#CRIS DEWITT

[trekkitkat]

Jack and Rose 

“Long Live” - Taylor Swift 

@dukeofdelirium

[saltwaterburns]

Headcanoning Kate Winslet as Rose Dewitt Bukater as Theodore Nott's mum - a seemingly strange, peculiar woman. Always floating around with her kind smile and twinkling eyes, her rosy lips spewing philosophical words strangers haven't yet learned to grasp. But little Theo looks up at her like she hung the stars and the moon for him and him only, like this woman is his sun on cloudy, somber days. She kisses his scraped up knees and blooming bruises and whispers quiet incantations in a language that he doesn't yet understand, but knows deep down in his soul. She teaches Theo everything he knows about healing and potions, about wixen and long forgotten magic. She makes Theo's fathers cold eyes look kinder, she makes his wrinkles smooth over and a youngster like glow emits from him. She casts her warmth and her love upon her son and soulmate like a blanket, leaving a piece of her everywhere she goes.

But then she falls ill, seriously, gravely ill, and the manor loses its sparkle, its homely feeling. Theo's father loses his mind bit by bit trying to find a cure that will help his twin flame, his soul, his love get better. Theo just cries. Little Theo cries at night, cries by his mothers bedside with his mothers frail hands petting his unruly curls, he cries in his fathers arms, whose eyes seem to be glossed over, but Theo can't be sure.

The tears and the prayers dont work, and his mother passes. His sun, stars and moon passes and for a moment he feels as if only death can relieve the ache thats rooted so deep inside his bones. But he sees how the absence of her hurts his father too, how he slowly loses his youthful glow and kind eyes and becomes an empty shell of the strong man Theo used to admire, and Theo decides to stay, decides to save his father the heartache of not only losing his wife, but also his one and only heir, his son.

Theo grows older alongside his father. His once supple and blemishless skin is now ruined by deep welts of a belt, by cigarette burns, by hands too rough for a little boy to experience. His father, once kind and loving, now looks at him with hate brewing in his soul, desperate to rid his son of everything that reminds him of her.

Theo loves his mother, misses her greatly, aches to hear and to smell her one more time, but deep down he feels as if she ruined him. He hates that he reminds his father of her, that she died, that she left behind a son too young to experience loss and a man so enamoured with her that he'd kill his own son to rid himself of something that reminds him of all that he used to have and all that he lost.

[newbornwhumperfly]

consider the color of the water...

yeah, yeah, it's a metaphor for grief again, whatever. this was really heartbreaking to write but am so excited to share regardless 😭🥺😭 this chapter of my story is fulfilling @whumpmasinjuly - day 21: abandoned - prompt because...ouch. 🥺🥺🥺

CW: institutional whump, abandonment trauma, allusions to child abandonment, allusions to familial separation, nightmares, just a shitload of vague but painful emotional family-centric angst

title insp. by this quote by abigail dewitt - "in the midst of a flood, consider the color of the water."

~

The walls are very loud here. That’s how it feels, anyway. He's small, he knows, but the waves are so tall and he wants to hold a hand tight because crowds are loud here and the waves are loud and it’s hard to listen. But he's old enough to walk by himself, he's (eleven) big and good and adult hands are full.

He needs to listen. 

Wailing echoes out from up above, squirming, writhing. Lehua is crying again. She cries so loud these days but it’s not her fault. Morja tries to be nice - she's so little. The loud probably hurts for her too and she's sticky, sweaty, nose running, eyes streaming, as they shuffle from hallway to hallway.

Everyone speaks short and sharp and the sounds lap against eachother and over eachother and make a rush sound. Little bits fall away from the big humming water-rush-noise, understandable, simple, stony.

Papers.

Child.

Sit.

Money.

Wait.

Yes. 

No. 

Yes.

Hold her for me, Morja, just for a moment? I need to talk to this man for a minute.

Morja blinks and nods as words-in-a-string make sense again, holding out his arms for the bundle of Lehua, who wriggles, fish-like, little shirt bunching up around the armpits and Morja waggles her toy, the clack-clack-clack of the wooden rings sliding together. 

"Lehea, ‘eā? Nānā? E ‘ike i ka wikiwiki hiki iā mākou ke ho‘opa‘a."

A whisper, shhhhhh, the hush of the ocean. 

‘Ōlelo is for at home. Not here. Not the big white waiting room or the smaller white interview room or the little white chairs. Morja remembers, he knows, but Lehua calms at the words she knows best.

The floor is tile and cold and white stone. 

Clack-clack-clack, stacking, Morja uses his shirt to scrub at Lehua’s face, the tears hot and her nose all warm and sniffly, straightening her shirt even as he stares down at the wet patches on his own. Frowns. It will stain. 

Morja remembers it's okay for clothes to stain. 

She’s too little to know not to ruin clothes. That clothes cost money, so much of it. That cleaning costs money, so much, and Mama doesn’t have it. 

The back of a green scarf is very still and very quiet, listening very quiet and very still, and Morja is very still and quiet, following the lead, and Lehua is loud and wriggling but that’s fine. She stacks the wooden rings one by one and Morja lets her win because she would never beat him if he didn’t let her win. 

His name?

Morja.

The baby? 

…Marigold.

There is an orange flower in Maku- in Mama’s book, long spikes, bright and pretty, sprouting out the black lumps where lava dried. The book-flowers don’t look like the ones in the flower shop to Morja. His baby sister doesn’t look like a flower at all anyway. But it’s pretty and Mama says that marigolds looked like ‘ōhi’a to her, reminded her of the tree the first time she saw it. 

Is Lehua that flower, Mama? Or is it the tree?

Both. Either. That’s nice, isn’t it, Morja?

Lehua doesn’t look like anyone here. She doesn’t sound like anyone here. Only the people who are loud and talk so sharp and slow to Mama, which is mean, because she’s so tired. 

The voices are loud and the wave was so high. 

It’s high and dark and it’s darker than even the sky, a rolling carpet of dark meant to swallow them up and it did, it did, the water went over their heads and gulped them down and then it spat them out. Spitting up the salt and cold and dark that you woke up full of. It spat you out and you spat it out too. 

Such a big hungry water. 

(You understand, correct, that your signature is a termination of all parental rights going forward, as well as the right to sue or claim restitution beyond what has been offered in contract. This has all been explained to you?

Yes.) 

Lehua screams and her crying, flushed and sweaty and sobbing, is a wave that covers every other word. 

-Going.

-Stay-

-Be good.

-Love-

-Little while-

English. Greek. Only them. Remember? 

-good. And polite to them. Good boy, know you are-

-Love-

The white room swallows him whole. 

Does it? 

No. He is just alone, in the white chair at the white table, and the green scarf, looped like seaweed around her head, is floating away. It does not turn around. She does not turn around. Her face is a puddle that shifts its borders and swims and won’t go still. 

Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to take that baby outside if you can’t make her be quiet, you understand?

Ma’am, Mama, Maka?

Lehua, Marigold, a flower swept up in her arms, sobs as she’s swept out to sea, no, in the arms, and he watches it go. The tide sweeps in…and out. It always sweeps in again. 

The walls are so high. He’s so much smaller than the walls. The wave is high and it only sweeps out. 

When will you pick me up?

Soon as I - You have to be good until - okay? Promise me - be good until - come and get - wait - I will pick you up. 

Black rolls in through the mouth of the open door, drowning the crying, the scarf, the white chairs, swallowed whole.

The only thing that picks him up is the wave.

/ / / / / / / /

Morja wakes up. 

Jolts into a curl, protect stomach-chest-organs. Breaths rocking through his chest, fast, sharp, in-out-in-out-in-out.

Soaked in sweat, wet and damp and ruining the sheets. 

Fuck. 

It’s always water. Fuck. Only the water swirls in Morja’s memory, everything else washed away as he drags in air like he was underwater and that’s fucking stupid. 

In a sudden terror, panic seizing his chest, Morja stands and strips the sheets of his bed. The bed. The room he has been given, the bed he is sleeping in, the sheets he needs to keep clean. Morja clutches the tangle of bedclothes to his chest and tries to steady his breathing, sinking to a sit. He has practice and he can go from shaky to still in a moment. 

He can be good at what he puts his mind to. 

His obedience to. 

In…out. 

The tide.

