else’s favourite. I do think if I can finish “This is Not the End” the way I want to, and have it be what I hope it’ll be, it will become my favourite. But I still have time to ruin it, so we’ll see if Time Enough keeps its title :)

Tagging: victims!

@harumin24 @vvalllerie @reviiely

[hozierandco]

The Match-maker - Part 3 of Callum Turner x Reader // FLUFF

AN: First of all, I apologise part 3 has taken longer than expected. I think I'll stop promising to publish at a certain date when I can't meet expectations. Anyway, this is part 3 which is still kinda fluffy but we're going towards SMUT (which will be part 4 so you will have to wait a bit more for this, sorryyyy). Hope you like it xx

“Would you like to see the pictures I took back to my place?”, Y/N questioned, feeling like the end of the night could well go somewhere unplanned but nice.

“I’d love that”

The night was well advanced and the Park was oddly quiet, perturbed only by the sound of rare sirens afar and some perched daring crows. The conversation went on about upcoming projects, recently watched Netflix shows and family dramas.

Though they had met just a few hours prior, the conversation flowed so smoothly. It was as though Callum, an English 30-ish actor had been through all the throes an American photographer had known. It felt good not only to be heard but to be understood as well, Y/N thought.

Callum could not help but think back on what in his life had led to this. What if he had never flown to New York and had decided to stay in Chelsea instead? What if he had never met Austin, and therefore had never met Y/N? Just to imagine never grazing Central Park in such pleasant company caused him to overthink all the many terrible ways this could end.

He had been heartbroken so many times, getting attached too soon and too quickly or to the wrong person. Over and over again. But he could sense that Y/N was different. Was it because she too had open wounds? Or was it that she was as detail-oriented as he was recounting all the love stories gone bad?

He did not wish to repeat the same mistakes that had led to him being hurt but he knew it was inevitable. He was going to fall for her. It was something about her bonhomie and vision of life that was so goddamn irresistible. 

“There, that’s where I’m living for a couple more days”, Y/N announced as they got to a stop in front of a door made of brick. Queens is not the first neighbourhood of the Big Apple you’re thinking of when you think of all the glam and romantic appeal the city has to offer but here it was. 

Though she had taken the subway already earlier in the evening to set her gear before attending the party, Y/N was still amazed at the non-stop functioning engine. She liked to imagine everyone’s life, now she had the occasion to imagine hers either choice she was about to make: to trust or not to trust that smiling actor who seemed unable to hurt a fly.

“Let me show you the camera obscura I set up in here”, Y/N declared with pride tinting her voice as she hinted that Callum could enter. At that moment, it felt the most natural thing to do, as though Callum was a familiar, as though Y/N had invited him over multiple times. 

In the small room she had tidied neat to exhibit her photographs of the city and those she was about to develop from the Gala, the two stood next to one another, feeling comfortable with each other’s presence. Because it was required by the device she had carried with her from one coast to the other, Y/N had placed some towel she had found in the bathroom and had arranged it over the lightbulb. The whole installation made the light flip crimson anytime she was turning on the switch. 

With this new shade of red covering his face, Callum could be admired the way he was created to be. He was a handsome man with this charm of a man who has no idea how ridiculously daunting and comely he was. It seemed as though his smile was wider than it had been through the evening. Y/N could not let go of the chance she had to kiss him just a little more, crossing her fingers that he would not disappear and that all of this was not just a fever dream. 

Though it was close to 2 am, though the two of them had not closed their eyes to rest for the past 19 hours or something like that, there was no way their lack of sleep was getting in the way of the chemistry they shared at that moment. 

Y/N was still in her black dress that Callum had made swirl just a couple hours prior with his dance moves. She was even more beautiful now that no one was around and that she had no performative socialisation to make. It was as though she was hers only, her precious treasure chest after a long journey to a remote island.

“So, can I help you with tonight’s pictures?” Callum offered with a heavenly grin on his face, just seconds after parting from her embrace and kisses.

And like that, Y/N was talking about the invention of the camera obscura and teaching him about the techniques to develop pictures from a film camera. Callum, being an actor, was a pro in front of the cameras but had no clue as to how they worked and was more than happy his teacher was both nerdy when it came to the subject and drop dead beautiful.

After having taught the basis, Y/N trusted Callum to develop pictures on his own. Seeing him being enthusiastic and caring with the films made him even more irresistible.

