#and i desperately want to DRAW it because its already WRITTEN and i feel it needs its companion!

[catis15]

This has me in a literal fucking chokehold

[prideprejudce]

I think alot more people would enjoy the show if they learned to see Rhaenyra and Alicent as Unreliable Narrators, and characters who are supposed to have glaring flaws and weaknesses.

Mandatory preface- There are Issues™️ with season 2 that are its own other ask- but the complaints ive seen about character assassination on both women kind of tells me ppl just wanted to see the two just GirlBossing around, not being tragic characters trapped in their own circumstances.

For Alicent specifically- she just isn't written to be Cersei 2.0, and while it was really interesting to see motherhood from cersei's point of view, its already been done!! I actually prefer seeing Alicent's mercurial clinging to and abandoning motherhood- its interesting!! She was made a mother at what- 15? An age where you truly arent mentally developed enough to raise 3 kids, AND be a child bride, AND be a queen, (AND be a lesbian).

Alicent is interesting to me because she's stunted at 15 years old, she's an adult woman who talks to and sometimes bullies her kids as if they are her peers, and is obsessed with her childhood crush(es). She hasn't built any new relationships* past the ones she was entangled with as a teenager, she's obsessed with both acting out to make SOMEONE see that shes suffering, (she's honestly pretty blatant for someone who prides themselves on being the Temperate Voice of Reason) but also to erase herself and reset to before she had to marry the king, before aemma died.

I think most of her 'bad out of character' decisions are just these two impulses winning out, her trying to force a reset, go back to a time where none of this had happened yet, when things were simpler and she had love and every day wasn't the worst day of her life™️.

She sleeps with cole, the man she thought was pretty at 15 (her last uncomplicated attraction just before it all went wrong and aemma died) -she doesnt seem to like it that much, but she does seem compelled to seek him out, esp when upset- shes obsessed with, and desperate to reconnect with Rhaenyra, her childhood best friend (and first love) and get back to where they were as kids, AND she still treats and asks her father for absolution as if he's still the only authority that matters to her just like she did at 15. Alot of her 'victim complex/bewildered they took it so far' behaviour in the plotting of rhaenyra's usurption reads to me like a teenager in over her head, she talked big game and now its real and shes panicking!! She's tragic BECAUSE she's still a teenager- so stunted shes unable to meaningfully grow up and learn to make healthier choices for herself, or move on and stop trying to grasp at the 'if i could just go back' urge.

As a mother, I think this creates an interesting dynamic as well, and I do like that in the casting even, she seems closer in age to her kids than rhaenyra does to hers. I think the contrast ppl are drawing with Alicent Protecting Her Kids in season1 compared to her giving them up in season two isn't bad writing to me, just massive differences in context. Sure she protected Aemond in driftmark, but we cant ignore that she probably felt humiliated by her husband choosing rhaenyra's side over hers in front of everyone, did it seem like a grown woman fighting for her son?? or a teenager furious with her ex winning one over her again? or both!! both sides twisted together is still interesting! When she protected Aegon from Rhaenys, is stepping in front of her son the king to protect him from the enemies dragon fire not the most romantic daydream of a deserving death a child bride could come up with?? Was it the impulse to protect the son she couldnt decide if she loved or hated, or was it to have the most heroic death possible to escape the reality that she sees coming. And if Rhaenyra hears about how Brave she was in the face of a dragons maw, and cries about it forever and feels sooo bad and regrets it til the day she dies, thats an added bonus. I think Alicent loves her kids, but is teenager selfish about HOW she loves and protects her kids, and is unable to be a mature, consistant, protective mother to them when she also sees them as having ruined her life. I think in season 2 when she 'gives them up' shes relieved, and once again following the compulsion of 'if i reset to when Rhaenyra was heir, i had no sons, and i wasn't married or queen, everything will be better'. I think theres complexity to it, i think she does love her sons and feels insane about it, but I think Alicent has been trying to Go Back in more and more Intense ways ever since she got married, and we might be giving her sanity more credit than it deserves when it comes to the need to wipe the board clean and go back to being 15.

hey anon are you trying to get married to me or what

[faith-forgxtten-land]

You haven't written anything NSFW for TMNT so its okay if its not something you're comfortable writing but do you think you could write something for Bay Donnie? I don't really have any preferences of requests other than squirting

Soaked | Donatello

okay, fair warning, i haven't written anything explicitly nsfw for like two years so be nice; i was hesitant in posting this because i have no faith in my writing, especially nsfw, but i hope you like it! bayverse!!

warnings: NSFW, squirting? swearing, mentions of cunt etc., not much else i don't think. everyone is 18+!! awful titles, never proofread

summary: donatello likes it when you soak his sheets

word count: 1691

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

The world is bathed in darkness when you finally manage to open your eyes. The lair is quiet, and your head feels heavy as you squint. A hand is trailing your torso softly despite innumerable callouses, fingers sweeping delicately along the length of your spine in some silent rhythm. Your skin is warm, the cool touch of his palms soothing the heated flesh, and you giggle quietly as you imagine puffs of mist rising from where your bodies and their contrasting temperatures meet.

“You awake?”