No. Air, breathing, that’s what this is. There is ground under his feet, cool and tile, pressing his hands against his eyes on the edge of the bed and he's fine. He is being good and he is fine.

The walls, the ceiling, the floor, all the color of freshly poured cement, neat and smooth and warm under the light spilling out from the bathroom. Bed, table, chair, lamp, cords, hamper, silver vent painted to match the wall, covered bulb in the ceiling. Cabinet, closet, desk.

Brown and tan and green.

Morja’s hands, without tremor, strip the pale green cases off the pillows, the sheets, the deep mossy blanket cover, fold them into bundles in his arms. Strips off his boxers, wet through. 

Laundry will be good. Cleaning will be good. Showering will be good. He can wash all the salty stickiness away and replace it with the favors he's been gifted - the sharp-scented gel deodorant, the soap that smells like leaves and scrub-brushes, the things he can only assume are in every room of this base because people like him don't have eucalyptus and mint and vanilla.

If he scrubs the shower, if he launders the sheets, he can go eat. Yes. He doubts he could stomach any of the free breakfast he has been told he can just take, not unless he does his tasks. He must have tasks - if he doesn't, he will ask for some.

His heart won't calm until the scent of bleach and detergent fills his nose, the pounding in his temples like a heartbeat to him now. A thing that should be there. Like the gnaw in his belly. Like when he was too busy to dream.

Morja doesn't leave his room until the spigots are sparkling, the tiles gleaming brighter than ever, an arm full of washing and his head thudding dully.

He can't smell any salt now, just clean and hurt, and water in pipes.

~

yeah, sorry, my heart broke too... 🥺💔😭

the namesake of morja's baby sister, lehua, which is the 'ôhi'a lehua, a plant endemic to several islands in hawai'i (which, in the world of this story, has been renamed "raetea" by the colonial efforts of new athens). morja's mother gave lehua and morja new names that sounded greek/english to better assimilate, choosing "marigold" for lehua because the color reminded her of the lehua (also, the plant is the first to sprout out of lava...rebirth symbolism...) 🥺

morja's new name comes from a bullshit greek name - morea - that was plastered onto one of the islands (based on an old name for peloponnese, an old peninsula in ancient greece, once called "the despotate of morea"). someone told morja's mother that it meant "mulberry" for the trees of the region and she found that idea beautiful. morja's birth name he cannot remember and he doesn't try to remember but it was precious to those who gave it to him. 💔

(glossary: makuahine - mother, 'ôhi'a lehua - a species of hawaiian flower, "Lehea, ‘eā? Nānā? E ‘ike i ka wikiwiki hiki iā mākou ke ho‘opa‘a." - "Lehea, hey? Look? See how fast we can stack", 'ōlelo - also called 'ōlelo hawai'i is the indigenous language of the hawaiian people.)

resources i used for the 'Ōlelo Hawai'i (the indigenous Hawaiian language) are from here and here - if anyone has any corrections if i got something wrong, please let me know! 💖

taglist: @much-ado-about-whumping @haro-whumps @whump-tr0pes @i-eat-worlds @whumpzone

@whumpthisway @whumping-every-day @stoic-whumpee @redwingedwhump @straight-to-the-pain

@wolfeyedwitch @kixngiggles @liliability @tears-and-lilies @suspicious-whumping-egg

@scoundrelwithboba @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @whatgoeswhumpinthenight @whump-me-all-night-long @whumpster-draganies

have a very merry @whumpmasinjuly everyone! 💖💖💖

@whumpmasinjuly-archive

[eleanor-bradstreet]

Let Me Be Your Anchor

Chapter 10: The Orangery

Benedict Bridgerton x Sophie Beckett An Offer from a Gentleman reimagined Chapter rating: 18+ - explicit sexual content Word count: 3.9k

Masterpost Previous chapter Next chapter

Author's Notes: Well folks, we're 1/3 of the way through this story. You have more than earned your smut 😉 Enjoy 💙

Sophie managed to reach her quarters without encountering anyone who would see the state she was in. She cried for what felt like hours, muffling her sobs with her fist until they eventually subsided into whimpers. She kept fearing that someone would knock on her door either because they heard her, or because Benedict had sent someone after her. But mercifully no one appeared.

Once she had lost the energy to cry she stared at the ceiling, lost in the turmoil of her thoughts. Benedict had kissed her, had said he’d dreamed about her, had made it clear he desired her. It was everything Sophie had ever wanted, but it was also the most painful reality she could imagine. She had known he desired her at the masquerade but that made sense. He had assumed she was a member of the ton and someone worthy of his attention. But as a housemaid he could only see her as a dalliance, a pretty plaything that he could easily discard.

Should she reveal her identity to him? What did she think would happen if she told him about the masquerade and her true feelings? He’d probably be incensed that she had not explained it earlier. Then what? Would he confess that he loved her too and run away to marry her, breaking all the standards of society and risking a lifetime of reproach? No. More likely he would turn her in to the authorities or laugh her out of the room. She was no better than a girl with a silly infatuation. He was a man from one of the most dignified families of the ton with wealth, power, and prestige. She suddenly felt incredibly small. Small and stupid. 

She needed to leave Aubrey Hall. Hell, she could sneak out tonight the same way she had from the Cavender’s. She had the same amount of money in her purse, not having been paid yet by Benedict. But she didn’t relish the idea of hiking through the dark alone, especially now that she was even deeper in the countryside. The money from Aubrey Hall would spare her so much misery, and poor Benedict would probably assume that she saw him as no better than Cavender if she took off in the middle of the night after being subjected to his advances, which couldn’t be further from the truth.

No, she would wait until morning and ask to collect her wages from Mr. Dewitt. Then she would formally take her leave and board at an inn until she found a new position. But should she speak to Benedict before she left? What would she say? Would he even want to see her?

Her thoughts continued to race until she noticed the grey light of morning brightening around her door. She felt wretched, tearstained and dazed. She splashed water on her face, changed her dress and donned her cloak. Fresh air would help her clear her mind and formulate a plan before the rest of the house woke up.

The morning air was chilled and misty. It soothed her lungs and brought her a degree of energy despite her sleepless night. Sophie had always enjoyed cooler weather. It reminded her of her childhood at Penwood Park, set on a windy heath. She moved from the back doors of the house across a lawn and into the statuary garden. She wandered among the hedges and benches observing the likenesses of cherubs, muses, mythic heroes. In the pre-dawn shadows they looked more ominous than inspirational, but Sophie found that appropriate, considering everything she was feeling.

She was inspecting a statue of Artemis with her bow drawn when she heard footfalls behind her. Nearly jumping out of her skin, she whipped around to find Benedict. 

“Sophie,” he greeted her softly. He looked about as good as she felt with his hair a tousled mess, dark circles under his eyes, and clothes disheveled as if he had thrown them on in a hurry and only bothered with half of the buttons.

“What are you doing here?” she whispered, though there was no one outdoors but the two of them.

Benedict shook his head. “I couldn’t sleep.” That explained his appearance. Sophie wasn’t sure what to think. If he hadn’t slept either, what had he been thinking about? He had clearly followed her to the garden. Had he been watching for her all night?

They stared at each other in silence. Sophie couldn’t fathom what to say. Benedict looked her over. “You’re leaving?” It was more of a statement than a question and there was a hint of defeat in his tone.

Yes. Sophie should have said yes. But seeing him there, looking distraught and being as exhausted as she was, her true feelings came out. “I don’t know.” She felt as if she was being pulled down into the earth. She wanted to cry, she wanted to collapse, she wanted someone to tell her what to do.

Benedict’s eyes were impossibly sorrowful. He walked toward her, hands extended in a plea. “I’m so sorry if I did anything that upset you. I took liberties.”

Sophie shook her head. “No. You didn’t do anything I did not want.” Her voice was breaking. She couldn’t tell him why she had pulled away but the last thing she wanted was for him to feel like a villain.

Benedict stopped short, his brow beginning to furrow. “And yet you do not want to stay?”

She shook her head again and looked at the ground, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t think it would be appropriate.” More meager lies. It was all she had. She hoped to appeal to his reason and class sensibility rather than tell the truth.

He scoffed and crossed his arms, arching a brow. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed how little regard I give to propriety.”

