#Oblong Mirror

[apoemaday]

Letter to a Lost Friend

by Barbara Hamby

There must be a Russian word to describe what has happened between us, like ostyt, which can be used for a cup of  tea that is too hot, but after you walk to the next room, and return, it is too cool; or perekhotet, which is to want something so much over months and even years that when you get it, you have lost the desire. Pushkin said, when he saw his portrait by Kiprensky, “It is like looking into a mirror, but one that flatters me.” What is the word for someone who looks into her friend’s face and sees once smooth skin gone like a train that has left the station in Petersburg with its wide avenues and nights at the Stray Dog Cafe, sex with the wrong men, who looked so right by candlelight, when everyone was young and smoked hand-rolled cigarettes, painted or wrote all night but nothing good, drank too much vodka, and woke in the painful daylight with skin like fresh cream, books everywhere, Lorca on Gogol, Tolstoy under Madame de Sévigné, so that now, on a train in the taiga of  Siberia, I see what she sees  —  all my books alphabetized and on shelves, feet misshapen, hands ribbed with raised veins, neck crumpled like last week’s newspaper, while her friends are young, their skin pimply and eyes bright as puppies’, and who can blame her, for how lucky we are to be loved for even a moment, though I can’t help but feel like Pushkin, a rough ball of  lead lodged in his gut, looking at his books and saying, “Goodbye, my dear friends,” as those volumes close and turn back into oblong blocks, dust clouding the gold leaf that once shimmered on their spines.          

[ladykailitha]

The Caged Bird Still Sings Part 4

Just a heads up tomorrow is the start of my posting hiatus. I will still do WIP Wednesdays and will be posting headcanons and stuff like that during that time. I will begin posting again on Sunday Sept. 1st. I haven't decided which story will get each slot, or if I just post based on vibes. Most likely vibes if I'm honest.

In this we get the first of Eddie's presents to Steve, Eddie refutes the stupid Steve charges, and Steve remembers something important that he forgot.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

~

Steve was living it up in the pool. His parents had an outdoor heated pool, but it was more for leisure than laps because of it’s weird oblong shape. But this? It had an outdoor pool, but the indoor pool was Olympic sized. Like proper with the lane lines painted on the bottom and everything.

So he practiced his backstroke and butterfly. And by the time he got out his muscles were deliciously sore and his skin was wrinkly. He showered and then padded over to the sauna to relax his ache muscles.

As he was the only one there, he set the temperature to slightly hotter than warm but not scorching. He wanted to rest his muscles not sweat out every toxin in his body. Once he was feeling good enough, he got dressed and walked back to his hotel.

He looked at the swimsuit in his hand and realized he wouldn’t have do laundry here if he didn’t want to. Wow. His mom always made him do his laundry even though they had a maid who would wash his parents’.

Steve looked at his watch and decided it was time for some dinner. He threw the swimsuit into the laundry basket and went to go blow dry his hair. He pulled out his but then noticed the one already on the counter. His eyes flicked between the two and there was no doubt that the one the hotel provided was way better than his.

He put his back in his bag and turned on the hotel’s hair dryer. It never overheated or would start to smell half way through the process. He ran a little gel through his hair and spritzed his hair three times with the hair spray.

He admired himself in mirror a moment. He was good looking. He knew that. But he never in his wildest dreams thought he had the looks to pull a rockstar. Like that was crazy levels of confidence. But looking in the mirror just now, maybe he could see what Eddie saw.

Steve walked up the table that had his wallet and picked it up. He pulled out his fake ID, the one that got him this cushy hotel room. He wouldn’t be able to use it for god knows how long, but he wanted to keep it. As a memento of sorts. God. He was already feeling melancholic about the whole thing and it had only been five hours.

That was when he spotted it. On the bed was a big white box. He frowned and walked up to it slowly. He wasn’t worried about people getting in. This was a hotel. It was probably put there by housekeeping or even the concierge. He knew better than to keep anything in his room that might interest a snoop.

He just wondered who gave it to him. He picked up the card and read it.

-To my little Canary

A parting gift from me.

Promise me you’ll wear it and think of me often

-Your Eddie

Steve lifted the lid of the box and inside was the most beautiful silk pajamas he had ever seen. It was a short-sleeved button up that stopped just an inch or so below the waistband of the matching shorts. The shorts themselves weren’t very long, not quite booty shorts level, but close. Both in a soft, light yellow color. Perfect for summer time.

He ran over to the phone and quickly dialed Eddie’s cellphone.

“Hello?” the warm, dulcet tones answered.

“Eddie?” Steve asked, even he knew it was. He was just so excited.

“My little Canary,” Eddie purred. “I take it you got your present.”

“I did,” Steve said, twirling the cord around his finger. “They’re beautiful. I can’t wait to wear them tonight.”

“Good,” Eddie said, a smile evident in his tone. “I hope I go the size right. Did you do anything fun today?”

Steve told him all about his day swimming and the sauna. He even told him about the hair dryer because he was just that excited about it all.

“That sounds great, little Canary,” Eddie said, his fondness oozing through in his tone. “I’m sending someone by with a card that I will load money on so that you can get things like gas for your car and other things for your personal hygiene, as I assume you’ll want to buy that stuff yourself.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” Steve found himself saying, almost against his will. “Could have gotten by with the hotel toiletries.”

Eddie chuckled. “Probably, but I wanted to give you the option of a choice.”

Steve blushed deeply, glad that Eddie couldn’t see him in that moment.

“Look, little Canary,” Eddie purred, “we just got to our location and I have to go, but I’ll call you after the show and tell you all about it.”

Steve bit his lip. “Yeah, I’ll talk then.”

He hung up after they said their goodbyes with a sigh. He flopped on the bed and looked up at the ceiling.

Fucking hell. What was he even doing with his life?

His stomach growled. Well, for starters, he guessed he was going to dinner.

~

When Steve finished his meal, which was even better than breakfast...He never had a steak melt in his mouth like that before. It was so soft and buttery and the potatoes tasted of rosemary and garlic, the carrots were covered in a glaze that tasted of honey and something darker.

He shook his head.

Anyway.

When he finished his dinner he went back up to the room. He resolved that he would need to do more than just swimming to keep the delicious food off his waistline. He was going to have to check out the gym here.

Steve looked at the time and decided it was too early for bed, but he got into the new pajamas anyway. The shorts were pulled on first and fuck. Steve felt sinful just wearing the damn things. They cupped him in all the right places but when he moved or sat down they didn’t ride up or pinch. He seriously thought about not putting on the shirt at all. But the desire to see the full effect won out.

He pulled it on and buttoned it up. And just like the shorts, the top was form fitting but comfortable. The V in the neck from where the highest button went (it didn’t button all the way up) just showed a peek of his chest hair.

He admired himself in the mirror for several minutes before he forced himself to go back out to the suite.

Steve grabbed the remote and started flipping the channels. He was used to cable as his mother needed her HSN and his father needed the soccer score. Not because he was interested in the game, but because he’d bet on foreign games.

But either his parents only had basic cable or there were a bunch of new channels added recently. And he was willing bet it was the former.

He found a late night baseball game from a Japanese league and started watching that. He couldn’t understand the announcers and he didn’t know the players’ names, but it was still baseball, regardless the language.

Before he knew it the game was over and it was late at night, finally time for bed. He got all snuggled into bed when the phone rang.

“‘Ello?” he muttered sleepily.

“Oh, darlin’,” the warm tones caressed his ear, “did I wake you?”

Steve hummed in the negative. “Just getting ready to sleep. Tell me all about selling out Indy.”

Eddie huffed out a laugh. “I’d ask you how you knew Corroded Coffin sold out tonight, but you spent all of last night surrounded by my fans. Even the stupidest person on the planet would have had to pick something up.”

“Mhmm,” Steve murmured. “That’s me, stupidest person on the planet.”

There was silence on the line for a moment or two. “Who says you’re dumb, baby?”

“My parents,” he said softly, “my first girlfriend before I realized I was gay, my ex-boyfriend, you know the one my parents kicked me out for? And um...the kids I babysat for are all like super geniuses, so they get frustrated with me a lot.”

“Oh my little Canary,” Eddie cooed. “You’re not dumb. School smarts isn’t everything. I’m living proof of that.”

“That’s true,” Steve said, a little less sad. “I’m talking to a bona fide rockstar.”

“Hell yeah you are,” Eddie agreed. “But let me tell you about my night and see if I can’t lull you to sleep with the sound of my voice.”

“I’d really like that.”

So that’s what Eddie did, he talked and talked until he could hear the soft little snuffling of snores from his Canary.

“Good night, sweetheart.”

~

When Steve woke up the next morning, the phone was still dangling off the cradle from where it fallen the night before when he fell asleep listening to Eddie.

Eddie had a great talking voice. Dude should do books on tape or voice acting or something. Maybe he’d tell him the next time he called.

He stretched and yawned. He woke up just as well rested today as he had yesterday. Which meant that as good as the sex was, and it was amazing, it wasn’t as big a factor in his night’s sleep as he thought.

He got up and went to go grab a shower. He hadn’t had a chance to use it yet, as he had used the swimming pool’s showers yesterday. He ordered breakfast and then hopped into the shower, telling them to just come in and leave it next the sofa.

He dried off with one of the most luxurious towels.

Steve stopped for a moment. He really needed to stop comparing the hotel to the life he led before being kicked out. It wasn’t the same. It wasn’t even in the same state let alone ball park. His life here would always be miles away from the life he left behind.

New cage, same as the old cage really except real gold instead of merely gilded. Better food, furniture, amenities. Same limitations. Can’t drink, but he could smoke.

So he went out on the balcony to do just that. He brought his food out with him and just smoked, watching the busy crowd below him.

Oh shit!

He scrambled back inside the hotel room and fumbled around for his wallet. He pulled out a little laminated card and dialed the one on the top.

“Henderson residence, Claudia speaking,” the warm motherly voice answered.

“Mrs. Henderson,” Steve whined, almost in tears at the sound of her voice.

“Steve?” she asked gently. “Oh I was wondering when you were going to call. Dustin has been worried sick. He went to Family Video yesterday to return “Ghostbusters” and the snooty girl at the counter said you’d been fired for sodomy!”

He winced a little at the harsh word she used. “I–I’m gay, Mrs. Henderson,” he whimpered into the phone. This was it, she was going to turn him away too. Forbid Dustin from seeing him, then it would get around to the all the other parents and he wouldn’t be able to be around Holly or Will. And–

“Ah...” she said, just as gentle and warm as before. “Can you help it? Can you choose who you love?”

“No, ma’am,” he whispered, hanging his head between his shoulders.

“Then why would I care?” Claudia huffed in annoyance. “The first thing a mother should learn is to love your child no matter what, no matter who. Now, if Dusty gives you a hard time, you let me know. You hear?”

Steve felt a swell of pride in his chest, she might have not had been his real mother, but he should have known better than to bet against Claudia Henderson.

“Here, let me go get him,” she said softly. “Would you like me to explain it to him first?”

A lump formed in his throat as he choked down tears. He forgot he wasn’t isolated. He wasn’t cut off completely from people.

“Yeah,” he said, his lip quivering. “If you would.”

“Of course, sweetie,” Claudia said warmly. “I’ll be right back.”

Steve didn’t have long to wait. Soon there was the sound of Dustin practically screaming in his ear.

“Hey, bud,” he said when he could finally get a word in.

There was a sniffle. “Why didn’t you call me and Ma? We would have taken you in.”

Steve’s heart swelled again, this time in utter love for this butthead. “Because my dad would have seen to it that she lost her job at the library and with your dad having just passed, I couldn’t do that to you, to either of you, okay?”

There was another sniffle. “Okay...”

“Here,” Steve said, “I can’t tell you where I am right now, because no doubt my dad is trying to run me out of town, but I can give you a phone number to call. I might not always be there, but you can leave a message and I’ll call you back.”

“I guess that’s acceptable,” Dustin huffed. “Can I tell everyone you’re okay?”

Everyone meant his kids. Max, Elle, Will, Mike, Lucas, and Erica. And well, Holly, too. But she was too young to really understand what was going on. Technically Erica should be in that same category but she was too smart to be left out. Steve didn’t even bother trying most days.

“Yeah, bud,” he murmured. “You can tell people I’m safe. Just keep the number to yourself for now. I don’t want my dad knowing where I am.”

“Roger that!” Dustin said.

They talked for a few moments longer before Claudia took the phone back.

“I’m going to call the PTA calling tree,” she said, “and get the word out that you’ll be unavailable to babysit for the foreseeable future.”

Steve hummed. “I think that’s the part that upsets me the most about all this shit.”

“I know, sweetie,” Claudia assured him. “But we’ll figure it out.”

And he was absolutely certain if anyone could, it was Claudia Henderson.

He let out a sigh of relief for the first time since he was kicked out.

~

Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17 Part 18 Part 19 Part 20 Part 21

Tag List: CLOSED MAX LIMIT 50 REACHED!!!