With a humming reply and languid grace, you raise your head and try to make out his face in the dim light. You can’t see much, just a pair of soft eyes that make you feel more embraced than the blankets piled on top of you, as his other hand cups your cheek and you melt into him. He makes you feel like that a lot; like molten gold, pliant under his assured touches, burning and boneless and so, so precious.

“You fell asleep in the middle of movie night,” he says softly, lips brushing against your forehead in a gesture so tender it makes your heart clench. He traces his mouth down the swell of your cheek, caressing the lines of your face until he reaches your jaw. His kisses are indulgent and full, and you feel gluttonous as your hands seek his plastron eagerly. Even half-asleep, you want him wholly and desperately and you feel him huff a fond laugh, smiling knowingly against your throat.

“So needy,” he teases affectionately, the hand that had been mapping your back now beginning to move further downwards until the flesh of your thigh is in his grip. He squeezes it once, twice, and parts your legs. His beak presses harder into the delicate skin of your neck, and he inhales deeply before biting sharply. The contrast of his gentle hands and the sudden sting of his teeth causes your hips to stutter, and you can’t hold back a whine.

“I can smell you.” His voice is low and you shudder at the rasp in his tone. He pulls back to look into your eyes, and you swallow thickly; his irises have disappeared into blackness, as if they’re drowning in ink with pupils blown wide, and you feel yourself grow wetter at the wild look. You still can’t make out his face, but you know he looks wrecked, and a smug satisfaction settles deep within you.

The thought that your scent alone can ruin him, make primal need overwhelm him, make him look wanton, causes your toes to curl. His large hand, so huge on your body, grasps your thigh tightly again and you gasp as he squeezes hard enough to bruise this time. “You’re soaking already,” he groans, and you buck your hips, silently begging him to pull your sleep shorts down and feel it for himself.

Despite his teasing, he must feel as desperate as you because he’s quick to do exactly that and rub his finger against your folds. He curses loudly, the sound echoing in the quiet, and you spread your legs wider. “So fucking wet,” he chokes out, rubbing your swollen clit as he pushes his first finger inside of you. You’re so warm and tight and you feel yourself flutter around him.

“Donnie,” you gasp as he curls his finger just right. It’s the first word you’ve uttered, and he groans darkly at the desperation that coats the sound. He fucks you faster, his finger stretching you, drawing the most obscene sounds, wet slaps reverberating so loudly you’re sure everyone can hear them. You’re panting and flushed, hips grinding as he pumps in and out, and you moan loudly as he slips another digit inside.

He’s back to pressing open-mouthed kisses against your throat, lapping up the sweat that trickles down. “That’s it,” he murmurs reverently, sucking purple marks into your sensitive flesh and scissoring his fingers faster and harder, forceful pumps bordering on brutal. Your name is a growl on his tongue as he hits that perfect spot over and over, and you can’t stop yourself from mewling as he presses harshly against your sensitive nub, pleasure and pain blending in a way that makes you dizzy.

His pace is unrelenting and unforgiving, and you can feel the thrumming of your pulse, a delirious concoction of sensual agony shooting through your veins as you babble senselessly. “Donnie, please, please—”

He fixes his teeth over an especially delicate part of your throat and bites so hard you see stars, chest heaving and unable catch your breath as your walls clamp around his fingers. There’s going to be an outrageous mark, dark violet bruises and blatant indents of teeth in a place you have no hope of covering up, and the thought only makes you cry louder.

You think you might pass out for a minute or two as Donnie continues to finger-fuck you through your orgasm. You’re shaking and sensitive and sore, but he doesn’t let up even as you shiver and whine. “You can take it,” he tells you simply, and you nod quickly because you can, you’ll take whatever he gives you.

It doesn’t take long for you to reach the edge again, little gasps and whimpers slipping through your lips with every pump. He’s toying with you, a teasing grin pressed against the column of your throat that turns into a low laugh as you curse him for slowing whenever your thighs begin to tremble. Just as you think he’s about to slow again, he pinches your clit harshly and you can’t stop the wail that wrenches itself from your burning lungs.

His fingers fuck you through this orgasm too, spreading your legs wider as they spasm and weakly attempt to shut without his permission. Only when you fall still does he pull out, and you whimper more at the aching emptiness. He makes sure you’re watching as he brings his fingers to his mouth and tastes them; his tongue is playful, thick and flicking, and you feel the muscles of your stomach contract.

“Tease,” you croak, and his eyes somehow darken even further at just how wrecked you sound, your voice rasping and slurred.

“You’re right,” he agrees, brushing your folds again, digits stroking your puffy slit. You gasp as he pushes two fingers back in, squirming at the satisfying and sensitive discomfort shooting along your spine. “You’ve been so good.” He’s making those perfect curling motions inside of you and your back arches, tears gathering on your lashes as that agonising pleasure sparks, lighting up your blood and forcing your eyes to roll back.

“Donnie—”

There’s a pressure building, somehow more intense than before, and your thighs quiver as his fingers continue to fuck you without faltering, even as your legs threaten to snap closed at the unbearable sensitivity when he finds your clit once more.