Sophie rooted herself to the spot. She couldn’t let this go on. She wouldn’t be charmed by him again and dragged down a path to heartbreak. Mustering all of her courage, she gritted her teeth. “We agreed this would only be a few days until you were well again and then I would move on.”

“Sod the agreement!” Benedict threw his arms in the air and stalked even closer. He wasn’t holding anything back now. “I know you don’t have anywhere to go yet.”

His words cut into her. He was right, but she wouldn’t be manipulated. She looked up at him, glowering. “Once Mr. Dewitt is awake, I will collect my wages and go.” She hoped that if she said it aloud she would actually follow through.

Benedict balked, blinking at her in surprise. “I see.” There was a snideness in his tone that she had never heard before. “So you will simply take the money and leave. You are that desperate to get away from me?” 

Sophie felt torn in half. Of course she wasn’t desperate to get away from him. Quite the opposite. She wanted to melt into his arms and never let him go. But he was being flippant, acting as if he were entitled to dictate what she could do. He had no idea what it was like to be in her position or to face any real challenge at all. He was starting to make her resent him. “This isn’t just about you,” she growled. “You don’t understand.”

“Then help me understand!” He shouted, closing the distance between them. He grasped her by the arms, pale eyes alight with desperation. “If you don’t find me repulsive, why don’t you want to stay?” His grip tightened and he all but shook her. “Why?”

Sophie could barely breathe, seared through by his gaze. She wanted to scream the truth at him, to tell him who she was, to tell him she loved him, to tell him he deserved better than her. Just as equally she wanted to chastise him, to tell him he was a rich fool who couldn’t simply take whatever he wanted, particularly when it was a person. And she wanted to turn and run. It was all too much and she shouted back into his face, “I just can’t!” Hot tears started to roll down her cheeks.

Her reaction clearly rattled him and his eyes regained their characteristic softness. He released her arms and brought his hands to rest lightly on her back, holding her as if she were made of glass. He steadied himself, eyes searching her face. At last he spoke, his voice devastatingly tender, “I won’t see you cast adrift.”

Sophie could feel herself breaking. Entitled as he was, his heart was pure. She had known it at the masquerade and she knew it now. He was pompous as a circumstance of the lifestyle he had been born into but when it mattered, he cared for people. He cared for her, and it felt so good to be cared for. 

She had run out of defenses. She could only confess the truth through her tears. “I have been adrift all my life.”

Lifting a hand to her chin he tilted her face, questing deeper into her eyes. “Let me be your anchor.”

Then Sophie’s heart was lost. He was her anchor. He was all she had to hold on to for so long, this marvelous, wonderful, infuriating man who had haunted her dreams for years. Meeting him was the best thing that had happened in her toilsome and lonely life. Now he was with her again, wanting her, holding her, his touch painfully sweet. She was tired of hiding, tired of resisting, tired of denying the inevitable. She couldn’t fight it anymore.

She surged up and seized his lips with her own, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and pulling him tight against her. Benedict froze, caught off guard but only for a moment. Then his arms held her back just as tightly, his mouth caressing hers, his breath hot on her skin. Her hands moved hungrily, raking through his gloriously soft hair, tracing the breadth of his back, feeling the warmth of his neck and the angle of his jaw as they pivoted to explore each other’s kisses more deeply. He was strength; he was bliss; he was comfort; and in this moment, he was hers. He was so delicious and so beautiful, tears continued to run down her face from pure joy.

With a gentle nibble at her bottom lip, Benedict eventually pulled back. Grinning breathlessly, he took her hand. “Come with me.” 

He led her through the garden and Sophie realized they were headed toward the massive stone orangery. She cast a quick glance around to find the grounds empty and the sun just barely peeking over the horizon.

As soon as Benedict closed the door behind them Sophie was overwhelmed with the sweet scent of citrus and jasmine. She hadn’t yet visited this building and was instantly entranced. With marble floors and vaulted ceilings, it was a veritable jungle of potted tropical trees and vine covered trellis walls. She only had a moment to observe it before she was back in Benedict’s arms, his hands entangled in her hair as he kissed her with a soft moan. She felt giddy, heady with the perfumed air and the breathlessness of his attentions.

They clutched at each other as if fearful to let go, and all the while, they were pressed so tightly against one another she was certain she’d melt into his skin.

“Sophie, Sophie,” he murmured. His lips moving gently along her face until they found her mouth again. “I need you.” He pressed one of her hands against his chest. Even through all of his clothes, she could feel his heart begin to beat even more rapidly, hear his breath coming in hoarser gasps. “Do you feel how I need you?” 

“I need you too,” she whispered. And she did. She’d spent so long dreaming about him, trying desperately to remember the scent of his skin, the sound of his voice. There had been many nights when the fantasy of him had been all that had kept her company. She had been living on dreams, and she wasn’t a woman for whom many had come true. She didn’t want to lose this one just yet.

He pressed her back into a wall of cool stone and kissed her with a newfound fierceness. His tongue swirled around hers while his slender fingers held her face. She gasped as his kisses traveled down her neck and his touch moved across her body. Every sensation seemed to rob her of the ability to breathe. His hands were on her breasts, kneading, teasing, sending a rippling shiver across her skin.

“Benedict,” she murmured, touching the crisp silkiness of his hair. There was a fire burning within her that had been simmering quietly for years. The sight of him had ignited it anew, and his touch was like kerosene, sending her into a conflagration.

He groaned, crashing his lips against hers again, locking one hand on the back of her neck and another around her waist. Sophie was dimly aware that they were moving, that he was pushing her somewhere deeper into the artificial forest. Then somehow she was lying on a bench and he was on top of her while his hand reached to lift up her skirts. 

He seemed so dominant, so powerful, and in that moment, so perfectly hers. A very small part of Sophie’s mind was still functioning, and she knew that she should tell him to stop, to put an end to the madness, but god help her, she couldn’t. Not yet.

His hand stroked her knee then inched upward, squeezing the soft flesh of her thigh. She began to pant with anticipation. She knew where his fingers were headed but was surprised to find that it did not make her nervous. She trusted him implicitly. She wanted this, whatever it was he was about to do.

Benedict smirked as he deftly shifted fabric to expose her womanhood and the cool rush of air made Sophie realize how very wet she was. She would have been embarrassed but before she could even form the thought, Benedict’s fingers were on her and he inhaled deeply with a satisfied grin.

Sophie stared up at him, agape, unable to form words.

“I daresay no one has ever touched you here,” he rasped. Sophie shook her head. No one had touched her there, not even herself, not in the way he was doing it. It was a strange, intensely intimate, and entirely enjoyable feeling.

“Do you like it?” Benedict whispered, still smiling down at her. His nimble fingers switched from smooth stroking to rapid circling, spreading her slickness upward and focusing right on the center of her ache.

He may as well have set a match to her blood. She cried out uncontrollably and arched off the bench, gasping. “Yes! What are you doing?” Her every muscle tightened as he moved his fingers in a particularly wicked manner.  

“Everything,” he returned, capturing her lips with his. “Anything you want.” 

Sophie’s breath grew heavier, her heart started to pound. His fingers continued to dance, relentlessly circling. Something was building inside of her, deep in her gut, coiling, pulsing, making her rigid. She clung on to Benedict for dear life, not knowing where he was taking her but desperate to reach the destination. Anything to quell the ache, the burning that never seemed to stop growing.

“Do you want more?” His voice was husky in her ear.

She had just enough control over her body to nod and choke out a “Yes” as she gripped the back of his neck.

He smiled wolfishly. “Then lie back and let me pleasure you.”

Sophie didn’t know how he could possibly pleasure her more but she was willing to find out. She had to consciously remind herself to breathe because she felt as if she were drowning - drowning under the pressure of Benedict, the heat of his gaze, the thrill of his touch and everything it did to her. As she panted he began to move down her body, trailing hot kisses along her jaw, her throat, her chest. His fingers were still teasing her crest, pressing and circling as she squirmed.

He moved himself lower and lower until he settled between her legs, kneeling on the floor as she lay sprawled across the bench. Now he could see the marvelously slick evidence of her desire. Sophie could feel the heat of his breath against her entrance. It made her shudder and filled her with the most wanton craving. This was so terribly wrong, so terribly naughty. But she didn’t want it to stop. She trembled and gripped the edges of the bench as his fingers twirled faster. 