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2- @gregre369 ​@a-little-unsteddie @chaosgremlinmunson @messrs-weasley @cryptid-system

3- @maya-custodios-dionach @goodolefashionedloverboi @val-from-lawrence @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog

4- @justforthedead89 @irregular-child @bookbinderbitch @bookworm0690 @forgottenkanji

5- @anne-bennett-cosplayer @yikes-a-bee @awkwardgravity1 @littlewildflowerkitten @genderless-spoon

6- @dragonmama76 @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt @useless-nb-bisexual @disrespectedgoatman

7- @counting-dollars-counting-stars @tinyplanet95 @ravenfrog @swimmingbirdrunningrock @lingeringmirth

8- @gutterflower77 @a-lovely-craziness @just-a-tiny-void @w1ll0wtr33 @sticknpokelightningbolt

9- @scoops-aboy86 @kurofuckingshi16 @watermelonmite @eyehartart @dreamercec

10- @little-birch-boy @yearningagain @micheledawn1975 @blondie1006 @sadisticaltarts

[meltedbluecaterpillar]

Vil's Lemon Cookies

A/N: This is a commission for @starshiningsirius . I am happy I was able to write it. Vil is very handsome... I secretly love him a lot. I will express it more in the future I hope.

tags: fem!reader, aphrodisiac, closet sex wc: 4.6k+

You looked at the macaroons with a defeated sigh. They looked horrific. You stayed up all night making them. The entire recipe was made from scratch to show the person you wanted to give them to that you were capable of putting your heart into something like this. You tried to make them in cute little heart shapes for Valentine’s Day but it was all in vain.

They were oblong and abstract in shapes. The cream filling was the only appealing part. You knew the task would be extremely tedious, however the effort was necessary for the person you wanted to give the cookies to. “They don’t look that bad…” Grim yawned in the wooden chair, nodding off with lazy blinks of his big, round eyes. He had stayed up all night to help you, but now the desire for sleep was here to claim his conscious state. “They’re supposed to look like hearts, Grim.” You mumbled as the defeat melted into an expression more forlorn. “Close enough.” He yawned with a wide stretch of his jaw as you looked at the clock on your phone. It was 5:50am, consequently your classes started at 7:30. You didn’t really have time for a power nap AND to get ready. But you also didn’t want to be too exhausted to give the cookies to your Valentine. 

Sam promised that the strange vial of lemon extract would bring you closer to the person you baked the liquid into. Part of you wondered if it was bull, since it sounded more like some mystical love potion. And you were pretty sure during your History of Magic classes, the Professor had mentioned that was extremely illegal. But Sam could have been pitching you a metaphor. Or maybe he really did sell you a crime. Thinking about it in detail was starting to give you a headache. “Grim, do you want to go to school today?” You questioned the beast through your own exhaustion as your eyes roamed across the table. Covered in excess flour and remnants of your baking tragedy. You were only met with his soft snoring. Taking that as a firm ‘no’ to your question you sighed. 

You would be flying solo today, or perhaps even sneaking off to the library to catch up on some sleep. After cleaning up and tying your ugly macaroons up in a thin plastic bag and violet colored ribbon, you carried Grim upstairs to bed. You tucked him in and began to get ready for school with your eyes threatening to shut at every moment. The cafeteria sold espresso shots. You thought that grabbing one would be the best course of action for when you made it to the building. If you didn’t fall asleep walking down the path first. You showered and washed your hair, brushed your teeth while scrubbing the crust from your sleepy eyes. Finally, you got into your uniform. You looked yourself over in the mirror as a quick glance over for any possible imperfections. Maybe some lip gloss? Mascara maybe?

It was Valentine’s Day and you wanted to look your best to take away attention from the disfigured macaroons. But for now you just wanted to sleep on the couch. You grabbed your school bag and your phone, heading down to the lobby of Ramshackle for a swift power nap. The ghosts promised they would wake you up in time for classes, but they seemed worried. You were up all night. They thought that maybe it would be better for you to skip the first few hours to catch up on a few hours of needed rest. But you refused. With sorry expressions, they promised to wake you up in time. 

-♡- 

You walked to school with haste. A scowl on your face with your eyes glued to your phone. Your blazer shielding you from the rain pelting against you. And it was only going to get stronger. The ghosts did wake you in time for classes. But only for that. You wouldn’t have any time to go hunting for the person you wished to gift the macaroons to. It could be that they intended for you to get some much needed sleep. But you didn’t have that in your timetable for Valentine’s Day. You had the cookies tucked into your school bag, pouting in silence as you made your way up the wet, stone stairs of the college. 

As you entered, your tired eyes spotted Vil walking far ahead on his way to class. You didn’t have time to stop him, and Rook was already singing his praises. The moment you reached your first class, the bell had rang. With a joyless and exhausted sigh you sat in your seat and pulled your notebook from your bag. The least you could do was get ready for a long lecture. But you didn’t realize that when you closed your eyes, the bell would be ringing again to signal the end of class. 

You actually fell asleep at your desk. 

Whipping your head around, seeing most of the students already heading to their next class. It left you with a sour taste in your mouth. This had to be the worst Valentine’s Day you had ever experienced. You shoved your things back into your bag, quickly rising to your feet to make it to your next class. However the thought of skipping to sleep in the library sounded more and more appealing with every step. As you left the classroom, a familiar face was waiting for you. A wide and friendly smile, his blunt bob pulled back into a ponytail and his hat missing from his head. “Bonjour! Did you sleep well?” Rook asked in a way most found unsettling. 

But with your attempts to be in the gaze of Vil, you had gotten used to him. “Very funny…” You mumbled as your pace began to slow as he walked beside you “Non, non! It is not a jest, I was sent to fetch you!~!” He chuckled as you finally slowed to a stop in the bustling hallway. A warmth settled in your face as you looked at him with suspicion. There was only one person that Rook would ever obey. “Do you have time after school?” He asked and you swiftly nodded. No hesitation needed. “Très bien! Please go straight to the Film Club at the end of the day. Someone will be waiting for you there,” Rook followed after you as you walked to your next class with your heart jumping excitedly in your chest. “And this is from me.” He handed you a small violet box as you reached the classroom door. Giving you a small nod farewell as the bell rang above you. You pulled open the box and frowned. It was an anatomically correct heart made of red chocolate. 

Gross. But fitting for someone like Rook to give as a gift. 

-♡-

The school day had finally ended, and you took in a small inhale as you stood outside of the Film Club. The chocolate heart Rook had gifted you was loaded with caffeine. Just enough for you to make it through the rest of the day. Hopefully there would be no one else present, you knew how aggressive some of the other students could be towards Vil. You rehearsed what you wanted to say in your mind as you started to pace. Smoothing out wrinkles in your uniform and trying to fix your hair. Should you try to play things cool? Maybe acting aloof and sultry? Be friendly, but not too friendly… Right? You swallowed down your anxiety and raised your head. Your hand clutched the brass knob tightly.

Just his acknowledgement would be enough to make you happy. It was quiet on the other side.

You took in a slow inhale, and let it all out before announcing that you were coming in. You forced open the door, eyes filled with determination. “Excuse me, Vil-” You stopped as a boiling warmth stung the flesh of your face. Amethyst colored eyes locked with yours as Vil frowned, holding a script in his slender, well manicured fingers. His hair was up in a neat braided bun, his ears had shimmering crystal earrings dangling softly with each delicate movement. “What? Come in, don’t just stand there.” He instructed firmly from where he leaned against the table. A silk, royal purple shirt exposing the flesh of his chest. Not a scar or freckle to be accounted for. It was tucked neatly into a pair of black Victorian styled trousers that naturally accentuated the gorgeous silhouette of his body. Down to blood colored stilettos, making Vil four inches taller than before. You were taken aback by his appearance. You didn’t expect him to be dressed for the club already.

Now you felt far too underdressed to see him. 

Your disheveled uniform made you feel the urge to spin on your heels and leave the room. “Um…” Your rehearsals were all in vain as you awkwardly closed the door to the club room behind you. “Yes? Did Rook send you? Perfect, I needed to speak with you this morning.” He wasn’t waiting for you to explain yourself and jumped to his own conclusions with a grin. The soft rain pelting against the glass windows. It pulled you deeper into the room as the adrenaline you felt began to wane. The script in his hands was discarded to the table's surface. He curled his finger with a smile. “Come here my little sweet potato. I have a gift for you.” His voice was silky as he walked over to another table and began to dig through his school bag. Your heart was pounding as you came closer, smiling to yourself as the burning reached the sensitive tips of your ears. He called you his sweet potato.

It was rare for him to use that nickname. Since you had gotten closer, he only referred to you by name or the appropriate title of Prefect. You stood before him. Your face was hot as you struggled to remain still. To fight the urge to fidget from excitement. “Hold out your hands.” He instructed sweetly with an arm hidden behind his back, towering over you with a soft expression.

He really was gorgeous. You swallowed down even more anxiety, inhaling the faint floral scent of his cologne as you held out your hands obediently. “For you, happy Valentine’s Day.” He cooed sweetly as he handed you an expensive bar of chocolate. Lined in gold foil and telling you it was number one in the world. Almost like it was made to be photographed; not eaten. “I had it imported from home. No other chocolate can compare, so I know it’s something you will enjoy.” He chuckled softly as you looked at it with wide eyes. Traditionally, girls were to present boys with sweets on Valentine’s Day. The favor was to be returned on March 14th, White Day. Maybe things were different in Twisted Wonderland considering Rook had given you that chocolate heart earlier. Either way, you appreciated it a lot.

“I planned to give it to you first thing this morning. But I couldn’t find the time to give it to you. I know it’s inconvenient since my club starts in,” He paused and reached for his phone. Only to click his tongue in annoyance. “Ten minutes.” The Housewarden appeared dissatisfied as you marveled silently at the expensive treat. “I actually have something for you too!” You looked up at Vil, your heart drumming in your ears as a wave of surprise flashed in his face. 

You felt that bubbling insecurity rise as you rested your school bag on the table, digging through it to retrieve the now slightly smashed and so-very unsightly macaroons. You pulled them sadly from your bag and your shoulders sagged in disappointment. “They… They’re supposed to be macaroons…” You muttered sadly as you looked at the bag in your hands. It was far worse than this morning. The overwhelming urge to break down and cry began to snake its way to the front of your brain. You were so tired, even after having three espresso shots and power napping in the library instead of attending P.E you couldn’t take it anymore. 

Valentine’s Day truly felt like a disaster. 

You weren’t sure if the tears starting to well in your eyes were from exhaustion or if they were from the feeling of failure. “Did you make those for me?” Vil asked as you hesitated, before nodding with a small sniffle. “I tried… I shouldn’t have stuffed them in my bag.” Your fingers brushed his own as he accepted the treats with a smile. He reached out and gently thumbed away your tears with a soft hum. “I can tell you put in the effort.” Vil teased softly as you leaned into his touch. “I’m supposed to be dieting,” Vil began as he pulled away from you. Watching as you blinked yourself back into reality.

His elegant fingers pulled the ribbon free as he sat at the table and you took the chair across from him. “but I think since it’s a holiday I can have a few of these. After all, you worked so hard on them.” He smiled softly as he took one of the macaroons still intact. Instead of what was supposed to be a perfect circle, it looked somewhat like a misshapen heart. “Are these lemon flavored?” He asked curiously, biting delicately at the corner of the treat as you sheepishly nodded with a soft sniffle. “I had bought lemon extract from Sam’s shop. I thought it would be unique instead of the traditional chocolate. But… It didn’t come out right…” You explained as Vil ate slowly, chewing and smiling as he went for another. You couldn’t tell him that the lemon extract may be magical. 

“I wanted to make them perfect but I hadn't made macaroons until last night… I’m sorry.” You apologized as your body began to feel heavy with the exhaustion creeping through your body. The tears didn’t help either and the gentle pat of rain started to lull you into a comforting state. Vil shook his head in disagreement. His brows creased as he finished off the cookie. “They taste amazing actually. The appearance is appalling, yes, but the flavor is beyond expectations. And I have a very expensive taste.” He cooed as the flush in your face returned as you propped your head in your hands with a dreamy smile. He liked them! “Did you even try your own creation?” Vil hummed and you shook your head in response. 

You didn’t have time. “Here,” The Housewarden grabbed one of the pastel yellow macaroons, this one had taken a shape similar to a boot. “Ahhhh~” He sang as you nervously parted your lips, tasting the lemony cream and the softness of the flaky macaroon against your tongue. Vil was right, even though they looked hideous, they were actually really good. A perfect balance of bittersweetness, the shells were soft and easy to eat, the cream coated your tongue and was the perfect thickness. “Practice makes perfect of course. I’ll be expecting some more of these soon. I’ll pay for whatever ingredients as long as you work on your piping skills.” He laughed, soft like windchime bells as you chewed slowly and savored the taste. The two of you sat and talked, the conversation flowed perfectly. Even when he scolded you for sacrificing your sleep for the sake of a pastry as you started to nod off in front of him.

The cookies and the chocolate had been finished. As the other club members started to file in you sensed that it was time for you to go. But you couldn’t shake this feeling. It wasn’t the overwhelming desire to lay on the ground and sleep. It was a burning sensation deep inside your stomach. Filling you with a dull ache that made you cross your ankles and rub your knees together. You felt… Horny. 

You weren’t sure if it was that time for you to be ovulating already. Something absolutely felt off. Your cheeks were burning, and you looked across the table at Vil who was now resting his head in his hand. His cheeks were a soft rouge as he stared at the empty plastic bag with only remnants of the cookies the two of you had finished. Vil had eaten most of them. “My little sweet potato…” He sounded irritated as he pulled a smile across his face, looking at you with his eyes darkening. The lemon extract. 