You’re not sure if the sounds coming out of your mouth are words and you’re pretty sure you’re drooling, tongue lolling, but whatever noises escape your parted lips have Donnie pressing that spot inside you harder and harder, churring darkly. It's a sound that clatters through you as he returns his teeth to your throat like they belong there, like your neck is meant to be a canvas for his marks. “You can do it,” he groans. "You’re always so good for me.”

His fingers curl even more, and you choke on a moan as you realise what he’s asking for, what he’s building towards with every pump. Your own hand desperately grasps his forearm, not sure if you’re begging him to stop or urging him to keep going as you pant and whine, body writhing as he tears a sob from you that rattles your bones. “I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” He’s tense, the muscles of his arm flexed and hard under your touch, and you can feel his sweat on your damp skin as he presses impossibly closer, almost lovingly nuzzling your neck now even as his fingers fuck you stupid.

You feel like you’re about to explode, the pressure agonising and tipping over into pain, blood boiling under your skin, and you can do nothing but cry wildly, screaming loud enough for everyone to hear, when you feel that tension inside you shatter like glass.

Donnie holds you as you convulse, shudders racking every inch of you, soft praises rushing from his lips as he presses gentle kisses along your jaw. He groans feeling your wetness gushing against him, soaking his plastron and his bedding, knowing your scent will cling to him and his bed for hours even after he showers and changes his sheets.

It's his favourite part, he thinks privately. It soothes something primal and animal within him, something he didn't even recognise until he had you writhing and coming undone under him for the first time. Making you lose control, satisfying you so good you can't help but squirt… He swallows the thought and scissors his fingers in you, watching the way you whimper with your eyes closed as he glides in and out of your pretty cunt with ease, your body always so responsive for him no matter what state you're in.

You’re certain you passed out this time, and when you come-to, Donnie still has his fingers inside of you, still pressing those feather-light kisses to your skin. You feel heavy and weightless all at once, eyelids fluttering, unsure whether to whine in relief or displeasure when his fingers retreat slowly and he brings them to his mouth again.

It takes you another minute to realise just how wet you are, your thighs glistening even in the low light, and the bed beneath you is completely drenched. You can’t muster any shame, only satisfaction coiling deep in your gut when you see just how soaked Donnie is too.

“Next time,” he breathes, voice guttural and promising, still sucking his fingers clean, “I want you on my face so I can drink every drop.”

You clench your thighs together, sore and aching and still so needy, and lick your lips. “That can be arranged.”

[sabine-smitten-obviously]

and now i have to find myself a tower in a forest near a wall ...

... and look for a black, dark sorcerer !

You love fairy tales? You love Good Omens? You loved Aziraphale and Crowley in medieval clothes? Then you will love this not so little fanfic i dearly recommend to you!

Villainous by @ineffablepenguin

What it is about:

Once Upon A Time…

There was a red-haired sorcerer who lived alone in a high tower, and a blond prince who lived in a palace full of people. And they were both of them desperately lonely.

The Kingdoms of Empyrion and the Sorcerers of Apollyon have hated each other for hundreds of years, ever since the Great War. They do not interact, other than to occasionally try to kill one another. And they certainly do not make friends.

Crow is an exhausted sorcerer who just wants everyone to leave him the hell alone: for the Sorcerer’s Council to stop harassing him to live up to his potential, and for wannabe Empyrion Heroes to stop attacking his tower to try and kill him. Until one day when he meets Prince Azra of the High Fells, who doesn’t behave anything like he’s supposed to…

Part fairy tale, part fantasy, all love story. There’s magic, and grand romantic gestures, and Heroes and a handsome Prince, and a Villain. There are even some wild heroics, though not necessarily from who you would expect. At its core it’s simply about two (relatively) sane people living in a mad world who find each other.

What i love about it:

🫅🏼 I mean - fairytales? And a lot of them? I found it very nice to guess all the tales when stumbling upon a hint. Nice touch: in the epilogue there is a list of all the fairytales which have kind of flown into this fanfic and i am quite proud that i only missed 1 i actually know (and of course those i dont know).

👑 This story is RICH - and i mean really rich. It goes into details over everything and sometimes it reminded me of books written bei Hermann Hesse because of all the little things that kept coming and being mentioned. On my e-reader it was 566 pages! And yes, it took them about 200 pages for their first kiss 😅 That said, its always drawing a picture and reading the story is kind of seeing in your imagination. Obviously nothing is ineffable for @ineffablepenguin 😉

💪 The action scenes: oh my, its like a Schwarzenegger-movie, you cant stop reading, its fast, its furiuos ... oh, thats another movie, ngk.

🩷 The character development: both of our beloved angels start out being insecure of their roles, their place and their worth. But - this is the first fanfic i ever read, where both of them get to be BAMF !!!!

🩷 The plot: i love being suprised - i mean we do know a lot already, diving into a GO-fanfic with the tag "happy ending", right? So there were some really interesting turns and sometimes i wondered "ok, just how will this play out? How will the author get to unknot THIS?" And i have to admit, sometimes i really didn't see it coming. Very nice!

🩷 The healing: i dont know if it was on purpose or the author just felt like our ineffables needed to hear and think stuff, but actually the way their characters develop and how they help each other with it, what they are thinking etc ... reminded me a lot of trauma-therapy. So as one of those few (ähem) people who really spiraled after the big 15 of S2, this was such a nice feeling.