Benedict delighted in watching her writhe. Every signal from her body was pleading with him for more - her ragged breath, her hums of anticipation, and the way her hips had started to gyrate, ever so slightly, in a waltz with his hand. When he began to feel guilty about the torment he took hold of her quivering thighs and leaned in to taste her, running his tongue up and down her opening. 

Something like a sob escaped Sophie’s throat as she lifted off the bench again. She moaned his name and he moaned back into her flesh. His tongue moved methodically, exploring her folds slowly, repetitively, stopping on sensations that made her whole body tense as she groaned. She tasted like a plum crossed with an orange, or maybe that was just the scent in the air around them. She was sweet and he would polish her off like a dinner plate. He continued moving languorously, savoring her and letting her adjust to the sensation. It was only when her muscles relaxed and she started to push herself back against him that he moved his mouth over her sweetest spot, flicking his tongue across her aching bud.

A cry tore itself from Sophie’s chest, animal and needy. Never in her wildest fantasies had she imagined being kissed like this, tasted like this, teased like this. The indecency of it all shocked her, but her shock drowned out by the wave she felt spreading upward through her body. It was heat and tightness and hunger and she would do anything to fulfill it, to hell with decency. Benedict’s mouth was so warm, especially against the cool air of the orangery. All she could feel, all her mind could focus on were his movements, small but incendiary, on the most sensitive part of her. He began sucking at her, massaging her nerves with fluctuating pressure punctuated by quick darts of his tongue. She whimpered, too overwhelmed to exclaim any louder.

The steady cadence of suction and licking made Sophie’s mind start to cloud. As tormenting as her need felt, she wanted to stay there for hours. She fell into a trance which was only broken by a wholly new sensation. She gasped and looked down to find Benedict slowly pushing a long finger to enter her. Dear god, he was inside of her. It was an odd pressure but rather than feeling painful it simply felt…correct. She knew that a woman’s body was designed to take a man’s and while they weren’t engaged in the full act, this was her first small experience of how that might feel. And it felt wonderful.

Mouth still latched onto her, Benedict raised his eyes to meet hers and it was the most frightfully arousing image she had ever seen. Never breaking his gaze, eyes somehow darkened, he started to slide his finger slowly in and out. The pleasure she felt made Sophie choke and fall back against the bench. His teasing her on the outside and moving steadily inside was too much to handle. Heat pulsed through her core and she felt a sudden spasm deep within.

Benedict released her from his lips and rasped her name. The speed of his probing increased, gliding into her rhythmically. “You feel so bloody good.”

All she could do was moan in acknowledgment, eyes clamped shut. The tightening, coursing feeling was building steadily within her but with his mouth removed it had slowed. She ached for it. She wanted to ride it out before she went mad. 

“Please, Benedict, please,” she could hear herself whining but didn’t care. “I don’t…I don’t know what…this feeling…”

The grin was evident in his voice as he replied, “Don’t worry, you will see.” 

She lolled her head in the semblance of a nod.

“Tell me what you want,” he purred, hand beginning to press into her more forcefully. “What feels good to you?”

Sophie could barely comprehend speech at this point. How could she explain? “I…everything,” she sighed.

She thought she heard a small chuckle. “You like me inside of you, I can tell.”

The cheeky devil. Sophie just mewled with another half-nod.

“Do you like my mouth on you?”

“Yes,” she squeaked, beginning to writhe in desperation. “Benedict…I need it…”

He granted her wish immediately, hot mouth descending on her once again, sucking furiously while his hand began to pound at her entrance. The caresses of his finger and tongue worked together to magnify each other.

Sophie hissed and gripped his hair with both fists. The wave was surging within her, burning her, lifting her out of her own skin. Her toes curled. She wanted to scream, she wanted to cry, she wanted to explode, but all she could do was hold her breath and hold on.

Then Benedict did something with his finger, bent it in just the right way that it added to the pressure, massaging undiscovered places within her depths, and it was more than she could bear. The wave broke, roaring to a crescendo and crashing over her every muscle, rippling outward with the most glorious feeling of release she had ever experienced. And it persisted. She had no choice but to submit to it, lying breathless as her body clenched over and over. Benedict groaned against her sensitive bud causing her to spasm harder, drawing out the aftershocks as the sensation slowly ebbed.

Sophie was limp, astonished, and utterly without her faculties. Her body was left trembling and her mind was left entirely blank. She felt as if she were floating, softly held in the weightless embrace of bliss. She had never known such an incredible feeling.

The only thing that drew her back to earth was the gentle attention of Benedict’s tongue. He had withdrawn his finger and was kissing her reverently between her legs. He kissed her crest with a parting lick then moved to her opening, eagerly lapping at her and cleaning her of her slickness. He was so thorough that he entered her with his tongue. It was warm and sweet and absolutely the most sinful thing Sophie could imagine. All she could do was lay back and let him feast upon her.

At last she felt him pulling down her skirt, then he was on top of her, pressing her down with his entire body as he nuzzled and kissed her neck. Sophie weakly wrapped her arms around him, still dazed and panting, filled with wonder and gratitude that the man she loved had just gifted her the most ecstatic experience of her life.

Tagging: @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @secretagentbucky @eg-dr3amer3 @time-to-hit-the-clouds @lyta2323 @autumn-grace @sadprose-auroras @the-other-art-blog @goldrambutan @colettebronte @heeyyyou @musicismyoxygen84 @faye-tale @ambitionspassionscoffee @starchaser325 @malna4903 @sincere-sarcasm @kmc1989 @makaylan @queen-of-the-misfit-toys

[stereopticons]

top seven reads of 2023

thanks for the tag, @mostlyinthemorning! I didn't read as much this year as I would have liked (and nearly all of my reading was done on planes/trains) but here are the seven books I enjoyed the most this year in no particular order:

Enter the Body by Joy McCullough

Four of Shakespeare's tragic heroines tell their stories in verse after they leave the stage, and reclaim the stories. This was utterly gorgeous and I loved it so much that I think I've recommended it to everyone I know lol.

Under the Whispering Door by TJ Klune

Made me weep uncontrollably in public!

The Death I Gave Him by Em X. Liu

Yes, I am in my Shakespeare retelling era and I'm not sorry about it. Hamlet, but make it sci-fi!

The Raven Boys by Maggie Stiefvater

I'm late to the game on this one, but I enjoyed it and I would die for Blue Sargent.

Aces Wild: A Heist by Amanda DeWitt

Be gay ace, do crimes? A bunch of ace fandom friends meet in person to pull off a Vegas heist. Also contains a line about a Honda Civic that made me crumble to dust lmao.

Crush by Richard Siken

I know I'm behind on this too but I finally bought myself a copy of Crush and devoured it and cried. A lot.

Clytemnestra by Costanza Casati

Honorable mention: The Charm Offensive by Allison Cochrun (because I read most of it in 2022)

Tagging @alienajackson @jettestar @blackandwhiteandrose @youtastelike-sunlight @chelle-68 @rmd-writes @treluna4 @hippolotamus @dinnfameron @schitthappens (no pressure tagging because I know how hard it is to read actual books some years!!)

[magicalyaku]

Happy new year! After the slump of the previous months and my last artist alley of the year, I finally had a lot to read in December! I bought so many books in November, I had to get at least through a few in order to include them in my yearly awards. xD Work was still shit but reading was fun again. :D

Dark Heir (Dark Rise 2) (C.S. Pacat): This was my last book of 2023 and easily my most anticipated. And did it deliver! Left me emotionally devastated for days! xD Seriously, I don't want to know what my neighbors thought what was going on, in case they heard me going "Aaah! No! No no no nooooo! Kya! NOOOO!!" during two certain scenes. /D The nice thing about this series is that I have absolute faith in Pacat's ability to write it well und give me an outcome I am satisfied with. I mean, go look at Captive Prince. The way the relationship between Damen and Laurent develops (even after MAJOR shit going on between them!), the political threads and all that, it's just done very well. And now, here's the Dark Rise series and I sit and watch the spiral of doom the characters are caught up in it and apart from maybe Sinclair not a single one of them is fully good or bad. And it's sooo interesting (and emotionally devastating)!! Hng!! I would actually like to write much more about what I loved and suffered through, like the whole thing with the Visander situation and how Sarcean made all of his worst enemies because he just couldn't keep it in his pants. And James. James. And Cyprian! And everything. But I can't because whenever I try I still feel the excited giggles in my brain and can't have a coherent thought. It's great, but also ... Hnggg!!