Sam said it would help you get closer to the person you fed it to. It wasn’t poison right? “You said you bought that lemon extract from Sam’s?” He asked as he straightened up, folding his hands across the table as you tried looking away. You felt guilty now, writhing nervously in your chair. “Are you sure it was just lemon extract?” He asked through clenched teeth as you felt the cotton of your panties starting to cling the longer you sat. Images of Vil’s angry expression swarmed your frontal lobe and all you wanted was to be forced to apologize. 

There was absolutely something wrong. 

Sam never said how much to use, so you had used the entire bottle in your cookies. Clearly that was a bad idea with how your bodies seemed to be reacting. “I see the club is starting!” You jumped to your feet to escape the interrogation. Swaying slightly from tiredness as the rain sounded much heavier now. Grabbing your bag with haste, your palms sweaty as you rushed to the door. “Thank you for the chocolate.” You breathed out as the burning feeling grew and grew. There was the debate between holding back the carnal hunger until you made it to Ramshackle, or sneaking into a janitor's closet to quickly relieve yourself of the hungry feeling. Either way you wanted a nap afterwards.

“I’m not finished with you yet.” The breathless growl made the hair on the back of your neck stand straight to attention. Vil was right behind you with his hands clenched into tight fists. Your thighs quivered in excitement as sweat began to pool beneath your stuffy uniform. Some of the club members called out to the two of you, bringing you both back to the current reality. “I’m going to walk the Prefect to the bathroom. Just in case there are male students lingering in the halls.” Vil’s excuse was flimsy, but of course his club was filled with sparkling eyes as they nodded and commented on how kind Vil was. 

You weren’t sure either of you would make it to the bathroom. 

As you left together, you could feel Vil close behind. A hand lingering along your lower back as you stumbled your way to the nearest door. Funny enough, it was a janitor's closet. You glanced around. Taking note of the hallway's emptiness, grabbing the handle to the door. Vil urged you forward, a silent command as you swallowed and obeyed. You opened the door as Vil gave you another soft push. It was small and cramped. Dark and filled with the faint scent of lemony-scented cleaning supplies. The door shut behind you with a click. Now shrouding you in the black shadows as a pair of lips found your throat, and strong hands began to pull and yank at your uniform. “I want you to take responsibility for whatever mistake you made.” He snarled against your skin. Sucking and biting at the flesh as you were pushed deeper into the closet. Your skin was on fire, your hips rubbing back against his clothed crotch as he pressed you against the wall of the closet. You were like pliable clay. Submitting to the idea of being molded into whatever it was your queen wanted. 

The roughness was pleasant, the fantasy of wanting to be closer to someone you once saw as unreachable was pleasant. You continued to grind as Vil’s hips moved in tandem with yours. Soft moans and cries filled the tiny closet space. The sounds echoed through your skull as you pulled up the fabric of your skirt, silently begging for more. Vil was of course quick to pick up on things. “You did this on purpose?” He asked and you shook your head. Your eyes screwed shut as he panted softly in your ear. Cool hands slid along your hips as your panties were forced down the plush flesh of your thighs. “Liar.” He chuckled in amusement as a slender finger slipped inside of you. Your body jerked in surprise. Vil pumped and curled slowly as your walls constricted and relaxed around the digit. Your body was so excited to finally feel your more intimate needs satiated. “I know you did this on purpose. Poisoning me like this… All for a little attention?” His voice tickled the flesh of your ear as his finger pumped and curled vigorously inside of you. “It was an accident.” The words came out breathless. Hardly audible as Vil continued to kiss and suck at your neck. 

You felt happy with the lingering knowledge that it would bruise on your skin. The affectionate and hungry welts by someone you had wanted to be recognized by for so long. “You could have just asked me.” Your head jerked in surprise. Asking and or suggesting your affections directly was a herculean feat you could only dare to dream of. The curling finger pressed and prodded at a rough patch of nerves inside of you. It caused your body to jump in surprise as you shook your head. “Your fans would kill me-”

“So you DID do this on purpose?” He teased and you started to pout. His mouth was much kinder now as he pressed kisses against your hot skin. A second finger slipped inside of you. “No… I… I didn’t know it would…” You were starting to feel light headed through your confession. “Sam said it would get us closer… But I thought it was… It was one of those lame metaphors so I would buy it…” You grumbled as Vil chuckled softly. He was amused. His pumping slowed. Sensually rubbing your wet velvety insides. Coating his digits with your juices as he continued to kiss and suck lightly at your flesh. “Such innocent intentions. I choose to believe you, my little sweet potato.” The nickname appeared again. “But,” He paused as the pumping stopped, and you started to pout. Your head pressing against the wall as you gnawed at your bottom lip in frustration. Vil gently patted the flesh of your ass as the sound of shuffling clothes muted the silence between you.

“there are consequences for being so naïve. Especially since you’ve pulled me into your little mess.” You could feel something rubbing against the plush meat of your moistened entrance. Round tip, smeared with something sticky and wet. Twitching and throbbing with anticipation for more to come. “Now, now my little sweet potato. How badly did you want me to do this with you?” Very was the correct answer. Vil knew that. But he wanted to hear you say it. To push the pleas’ past your own lips for him to savor. He wanted to egosurf your sentences. To hear you admit how much you’ve wanted him and for how long. The once unattainable, has become attainable to you. And only you. You reached back, curling your hand through Vil’s champagne colored hair. Once in its neat braided bun, but now loose with the ends curled from accumulated sweat. You carefully craned your neck. Your lips are just now brushing against Vil’s as you feel his cock start to slowly slip inside of you. Your walls stretched open for him. Allowing him to penetrate deeper and deeper as the two of you panted quietly in the dark.

Your lips caught his in a chaste and starved kiss. “I really like you… I’m sorry I tricked you.” The apology was breathless as your stomach coiled in excitement. The filling feeling made your eyes start to roll back into your skull as Vil took the chance to rub his tongue against your bottom lip. “I’ll apologize with my body. So I can show you I mean it.” You couldn’t believe your words were your own. Maybe it was the magical lemon extract. Maybe it was Vil giving you what you always wanted. Maybe it was you finally feeling confident after all of today’s stumbles and mishaps. His hips started to slowly thrust as a cacophony of soft moans filled the tiny cleaning closet. 

“I forgive you. I always will.” Vil grunted as he pistoned his hips against yours. His hands rubbing along your flesh as he slipped them up your uniform shirt to fondle the flesh of your breasts. Not bothering to remove your bra as his hands forced themselves under the fabric to squeeze, knead, and tease. Your nipples were rubbed and pinched by his slender fingers. Pulling all sorts of whines out of you that you didn’t know you were capable of making. His lips caught yours. Eating your weak mewls and giving you the reminisced flavor of the lemon macaroons. Even if they were clumsy, they got you this far. His thrusts were steady as Vil pressed his body flush with yours. You could hear every sound. You could smell the salt of his skin and the fading fragrance of his floral cologne. The feeling of his clothes and skin rubbing against you, slowly growing overstimulating and too much to bear. You only wished that you could see his expressions. And that he could see yours. 

You wanted Vil to know that you felt just as amazing as he did. Accepting his thrusts and how they quickened from excitement. How you could feel that coil in your stomach preparing to snap. 

Your legs quivered as you braced your hands tightly against the wall. Your walls clenched and convulsed. Wet juices coating your inner thighs as Vil’s thrusts began to grow sloppy. Throbbing inside of you with each punch to the special bundle of nerves inside you. Stimulating you both to the awaited end of an orgasm. He panted in your ear. Moaning softly how he was so close. And so were you. “Can… I’m cumming…” He whispered weakly. His perfect appearance had become disheveled. His voice cracking and whimpering as he jerked his hips against you. Your body growing limp as the lewd smacks of skin filled the small, pitch black closet. The faint scent of lemony cleaning supplies had vanished now. Replaced with the intense smell of salty skin and lust. 

You were cumming. Your body seized as Vil flattened your body against the wall. You felt so tired. Your eyes shutting as Vil peppered your face in kisses, rubbing his hands along your sweat slicked body as the warmth of his seed filled your body as the two of you came together. Twitching and throbbing together with your head growing heavy against the wall. You panted softly with Vil in the small closet. Just barely processing his words. “Will you be okay heading back on your own?” Vil asked quietly and you slowly shook your head in refusal. It wasn’t necessarily that you didn’t trust yourself to make it back to Ramshackle. You just didn’t want to go alone. You wanted Vil to go with you. You wanted to be with him longer. 

Just for the rest of Valentine’s Day. 

[raayllum]

Lissa had always wanted a mirror.

A big one, nearly ceiling to floor, and rimmed in gold or silver. Pretty, pristine. Elegant.

Warriors in Del Bar prided themselves on fine furs and neatly braided hair, and though her family had never had much money—just enough to send her for schooling as a minstrel, which had brought her to Katolis ("If you were really twice as clever you'd go into maths or medicine," her mother had admonished)—Lissa had taken as much pride in her appearance as she could. She knew the cut of her furs draped over her shoulders made her look fetching, and where to place the flower in her hair to bring out her eyes.

Fetching enough to catch the eye of the court mage's apprentice, clearly.

In the lead up to their wedding, Lissa had brought up her yearnings, surprised when her husband-to-be resisted.

"You certainly spend a far amount of time preening like a peacock," she'd needled goodnaturedly.

Viren had snorted in reply, sitting on the bench in the courtyard they often occupied these days. "What do you need with a mirror when you have me each day to tell you how lovely you look?"

And then he'd leaned in and kissed her sweetly, softly, and she hadn't dropped the matter entirely in the weeks to follow—"Couldn't it be your wedding gift to me?"—but one day, he wakes up from a nightmare and confessed the truth.

"The first time you do dark magic, mages... fall prey to visions, nightmares. In mine, there was a mirror. Oblong and grand."

Lissa takes his face in his hands, his beard just a tad untidy; she'll fix it for him later in the morning, under the warm light of day. For now she hopes the warmth of her hands are enough, his skin clammy and cold—almost gaunt and grey with fear.

"I saw—a version of myself. Grotesque, and... Sometimes, I still cannot get it out of my head."

She pulls him to her, stroking his back and catching their reflections in the tiny, square mirror across the way on their dresser. His breathing slows, and she smiles when his hands drift to the growing curve of her stomach. His ear to her heartbeat.

"It was just a nightmare," she assures him, drawing away to look again into his handsome face, and Viren leans into her touch.

She has what she needs; a large mirror does not need to be among them.

(Years later, in one final bid for her favour, Viren buys her the grandest mirror his yearly shillings can afford, but all she sees is the jagged lines on his face, covered up by more magic. Besides, it's not like she spends time in their bedroom anyway these days.

Even later, Viren hauls the mirror from his nightmares from the dragon king's lair back to the castle. What does it matter what he becomes?

Lissa is already gone.)

[korpuskat]

Chosen Avatar - Part 1

[Ao3 Mirror] Pairing: Ramattra/Reader (GN, has a vagina) Rating: E WC: 2.1k Contents: PWP & Megatron Ramattra. Transformers-typical size difference. >Part 2 ===

There were a few things that had been at the top of your mind when you first saw him after this… transformation. It should’ve been his size. Instead, it was the glowing purple of his faceplate, the darkened slits that hid his optics now illuminated, radiating a brilliant royal shade- and for the first time, you could see his gaze settle on you. It had stolen your breath then, but now it’s even worse.

His optics rake over your nude form and it makes you embarrassed. A kind of shyness you haven’t felt with him in so long-- but like this? Everything is new.

He’s hardly done anything, hardly can do anything. With the aleatory effects of this gift, he’s much too big for his previous methods. No, you’ve had to get… creative. His thumb- massive and gray and strange and new- sweeps over your body, petting at your chest, then down over your ribs, brushing roughly between your legs. It’s crude, no precision at all, and yet still as painfully effective as his touch has always been on you.

He stops there over the heat of your sex, lets you whimper and rut against his cool metal.

“I thought you were small before,” He coos, his deepened, reverberating voice only makes you shiver harder in the palm of his hand. “Look at you now, aching for just the tip of one finger…” This, too, is alien now- a harsher tone that distorts his speech, like it’s been fed through an old speaker somewhere further down in his throat than it has been before.

“Rama…” You whine, grabbing at the edges of his rubber inlays. “Please…”

Ramattra hums, and even this noise has been altered by his new power, but does nothing to sate the heat in your belly.

“Here.” He says, and picks you up with his other hand. You make some sound in protest as being handled so casually, but honestly, the fact he lifts you even easier than before, that he just grabbed you like a doll— you whimper softly as he adjusts you, pushes you to lay back against the base of his thumb. This would be strange enough, except his fingers curl possessively towards you. The tip of his pinky sliding up along your thigh. It’s a good pressure, even if the angle is unusual.

Why he’s moved you becomes obvious only a minute later. His palm lowers, brings you level with his hips- and you watch, entranced as his other hand pulls off his pelvic plate.