💫 the epilogue - this story doesnt end at happily ever after. Instead we get to know, how they make a living for themselves and sneak a little into their daily lifes. I truly appreciate that, its a nice way of comforting the Reader out of the story.

This wonderful art is from @pinkpiggy93! 🩷

Most beloved quote:

"And i love you too, my dear," he said firmly. "You are so very easy to love."

And isnt this quite a sentence, we all need to hear?

So if you are into good omens, fairytales, long fanfics to really dive in to for several hundred pages, some surprises and of course a happy ending - this is quite the story for you.

🩷🤗

Reading is not a hobby, its an attitude.

[chokchokk]

𝐧𝐨 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐞 [𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐬] | choi san x fem!reader

PART ONE of : have your way with words, be my people pleaser 

“San, what else do I have to do? Draw it out? Do I have to beg?”

𝚜𝚢𝚗𝚘𝚙𝚜𝚒𝚜 : You’ve always been able to read him like a book, but for some reason you still fold for San.

"You've never begged."

𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚛𝚎 : fluff, smut

𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝 : 6.9k

𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 : teasing, painful attempts at flirting and joking, vaginal fingering, no usage of y/n (forgive me), vaginal sex, pet-names

𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚜 : considered for revision

𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚛'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎 : this was like the first choi san smut i've ever written and i was trying to find my tone and omg i actually don't want to re-read it it's probably SO CRINGY omfg. i'm sorry for any icky moments i did not know any better 2 months ago LMAO this is also the only part that's pure "fluff" just fyi because i hadn’t planned this to be a series yet !!!!

He’s biting his lip, rolling his head to the back, trying his very best to stay focused on the paper he’s working on, all while you look at him in awe from the other side of the table. His glasses have slid dangerously close to his nose tip and the hair clip you’ve put into his hair to hold it together has lost all of its strength already — you really have to pull yourself together to not carefully slide one of the locks away from his eyes. 

Yes, San is a complete mess, and undoubtedly failing at hiding it. He probably doesn’t want to ruin the late library ambience, being the thoughtful Sannie he is, or at least not destroy the study sessions by not focusing on work, but the infuriated tapping with his pen against the wooden table isn’t covering any of his angry grunts. 

But even if you’ve noticed his desperation an eternity ago and have been deeply distracted by it ever since, you can’t bare to tell him that you’ve already given up. You guys have promised each other at least one is going to get this session done, so San be it, you tell yourself. If you have counted correctly, there are just ten minutes left on the clock, he should be able to do that, no matter how stressed he is.

And usually, you’re optimistic he’s able to do it, but you’ve never seen San’s eyes darken like this before. On normal days, he’s all smiley and giggly, squeaking words of helplessness at tasks that overwhelm him, covering up his frustration very well. Of course you can still look through his façade and say things like “San, let’s take a break” or similar things, but that’s only when he’s smiling still. 

Maybe it’s because you’re both studying for finals that there’s a lot of competitiveness or ego involved. Anyhow, you don’t want to get yourself involved in that, no, don’t want to resolve it at all, actually.

Let’s say it like this; San is scaring you, yes, but he is also being incredibly hot and  turning you on so much without knowing it. You can’t help but watch his dissatisfaction being gulped down his freckled, thick neck, and observe his Adam’s apple moving up and down. You draw a trail along his jawline and the loose black T-shirt he’s wearing with your eyes, following his neckline until the rhythm of his heavy breathing is revealed by his moving breast. 

San knows a lot, yes, but what he doesn’t is that he’s a walking sex symbol with his broad shoulders, narrow waist and intimidatingly friendly face. He’s biting his lips with just no idea what his looks are doing to your privates this exact moment and his soft voice is not helping.

He’s at his last task now and you catch yourself be a bit disappointed, when he takes his hand to balance his head and covers his face with it. You could feel guilty now for not interrupting or lending him a helping hand, but being attracted to your designated study buddy for the longest time with a painful amount of allusions to it is way more straining you on an emotional level than the stalker-behaviour you’re showing. How San hasn’t caught up is baffling to you, and the amount of times you’ve tried to make a move only for him to be oblivious is painful. (Let it be known you were never forced to answer Seonghwa’s question of “would you fuck San?” with the honesty that you did, but his little sheepish smile after your nod is enough to confirm that he should know, but just doesn’t. Sure, it’s unclear until this day if he even understood the question or the answer correctly, but it just feels like you have done most of your part.)

“I’m almost done,” San murmurs— breaking the silence between you two in the library— his voice comparing to nothing more but a sigh. He’s tensed up, eyebrows furrowed, and he’s scrunching his nose a little bit to sniff his agitation away.

“Take your time,” you try to say as nicely as possible, attempting to calm him down. It does help, it seems, because San is straightening his back to take a deep breather, his eyes finally wavering away from the paper. You smile at him and get a head nod in return.