The First and Last Adventure of Kit Sawyer (S.E. Harmon): This was fun! At some point early on I looked up what other books the author has written and it's more than ten and I thought "Yes! It feels like being written by someone with a lot of writing experience!" There's just something about the liveliness of the characters and the dialogues. Also so much adventure with a slightly different flavor than usual being set in the jungle and all, I loved it.

By any other Name (Erin Cotter): I wonder why all of my historical fiction books are set in England. This is another highly adventurous story. I was a bit surprised as one thing that's mentioned in the summary already only appears like after half the book. But other than that it was pretty good. It has spies and theatre and pretty nice characters. And I did not anticipate everything that happened which is good!

Wren Martin Ruins it all (Amanda deWitt): The author's previous book Aces Wild: A Heist was one of my top books in 2022, this one does not quite reach those heights but it was still very good and very enjoyable. Wren is such a messy and fun character. As reader I absolutely knew what was going on and who was writing with whom but it was nice to follow the characters' path to awareness. In a way Wren's aceness is not as heavy as in other books (see the next one for instance) but at the same time it deals with a few of the social issues a_spec people are faced with which was nice.

Just Lizzie (Karen Wilfrid): This is a middle grade book about a girl coming to terms with being ace. The heroine has a really nice character arc. And the other characters are sometimes what you expect them to be and sometimes they are not. And maybe … that's ok, right? And I loved it and I cried through half of the book. I guess, it hit home a little more heavily than I expected. :'D (Like that one time where Lizzie is wondering how she will spent Christmas when her parents aren't around anymore? Haaa. It had just been Christmas when I read this and I'm in my 30ies and my Dad is above 70 now so that is a concern I actually have, you know. It's not nice to be reminded. :'D) It's a really good book, I think, thoughtful and well put together and empowering, too.

A Hundred Vicious Turns (The Broken Tower 1) (Lee Page O'brien): Now this was difficult. The cover is gorgeous. Easily my favorite one this year. I only lament that there's no real gold printed. The wasted opportunity. yAy The content is … difficult. I like the story on a whole. The premise and the magic system are really interesting. The characters … were interesting as well? They're fine, their motivations are not easily seen which, in a plot full of mysteries, is actually quite okay. I just didn't build the emotional connection. There's also a lot of anxiety, especially on Rat's part. There was one bit in the writing style that irked me a little. The overuse of pronouns. Because Rat was the only one with 'they' and in most scenes it was only one other person with them, so there often really long stretches where only the pronouns would be used instead of the names. It wa snot confusing because you could easily tell the characters apart, but it felt weird. I'm very used to reading the names a lot. Oh well. It's not a fun read, but it is intruiging and I will read the next volume to see where it goes.

A Magic Steeped in Poison (The Book of Tea 1) (Judy I. Lin): I managed to squeeze in a YA heroine inbetween all the gay boys! And I liked it better than most other female-led YA fantasies I read recently. Doesn't mean I loved it, but Ning was pretty okay as a heroine. The thing is, the circumstances under which I started this book weren't the best and that probabbly reflected on the whole experience. I picked up the German audiobook for a very long bus trip, but listened to it only later while doing some hours of very boring tedious work. The audiobook itself was okay, except that the reader could not decide how to pronounce some names. For instance, Kang was Kong first, then Kuang before she settled on Kang. And that kind of thing drives me mad. How am I to connect with a character when I am left this uncertain how their name is?! The German translation also decided to leave some of the names in English (especially the teas) which in my opinion doesn't make sense because why would the teas in Fantasy-China have English names when everything else is either translated into German or left Chinese? D: I couldn't stand it and finally switched to my printed edition (in English). /D It got better from there, but it's hard to forget the echo. As for the story, I don't really like court intrigues. Cruelty and injustice are just things I really struggle with to read about. (They make me angry and I don't want to be angry at my books.) But it never tipped over the edge into annoying area. I have the sequel at home as well, so I'll it. The covers are beautiful after all.

That was 2023! Next up is my big Best and Worst award ceremony! uAu~

[suspicious-whumping-egg]

Rock Bottom Part 5: A Moneymakers AU

This is an AU series based off of the Moneymakers series by @coldresolve! You can find the MM masterlist here or in his pinned post. Part one of my AU series can be found here. As a side note, I'm giving a warning for gore on this one. It's pretty intense. Enjoy!

~~

Corbin didn’t let Renee down from the cuffs when he turned off the camera for a break, so he helplessly stood on trembling legs, his wrists taking the brunt of the force. His back throbbed beyond belief, and it was a struggle just to hold back the tears threatening to leak from his eyes. 

“We gotta take care of business first, that’s what this little intermission is for. Can’t have you dying of infection on me, now, hm?” his captor murmured, leaving Renee’s wavering line of sight and returning moments later with a rag and a bottle of antiseptic. 

“Deep breath, tough guy,” he smirked, circling behind Renee and twisting off the cap of the bottle. 

And with that, his wounds were lit with fresh, furious agony. He cried out before he could help it, a raw scream tearing from his throat. A scream that made Corbin laugh.

“I really thought you’d be so strong, so brave, so fierce,” he snickered, examining his tormented expression like a hawk circling its prey. “Especially after all you did to… what was that poor kid’s name? Who cares? But I guess all that was just to make up for what you don’t have, huh? At least you’re cute.” 

Renee clenched his jaw, determined not to let his rage get the best of him. What Corbin wanted was a reaction. A vehement denial. An outburst that would spark for mere seconds before he crumbled into a sobbing mess. And he wouldn’t dare give him what he wanted. He fixed his eyes on the cell across from him, and the curled up, bloodied figure inside. Which, of course, only made him feel worse. But it was something else to focus on. 

Yet distracting himself meant he nearly jumped out of his skin when Corbin suddenly gripped his face, cold hands wrapping over his jaw and forcing Renee to look him in the eyes. 

“I’m just wondering…” he continued, lost in thought for a moment as his gaze flicked, almost hungrily, over Renee’s body. 

“What went wrong? How did you end up like this, all desperate enough to climb in a strangers car ‘cause they gave you a joint? You were a sensation. A mastermind, daresay. I have to admit, I followed your streams myself. So what happened?”

Renee shrugged in lieu of response, wincing as the motion tugged at the bloody mess of wounds covering his back. He couldn’t bear his weakness to his captor after not even a whole day. It’d be a death sentence. 

A sharp slap against his back flooded his mind with white-hot agony, and despite himself, he screamed, thrashing against the chains like a cornered animal. He knew how pathetic he looked. How terrified. He’d seen it in Conrad’s eyes the day he’d stuffed him in the trunk of his car. 

“Maybe you didn’t hold your playthings to a standard, but I expect mine to answer me when addressed,” Corbin said coolly. 

Renee gritted his teeth at being called a plaything, but he managed to stay silent on the matter, forcing an understanding nod. The pain was almost too overwhelming for him to speak as it was, he knew he couldn’t handle much more. 

“My partner ditched me,” he spat. If Corbin was going to demand an answer, he could make sure to give one in as few words as possible. 

But it wasn’t as if the man would be so easily satisfied. He gestured for Renee to continue, a twisted grin on his face. 

“He took everything— DeWitt, the money, the car, the drugs— and just left,” he tacked on reluctantly, his pride quickly crumbling into the same tattered state as that of his back. 

Corbin nodded, features turning in a mock pout. 

“Aww, poor thing,” he simpered. “Guess you’ll just have to learn it can always get worse.”

He patted Renee’s cheek with an ice-cold hand. 

“We’re back on in fifteen. Don’t want to keep them waiting for too long.” 

He left Renee dangling helplessly as he disappeared up the staircase, returning a few minutes later with a bag of chips, a handful of near-overflowing shot glasses, and a cigarette. Only one. 

“But you never quite answered my question. Why did you get in my car? Why’d you spend the last of your cash on a one-way, third class train ticket to go get tortured by a stranger? Only a fucking idiot would do that on purpose, so why? You enjoy it? Feel like you deserve it? Why?” 