What lies beneath is nothing like it was before. It had once been made specifically for you, for your tiny, fragile, human body- all purple translucent silicone and delightful waves, little nodules of firmness with his inlaid lights, now his cock stands as a monstrous obelisk, longer than you are tall. It’s dull silver, the same as his body though you aren’t sure if it is also now entirely metal, but it stands out with the base painted in that new red accent. The head is longer, less rounded and more pointed like an arrow, complete with a half-dozen more, smaller ridges beneath the head, almost making it look like a double sided key through the middle of the shaft. Below that, seams that match the ones on his faceplate run down the rest of the length- each glowing softly with purple light. And none of that is even what holds your attention.

“That’s certainly new.” Ramattra muses, gaze settling on the exact same feature this gift has given him. With his other hand, he touches the tip of his cock- and his fingertip comes away slick. A tiny slit in the head leaks a silvery purple fluid that slides lazily over the oblong head. Lubricant, some still functioning objective part of your mind supplies, but given the dubious origin of Ramattra’s benefactor, you can’t help but wonder if it is actually precum. Gods, you hope so. Heat builds in your belly, leaves unable to stop yourself from rutting against his finger as you watch him gently prod at his appendage. He smears the fluid across the tip, making it shiny and faintly purple- and heat rushes from his vents.

Cautiously, he curls two fingers around himself, uses the lubricant to ease his stroke. Above you, Ramattra moans- a shuddering soft little noise that you’d almost miss if you weren’t listening. And that alone is enough to make you grind harder against his fingertip.

You hear it as he turns, pistons shifting just so his gaze moves back to you. He watches, purple optics burning as you work yourself against his smooth new exterior- and when you tip your head back to look up at him, his chest rumbles in wordless praise. His grasp on himself adjusts, the slick noises of his fist gliding through lubricant even louder- and his finger presses harder into your skin. You gasp, brace yourself against the base of his thumb, nails digging into the little seams between plates as he rocks the finger against you.

You watch as the giant metal appendage rubs on you, nuzzling blindly between your legs. As thick as your forearm, the weight of it alone is thrilling. You adjust your position so he’s pressed right against your clit with every thrust, the underside of the finger slowly beginning to glisten with your own wetness.

“Yes,” He purrs, and you think it’s just how good his hand feels- lubricated and slick against himself. But as you look to him again. the light of his optics has darkened into a wine-like shade, locked perfectly onto your body writhing in his palm. Your grinding against him, your enjoyment of his body- that is the source of his pleasure. Heat surges through you, and if that wasn’t enough- “Keep going.” He urges you, his voice still new and staticky and rumbling and you can’t possibly deny him.

You dig your nails harder into his palm and meet each thrust- your noises a strained, staccato tempo in time with his movements, slowly building the pressure between your legs. It’s so imprecise, a blunt assault on your body that’s hotter more for the effort, for the slapdash connection you’ve forged than because of the sensation itself.

Until his digit slips too far up.

You choke; the plate of the last segment of his finger ends leaving you with a sudden little gap between his plates and with it, a complete lapse in pressure. This alone is jarring, but it’s the downstroke- the sudden return of the weight of him that makes your legs twitch around him.

And Ramattra- his head looming above you, so far away- does not miss this. In an instant, his motion changes, perfectly choreographed to rub the edge of the plate against your clit every single time. Like this, it’s not grinding, not the slow waves of incessant pressure, but an active stroke, flicking your clit like a switch-- one that keeps pace with the hand on his cock. And the pleasure shifts immediately, no longer a slow smoldering build, but a quick start tinderbox.

“Ramattra,” You gasp, clutching at him, hands scrabbling across cold metal as he ruts his finger against you- and in his lap his hand speeds up. Each stroke marked with a wet shlick of his own precum, the hum of his fans, the hiss of steam- and when you throw your head back all you see is purple. That gaze, knowing that he’s watching- it’s too much.

Your hips jump, desperately meeting each press of his fingertip, gasping, crying out his name as it pushes you over the edge. Your thighs tremble on each side of his finger, trying to clamp down on it and failing. When your body fails to keep its pace, his does not- keeping rubbing that edge of his plate over your clit again and again and again- dragging your high on and on in a merciless display for himself.

And Ramattra groans. Deep and loud, it vibrates through his entire frame, into every inch of your skin that touches his palm. You tear your eyes open, stare back up into his optics- blazing, burning orbs of light as his voice glitches, fights through static with every noise-

“A-ah.” His voicebox stutters, breaks as he fights to moan your name- and his body lurches forward. The purple light dims, flickers like a candle-- and you can’t even breathe as he cums. His hand works himself with a speed that must hurt, but from his chest he makes a noise you’d never known was him- like a radio going out of tune, pitched a half-step up- raw, unfiltered, erroneous data and he spills over himself.

His finger on your pussy finally stops, but there's no sleek offlining into a system reset- it's rough. All the air in his ventilation that was being pushed out suddenly reverses flow, his chest broadening in a desperate inhale. Silvery, lavender fluid coats his hand as his pace falters, slowing as he heaves, gasps through his orgasm in a way you’ve never seen him do before.

He keeps going- keeps stroking himself until his fingers tremble and another deep groan slips from his vocoder. He stops, lowering his hand to his hip and, gods you have no idea what this power has done to him because his cock twitches, a last few stray droplets of cum sliding down over his ridges, pouring down the seams in gorgeous, perfect streaks.

You shouldn’t, but your mind is still too lust hazed, still half grinding against his finger just from the sight of Ramattra’s cum. You reach out towards his soaked hand in a silent plea, grasping at the air. Whatever has changed in him means he must finally get his own afterglow, because Ramattra obliges, bringing his dripping palm to you. And oh, you shouldn’t, but there’s no logic in the world that could stop you from stumbling to the edge of his hand just to lean to the other and lick.

Your mouth tingles- and your first thought is fruit, that it’s sweet like juice. The second, however, is that it’s like licking a battery, but turned up to eleven-- like licking a car battery. It’s sour in a way you know isn’t physically possible, electricity manually activating your nerves in a way they aren’t meant to be. Tart and sparkling and it’s like grapes just before they’re about to ferment and damn Megatron because it’s not even bad.

You go in for another taste and Ramattra groans, apparently starting to come to his senses as he separates his hands, leaving you to collapse back against his fingers. Which is fine, as you immediately enjoy how the heat of your skin dissipates into his cool digits. Above you, you can see the plumes of steam still slipping from Ramattra’s vents, his optics dulled into an easy amethyst.

“That was… different.” He offers after a minute, his voice box slowly coming back to its regular working order, but still not pristine. “I’m not sure I appreciate this being messier.” He shifts his cum-coated hand, the fluid there slipping, shimmering in the light.

“Never seemed to bother you before.” You grin up at him, lazily lounging against one of his cleaner fingers and conjure images of how much of a mess you’ve left him with before- on cock and fingers and faceplate.

“I did not mind when it was your fluids.” Ramattra grumbles.

“Well,” You can’t help yourself, the endorphins making you too loose, too giddy to not prod at him. “Maybe you should have asked the alien warlord what he was going to do to your dick before accepting interdimensional power.”

A noise rumbles from Ramattra’s chest, something between a scoff and a laugh. “Yes, I’ll make sure to take notes for next time.” He rests there for a minute, content enough to relax and approach re-regulation and watch you do the same. Eventually, however. “I should clean up.”

You nod, stretch in his palm and prepare to climb down onto the floor-

His palm rises. You sink to your knees with the force of it, clutching at the seams below you as you turn, trying to figure out what he’s doing- and he brings you up to his shoulder. To his scarf. You blink a few times, but smile as you force your wobbling legs to work long enough to transfer yourself onto his frame.

The fabric is unwieldy to climb on, folded together in fat bunches that give way as you try to navigate them, reliant on the hard seams of Ramattra’s new body just to find a good perch. But the payoff is worth it. From here, his vent heat is everywhere. The steam has warmed the scarf thoroughly, leaving it toasty and soothing on your nude body. You don’t even have time to make a comment on how cozy he is before you’re slipping into an easy sleep.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Wow, this is 1931 home in Winnetka, Wisconsin is impressive. 9bds, 9ba, $8.9M.

Wow, look at the carved wood walls. There's an original tile floor in the foyer, too, and a leaded glass inner door.

You know, I like the white carpet on the stairs. I wouldn't want to clean it, but it looks beautiful. This home has those bas relief ceilings, too.

Is it the way they're photographing the room to get the ceiling in, or are the ceilings low? The large sitting room has wood paneled walls to match the entrance hall, plus the same ceiling and a beautiful fireplace.

Very classy guest powder room. Black marble floor with white veining, and the marble counter on top of an antique dresser has a sink ringed in gold. The gold wallpaper ties it all in.

Comfy home office. The rounded desk looks art deco and is nestled perfectly in a triad of framed windows.

The library shelving is gorgeous. Oblong octagonal cutouts in carved shelves, and that gorgeous fireplace in the middle has a pediment with a pineapple and a black & white marble surround.

I like this light dining room. Cream and pale blue bas relief ceiling is so soft and stunning.

These cheery bright dining spaces are so pleasing. This is a breakfast room in creamy white and it gets a lot of sun from the windows to the garden.

The kitchen is a professional chef's kitchen. It begins with a large pantry done in the same cream color with large glass paned doors on the cabinets so you can see the dishware. The kitchen cabinetry looks maple and has a cute corner fireplace, black countertops and copper pots hanging over the double island.

At the top of the stairs on the 2nd level is a magnificent oval leaded glass skylight. The glass panes are opalescent. And, there's a large sitting room up here, too.

They've made a walkway between 2 area rugs in the huge primary bedroom. On one side is a lovely mahogany canopy bed that contrasts well against the white room and the other side is a sitting room.

There is a huge home office up hear with a pretty French Provincial desk and a chaise lounge.

The bath is nice, there's a separate room for the toilet, and a lovely vintage marble counter on the sink. Love the rust-colored marble on the floor.

What a lovely guest room. It's so large, there's a huge picture window between 2 full-sized canopy beds.

Down in the large basement is a rec room that looks like the ultimate man cave. Rich dark wood furniture, a red pool table with an unusual pool lamp- it's not the usual stained glass, this fixture has foxes in red waistcoats holding up electric candles - love that.

Wow, man cave indeed. That fireplace is the size of a room. You can definitely walk in there. And, look at the life-sized butler statue in the corner. Is he creepy?

The home gym looks commercial. Mirrored walls and a black ceiling make it look industrial.

Outside, the iron gate makes it look like a secret garden.

The hedges are cut in patterns.

It must cost a fortune to maintain these gardens. The property is 3.25 acres.

Is it me, or does the pool look like a fidget spinner.

I love conservatories and this one is lovely. The plants and wicker furniture really bring the outdoors in.

This is the prettiest tennis court with the trees and latticed fencing.

An elaborate play set for the children looks like it conveys.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/44-Locust-Rd-Winnetka-IL-60093/70453195_zpid/

[tinycozycomfort]

rest in the cup of my palms (part three)

pairing: no outbreak!joel miller x art student f!reader

chapter three: compromise

series masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

series summary: you went back to school to find out who you are—to make another leap in the hope of self discovery. when you finally find that first glimpse of yourself, it’s in someone else. what happens when the mirror tries to pull you in? or  you’re everything joel could’ve hoped to find. he doesn’t let go easily.

chapter summary: joel helps you work through your doubts.

warnings/tags: no outbreak, no use of y/n, (for everything) -> mutual pining!, possessive behavior, smut, ellie is joel's daughter, ellie and reader attend the same university but reader is in post-grad, age gap (joel is late 40s, reader is not), alternating pov, slow-ish burn / (for this chapter) -> sad thoughts about fatherhood, idolization!!, oral sex (f receiving), edging

word count: 5k

rating: explicit (18+ only! mdni)

A/N: thank you for your patience and thank you as always for reading! and special thank you to @pascalisbaby for bearing with me as i cried my way through this i love u

read on ao3 / main masterlist

“For the first time, I could clearly perceive the nature of feelings and emotions—I physically felt their consistency… the surge of a wave, the crumbling of a cliff… I understood the necessity of comparisons and metaphors using water and fire.”

Annie Ernaux, Simple Passion

───────

Minutes go by, but sluggishly, painfully—a dull crawl that mimics the cinematic use of slow-motion. The fracturing feels pre-climactic and almost momentous, too-long strides of seconds that pave the way for something grand. 

In reality, you’re just waiting; in this barely-lit, one shot hallway, aptly partnered by a life-sized amount of discomfort. You feel like a piece of something sprouted up from cement, forced into a mold not made with you in mind—love and like and candy-sweet, feverish feelings—unable to be removed now that you’ve grown in over the lip. Reaching for the sun. And he’s beautiful above you, radiant enough to burn behind closed eyelids—the image that shines there a carefully chosen snapshot that only adds height to where he hangs in the sky.

You’ve become so tired already, from the work-up and the frustration and the effort to stop it—like being outside all day with no reprieve until sunset; he’s that strong. It’s been restraint, followed by actions that negate it, followed by reinstating restraint, and still it doesn’t stop daylight from happening. Morning and high noon and six-o-clock oranges will never stop happening, so why not free yourself of the excessive rumination and the fighting? You’d much rather try to brave him—sunscreen and shade and a flat hand above your brow. Trying is good, easy, uncomplicated. Tonight, you can try. This is a good idea.