Sharing this short moment of just acknowledging each other’s presence, you confirm that San, regardless of how socially (sexually?) stupid he can be, is an intelligent guy after all, not to be shaken up by this little bit of studying. Straight A’s, perfect GPA, teacher’s favourite — you’re lucky professor Kang has put you in so many group assignments together, or else you would have never been able to meet with San like this on a Friday evening, studying for your finals.

“I feel like I ran run five miles or have to commit arson,” San jokes half-heartedly in a breath and you giggle, looking around to not disturb the other students with your laughter. “What’s stopping you?”, you ask playfully, raising an eyebrow.

“I don’t know,” San answers and touches the backside of his head with both of his hands. “What’s stopping you, hm?”

You frown, the once raised eyebrow coming right back down, your amusement wearing down.

“What’s supposed to be stopping me?”

San pouts innocently and fetches the clip from his hair, black bangs falling to his face, but he doesn’t set his glasses, making him look at you with squinted eyes. They look even heavier now, eyelids covering most of his irises when he leans forwards to you: “You haven’t touched a single task since an hour now, why didn’t you tell me you were done?”

You don’t know why you pant in panic— it’s an understandable question, San probably noticed you stared at the man during the whole time he was the only one committed to the studying— and you’re afraid there’s this tension again, but not driven to the paper, but you.

“You, lemme think, looked too..”

You know your sentence can’t be finished in any way that would be positive. You would’ve liked to end it with “concentrated” or “in the zone” to give him credibility for his hard work, but San has been way too obvious struggling to hold on, and you’re not a good liar.

“… Handsome.”

It’s not a Freudian slip, if it’s on purpose, yes.

“You looked to good to be true, San. If you weren’t wearing the baggiest shirt from three days ago, you’d coin dark-academia realness.”

You always make jokes like these, it’s your expertise. They usually make San enormously embarrassed, which is the best part of it all: He, who was growling his frustration away, is now giggling, expression softening, as he scrunches his face together with a wide smile. The high-pitched noise awakens your motherly instincts— it’s these moments you could just melt away in adoration.

“You’re lucky you’re not a professor, because that look you gave that paper right there isn’t going to help anybody concentrate on their studies. People-pleaser? Teacher's pet? I wish."

“Ugh!”, San moans quietly, his dimples revealing that he’s deeply touched. He will never get used to your overly specific (and usually sexually connotated) compliments, but it’s better that way. San cracks his fingers to recover, but then covers his mouth to hide his blushing smile once more. Take that for two people-pleasing and validation-seeking students, one more focused on studies, one more trying to fuck than the other. He barely goes to parties, which robs you of the little chances of opportunities to make a move on him.

“Okay, I won’t lie to you, I was done long before you, but someone’s gotta be valedictorian this year.”

“Really nice of you”, San sighs— he’s gathered himself now and has put on his friendly smile again, “But I’m really done now as well.”

“How done?”

“To go home-done.”

“My home, I assume.”

“Of course.”

With his finishing sentence, you hold a staring-match again, which you lose, as San takes his pile of paper and stacks it vertically to organise his stuff. 

From here, the procedure should be simple. He drives you to your place (safe), maybe he’ll eat a midnight-snack with you (very likely), and maybe watch a movie (unlikely today) to then leave, if he doesn’t fall asleep during that. You already have the night schedule written out in front of you, and all you’re left is whether you’ll convince San for another study session tomorrow.

But then, in the car, San grabs the steering wheel but doesn’t start to drive.

You think he must be too tired and decide not to ask him. Honestly, you feel quite dizzy as well, but mostly because San has opened his mouth half-way now, audibly breathing in and out — it sounds like he’s panting. His tongue has also runned along his upper lip, making it glisten reddish pink under the parking lot-lighting. It’s unbearably arousing you. “Give me just a second,” he murmurs.

“Does your head hurt? We can just walk, you know,” you suggest, but San shakes his head: “No, that’d be inefficient and really dumb.”

“You’re the one dozing off, San, not me!”, you scoff and turn yourself around to face him, elbow placed on the radio. San opens one eye — it looks like he’s winking, his tongue pressed against this upper teeth. “And you’re being quite sassy, aren’t you?”, he grins and you swear you’ve never wanted to not shut up more in your entire life.

“If being sassy is what keeps you awake, I don’t see anything wrong with it, San,” you fight back, even more playfully this time, lips pouted to emphasise your mocking tone. There is a clear, lustful intention you’re trying to project, and secretly, you hope San notices it, but there isn’t any indication he isn’t already, which you find strange.

“Oh, you think I must be real tired, huh?”

San begins to grin and all of the sudden, things are happening very fast: His hands aren’t placed on the steering wheel anymore, one of them has moved to your chin, holding (and keeping) it up, after you try to back away out of reflex, the other is placed dangerously near to your hip — he’s propping himself against the seat, you can feel him breathe against your nose tip. His whispers expand like flames on your face. What has ignited this man? 

“San?”, you ask carefully, every bit of playful confidence inside you crumbling down to your guts. It’s not like you aren’t enjoying this still, in fact, you feel like you’re going to go savage and clash your face against his any second, but San’s finger is pressing so delicately, yet so firmly into your skin, it’s messing up your projected image of the cute little — unfortunately sexy — nerd in your head. You don’t want to admit you’re intimidated, but San has been extra scary since he said he wanted to light buildings on fire. At the same time, you’ve been waiting days, no, weeks for this and a tingle between your legs signals you that you’ve been prepared ever since. 