Renee’s gaze stayed zeroed in on the cigarette, hands beginning to shiver at the mere sight. He bit back the urge to ask for it. 

“I wanted the drugs,” he said simply instead. So little of such a convoluted truth. But Corbin knew addition well, that was for certain. If he got lucky, he wouldn’t push any further. 

Yet Corbin cocked an eyebrow at him. “There are easier ways to get a buck, Vaughn. Why this?”

“You think I wanted the law on my ass?” He snapped. “That’s all there is to it. It’s not like I coulda tried again alone. That’s it.” 

Corbin knocked back a shot with a snort. “Sure it is. But I’ll wait ‘til we’re on air before I ask again, how ‘bout that? If you won’t answer my questions, then I guess you’d prefer the alternative, wouldn’t you?”

He stalked back towards his laptop, pulling up the chat, tugging his mask over his face, and flicking the camera back on again. 

“And, we’re back early. Someone didn’t want to cooperate. So I hope you guys have some good ideas to get him a little more obedient.” 

The cigarette had been abandoned with the snacks and alcohol offscreen, untouched and unlit. Renee ached for it. 

Corbin snapped his fingers right in his face, the sharp sound and the pulsing agony of his back enough to drag him back to the present. 

“You with us, Vaughn?” 

“Unfortunately,” he muttered. A cigarette wouldn’t be enough, anyway. He needed a line.  

“Good enough. Now, our first request is from someone rather concerned about your stint here ending a bit too soon.” 

Corbin reached up to unlock the cuffs as he spoke, sending Renee tumbling to the floor in a heap. He cried out before he could help it, fresh pain flooding through his back. He didn’t move from the curled ball of limbs he’d fallen into. He didn’t know if he could.

“Aww. So cute, I almost don’t wanna do this,” Corbin sneered. “Almost.” He grabbed Renee by the arms and tugged until he came unwound from his fetal position, hissing in pain as his back was forced against the concrete. 

The man studied him like a child burning ants under a magnifying glass. 

“You know what? I’ll be nice enough to give you something to bite on,” he mused, turning towards the racks and drawers of implements and rummaging for a few seconds before surfacing with a gag. Leather bit, locking in the back. 

Could be worse. 

Yet he kept his jaw clamped shut. 

Corbin knelt down next to him, one knee digging into Renee’s chest. 

“You’re gonna behave for me now, aren’t you, doll? I don’t want to have to get more creative if I don’t have to. Could cut out your tongue, rip out your vocal cords… you’ve got such a pretty voice, when I’m in the mood for it, but if you don’t want to answer my questions, you won’t be saying anything at all. Now open.” 

Renee bit back a shocked cry as the air was crushed from his lungs, his back— or the shredded mass of flesh and sinew that was left of it— alighting with renewed, white-hot vigor as  he was forced against the concrete. 

Yet surprisingly, Corbin didn’t take advantage of the moment his lips parted when he gasped for air. The gag dangled from his fingers, a taunt. A threat that it could be replaced with so much worse. An olive branch compared to the alternatives. 

A branch he was waiting for Renee to take. 

And when he glanced into those dark, glistening eyes, Renee knew he was right. Every second of bated breath was deliberate. The lack of force, lack of chains, it all served even more of a purpose than the presence of either. 

He clenched his hands into fists even as he strained against instinct to keep them useless at his sides, and painstakingly eased his mouth open. 

I’m going to kill you. I’m going to fucking kill you, and what I did to DeWitt is going to look like child’s play. 

The affirmation made it no less humiliating when hard leather was forced between his teeth, the gag fastened tight at the back of his head. 

Corbin’s face was eerily close to his, temptingly close. Renee would throw a punch to his nose if he didn’t believe the man would cut off any hand used against him, promises be damned. Or at least, he’d like to think it was a threat. It made it feel less like giving up. 

But Corbin backed off just moments later, turning to adjust the camera towards his captive before sneaking a glance at his laptop and tilting it down for Renee to see. 

“Looks like you’re in trouble, doll. They like the look of that.”  

He knew looking at the chat would only make him feel worse. But curiosity won over sense, as it always did, and he snuck a peek. 

user_2947361: You should cauterize some of his back. 5k. Fun and means you don’t have to worry about him bleeding out… 

WYV3RN: don’t be such a prude, stick something better in his mouth next time ;) 

[redacted]: gotta agree with wyvern. didn’t think he’d be so hot, but he’s not bad to look at under all those layers. 

user_683925: he doesn’t even deserve that. this one’s for dewitt- put a drill through his hand. what the bastard needs is a taste of his own medicine. 

The color drained from Renee’s face, a freezing bolt of horror seizing his heart. He flexed his right hand instinctively, the memory coming back in a rush. How easy it had been to squeeze the drill’s trigger, how the nail had sliced through Conrad’s hand in mere seconds. 

His gaze remained dumbly fixed on the back of his hand, all he could do was imagine what it would look like with a bleeding, gaping hole through it. What would happen once it healed. If he’d ever be able to use that hand again. 

Conrad wouldn’t. Not in the same way, not with the way he’d done it. Maybe if he’d gotten proper medical treatment. But Conrad hadn’t gotten any for his hand, nor would Renee. 

Not like it mattered. Not like any of it mattered. Dwelling on his past wouldn’t make the present hurt any less. 

And unfortunately, the present was staring him in the face with a wicked grin. 

“A drill… oh, I remember that. That was just pure evil, Vaughn, even to me. Although I suppose…”

He glanced at Renee’s helpless form, then back at the chat. 

“30k? For that much, I’ll let you drive by for a blowjob from him while you’re at it,” he laughed. 

“See, that’s the thing you never quite got. You had a line with DeWitt. Miles and miles from the shore of all things good and civil, but you had one. With me? You’re not so lucky.” 

Corbin stepped out of the camera’s blinking light to lower his mask, down another shot, and start digging around a cabinet for the drill. The silence boiled in the air, thick and tenuous before the man’s causal drawl cut through it all. 

“I’ll do almost whatever they ask if the price is right.” 

Renee’s chest constricted, frantic, muffled noises escaping his mouth . 

You said nothing permanent! You said nothing like that… 

Corbin scoffed at the wordless, pathetic pleas as he held up a 2 inch screw between his thumb and index finger for the audience to see. 

“I know, I know,” he murmured, rolling his eyes with a dramatic toss of his head. “I said nothing permanent. But what I meant was keeping all your limbs attached to your body, nothing more, nothing less. So stop fucking squirming.” 

He didn’t even have Renee tied down. And he knew he should fight, kick, scream while he could— but he stayed frozen on the concrete, his heart pounding out of his chest. As desperate as he was for a hit of something, he didn’t want to end up like the poor ghost a few cells down, more tubes and drugs than skin and bones. So he stayed put, uselessly, helplessly still. 

Until the screw was placed against the back of his hand and the sudden shock of instinct overpowered all else. 

He jerked away desperately, a sharp line of blood dragging from the point of the screw down to his wrist as he scrambled backwards like a cornered animal. His jaw clenched around the leather between his teeth, as if the urge to beg for something else, anything else, could be suppressed if he bit down hard enough.

“Oh Renee,” Corbin sighed sadly, lips turning in a mock pout. “You’re gonna come right back if you know what’s good for you. Hand flat against the floor, nice and still, unless you want me doing both. You’re right handed, yes, at least when holding a joint or a knife? I’ll just do the left if you stop making this difficult.” 

The offer was tempting, tantalizing, almost certainly fake. Nothing more than a tool to make Corbin’s work easier for him. But all the awareness in the world couldn’t beat the simplicity of raw, unadulterated fear. 

Heat creeping up his face, he dragged himself back in front of his tormentor in a humiliating half-crawl, limbs shaking beneath him as his back screamed in protest of the movement. He slumped to the ground with a withering glance at the blinking light of the camera, and painstakingly stuck his shaking left hand out against the cold cement. Corbin nodded his approval and threw a wink at the camera over his shoulder. 

“Much better,” he praised mockingly. He knelt on the ground next to Renee, his stance holding so much power even in such a demeaning position, and held the screw against the back of his hand with a steady grip. He switched the drill on with a finger, the device beginning to whine as it powered up, the drill bit spinning furiously.