He’ll be here soon to prove it, too—on his way to come collect you, confirmed by the oblong rectangle of text on the brick clutched in your fist.

You move enough that it wakes up again, ’Fifteen minutes.’ flashing across its face, burning under the pad of your thumb. The thing is overheating now, somehow having absorbed some of the furious twisting of your excitement, and you shove it deep into your bag to let it cool—too honest of a mirror.  

You will your body to restart, moving back out onto the yard in search of Ian, to warn him of your exit—the only courtesy you have enough patience to give—frantic to get to the good part. 

You find him out by the flame, one foot resting on the brick-lined ledge of the pit, a still-full beer bottle tight in his grip. It’s tepid, too, if the lack of condensation is any indication. You curl your nose and he tips the top towards you, a waft of sour citrus pouring out. 

“What happened? My friend came back very upset that you were gone,” he teases, cocking a smile and rolling his neck over in question, languid and unserious.

“I’m leaving, actually. Didn’t want to go without saying.” You knock the bottle with the back of your hand until it threatens to spill over in the other direction. It’s unoffending, really, a nervous reaction, but it has him visibly questioning what ten minutes out of view had done to make you so taut.

He straightens up minutely at your unrest, only enough to reel back his exaggerated demeanor without drawing looks, “Are you good to drive? I haven’t had any of this yet—I can take you home.” 

“I’m not driving. I’ve got a ride.” 

“With?”

“Joel’s going to come get me.” 

His eyes widen, mouth spreading with what you’re sure are five too many questions, so you stop him before he can continue—afraid to mar his night with what you imagine would be too much to navigate right now, “I’ll explain tomorrow. Text me when you get home. I love you. I’m fine.” 

Part of you—a part that has no say right now—feels guilty for doing this to him a second time, for putting your friend through another half-witnessed, poorly justified fit of emotional anguish. He was the one who brought you here, to get away from this very thing, but somewhere in your bag there’s a faint stir, hard vibration jostling the contents, and you fail to think Ian through, again.

He’s barely even started to nod before you turn, slipping through the side gate and out onto the lawn. 

It only takes another handful of stretched-out moments—time lost completely on you now—before opaque beams cast across the curve of the street from the top of the cul-de-sac. They drop off into low-lights once the driver registers your presence and you push forward on shaky legs, knees locking—blood having gathered in your chest from anticipation, sloshing around your heart and cutting off circulation to your limbs. 

The vehicle—a truck—passes you, hitting the end of the block and returning up the drive, passenger door addressing you when it stops, your reflection warped in its convex surface. The window rolls down with a whir, and Joel’s face appears in the slit, eyes tired and hair flattened unintentionally—you absolutely woke him up. 

You let yourself in, hiking up a static-logged leg to settle in the seat before he pulls off back onto the street. It’s silent for too long, and you’re returning to a familiar feeling of acceptance, just like all the nights in your past where you’d admitted to yourself that you were going home with someone, driven by fuzzy feelings of instant connection and promise. It makes him easier to grasp—more human-like.

“You were asleep,” you mumble sheepishly, acknowledging his unpreparedness in an attempt to forgive your own. 

“‘Wasn’t supposed to be. I was waiting up for Ellie. I—uh, I thought you were her when you called.” 

He sounds just as level as he had on the phone, fingers rapping rhythmically on the steering wheel, “She texted a few hours ago to let me know she was out for the night. I fell asleep before I could see it.” 

Joel tucks the corner of his elbow in the window, laying his cheek on curled knuckles, and you chance a real glance at him for the first time. 

His dark blue t-shirt is wrinkled where it had been bunched at the torso, hanging limply now over a pair of rumpled jeans. Creases of sofa or pillow-case run up like tendrils on the skin of his arm, pressed in at various degrees of depth—restless enough to continue to pivot, even in repose. 

He looks homey, spun out of flesh-colored wool thread and plush, unlike the fatigue you’d seen on him in the classroom, or the buzz of anxious tension on the side of the school a few days ago. Here he’s just Joel, free of the idea of him or his actions; just-awake Joel with nothing to say except the truth. Pressure sits weighted on your shoulders, lingering guilt from choosing to savor, even if within the safety of emotional distance. It’s okay to look, isn’t it? Although looking isn’t all you had in mind.

“Can we go to your house?” 

“Did you drink?” 

Joel peers over his shoulder at you, and he looks meek but not small, like the question itself isn’t embarrassing but the act of asking it is. Oh. You remember your last encounter, how you’d blamed your exit on the wine, and your heart constricts at the idea that he’s asking because he’s afraid you’ll leave again. In all honesty, you wish you could leave, be strong-willed enough to have him let you out a block from your front door, never to be seen again. But you’re weak, at the mercy of your need to test your limits, your brain dipping into its reserve while your body fights to feign presence, hands rolling into fists in your lap.

“No. I haven't gone out much since the break started. Decided against getting fucked up.” 

He hums, satisfied, eyes falling ahead. The tires grind under you, lulling you into another tense quiet until he’s pulling up to the front of a well-kept, stone-faced home at the end of a short street. You lean forward to see more of it beyond the curve of the windshield, lined in copper trim with fender-shaped dents bruising the cover of the garage. It’s a call-back to grade school—what limited experience you had traversing the suburbs as a child—visiting friends in large, traditional houses with pretty concrete fountains and security-alarm signs forced into panels of fresh grass. 

Joel steps out and comes around the car to open your door before you have the chance to do it yourself, popping open the handle and stilling for a second before just stepping out of your way, perhaps in the sake of not being overly cliche. You try to appear unaffected by the notion, climbing down with a smile and sealing the door behind you, but you inwardly relish in his considered movements—he’s taming himself for you.

He leads you into the house—as quaint as it seemed to be—smelling warm and peppery like heat-soaked wood. It’s very much lived in, riddled with evidence of use—scuff marks at the threshold and smudged fingerprints in the dark paint on the walls where boots were taken off with the assistance of a grip. A side table brackets one side of the entrance, littered with bobbles and keys and a few other store-bought treasures. At its closest foot are several pairs of little sneakers, piled tall and wide on a wedge of rug, too narrow to be Joel’s. 

Ellie. 

There are signs of her everywhere, this faceless extension of him, her name scribbled on a few papers on the table and in the corners of framed drawings in the hallway; gorgeous hand, she has—all of the figures looking as true to life as they could, even when confined to paper cages. She lines the edges of their domicile, a path of lovingly curated representations of her, right down to a monogrammed leather sketchbook that sits on the dining table. 

And everywhere she is, he follows. Parts of him loom over her place-holders—guitar picks marked J in a dish with a box of charcoal nubs, a rolled up wad of button-up laid over a dark green backpack, a men’s watch sharing space on the counter with two tiny drops of backed silver. He watches over her within the borders of every container, open and solidly present behind her like a tough-knit net—ready to catch.

You step out of your shoes and he walks further in the house with haste, knocking around in what you assume is the kitchen when he returns with a glass of water.

“For you,” as he passes it, “Just in case.” 

“Thank you.” 

He curls a thumb into a belt loop at his waist, body teetering awkwardly as he watches you drink. You note the more-than-safe distance he’s put between you, the same kind he had implemented last week between his heart-wrenching confession and the point where this entanglement had escalated.

“Okay, so. I’m going to change. Do you want something too?” 

You can’t help but smile, a nervous laugh held tight in your throat, “Yes, we can go to your room.” 

Even in the dark, you don’t miss the flush of red along his jaw, the same shade he’d worn in the gallery, wine-soaked and unpracticed. 

You flinch inwardly. How is it that you are remembering so much about him when he’s existed in your world for less time than should be notable? Only two interactions, now three, but they’ve earned their slot in your fondest of memories; nothing substantial provided still, and he casts your sunrises and warms your earth. You fear what touching him again will do to you.

Joel smiles something shy back, walking past you and motioning for you to do the same. He leads you back through the display, minding the little shoes as he climbs up the steps. 

There are photos lining the staircase, less symbolic than the downstairs decorations, but just as revealing. A few of Joel and another man, similar in stature with a full smile and thick, slicked back hair, clasping shoulders or standing pin-straight side by side at different ages in mall-kiosk, christmas card style. Another of a young girl, all teeth and sparse freckles and pale cheeks. She’s wearing a cap and gown, shiny polyester catching in the flash, edges hazy with blur. 

That’s her. His daughter. You’ve seen her, you realize, from a few modeling sessions you’d done when you offered to cover for the younger students. You already knew her, too, floating around more than a few hellos on the days you’d sat for her like a silent idol. It feels odd to be in her home now, the two of you connected in a way she hasn’t come to partake in quite yet. She’s been at the head of your conversations with Joel until now—in this moment when she’s here but not here—and you wonder how much he’s considered her place in all this. You should at least thank her, you suppose; nod at her picture in prayer or cross your fingers that you might actually get to meet her—see her again, rather—and get to say it to her face.

Joel walks ahead of you as you linger, unbothered by your interest. You’re glad he does when you reach the last row. 

A larger frame bookends the slideshow, standing alone in its unique appearance. It’s hand-made, a thin string of painted ferns on the edges, the wings of something like a butterfly or moth wrapping over the right-hand corner, precise and niche enough to be nothing other than a gift. The picture inside is of the two of them together, happy and puffy-cheeked with their arms wrapped around each other, back-lit in front of some kind of museum display. 

Pure joy. His comfort. 

A swell of pain lodges in your ribs, eyes drawing wet. He’s losing her, you think, in a way he hasn’t even begun to realize. He's missed so much of her life—at no fault of their own—and will pursue her future as a bystander. You long to give him some kind of relief in that, maybe out of pity or maybe out of need. You wanted to be on your own, you wanted to be separated from everyone else out of spite for letting your family and your ex tower over you, heavy-handing their influence in false gestures of kindness. Not loving. Never loving—only present in best interests and helpful advice. Things that gave you purpose and points. Who was tallying? What have you to show for it now? 

You only ever wanted acceptance from them, to be recognized as a person instead of as a student or a daughter or a girlfriend—to be able to transcend role and become an active participant. 

It’s too perfect, this thing you each individually lack; what comes of someone who cares and someone who needs caring? 

“Hey.” Joel calls from the end of the room, pulling you out of your dissection of his life, voice soft like he’s seeing an apparition he’s unsure is there. 

“Hi.” You whisper, walking towards him, ignoring his tentative boundary, “You know, I did everything in my power to not call you.” There’s no point in keeping secrets now, from him or yourself. 

He crowds you in the doorway, body slumping on the line of his spine so he can entrap you more securely, u-shaped shoulders and outward facing palms, “Why did you call?”

“I couldn’t help it,” and before he can interrupt, “Joel, I need you to know that this isn’t going to end well.” 

“End? Have we started?” 

“We were doing this before we both knew it, I think. That’s what you were talking about, right—like we’ve met before?” 

“That’s right.” He’s breathing shallowly, unable to hide his desire for proximity now that you’ve allowed him more than he started with, chest moving back and forth like the breeze of the heater is enough to push his tide, “And I meant it.”

“So did I.” 

“Then what are you so scared of? If it’s familiar?” His knee knocks into the slice of thigh above yours. He’s getting closer. 

“Just because I want you now doesn’t mean I should have you.”

“What if I want you to have me?”

“Even worse.” The heat of his face leaks out onto yours and you open yourself to it—the hot sun in July, the boiling rain of mid-summer, all encompassing and working hard to bring you up to temperature so you can burn along with it. Setting you ablaze. 

You lean up, the tip of your nose catching on the stubble lining his jaw, careful to not break eye contact for longer than the briefest moment, nudging him in short taps. 

“I do, though, honey. I think you know I do.” His knee pushes between yours, digging into the joint of your leg to unfold you, the rough denim over his zipper dragging across the knob of your hip.

You curl a hand around the fabric covering his stomach, wrinkling it past the point of correction as it folds under the damp of your fist. He’s far from at length now, both nothing of what you intended and exactly what you wanted. He’s thrilled about it too, seemingly—the muscle under his torso fluttering when your nails drag against him. 

He’s everything again, everywhere, soft tanned skin and jeans he came up here to ‘change out of’, the invisible halo around him swallowing you, coaxing you into his orbit. You want all of it, piece by piece and for all he’s worth. 

“I don’t want to waste you,” you murmur, and there’s that unashamed boldness again, honesty rushing out like an unsupervised beast. Joel wraps his thick fingers around the side of your neck, thumb pushing into soft cheek, between rows of teeth and over skin, pushing them apart. 

His eyes are glossy, like he’s just gotten up from a long sleep, gauzy and sloppy and sticky. His mouth hangs open to mimic yours as he speaks, “You couldn’t. I have an endless amount to give,” and then he’s licking the outline of your open lips, slipping his tongue in to press along the roof of your mouth and up up up to the back of your teeth. He’s puffing hard out of his nose, dipping in and out of your split, licking even the pad of his thumb where it pokes through the hollow, touching himself inside you. 

His free hand grips the top of your ribs, leading you backwards towards the bed until you’re seated at the edge of it, his back curved harshly to continue to taste you. 

You’re kissing him back, you know that, but your thoughts float up to cloud your pleasure and you’re getting ahead of yourself all over again. What does he want? Why does he want it? Would he be upset to learn you’re trying to give him less? You flip the hem of his shirt between your forefinger and thumb, toes curling against the carpet—walking that line of self-doubt. 