“I think this one has to be my favourite photograph so far”, Callum stated after letting a bunch of pictures taking a bath and allowing them to dry out. The photograph in question was a selfie of Y/N had taken right before the Gala started as a souvenir of this ethereal occasion. The only photograph from the selection that had her face on it. 

“Now, since you’ve been an excellent photographer, will you allow me to take some pictures of you?” Y/N asked, brushing off the compliment. 

Callum sat on the leather couch that seemed straight out from an Ikea catalogue and posed for Y/N. He could feel her eyes going from the camera to him and back to the camera, making sure she had the right angle to capture his beauty as a whole. It was a losing battle as Callum could not be as handsome as the version she had in front of her. She thought that if he was to vanish when the day would come, she would at least have the pictures to rely on.

As Callum was somehow obliged to look at the camera - and the person holding it -, the tension got to him. She was way too gorgeous not to be the one posing. As she fixed her zoom lens, he approached her and gave her another round of kisses. This time around, Y/N and Callum could feel there were more than kisses to get from this and touches on the thighs and torso succeeded.

“Is that okay if I’m touching you like that?” Callum asked Y/N as she grew desperate for the touch. 

“Yes, it’s more than okay. It’s just perfect”

The two of them carried on, competing as to who would be the most passionate. Callum brought Y/N’s mouth closer to his and after a few more kisses placed on her lips, got to her neck. Still on the sofa, Callum lay his weight on Y/N as he found new spots to soak with his affection.

[musicforastylesrestaurant]

S A C C H A R I N E.

one phone call can change your whole perspective on life. it can change everything you know in a matter of seconds, and most of the time, the phone call is regarding bad news.

that’s what happened to harry. after picking his son up, alfie up from school, his phone rang and that’s when his heart fell into the pit of his stomach, it was the hospital.

they didn’t tell him much over the phone, just that he needed to get to the hospital as soon as possible to talk, so that’s what he did and that’s when he was told the news, news he never expected to hear.

you, his darling wife, the women he adored with his whole heart, the mother of your angle boy was in a road traffic accident and had life threatening injuries, and was placed in a medically induced coma, the doctors deciding that you needed to heal on your own time.

harry never left your side, every morning, every afternoon and every night he was there, holding your hand and hoping and praying that you’d wake up, that he’d wake up and that this whole thing was just a fever dream.

authors note - this was originally a one shot, but everyone was asking for a part two, so guess what? i decided to be everyone’s guardian angel and make this into a mini series, the chapters are already planned out and just need to be edited.

if you’d like to be on the taglist, let me know and i’ll add you to the list!

mentions of a car crash,

mentions of miscarriage,

hospitals,

mentions of epilepsy,

mentions of comatose,

mentions of death.

If you find anymore triggers, please let me know and i’ll add them to the list!

saccharine expressions

[published 26.08.2023]

in which, your husband postpones his american leg of tour because you get involved in a road traffic accident, resulting in you ending up in a medically induced coma, your husband and four year old comes to visit you everyday and they always have something new to tell you. this is everything that Harry experiences whilst you asleep, speaking to you whilst holding your hand, getting forced to eat because he doesn’t want to move and reassuring your son that mummy’s going to be fine.

word count - 8k.

saccharine recoveries

[published 05.09.2023]

in which, after being in a medically induced coma for the past four days, your eyes are finally open, just when your husband thinks that everything is rosie, trials and tribulations occur once again making the processes of your recovery ten times harder, but he’s optimistic and always looks on the bright side, even when that all comes crashing down.

word count - 7.9k

[jakes3resin]

gosh!! magic au!! theseus! chaos of having at the base and it’s like two bucky. gale would definitely be shocked!

That au really hit me like a fever dream, my dear anon. I was thinking about the Twin Cleven AU and the Blond Bucky bit I added when I remembered I tacked on a tiny Theseus Easter egg. 30 minutes later I had Magic AU in my drafts with no memory of writing it.

But I've sketched out some thoughts for you and for those who are interested (please keep in mind the last time I watched Fantastic Beasts was a few years ago so I don't remember much):

Bucky's a Scamander by his father (Theseus and Newt's uncle) but goes by his mother's maiden name as he was taken in by her brother and his wife.