“Deep breath, now, my doll.” 

He focused his gaze on a pipe running along the ceiling, as if looking away could really distance him from the sharp point pressed deep in his hand between his middle and index knuckles.  The point that would soon be spiraling against the floor, driven straight through him. His hand twitched, but he forced it still despite the terror clawing up his spine. 

It started as a furious burn against the skin, a pinching, burning sensation. And as soon as it split the skin, his world erupted into pain, spiraling unthinkable agony through his hand until his vision flashed white. His scream was raw, desperate, inhuman in its intensity. The screw ground uselessly against the concrete, shredding flesh and sinew as it did. His world flashed to darkness for a second of blissful nothingness, but a fresh bolt of pain brought it back as the screw knocked bone. He’d lost track of whatever tactic he’d been thinking of— not screaming, not crying, not showing weakness. The sounds he made were somewhere between screams and sobs, tears running mercilessly down his face. 

The screwhead finally hit the ground with a ripping burst of pain, and as soon as it did, Corbin wrenched his hand up by the wrist, forcing the hole torn through his hand into completion and holding it up for the camera. Renee’s vision swam with spots, agony radiating up his hand through his entire body. 

And before he could even choke back another sob, unconsciousness claimed him for good. 

[timeguardians]

“It should have been me.”

— Bruce Ismay to Rose Dewitt Bukater 🙃😌

Rose's ice laddened-lashes slowly tug upwards and blued lips fight to unhinge themselves from the tightened stance. Though she has been plucked free of the indigo waters, her bones could not rid themselves of the permeating CHILL. There is no back rest to lean upon, no comfort to be had in simple vessels of wood.

Cries which had rung through her ears had almost eriely and whimsically drifted towards a GUT wrenching silence. A silence even her ringing, water-logged ears could discern.

Jack should be here!!! Jack so vivaciously wanted to live! He embraced LIFE with such a voracity that it made her deadened heart YEARN again. She let go. She let him go after promising she'd never do so. She shouldn't have fallen asleep. Or he'd be here with her ---And she had made yet another promise. A promise that kept her from following him to his grave, one that she would SURVIVE. Right now, surviving seemed to be the LAST thing she DESIRED.

Guilt riddles her fatigue ladened eyes as they turn away from the depths and towards the haunched man beside her. "W--- wha-- what?" She tremulously and hoarsely inquires. The straining timbre of her voice is so foreign, her own ears scantly recognize it.

So overcome by her surroundings, she must admit to only HALF-hearing. The tattered blanket drapped over her shoulders barely cut against the relentless icy breeze.

"N--n-- no on-- one des--- deserved to die." She utters, trying to force her unwilling fingers to keep clutching the cloth tighter to her sopping form.

Rose swallows, salt tainting the otherwise gentle graces of her mouth. She wants to say more. To express comfort, but what woulds word mend such an enmorous gap? "Be--- besides, w---we m---m---may still perish." There is but the faintest inkling of light piercing the ENDLESS horizon. It is so faint, she has doubts about the actuallity of it's existence.

[origami-butterfly]

Prepare yourself for BOOK ASK DUMP

3. 4. 5. 9. 10. 17. 28. 30. 34. 44. 45. 46. 48.

Aaaaaaa that's a lot of questions! I'm honoured you take this much interest in what I read!

3. What is my preferred genre?

Fantasy, but I've been getting a taste for horror recently as well. I like most things though.

4. What is my least favourite genre?

Erotica.

5. What book do I think everyone should read?

I answered this on another one, so I have the same answer- Loveless by Alice Oseman. It would be nice for allos to learn about aro and ace experiences.

9. Do I have a favourite author?

Neil Gaiman... And I did like him before joining tumblr as well, that isn't the tumblr bias speaking. I also really like Ursula K Le Guin, but I haven't read much of her work.

10. What book am I reading right now?

I'm reading through a collection of short stories by HP Lovecraft, and the one I'm on is The Strange High House in the Mist.

17. Do I highlight my books?

Absolutely fucking not. For me, it feels so disrespectful to the book, and also there's always a chance I give my books away to either a charity shop, or a younger relative. I don't want someone else to see my brain splattered over their story. (I use post it notes when I want to annotate)

28. Is there a book that made me cry?

There's so many of them. I cried during my last reread of the Chronicles of Narnia, I cried reading Oblivion, by Anthony Horowitz, I cried reading American Gods, Anansi Boys and The Ocean at the End of the Lane, by Neil Gaiman, I cried reading Jamie by LD Lapinski (it's a children's book, but I read it because it's about being an enby in the UK school system). I've also cried rereading Matilda because of nostalgia. I cried reading Aces Wild by Amanda DeWitt (EXCELLENT book about being ace btw, highly reccomend), I cried reading Afterlove by Tanya Byrne... I think that's all, there may be more, but this is already too long lmao.

30. Is there a book that changed my life?

I said I can't think of any except the Bible when I was asked this before, and I meant it. I wish I had a better answer for you 😔

34. Do I read more than one book at a time?

Sort of. I have a book I keep in my school bag, that I read in school, and then I have one I keep by my bed that I read at home. It's just reaching the end of my summer holiday, so for the past month and a bit, I've been reading one at a time.

44. Did I read more as a child, or now?

Sadly, more as a child. I wish I could read more, but I have less time because of school and all the extra curricular I do. Also I got addicted to podcasts at some point, and I can't read and listen to different things at the same time :(((

45. Thoughts on separating the author from the work?

Depends. Is the author dead? Then it's easy to separate them. I don't really mind if some guy in the 19th century had awful beliefs, because he's no longer alive and can't use the money I use to buy the book for harming anyone. Is the author alive, and making an effort to harm people via money jk rowling then no, I won't separate them. If I got the book from a library? Fine, I can separate book from author, but I find if writers have shitty beliefs, it usually bleeds into their work, so a lot of it isn't worth reading anyway.

46. Bookshelf pic!!

I hope you know I feel extremely self conscious sharing these 😅 and yeah, I know my shelves are a mess.

48. What book would I give someone if they wanted a glimpse into my psyche?

I'll give a different answer to when I was asked this before! Aces Wild by Amanda DeWitt! The protagonist's ace experience (and some of the experiences of the other aces in the book) are very relatable to mine, as well as his thoughts on allosexuals. Seriously, where do they find the time for sexual attraction?

Ty for all your questions <333

[misscrazyfangirl321]

Topher and Adelle: Please, I'm so hungry.

This is a snippet from the "Epitaph is an Attic-like dream thing" concept I talked to you about. There's a lot of context that isn't here, particularly what pushed Adelle to the point where she finally snapped at Topher.

-

"Please," he repeats, soft and urgent. "I'm so hungry," 

She snaps. "And whose fault is that?" Poison drips from her words, bitter rage, and his world shatters. 

There is no truth he has to remember, no reality to return to. He can't even remember his own name, or what has happened. There is only Her. She has been there, he knows-always there, always helping, always loving-for years now. Always there. Always. Never once has she faltered, not since she started taking care of him. Not a word of cruelty, of anger, of blame. 

But he pushed Her too far, he let her down-his fault, his fault, it's all his fault, he broke it, he knows-he knows what he knows, and-and now he can't even breathe. Too much. Too loud. Too angry. She's angry. Angry with him. His fault, his fault, his fault- 

The world is spinning, thoughts flitting through his mind too quickly to grasp. Butterflies migrating, he thinks, a thread of a thought he can’t hold onto. Scared. Scared of the birds. He cannot breathe, cannot think, and he's still so very hungry. Spiraling inward, into the noise, into the darkness that won't leave him alone. His fault. He knows what he knows. 

Distantly, small things begin to register, like pebbles pelting glass: soft hands on his skin-touching, grabbing, stroking-warmth as someone cradles him close, kisses against his face and hair, and above it all, a voice. Quiet, but urgent, almost desperate. 

"I'm sorry," she says, again and again. "I'm sorry. It isn't your fault, darling, I know that. Please, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." 

Her. She loves him again. Isn't angry. Isn't blaming him. He lets the knowledge steady him, lets it anchor his thoughts. All these years, and she's never once faltered until now. Her. She. Adelle. 

"I'm sorry, Topher." 