He breaks away, so careful again even with no clear need to be, “What’s wrong?” 

“I’m just nervous.” 

“About now? Or about me?”

“Both.”

“Just talk to me, then. Tell me why we shouldn’t—we can work through it together. Let me take some of that worry off of you.”

Joel braces a knee on the corner of the mattress to hold himself steady, gripping you under the joints of your shoulders and pulling you towards the center of the bed. He deposits your body like nothing, kneeling at the apex of your thighs. 

Your voice shakes, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

He works at the buttons on your shirt with long fingers, drawing it over the hills of your shoulders until your collar rolls in on itself from the force, falling away. Joel wraps the layer over the panel of your jacket and pulls, undressing you like he has to memorize how to be able to put you back together. He does the same with your bra, achingly slow, but you can feel tiny tremors in his wrist as it runs against your back. 

You just watch for a minute, unable to link what he’s doing to reality, arms feeling weak like the dull ache of a full-body cold, akin to sickness. 

“Go on, honey. Only gonna keep going as long as you do.”

“I— I feel connected to you. I don’t want to.” 

He closes his eyes and bobs his head, I understand, and your body starts to feel numb at your core, pulsing so violently it prompts you to roll your ankle to make sure you haven’t left it behind. 

“More,” he pants, running fully-spread hands over every piece of bare skin, your nipples pulling tight as the motions move from gentle to greedy, passing to tugging. 

“I can’t do this again. I have a hard time letting go. What if you want me for the wrong reason and I can’t hate you for it?” 

He pops the button of your pants, lifting you up off the bed to take the garment down and off, dipping his fingers into the rim of each of your socks on the way to remove them at the same time.

You push your forefingers into the band of your underwear, but Joel meets your hand as you start, winding a finger around the lace and pulling opposite so they catch—leave these on. 

You comply, but you know you’re already wet through them, know that he can see it, and you can’t decide if you want him to know his effect on you, legs buckling in no clear direction; but he feels so good, and he’s almost where you want him, and he’s waiting for you to keep talking, so you lean into the heat. You spread.

“It’s easy to tell myself you’re different once I’m in it. But it never works out right. I get too attached.” 

Joel settles in, shouldering the left side of his body under your thigh to bring you open further, wrapping his arm around it and letting a hand situate against your belly. He turns his right palm away from himself, flattening it like a warning sign before he pushes it against the crease of your cunt, rubbing in slow circles with the curve of his fingers, right under the points. You thrash, trying to force him just an inch up to where you’re throbbing, but he doesn’t budge—he’s making you earn it.

“What if you just want me because you think you need someone to take care of? What if you find out you feel better alone?”

He dips two fingers into your cunt through the film of your underwear, shallow but firm—more than just curious. You feel like you might just come from this, from just the suggestion of him. 

He uses his forearm to butt against the underside of your thigh, prompting you to lift it towards your chest, and he leans down to cup your clit into his mouth, fabric and all. His mouth is searing with the aid of the material, a tight suction that insulates the heat he’s expelling. 

You’re heaving now, light-headed and loose as broad strokes of his tongue soak the already tainted cloth, the extra stimulation from its drag enough to make your head spin. You’re sure that if you breathe any harder your chest will cave in.

“Hm?” He asks against you, demanding, the vibration of it setting your skin alight, and you force your nails into the dip of your hand to keep your mind in the room. You’re stuttering, but it’s not enough of a response, so he leans back—cruel and merciless. 

“What did I say?” he coos, left hand pinching into the swell of flesh at your side.

It stings but you gasp, eager to take, even if the attention so so far away from where it should be, and you have to count your breaths out in groups of five to come back into focus. 

“What if I’m willing to take what you give me? Does that ruin the safety I’ve built for myself?” you whisper, and finally he peels back the curtain of fabric, only enough to present your entrance, rough fingers greeting your opening with no resistance, twisting and hooking them so just the tips are fixed inside. He positions himself above his hand, spitting onto your still-covered clit, watching it slide down and gather where you join. It’s unnecessary, with how much slick you know is pooled there, trailing down onto the sheets under you, but you chalk it up to just having another piece of him inside of you—you’ll gladly accept it.

You’re so very close, and he can tell, maybe from the shake in your hoisted leg or the lack of time in between airy cries, and he just slides in, right to the first knuckle. No room to be ready.

The sound of blood rushing in your ears is so loud you don’t hear yourself when you start begging. You writhe under the hold he has on you, relieved and overwhelmed and a few inches from your soul pouring right out of your body.

And then he’s not moving again, lessening the recovery time he’s willing to allow you, and you try to dig through the fog of arousal to find real words, but your mind can only conjure up a single-syllable sentence as you beg him to relent. 

He frees himself from the clutch of your leg, shimmying out so he can use his unsodden hand to cradle your head, the weight of your skull limp in his palm, “You can do it. Get it all off your chest.”

Joel presses his thumb up under your cheek, pulling at the crease of your lips like he can will you to speak with force alone. 

“I can’t. Please. Just finish.”

“You have something else you want to say. I don’t take kindly to giving up. C’mon.”

He gives you a half-step, reminding you part of him is still within you, fingers curling up against the soft muscle and you skip over a hard inhale. 

“How am I supposed to know what I’m up against if you won’t tell me?” He says it like it’s obvious, like this is some very common step in relationship-building—finger-fucking you as a reward for confessing your skepticism. 

You’re tense, holding the whole of your body in one, tiny scrap of you and it feels like you’ve entered some kind of limbo, suspended in the place between tension and relief, so close to falling that you’re not sure you want either of them. 

He angles himself again, pushing his entire heft into your hip with a wide hand so he can fit himself flat against the bed, mouth hovering over your cunt again. He exhales hard over you, the fingers still tucked in your cunt moving as he adjusts. 

“Please?” He begs sweetly, high enough on the end that you know he’s mocking you, “You can do better than please.”

You huff hard, swallowing thickly—trying again, “What if you—What if—,” you manage, and the lead-up must be convincing enough because he bows again, body fully flat so he can latch on to your clit with his mouth, lips closing tight around the bud through cotton and sucking hard, the hand inside you stirring to life, his twisted positive reinforcement serving you well.

“Fuck, Joel. Fuck—What if you make me love you, just to leave me?” 

Your ankle drifts down to find purchase against his waist, and you can feel him moving, working himself into the mattress. In the chaos, you’d forgotten about his want, and being reminded of his ability to take makes your sweat run cold. He could fuck you now, and instead he’s fucking the bed thinking about you—even bringing you to completion is enough to make him chase release. You lean your head back behind your shoulders, your orgasm overtaking you one harsh wave at a time, stomach filling with thick, hot syrup. You push your teeth so deep into your lip there has to be blood but you can’t taste it, all of your senses honed onto where he’s unraveling you, shrinking in on itself in preparation to violently burst.

He weighs in, now that you’re already cresting, “I won’t leave you, sweetheart. Not now that I know what you need.” 

His admission, his promise, is enough to make you see white, pushing your peak into overstimulation far too soon, and you have to be crying or begging or something because he immediately slows, winding you down in an organic way—taking his time leading you past bliss. 

He pulls his hand free of you, sliding his grip over the damp, half-mounted fabric and peeling it away, hand circling your calf to maneuver you gently.

You’re fully naked now, and when he rolls over to stand at the foot of the bed, you remember he’s still clothed. There he is, above you again like he brings the dawn, bent shirt and uneven waistband and shiny slip over his lips.

It looks different from your memory though, here he looks inexplicably pained, face wrinkled, and then settles another reminder—he hadn’t come.

“Wait, Joel.” 

He doesn’t answer, just recedes to another part of the room you can’t see over your heap of arms and legs. 

You’re still swallowing ragged mouthfuls of air, not quite normal, when he reappears, the feeling of hot cloth against your still fragile cunt makes you writhe.

“Joel.” 

“Yes?” 

“You didn’t get to… finish,” you mutter, and how you’re too embarrassed to address his arousal even after what just transpired is beyond you. 

“No need to rush anything. I can take care of myself for now, plenty of time to get to that point.”

“What now, then?” 

“Sleep with me. I can take you home if you want, or to your car, but I would much rather if you stayed.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“I’ve never been more certain of anything.”

[kahinnat]

my first little work, don't judge harshly. i plan to continue this writing someday. 🤭

it's squid game au. main ship - sukuna/megumi, partly sukuna/uraume. with mahito and kenjaku in the background as sukuna's companions. itadori, gojo, geto will also appear.

— hey, plum. come here.

sukuna beckons uraume, who is washing his face in front of the restroom mirror, looking out the stall door. mahito and ken rub in the next stalls, which makes ryomen want to be nasty and banged his fist on the wall of one of them.

— DON'T MESS UP THE JET! — pulls mahito when uraume comes closer.

— come on, — sukuna demands in a fidgety voice, dropping the toilet lid with a clatter and sitting down on it as proudly as if he were an ancient deity. more like a curse. he holds out his palm to uraume, who nods obediently and, closing the door behind him, stands in front of his eldest, unashamedly pulling down the bottom of his uniform and underwear. sukuna, who had previously kept his sly pairs of tattooed and native eyes on his subordinate's face, lowered them to the neat cunt between the tight thighs pressed against each other. he leaned forward, flicking his forefinger on his pubes:

— knock, knock!

uraume spreads his legs wide, letting his master's fingers pass through and slowly blushing. sukuna, pleased with the natural obedience, licks a couple of fingers, raising his eyes and making eye contact with the ume. he does not avert them even as strokes his labia, gently pulling them apart to reveal the vagina that held his little treasure. uraume doesn't make a sound, but unable to look at ryomen's smug face as he digs into his pussy, he throws his head back, opening his thin neck.

sukuna notes with a hint of amusement the younger man's lips parted for a second as he pulls the oblong container hidden in the cheap rubber out of his body.

— good job, fridge, — ryomen grinned and slapped his fingers on his clitoris in gratitude, which twitched from the nervous touch.

— don't be shy.

uraume obediently sits down on sukuna's thigh, folding his palms on his own. the latter embraces him with his broad muscles, placing his palm on his pelvis for support. looks like a pose for an ironic family photo.

suddenly, the unlocked door opens and mahito and ken look in on either side of them. the former, of course, makes a comment on the picture in front of him:

— how cute, like father and son, — uraume snorts evilly. he hated it when the mahito opened his mouth because it was always out of place. — share this, — he reached his hand toward sukuna's face, the joint clenched between his teeth, but uraume slapped his sharp wrist away. mahito pulled his hand away instantly, as if he'd been burned, while ken laughed modestly at the spectacle.

— good girl, — sukuna praises uraume for the second time, exhales a long puff of smoke to the side, and, taking the joint in his fingers, rubs his nose against the pink cheek with his happiest grin. — find your pussy, punk. or ask the guards for a joint.

— and maybe he'll get off with a simple warning, — kenjaku shakes his head appraisingly, his eyes down on his mahito.

— hey, that's not fair! do I have to beg you? — the noises mahito made became more annoying and whining, but they were abruptly interrupted, worth their company hearing the restroom door open. sukuna didn't even change his posture or throw out the forbidden substance, only tightening under the weight of the straining uraume. kenjaku and mahito turned at the sound, and while the former expressed no emotion on his blissful face (he didn't even need weed), the latter whistled as he recognized one of the players.

— i think i found it! — mahito recoiled at sukuna's instructions, following with a glance at megumi, who stubbornly pretended not to notice them.

— shah, motherfucker, — sukuna tilts his body forward, pulling uraume tighter against him so that he can reach up and shove him in the shoulder with his fist, — that's mine, — and he winks at megumi before he slams the door of the stall across the hall. fushiguro exhales in relief, feeling a gram safer, and relaxes his eyebrows, his back straightened.

thanks for reading! ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ let me know if you liked it so I'll have the energy to continue it.......

[letsgostealthelouvre]

I think the time of combs with ungulates on them has officially come to an end, but I will always have a soft spot in my heart for the combs of the Louvre. This one looks like a church, and has little panels that slide open to reveal a pair of tiny mirrors. Considering it’s in wood and the other combs I’ve looked at have been mostly bone, it’s in great shape. 

[ID: A two sided comb, with fine tines on one side and wider tines on the other; it has a lot of intricate piecework carving in oblong patterns, making it look like the inside of a gothic church. Two panels on the central handle protrude from the comb’s sides; they have been slid apart to reveal two metal discs, which when oiled would serve as little mirrors.]

[mathosapabeads]

lets make some earrings!

inspired by various polls on here, lets make some earrings. i will be running four 24hr polls this week to design some earrings by poll results. day 1 is cabs, day 2 is color palette, day 3 will be rhinestones, day 4 will be backing material.

[klimkovsky]

M8 (NGC 6523) — The Lagoon Nebula

It is considered to be the second brightest nebula in the Earth’s sky, and one of two hydrogen nebulae visible to the naked eye (for an observer in the middle latitudes of the Northern Hemisphere). The first to come to mind is the Orion Nebula. Is there anything comparable to it in the sky? — Yes — There is the Lagoon Nebula.