Both his parents were magic, but they died near the end of the First World War. Bucky stayed with the Scamanders for a little while before eventually going to America before he turned 4. Theseus was very close with him, and they were occasionally mistaken as father and son due to the age difference (Theseus was a war hero during the First World War if I remember correctly?) (Also that could be an AU now that I think about it but not rn)

He has a bit of a British accent, comes out more when he's using magic. Or when he's around his cousins. First time Buck hears it, he just about faints.

Went to Hogwarts solely because his parents went there, and he wanted to feel close to them. Not sure what House but leaning Hufflepuff. He seems like he'd be happy there.

Enjoyed the school somewhat, but he dealt with some bullying due to his American upbringing as well as some of the students still remembered Newt and bullied him for that connection.

His favorite animal is still the unicorn. It's just not extinct like he said to Buck. What can I say? Every Scamander is good with magical animals.

Had an accidental falling out with the Scamander family who wanted him to move permanently to England and stay with them during his schooling, but he prefered spending his summers in America and winter holidays in the castle.

Came home before he turned 18 (I guess started Hogwarts young for his grade? Idk.) And decided to blend in to Muggle/No-Maj society by going to college and later joining the Air Force.

After Bucky's revelation to the RAF pilots, one of them writes home saying he met Theseus Scamander's cousin! This gets passed through Wizarding society until it lands in the ears of Theseus who didn't have a clue his cousin was in England, let alone serving in a Muggle unit. And after hearing about the death toll, he gets scared.

Theseus resolves to pop down there and check in on his cousin. And unknowingly reeks havoc upon Thorpes Abbotts.

Looks like this:

(This is in a nebulous point before Curtis' death because he deserves to be alive my baby boy)

Literally everyone that sees him is flabbergasted because 1) Major Egan is handsome but he never dresses like That and 2) Major Egan is supposed to be flying back from a mission right now. Word travels through base, and it's alight with rumors.

Theseus gets dragged to Kidd's office because literally everyone is freaking out, and he's quite confused why everyone keeps calling him Bucky. He tries to explain that he's Theseus and that he's here to see his cousin John, but every time he speaks the people around him all jump (its cause his accent spooks them. That accent should not be coming from someone who looks so much like Bucky in their mind. Boy are they in for a rude awakening.)

Bucky flies back in, and after interrogation, he doesn't even get a chance to change clothes before he's being dragged to Kidd's office. Buck and a few of the boys follow utterly confused. If Bucky's in trouble, Buck's not just gonna stand by.

Theseus happily greets Bucky when he walks into the office, and the pair have an okay reunion before Theseus states that he's here to check on his younger cousin, heavily implying that he's here to transfer Bucky to a British outfit as he's a British citizen and their family connections want to keep him safe (really a Wizard one but among Muggles he's better at speaking around the issue)

Thus an argument breaks out. Bucky's accent also comes out, and nearly everyone around him loses their minds.

Buck really, really does not want to talk about what that accent does to him. It's confusing and concerning. (Clegan are together, but when your partner busts out the London Accent, well that's a gamechanger)

Anyways idk where it goes after that, but now everyone has to deal with the fallout that Bucky is British and has a nearly identical cousin who pops in to check on him.

[hell-is-a-teenage-girll]

HEALTH UPDATE

Well.. Guess who finally got Corona.

On top of everything this was exactly what I needed. I joke that I'm just always late for the trends 💅.

But seriously, I'm in so much agony. Before ending up at ER last night, my heart had been going 130bpm + whole day. (my watch literally congratulated me on my fitness) it went up to 161bpm. When I went to the doctor my blood pressure also was way to low. My fever was climbing close to 40°. (sorry for all my Americans on here, I'm European so I'm not converting it haha)

So they send me there.

I never felt in so much agony. I think mixed with my already existing illnesses and disabilities it's just a mixture for disaster.

I've cried from pain, and I don't do that normally. Or atleast not infront of someone, not even my partner, now I been crying with her. She's also positive btw.

I'm also already dealing with the disappointment of most likely not being eligible to be helped by the state for paying for an implant in my brain.

It would cost me 20.000 and after 5 years to replace the battery again 15.000. I don't know how to place this. As this implant was for me always my safety plan, my dream plan, and the one with the most succesrate to reduce the pain.

Now I don't know anymore how to live like this.

I also went to England recently with my gf and a friend, and I have never realised more that I'm disabled. And that things are getting worse and God. It feels terrible and the reality is hitting me HARD.

I must say they were so helpful to people with accessibility at the airports and all. I had never experienced that ❤️