Topher. The world falls into place, broken pieces of a fallen mosaic painting a clear picture. He is Topher Brink. She is Adelle DeWitt. And he knows (he knows what he knows, he thinks weakly, but it's soft, and he can drown it out) that this isn't real. They're trapped in a dream, and it's time to go home. 

"I'm so sorry." 

He opens his eyes-when did they close?-looking up at her, taking in the streak of tears on her face. It's rare, he thinks, for her to let him see. She cries often now, he knows, but usually he's too far gone to truly see it. "It's okay," he says quietly, and her next exhale comes with a shudder, relief nearly overwhelming on her features. "It's okay." He reaches up, catching a stray tear under his thumb. She blinks, eyes going wide. "But we can't stay here anymore."

[astoryofcolumbine]

"You have left an entire nation with unanswered questions, unspeakable pain, and hollow cries. That will follow the families of those you have hurt for the rest of their lives..."

- Susan Dewitt

Act 1 Scene 33

HELL IS JUST A WORD THE REALITY IS MUCH WORSE

Within recent events, we are reminded of why it is that we do what we do. The purpose of our show is to educate others on the ongoing epidemic of school shootings that emerged almost like a domino effect post- Columbine. We feel as though, that if perhaps we take a closer look at the events that lead up to Columbine, we may be able to find answers as to how to solve our new reality. We feel that no matter how much time has passed, Columbine will forever remain to be relevant. For it is present in our everyday lives...

'It's been 24 years, and not much has changed.'

[cinematicendevaourz]

Finn's "Smile II" makes a strong case for why the Oscars needs to re-evaluate it's stance on horror films. "Smile II" is a standalone companion piece to Finn's first "Smile" film and I'm not sure if it was the Voss and Interscope sponsorship, but this sequel utilized the money it recouped from the first installment to make this joint bigger and better. From Naomi Scott being an upgrade from Sosie Baker as the scream queen - the film pulls from the first dealing with the same many-mouthed trickster deity coercing it's victims into a suicide witnessed by others to spread it's possession. The big difference between this film and it's predecessor is that the scream queen here is triple platnium while the first girl had a doctorate in sociology - there's a bigger crowd of victims to be had in a concert than in a hospital lobby so the threat is more ramped up. Despite the expansion that this sequel felt the need to satisfy, the film still incredibly self-contained. Besides Scott, Rosemarie Dewitt, Miles Guitterez-Riley, Lukas Gage, and Ray Nicholoson fill up Scott's Skye Riley's closest compatriots while Peter Jacobson comes in as a last second hero as an R.N. who has an idea that maybe only Batman or James Bond can pull off to be able to destroy the trickster demon. The scares here rely on over-exaggerated sight gags that play off tension. There's gore, but in comparison to a film like "Terrifer 3" (that released during the same week as "Smile II") - the blood and guts are tasteful and not wholly reliant on puddles of globules and mutilation to get a reaction from the audience. De Veer handles the pulse pounding drum n' bass inspired OST yet again, which go perfected with the inverted city scenes that were made popular in this franchise's first film. The only difference with the OST in this film is that Naomi Scott gets a few original tracks, but I prefer Saleka Shyamalan on vocals on "Trap" over Scott on "Smile 2". Honestly Scott's concert scenes could have been left on the cutting room floor and "Smile 2" would have been better for it. With "Trap", the pop songs are essential to the experience - pop music still be damned. The real soul behind this film is the slick social commentary. Whereas the first "Smile" film was focused on mental health focuses on substance abuse recovery, the pressures of fame and fortune, and touches on body positivity and work/life balance ideals. Scott's performance will be sure to earn her horror accolades. Despite Skye being a self-absorbed songstress, murderer, drug addict - Scott is still able to make her pain look pitiful. She hits single tears like a pro and her cries of anguish sound better than the generic pop tracks she was put up to do for this film. Her utterance of expletives through blood soaked enviroments are delivered well enough for a laugh at the dark situations that need a light moment, and her incredulity at the scenes Finn thinks up from putting her in a freezer to running from her dance crew and fan's with severe psorasis are relatable to the audience - which is incredible not only because this is a horror film, but because Skye's lifestyle is fantastical, unlike the previous film's scream queen who had a career that could be deemed achievable. Horror sequels tend to have a hard time surpassing their older siblings. I think the choice of Naomi Scott as the lead in "Smile II" is instrumental as to why Finn's franchise has found new life. She is completely unrecognizable from her previous roles in the late 2010's as the Pink Ranger in the live-action "Power Rangers" and Jasmine in the live-action Aladdin.

Naomi Scott should stick to mature roles from here on out, because with material like this she shines and illuminates the entire production around her, like the brightest of smiles.

C.V.R. The Bard 26th/Oct.2k24

[acommonplacepage]

“I haven’t cried since that fucking teacher exploded in space,” she said, reapplying her makeup.

The Picketer by Patrick DeWitt in Tin House, Winter 2015

[mystacoceti]

I turned around on the chair and looked at [my son, Ludo]. He was still laughing.

I thought I would probably hit him if i stayed in the room, so I went upstairs into the bathroom and shut the door. It was bitterly cold. I put down the toilet lid and sat on it.

I once read somewhere about some research that was done on baby monkeys who were given cloth surrogate mothers which became monsters: one expelled jets of air—one had an embedded wire frame that sprang out and threw the baby to the floor—another ejected sharp brass spikes on command. the response of the baby monkeys was always the same: they clung ever more tightly to the monster, or if thrown off waited for spikes to disappear & returned to cling to their mother. Though sometimes I think I am the monster of spikes & wires & jets of air that is not so bad for the researchers were not able, through these methods, to produce psychopathology in the young monkeys, but perhaps

The researchers stopped working with mothers of cloth & went on to produce monstrous mothers of flesh, they reared metal monkeys in isolation & arranged for their impregnation & when the babies were born some mothers were indifferent & others were brutal or lethal they would crush the infant’s skull with their teeth or smash its face to the floor & rub it back & forth and what if

I thought: Let’s think about this rationally or rather let’s not think about this at all. I thought: I have not slept for a long time, I will go to bed and when I wake up everything will look different.

I thought: This research raised more questions than it answers, the thing that would be really interesting would be a psychological profile of the type of person who instead of occupying himself with Aristarchus and Zenodotus and Didymus addresses himself to producing psychopathology in the infant monkey. I tried to persuade myself that the chief researcher was probably a pre-Spock baby, I thought there was a doctor pre-Spock who for a while held the influential theory that a baby should be held to a timetable & fed according to ttimetable regardless of cries screams etc., but I would have liked to know for sure. What was to stop Ludo from reading of monkeys placed for 45 days in a vertical chamber with stainless-steel sides producing severe and persistent psychopathological behaviour of a depressive nature for 9 months or more & determining that much remained to be done in examining the relative importance of chamber size, chamber shape, duration of confinement, age at time of confinement & other factors & how could I be sure that on reaching adulthood he would not always be looking for a surrogate monkey for a mother

I slept for a long time and when I woke up I felt better.

from The Last Samurai, Helen DeWitt

[mikewheelerfan2022]

I just cried for over 30 minutes and used four tissues while watching Titanic for the first time.

[timeguardiansarchive]

⚠️ Rose is told never to let go, and then immediately lets go.

Character shaming signs

The spell of breath is fractured, hinging upon some unseen precarious ledge inside of her lungs. With one glimpse down at the words sprawled over the sign hung around her neck, Rose is back treading impossibly black, frigid waters. It's impossible to not feel as though she is drowning. Walls of emotion begin to tower higher and higher about her shaking form for she had not forgotten her promise to Jack.

The inherent cruelty of life seems to mock her for the impossible choice she was forced to make. Whilst she had to physically let go of Jack's lifeless form, she cherished him in every corner of her heart and being. There wasn't a moment where his memory had grown far from her. She would move on, she'd have lots of healthy babies, and die an old woman warm and safe in her bed.

Porcelain fingers curve till deep crescent trenches form in the palm of her hand. "What makes you think I've let go?" Every inhale taken is another commitment to her promise to him; that she wouldn't give up, no matter how hopeless and bleak everything appeared. The trauma is polished, cast aside, and occasionally revisited from time to time. Yet in spite of this, she persists. She carries his legacy wherever she may venture. She carries Jack in spirit.