“Can’t go home yet, can we?”

His eyes are still dark, when you look at them through his glasses and there’s a bit of shine left on his lips, when you glance at them longingly. San’s breath is shaky, and you’re not sure whether yours is as well. You’re too focused on imagining the next scene. San has finally reached his burning point, it appears, and you’re too stunned to react verbally to his question. Are you seriously going to do it in the car, in the library parking lot?

“Buckle up.”

It is only now that you notice you haven’t put your seat-belt on. The sound of the plug clocking in takes you out of your reverie. 

“San, screw you. Oh my god, screw you so much.”

He laughs a dirty laugh, even more so devilishly, when he returns to his seat and immediately begins to drive out of the parking spot. Has he been acting? Fuck this. Hastily, you have to get into your original position and buckle yourself up as he has told you. This bitch, you think to yourself and stare holes into the car window, this motherfucking bitch.

“Just a little revenge for making me work alone because you wanted to make me valedictorian? Or what, because I’m— what was it? Too handsome?” His voice has turned softer immediately, teasing you with a sweet undertone.

“Okay, we’re even now!”, you laugh sarcastically, trying to not become sulky. You’ve subconsciously crossed your legs and arms already, and your whole body is turned away from the driver’s seat.

“Sure,” San answers and you can hear him press some buttons. “Music?”

You throw him a side-eye and take the AUX. 

“I could violate your ears so good right now,” you snap and search for a fitting playlist for this frightening night.

“You could try.”

When has San become a bully? How has it come to this? San is playing with you, more obviously than ever before — toying with you in the game you started. 

But let it be known you could never be offended by this man.

Because when you play the first song that came to your mind— it’s «Sexbomb» by none other than Tom Jones — it becomes clear that you are more than happy to be his gaming companion, levelling up the tension to the max, though it's not a sensual song per se.

It’s petty, but provocative at the same time. You’ve never gotten what you wanted, have never expected to get it, and the surreality of the scenery just a few seconds ago is enough to keep you stimulated for the whole drive, ignoring San’s big grin on his face, as he safely gets you home.

And of course San joins in for the midnight meal. Without having spoken a word for a quarter hour now, you open the fridge and cram out anything eatable. You should’ve went grocery shopping, there’s barely anything left. 

“Not so prepared, I see?”

“San, if you say one more word, I will—“, you shut the door of the fridge, revealing a San who’s leaned against the wall, crossing his arms, head thrown to the back to squint at you.

“You’ll what?”

He’s the worst and heaven knows he should know that as well. Every attempt to overthrow him fails, because nothing seems to break this man — you can’t animate this man for you own good, even when he’s try-harding to look cool. 

“You’re being a bitch today and I hate it.” Biting your lip, you rethink your sentence and shake your head, eyes not swaying away from the black-haired man. “Actually, scrap that, I hate that I like it way too much,” you hiss, ridiculing yourself and taking of your sweatshirt, leaving you in a sheer top. It’s warm, you’re hot, this situation be very easy to understand. 

He doesn’t know what to do. Or maybe he does, and he’s just being a pain in the ass again: both could be absolutely true, when he moves his head and musters you from bottom to the top, a huff leaving his nose. It seems as if he’s mocking and checking you out at the same time, licking his lips and biting his tongue. 

“San, what else do I have to do? Draw it out? Do I have to beg?”

You whine and you’re not one bit embarrassed about it, though San doesn’t even take it in the desperate way you clearly are.

“You’ve never begged.”

San is scratching his neck, acting like an innocent brat, much to your obvious disapproval.

“Come on, you can’t be that dumb, San, can you?”

“How would I be?”

“San, what the fuck does that mean?”

“It’s simple,” and San is pushing himself from the wall now, taking heavy steps towards you, “I can’t give you an answer to a question you’ve never asked.”

“I,” you begin to think of your next line argument, but noticing how he’s pulling his eyebrows together to throw you an almost belittling look through his lowered glasses, you give up, baffled about the reality. Replacing the next words, you pant.

“I’ll give you an answer, alright?”, San encourages you, taking one last big step. He’s standing in front of you now, in your little kitchen, next to the counter, looking down at you, free and available as he can be. 

“Whatever it is; yes,” he whispers, accepting something you’ve never offered him directly.

Of course San isn’t dumb. How could he have been, when you’ve been so obvious? There’s a shameful heat driving up your stomach and you bite your lip.

“Baby, I’m all yours.”

You could have kept teasing him for the way he was obviously lowering his voice to sound more authoritative or sexy or something , but no, it’s just too much. Being cornered by San, hearing him surrender to you with his words, but still in a way that made him dominant over you — that is just way too much. 

Seriously, all yours?  Where did he get that one from? Wattpad?

“Fuck right off, San.”

It feels like your brain splits in half, your conscience leaving the second you throw yourself at San, hands grabbing every piece of hair you can get to pull him down to your face, whispering insults into his mouth, as your heads meet. He just grins and licks over your teeth, tongue slicking against yours.