But it is not easy to see the Lagoon with the naked eye. Its integral brightness is about 6m — right at the limit of the eye’s penetrating ability. If it is possible to see it without optics somewhere, then only high in the mountains. And it is not at all surprising that the Lagoon was discovered using a telescope, even the simplest one. Different sources give different discoverers. It is believed that this nebula was observed by Giovanni Hodierna back in 1654 or even earlier — in fact, in the era of Galileo. But then, telescopic study of the skies was not yet mainstream in astronomy, not everyone was in a hurry to talk about it. And Hodierna’s discovery did not become generally known at the time. That is why the French astronomer Guillaume le Gentil, who discovered a wispy foggy cloud in the constellation Sagittarius a century later, is sometimes mentioned as the discoverer of the Lagoon Nebula.

The Lagoon is located literally in the direction of the center of the Milky Way Galaxy, at a distance of 5,200 light years from us (until recently, distance estimates varied greatly — from 4 to 6 thousand light years, but in any case, the Lagoon is still very far from the center of the Milky Way). Interestingly, the famous Orion Nebula, often mentioned in connection with the Lagoon, is located almost in the opposite direction — away from the center of the Galaxy (but a little closer to us — 1,300 light years, which means that the Lagoon is much larger and brighter than the Orion Nebula … would be under equal conditions).

The M8 nebula has a physical diameter of 50 to 100 light years (it is oblong), in its huge volume young hot — sometimes very massive — stars are intensively born. It is the same maternity hospital for new galactic luminaries as the Orion Nebula.

The lagoon is adjacent to a large number of other interesting objects, which the constellation Sagittarius is rich in. Sometimes it seems that Sagittarius has attracted most of the pearls of visual and photographic astronomy. But the center of the Galaxy is to blame for everything — it is to it that both Nebulae and star clusters gravitate, which are most often present in the central parts of hydrogen nebulae — they are born in them. Laguna also has its own cluster — NGC 6530.

The visualization provided as an example is based on an astrophotography by Andre Helmuth and Jan Beckman, published on the Astrobin website — there this image became the winner of regular ratings, and in terms of detail it competes with the best professional photographs, although it was made using a telescope with a mirror diameter of 12 inches — quite serious, but not too big in comparison with the multi-meter giants of the top observatories.

[writesfic]

change / recovery / growth

mo guan shan doesn’t realize how much he’s changed over the summer. weeks can span like a lifetime. the lingering bruises on his face don’t show splotches anymore, but he still remembers the oblong splashes of purple against his skin. he remembers the scratch of the bandages and the ache in his heart that’s only grown into something unnameable.

coming back to school, his skin pulls too tight over his body. he sees the same, familiar faces down the hallways, but his own feels alien when he catches sight of it in the bathroom mirror. softer, but also less pained. as the dark ring around his throat healed, it’s taken all the hurt with it too.

the absence of all that weight makes him feel functioning, like a passable human being. he says hi to his classmates, volunteers to answer a question at the front of the class, gets it wrong. it all feels so... normal. 

he tian meets his eyes from his seat, smile a little fonder than before. he catches himself before doing something embarassing - like smiling back. instead, he receives the shitty lunchbox with sure hands, takes the time to savour each grain of mushy rice and the salty tang of convenience store meat.

change comes by slow and uncomfortable, but he’s slowly getting the picture. there’s no iou. what he tian has done, is doing for him, he’s unable to count any longer. it’s a debt of a lifetime; no point in keeping score. he takes peeks out of the corner of his eyes, greedy with what he can get away with. he tian still feels comfortably the same, but things between them have shifted irrevocably as spring bloomed into summer and yielded the start of autumn.

that sweet ache in his chest stings. somewhere along the line, he’s told himself that he deserving. he wishes abstractly for these endless, sweltering, halycon days where he feels nigh on invincible to never end. he gets to have this. he gets to have him.

[skateboreds]

A Slice of Orange

chp. 3

*FKA The Orange Slice*

pairing: joel miller x reader

summary: The most dangerous man in town has been staring at you nonstop, but keeps his distance until the night he walks you home...

tags: smut, medium burn, sexy stuff starts in chp.3, age difference, M/F, a lot of goddamn eye contact that turns into porn, porn w plot, zaddy joel, hand/finger kink, praise kink, mild blood in later chps, TLOU pt.II, NO Y/N

notes: Set at the beginning of The Last of Us Part II when Joel and Ellie live in the Jackson, Wyoming community, a few years after TLOU part I. Deviates from canon apart from that. Characterizations based mostly on the first game.

AO3 link:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/45087460/chapters/113424721#workskin

CHAPTER THREE

Joel leads you from the hall, and you feel the looks from his family following you both to the entry way. 

Are you embarrassing him? A girl half his age coming onto him in front of everyone? Is he walking you home to get it all to stop? So no one thinks he would actually be interested? To let you down easy without a crowd watching?

You feel empty and shaky and grab your coat, fumbling to slide it on. Joel holds the door open and the sudden chill of the night smacks you as you step out onto the road with him. The moon hangs low and oblong in the sky and a soft snow is beginning to fall. The streets are dark now, most of the lights off.

The quiet and cool night helps to clear your head and you hug your arms to yourself as you suck in several breaths, the air sharp and clean.

It doesn’t matter. So, he doesn’t feel the same way. You’ll survive this like you survive everything else. Let him walk you home, let him tell you he isn’t interested. It doesn’t matter. Just enjoy the walk with him before he goes.

You turn to him and see him watching you, waiting for your cue. He seems like he wants to ask you if you’re okay but can’t find the words. The idea of him pitying you makes you want to rip your skin off. You need to get him to stop looking at you like you’re wounded.

“Lead the way” you say, diffusing the moment, “You know where I live, after all.”

To that Joel smiles, slightly abashed, but turns right, heading into the velvety night. You sigh in relief at join in step besides him, walking in silence for a while. The streets wind before you as you flick your eyes to Joel, as subtly as you can. Snow has started to collect on his salt and pepper hair, a few on his eyelashes, framing those unnervingly sweet-shaped eyes. Stoically, he surveys the surroundings, his massive frame graceful as he strides forwards, confidence so clear in how he holds his shoulders. You feel yourself shift to mirror the way he walks, to try and emulate that same presence.

He hasn’t moved his eyes away from the path before you, but you see a smile tug at his lips in response.

You snap your head forward, embarrassed. Wanting to divert the focus away from your heating face you decide to bring up something that might embarrass him for a change.

“Can I ask you something?” you say boldly.

He stays silent as you both near the mouth of an alleyway leading to your side of town, a shortcut, but he finally turns his head towards you, indicating his attention.

“How…do you know where I live?”

He coughs and then laughs awkwardly at this, the hint of bashfulness returning.

“I suppose I should have expected that.”

“Are you stalking me?” you ask teasingly, expecting a quick response. 

A moment passes but Joel is silent. You inspect his face, wary and unsure.

Holy shit.

“Are you??” you ask, halting your walk, stopping just as you both enter the alley.

“No! I-I’m not. I just…have seen you go there before. And I figured, that…” Joel says stopping too.

“You’ve seen me go there.” you say, repeating the information.

“I’m not-I haven’t. I just…” he trails off.

This is the first time you’ve ever heard Joel stutter, stumble over his words. The first time he’s ever seemed uncomfortable in his skin. He puts his hands in his pockets and shifts his weight. His sudden lack in confidence seems to embolden yours.

“You’ve been watching me.” you speak, not a question.

He observes you, flicking his eyes between yours, fast and searching before he utters a single word.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

A long pause.

“I wanted to make sure nothing happened to you.”

“Why?”

Joel just stares at you.

Bits of the night come back to you now. The way Joel pointed out the men looking at you. Their obvious interest that you previously have been blind to. The only person whose attention you had noticed had been Joel’s. For months he had been giving you attention, just like they had tonight. Because they wanted you, your body. Because…he might want that too. 

You’re seeing half a perfectly peeled orange held out to you, when the ground swings up at you at an odd angle, the alleyway suddenly becoming horizontal.

“Shit.”

It sounds far away as the snowy road comes dangerously close to smashing into your face but arms, lightning fast, catch your frame and haul you upright. They stay wrapped around your back as everything levels out.

“Are you ok!?” An edge of hysteria lines Joel’s voice.

Does…does he…?!

You look up at Joel and his face is so close now you can smell him. It’s warm and woodsy, leather and citrus and amber. The smell fills your head and you struggle to stay afloat in the sea of him, your desire pulling at your ankles, wanting to drown you in it. His arms are so secure around you, the muscles hard and steady. You are again unable to avoid staring at the beauty before you. His scarred nose is strong and straight, though it looks like it may have been broken in the past, his bearded jaw sharp and sturdy. His face holds the edge of someone dangerous, capable of death and destruction, but in this light, the person he perhaps used to be seems to shine though. An eager and more exposed person. His hair has fallen in front of his face slightly and he looks younger, the light in his jade and chocolate eyes burning with concern and something else, something primal now as he takes you in.

The moon sheds a soft opalescent light on his features, and combined with the fat flurries sashaying around you, you feel as if you’ve entered a dream. You can’t hold it back any longer.

“Please.” You all but whisper it. Hoping, begging.

Joel’s face is aflame with conflict. You see burning, wild desire there, raging through the forest of his thoughts, consuming every tree. But he also seems incredibly unsure. Of what, you don’t know. All you can do is ask, so again, you do.

“Please.”

This time the word is a prayer, a plea, offered up with abandon. A promise on your knees, a request for salvation. You don’t care how vulnerable you sound.

“Fuck.” Joel whispers it roughly, desperately, and then crushes his mouth to yours.

The wildfire from his gaze catches on every kindling of painful yearning that you have collected over the years, a piled-up mountain of desire, and you burn with it. You burn and burn. His mouth is rough and needy against yours and you open, letting him in. His tongue presses against the inside of your teeth, exploring and claiming every centimeter of you. You snake your arms around his neck as your skin blazes white hot, tangling your hands in his hair, gripping so tightly it probably hurts but all he does is groan with pleasure into your open mouth.

Suddenly, he pushes you up against the brick wall of the alley. His hands leave your back to grab your fists tangled in his hair. He collects both in his left and pins them against the cold wall above you without breaking the kiss. His right grabs your jaw, firm but not painful, his hand so large his thumb and pointer span from earlobe to earlobe. You stand there, fully at his mercy, needing more of him. You curse your clothes, wishing you could feel his skin against yours, his heat surrounding you, his width inside you.

A whine of need slips out of your throat and he groans again, his grip on your jaw tightening for a second before he lets go, breaking the kiss to look at your chest. He trails his hand downwards until it rests flat against your heart.

Low in your belly, a heat tangles through you, snaking around your insides, sinking its teeth into your trembling thighs.

You arch your back, trying to move your heaving breast into his palm but Joel presses your chest back into the wall, pinning you there until you stop wiggling. He levels your gaze with his, his eyes vast pools of inky black in the shadows.

“Don’t rush me.” he commands, his voice dragging on the ground.

You feel fucking psychotic, like if he doesn’t put his skin on yours soon you might actually pass out. But you wait, your arms still pinned above you, as he slowly, maddeningly, unzips your jacket and pushes it open to reveal your button-down shirt. He undoes one button, then two more, and finally flings your shirt open. Your bra is thin and the icy night swirls against it, your nipple hard and poking through the fabric. Joel hooks a finger on the edge of the cotton and slowly slides it down to the edge of your peaked nipple. He eyes your chest, a wolf to a rabbit, starved and lethal. With a quick motion, he yanks the fabric and your breast springs free, your nipple so hard it’s almost painful. He moans in approval and palms your breast, squeezing it hard, moving his fingers until he grabs your nipple between his pointer and thumb and gently rolls it. You release a noise halfway between a sob and a squeak.

The heat deep inside you is infernal now as the place between your legs throbs with aching need. You buck your hips forward, hoping to gain some friction against him, to relieve some of that pressure pounding within.

He senses this and uses his boot to kick your feet wider apart and then presses his thigh between yours, pushing against you. You curse your clothes again.

“Is this what you want pretty girl?” Joel asks, his voice gravelly and low, his teeth grazing the shell of your ear now. He gently flicks your nipple.

You’re whimpering, the noises coming from you less than decent. You grind down onto his thigh, moving on it, wishing he could feel how wet you were, wishing he would slide his fingers inside of you. The thought of that, of what you’ve been imagining for months, drives you mad. His large, capable fingers pumping in and out of you; it feels so close to being real it’s agonizing. You pick up the pace of your grinding, straining your caught wrists against his vice grip above your head.

“Tell me what it is you want, pretty girl. Use that soft pretty mouth to tell me what it is you need.” he says, and leaves your breast to grab the flesh of your hip, moving your body against him harder.

You gasp, no words coming.

“Do you want to feel me against you…inside you? Use your words, I want to hear you say it.”

For such a silent man he sure talks a lot when he’s turned on.

“P-please I-I-”

“You what?”

“I want…I need-”

“What do you need, pretty girl? Hmm? So pretty, she’s so pretty.” he coos.

The words were almost too much to absorb right now, your insides coiling so tightly at all the stimulation.

“I want to feel you-your fingers, i-inside me, p-please. Please.” you choke out, ragged and breathless.

That’s all Joel needs to hear as his right hand quickly unbuttons your jeans in one motion, shoving it under the waist band of your underwear. His fingers just barely graze the edge of your pussy, soaking wet now, when the sudden noise of incoming conversation cuts through.