“Happily,” he murmurs into the kiss, his hands grabbing you by your hip and waist, pulling you towards his muscular body. He must think he’s being so funny and yes you would have loved to argue with him, but you’re weak in his grip, ruffled by the pure tension that has been brewing all those days. There’s wet noises and sucking to be heard and it’s all sending urgent signals to your privates. You will, no must fuck him, and you're going to fuck him better than whatever he’s expecting from you, just to blow his mind.

You let his hair go and tug at the seam of his shirt, prompting him to raise his arms and have his clothing be slid off his body. Eagerly, you come back to his lips while throwing the shirt to the side and take steps forwards, leading San to your bedroom. Entrusting you with the guidance, he walks backwards and falls onto the bed, breaking the kiss. With a grunt, San props himself with his elbow, but before he can tower over you, you reach your arm over his shoulder, grabbing the bed frame, trying your best to keep his broad silhouette under your eyes.

Your lips already feel numb and you swear you can feel something pulsating inside your pants, when you slowly slide onto his lap and let the warm fabric touch. After a bit of movement, you and San are both shuddering and whimpering, lips meeting again in the snake-like maneuvering. He’s becoming harder with every little suck at his tongue, twitching even, and in addition, you’re becoming too impatient as well to edge yourself like this. 

Your hands move to the zipper of his baggy jeans, and San is trying to take this as a sign he’s allowed to take off his pants, but you give his palm a little slap. He smirks and returns his hand to take a pillow, stuffing it behind his neck. You wanted to take control, but he’s way too comfortable with it, it’s annoying you, yet at the same time, you wouldn’t even know what to tell him at this point.

Opening the zipper and sliding a hand in, you trail the outer side of San’s shaft through his boxer-shorts with your finger to identify with what kind of girth and length you’re working with and comment “bigger than I expected”, as if you have imagined it before, which would be the truth, yes, but not smaller than the absolute unit he is possessing.

“Ah, really?”, San gutters, voice shaking with each little touch of yours, but never letting his guard down completely. You anchor his boxer-shorts and tug it down just until the point when his shaft jumps out. He gulps and opens his mouth to pant again, when you spit into your hand and palm his shaft to give it a nice stroke from the very bottom to the top, admiring the shine of it. You pump his penis, feeling the skin inside your hand slide with every movement, and make it grow to its final length that way. It’s fascinating, really, but you’re too busy to contemplate about reality. You take the initiative and get a taste of the wet mixture that is your own saliva and his pre-cum. You pump the part you can’t reach with your throat and in no time, San’s eyes are rolling to the back.

“That’s good,” he comments, going through your hair, which motivates you to go even deeper. Hitting the back of your throat, his girth makes you tear up, but you sit through it, since San is tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, caressing your head softly. You try your best to suck and slide your tongue over his tip, to which he immediately reacts. “Hmnh~”, he hums and you bathe in his pleasure-lorn breaths, until you kind of get a hunch of what he likes the best and continue to drive him this way. “That’s good… Hnnh- heek!”

Was that a weep? You thought the whines were high enough, but San is definitely hiding his high moans, trying to cough them out. You continue to bop your head and watch his aroused expressions with amusement; his eyebrows are pushed together to form a needy frown, teeth biting down on his lower lip, inflicting pain on himself. From what it looks like, he’s pretty close, his hand weakly lying on top of your head, hesitating to push you back, once you remove it. 

“Don’t cum yet!”, you demand, and San sighs helplessly.

“You’re edging me?”, he manages to choke out with a smirk, and San wipes away your tears from your cheeks. “As if I couldn’t get hard immediately after from just looking at you!”

You scoff, his directness has caught you a little bit of guard. You’re still trying to return to normal breathing after quite literally having been choked by his dick, not be attacked by his sudden strike of confidence.

“Can I undress you?”, he asks and you nod, all the hair he’s put away falling back in front of your face.

Once your shirt and bra is off with quick seconds of his hands at your back, San is taking his view all in, his plump lips parted and never to be closed again. Before you can wipe the grin from his face, he storms at your dekolleté, swinging his arms around you. His sucks are tugging at your nipples, after he pushes himself forward, one arm fully around your back, the other finding his way to your other breast to massage it. Moan after moan leaves your mouth and your head becomes heavy, falling to the back: his hand effortlessly catches it, finding safety in your hair. As you scratch his neck, grabbing it to pull him closer to your upper body, you repeatedly pant his name.

“Hm? What?”, he reacts, circling your skin with his tongue.

It’s so erotic, you think you’re going to cum untouched, pants on and all. San is leaving kisses everywhere on your torso, some wetter than the others. He is leaving a trace of saliva on your neck with his tongue, gliding against your chin with it, ultimately meeting your lips once again. It’s filthy, but just so, so erotic.

He’s still holding your breast in his hand, stimulating your nipples while filling your mouth with a mixture of spit and rhetoric (and very provocative) questions. 

“Feels good?”, San asks with a raspy voice, his nose scrunched amusedly, when he sees how messed up you are. Strands of hair are sticking on the wet spots of your skin, drops of sweat are dripping down to your collarbones. You’re already so disheveled. “Want me to continue?”