Joel freezes at the edge of the center of you and you think you might shriek in desperate, crazed need. Your thoughts too scattered to catch up to the significance of the talking growing near.

He quickly pulls his hand out of your pants, releasing your arms, and swings around until his back faces the street and he completely covers you from view.

You are still trying to catch up fully to what is going on, wanting to clutch and claw at him to come back to you when a group of maybe five people walk right by the mouth of the alley. They pass by, laughing and singing, obviously drunk. You peek from behind Joel and see the group stumble by happily. A few of them throw glances to you both in the alley, but from the street it must just look like a man leaning against the wall, perhaps in conversation with someone else. It’s nothing too note-worthy for the intoxicated strangers, and they continue on their way.

Your heart is still beating wildly, the ghost sensation burning where his fingers were, what they were about to do.

The noise from the passerbys fades into the distance and Joel steps away from you, pushing his hair back, breathing unsteadily. He turns to you, his face etched in concern, eyes wild, but he only finds you with your hands on your knees, shaking in laughter.

“You’re laughing?” he asks, incredulous.

“I mean, it’s kind of funny.” you respond, still giggling, fixing your shirt.

Seemingly despite himself, he lets out a single chuckle, but puts his face back in his right hand.

“Jesus Christ.” he mutters to himself.

You want to push off the wall and walk towards him, to erase the distance between you two again. But your legs shake slightly and you’re not sure you can make the distance without tumbling to the ground.

“Come here.” you urge him, extending an arm out.

He looks at you for a moment, something flitting in his eyes, too fast to catch, and walks back to you. You reach up for his face, leaning in again but he grabs your hand, keeping it captive an inch away from his cheek. You search his face and only find a carefully crafted wall.

“You don’t like being snuck up on, do you?” you asked him.

A pause.

“Let me walk you home.” is his only response.

You open your mouth to object; that is the furthest thing that you want right now, but there is a warning in his eyes, not to push him. You can’t help the disappointment that blooms within you. Like ink in water, it spreads out, consuming. You’re sure it’s obvious on your face because Joel turns his head to lightly press his lips to the tips of your fingers.

“You’re freezing.” he says.

You haven’t noticed, feeling like you were on fire this entire time. But as that fades, the chill of the night seeps back in and you realize you’re shivering.

“That jacket ain’t much.” he nods to your thin coat, made for weather probably 15 degrees warmer than this.

“I’m saving up for a new one.” you say, feeling the need to defend yourself.

“Here.” Joel says shrugging off his thick, tan jacket. He holds it out to you.

“Won’t you be cold?” you ask, concerned.

“I’ll be fine.” he says and winks.

You reach for the jacket and slip it on. It’s warm from his body heat, and it smells like him, concentrated and delicious. You can’t help yourself, you turn towards the shoulder and inhale deeply, the scent almost dizzying.

He smiles at this, but his eyes seem almost…sad.

You want so badly to ask him what he’s thinking, what barriers lie in that head of his. You want to know what this meant to him. Was he actually interested in you or was it a crazy, spontaneous event he didn’t wish to repeat? Was he just taken by surprise by those strangers or was he embarrassed at potentially being caught with you.

You have no language to communicate with him about those sorts of things though. Instead, you merely follow him as he leads you through the alleyway towards your apartment.

**********

Later, in your bed, you wonder about your goodbyes. You think about how much you wanted to kiss him, but his guarded eyes kept you where you stood. How you reluctantly slipped off his jacket to hand back to him and how a flurry of emotions passed over his face before he slowly accepted it. How you both stared at each other, how you wanted to say so much, ask so much. How his face showed a million things then that you could not decipher, like looking at an unreadable text, the information falling on blind eyes. You wished you could touch him just one more time, in case it was the last, but he simply nodded his head once and loped off into the dark. How you got home and opened your journal to sketches of oranges and vehemently wrote down everything you could remember about his face up close, lest you ever forgot. As if you ever could. How you lay in your bed, still smelling him on your skin, still could feel the pressure of his lips on yours, and you concentrated on those things as your fingers moved under your waistband. Their shape all wrong compared to his, but finding your release nonetheless, replaying the feeling of him all over you. And you wonder and you wonder and you wonder as you turn and stare out your small square window at the moon hanging low in the night sky, a crescent shy of being full.

[jaiyemourningstar91]

Lately, I've been having a body image crisis. I'm big and tall. Bigger than I'd like to be. It's unhealthy. Even though people find it appealing, which I think folks just do that to be nice. Always calling me the big guy. Acting like it's something endearing. Finding me intimidating like a bouncer. Yada yada. I get it. It's not all fat. I used to be an athlete. So there is bulk muscle under these pounds of flesh. But truth be told, I'm out of shape.

My body always aches. I'm always in pain. And I know it's not just because I'm old. When I sleep, I snore like a bear. During the day I breathe heavy. Mostly because my breathing is scarce as I rest. Which makes sleeping hours short. I don't ever feel completely rested. I fear I might die in my sleep, so I also try to stay awake as long as I can.

I feel unattractive. Undesired. I look in the mirror and see my reflection and I'm just like "what the hell happened"? I mean I know what did. Years of depression, eating, more depression, always working myself to death, poor diet, etc etc etc. I've tried to change so many times. Made efforts with fasting. Diet. Even was hitting the gym up. But I'd always end up failing again.

I miss the gym. I miss being healthy. I mean. I'm not even trying to look like I've been chiseled from the Gods, just be a healthy weight and conditioned for my size. I used to weigh like 240lbs. Was toned up. Even had a couple packs forming on my gut. Now, it's just the gut. People tell me I carry my weight well. And I'm like, that's because I'm paranoid. I'm afraid to move how I look. I concentrate so hard on each step, it aggravates me. Years of practice though. And I can feel that practice being tested as the weight is weighing me down further and further and further...

I'm tired of this body. It's bad enough I don't even like being human. I feel so trapped under all this flesh. It doesn't suit me well. I have never felt like I weigh as much as I have over the years. I never feel as tall as I am either. People act like I'm some walking spectacle. The stares I get. The comments. It's so weird...Like if I'm going to be stared at, I'd like it not to be because I'm big but because I'm attractive. I don't think I know what that feels like. I'd like to be called hot or cat called at least once in my life lmao. It's always been "cute" or "handsome" and honestly just feels like I'm told that out of pity by the people I've been with. Or maybe it just feels that way because I hate how I look. Besides, except one, they all turned out to be ghosts after they used me. And that's a whole other bag of worms...

But I digress. As Fall slips in, I need to get back on the grind. Get active more. Walking. Jogs. Hell, I got asthma but that never stopped me from running. The weight does though...for now. I used to be so athletic. Now all I have is my strength to show for it. Like some old relic. My body is in shambles though. I feel so oblong in shape.

Once I get a car, it's gym time too. I miss working out. There is something about it. It's uplifting. Sweat drenching me. Let's me know I've worked hard. Need to stop eating so much junk. Which is odd cus like I barely even eat anymore. Sometimes, the thought of eating makes me ill. Cus it's like I'm just gonna get fatter 🤷🏾‍♂️. I wish I never had to eat anything ever again.

I need this change.

I owe it to myself.

It'll save me. I ain't tryna die young. Got too much to live for.

So it's gonna happen.

🙄😮‍💨😤💪🏾

[rensect]

{ 🌑 }

To walk toward the Valkyrie is to wade into a baleful ocean. Here is Syrax Ren, accustomed to drowning.

"Aah, Odin's table," he says pleasantly, flexing a palm. "So y've said. Won' happen, though."

And he crunches a stray feather to ash beneath his heel, approaching with a reptile's slink.

"I prefer the animals that hate t'be kept. G've me a pet that'll chew through its cage."

The unspoken words hang on the sodden iron air, more feathers being shaken from their vile flight organs. Feathers and tar.

Like you.

His helm reflects oblong fragments of her sister's silvery corse, the shell of Brunnhilde's shoulder, her steely gaze. Her piercing glare meets itself; it meets Syrax's mirror eyes and the livid ones beneath.

Like you, like you.

Blood hits his wolf's nose, and a serpent's head from his flail hits his thigh as he retrieves it from its pack. He doesn't seem to mind.

@valkxrie

[goldammerchen]

a bizarre cold war cooperation

(remind me to make a better title)

T+ drabble. One sided Bela.rus x Russ.ia; Rusprus (Yukiusagi). Hints of AmeBela, RusAme (AmeRus), AmeGer. Some ableist language. // AO3 LINK

Something is missing.

Under the light of a lamp, Gilbert leans with both hands on a table, sighing. The table is covered in tools, with a mysterious elongated box with a handle on one side, and an oblong opening at its center. Attached to the side of the opening, a metallic lid painted in black and yellow stripes was pushed aside, while the acrylic sheet that used to be over the opening was removed, allowing access to electronic parts that included powerful light bulbs. Other pieces of the box, such a fuel pressure vessel and another container that was inside, had been dismantled.

He scratches his head, having black working gloves on, so it barely does anything. A door opens behind him—Crap.

“Any progress, comrade?” asks Ivan, his mouth corners pointing up.

As he turns around, Gilbert resists the urge to groan. “Any progress with the interrogations?”

Ivan hums, his smile fading away. “Still nothing I haven’t said to you before.” He examines his bloody knuckles, already healing, faster than most of their kind (except Alfred, and likely Wang Yao, but Gilbert hasn’t seen the second since a very long time).

“Well, at least Natallia isn’t following you.” Gilbert squeezes his eyes shut: he was supposed to say anything to keep Ivan away from his work (Olga was better than him with sciences), but not this.

For Gilbert’s surprise, Ivan laughs—that either could be good or terrible.

“You really don’t think before speaking, friend…”

“Uhhh…” Don’t fuck things up again.

“…Natallia is keeping an eye on Alfred at the moment.”

“Huh!” Gilbert exclaims, wanting to slap himself in the face right after. “I mean, good thinking.”

Ivan shrugs, leaning on a wall behind him, likely not wanting to get too comfortable before having to leave again. Gilbert mirrors him, semi-sitting on the table edge. Ivan looks up for a second, moves his head to a side, then opens and closes his mouth.

“Do you think I should permit whatever Natallia is plotting?” Ivan asks. “Because I’m sure she is up to something.”

Gilbert gulps, but can’t help but also smirk. “Anything that keeps her busy from stalking you should be a plus.”

“I think she’s trying to get rid of Alfred…”

“Oh, for sure.” No doubt. “Away from you.”

“…Get rid of him for good…” Ivan squeezes his hands in front of his face, staring at them with the fascination of a kid destroying one of its toys, before lowering his arms again.

“You know that won’t work! At least not forever.”

“Yes, true, besides, I should be the one getting rid of Alfred.” Ivan giggles, then furrows his eyebrows. “Natallia still could get in trouble.”

“She’s a big girl!” argues Gilbert back. Psycho should be able to handle psycho, right? “She should be fine.”

Ivan narrows his eyes. Those kinds of problems would drag Ivan, obviously, and he would blame Gilbert for opening his goddamn mouth—even when he was asked for his opinion.

“Look, she might become obsessed with Alfred instead, if that is fine…”

Now Gilbert scratches his chin, begging in his mind for Ivan to leave as soon as possible. In the meantime Ivan stares at the ceiling absent-minded, pondering.

“Natallia could still get in trouble,” Ivan finally replies, “but I guess seeing what could happen is worth it! Sometimes I get tired of Alfred always getting in my way, even when I’m not doing anything important—or anything at all… Gilbert, if anything goes wrong—and I hope it doesn’t—I will have some words with you.” His mouth curves into a smile.

Chills run down Gilbert’s spine. "Nah, don’t worry too much…”

“Is funny, that you encourage me to let my little sister to be with our enemy…”

“Context, Ivan…”

“…When I don’t tell you who should Ludwig be with.”

Gilbert tenses his jaw. “Because he has nothing to do with this…?”

“Oh, funny you say that, when in my eyes it is crystal clear your little brother is very close to Alfred, if you haven’t noticed.”

“He’s not—!” Keep my brother out of your mouth; control yourself. “They are both young, and on the same side, nothing else.”

Ivan giggles. “Are you sure?”

Instead of answering, Gilbert turns around, back to his work.

“Gilbert…” Ivan has lowered his voice, making it deeper. “Are, you, sure?”

“I—I don’t know!” Oh, Ludwig… Gilbert knew him well, as he also knew Ivan would continue pressuring him for a more concrete answer. “Maybe!” He turns, throwing his arms into the air. “Don’t you have things to do?!”

Shit. Fuck. Gilbert turns around to the table again. He hears Ivan walking behind him, towards him. A hand lands on Gilbert’s waist, while Ivan rests his chin on Gilbert’s shoulder.

“I could help you.”

Gilbert sighs, then licks his lips. “Not now, Ivan…” As gently as he can while displeased, Gilbert grabs Ivan by the wrist, removing the hand from his body. “You can help me finding out what the fuck they did to the people that used these contraptions, there’s something else…”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, hearing Ivan heading for the door.

Ivan says:

“You still need to figure this out before your brother.”

“I know.”

“Understood?”

“Yes.”

The door closed. Gilbert should have requested something to test the strange liquid found in a canister inside the strange box, a new game changer that this time wasn’t a bomb.