“Yes, pl—,” You can’t find the words, as they get lost somewhere in San’s mouth, once you give him confirmation. His tongue is exploring the inner space of your mouth, and his hand has become busy with taking off your pants. You kneel, making space to let your jeans slide off your thighs and you have to raise your legs to finally get rid of it. Your panties are still on, when he lets his hand slide between your legs. His hand feels warmer than the heat that you have become, and when San finds your clitoris through the fine fabric, you spasm to the front. You bury your face into his shoulder and bite a small inch of his skin, when he begins to stroke that spot with two of his fingers and nibbles at your ear and whispers sweet nothings into it.

“So wet.”

Sharp breaths escape your breast, as he begins to play for your swollen clitoris.

“Come on, tell me what to do. There must be some things on your mind, right?”

San is luring you into a false sense of control and you’re stupid enough to obey his command. It’s just like he said; you need him, you need San, and if he doesn’t stop acting like he doesn’t know, you’re going to combust.

“Fuck, San, just make me feel—“, and though you can’t exactly hear yourself whine out from all the licking happening at your ear and his callous finger caressing your most sensitive area through the fabric, you still know you’re sighing, “so good.”

Your eyes lose focus, when you feel your panties disappear from your pussy, the cold air surprising your sensitive spot.

San sneers and finger-guns you, but before you can sneer, he sticks it into your mouth, lubing his digit up with your spit to carefully ease it to your pussy.

He groans and moves around the moisture for a short moment. San has always had quite thick fingers, but it feels even more robust now, when it slides into you. You clench around him and move your hips to the painfully slow pace of his pumps.

“Be patient. We don’t want you to hurt, do we?”

That he’s staying the nice little Sannie even in this situation makes you want to go insane, but not more than the slight scissoring to confirm your stretched innards.

“Patient enough?”, you hiss and grind against his hand again, to which San only coos, “Patient like the good girl you are.”

By then, his words and movements are almost like magic, when he angles his finger a little bit and finds your g-spot, which sends you into a short moment full of sparks and bliss, but a long, aching eternity, when it’s only repeated in the unbearably long intervals after a little bit of pulsating. You’re feeling every movement in such a detail, as if his one singular finger is becoming one with your body, one with your senses. 

“Is this enough for you?”

You’re whirring and your mind is babbling nonsense from all the possibilities San is presenting you. Mushy and messed up, you move against his finger, which slips with ease through your wetness, while you try to figure out what you want more: San’s dick or San’s face.

“I’m waiting for an answer, you know,” San whispers, softly kissing your forehead, as he continues to finger you.

“Th- then eat me out,” you whine under your breath and something inside you churns, when he giggles and removes his finger. He raises you by your legs, pushing you by the hip at the same time. You’re on your back now, breathing heavily as San is aligning his face in front of your entrance.

“With pleasure,” he hums and spreads your legs with his elbows, putting you on full display. It’s much too late to feel embarrassed now. You’re not shaved, you basically haven’t done anything, but maybe the rawness of it all is what intrigues you as well.

He stretches the skin a bit with both of his hands, making it get used to the position, while he peppers soft kisses on each of your thighs, that tickle each spot of your skin. You relax into his hands and naturally, you exhale the tension out of you.

His tongue feels soft and hot compared to his finger, when he slides it from the very bottom to the top, sending a shiver to your spine. It’s sensual and slow, and it does appear to you that San is savouring the taste, pushing his whole tongue against your labia to get the full picture of it. You shudder, a mixture of your own pulsating muscle and his humming vibrating between your legs.

He sucks on your clit and you notice immediately how pleasured are, already grabbing your sheets and curling your toes, pushing your legs against his hands he’s using to keep you opened. “Fuck,” you whine and move your head to the back, yearning for more stimulation. A slight chuckle leaves San’s mouth, until he plunges his tongue into you whilst continuing to suck all the sex juice that leaks out of you. The breath leaving his nose warms your privates and you quite figuratively melt into his mouth.

This time, he doesn’t need a lot of searching for your g-spot with his fingers and you weren’t prepared to immediately be sent back to pleasure-haven. He slides through the rough walls from the inside of you and doesn’t leave any spot go untouched, while he catches anything leaving out of your pussy with his mouth, creating squelching sounds all around. 

The pleasure at your clitoris and the pitter-pattering inside you is slowly tying the knot, and you shut your eyes with unavoidable whines leaving your lips. It’s all happening way too fast for you to react to each and every motion.

“Fuck, San, don’t stop, I’m— Oh, fuck—!”

The wet sounds of San’s saliva being mixed with your sex fluids, and his fingers moving in- and out of you again, they’re all adding onto the roller-coaster drop of your orgasm, but San thirstily panting “cum, cum for me!” against your vulva —while his tongue is busy pleasuring you—, his hot breath condensing against your own heat, that’s got to be one of the many significant factors that finally sends you over the top.

You moan and drive your lower body against his face, thighs closing down on him to squeeze his head.

San doesn’t even think about stopping there though and keeps you up there: He thunders his finger to push your button continuously and get every remaining squirt into his mouth, his tongue shovelling it all in.

“San, I— fuck! Please, San,” you beg, though it’s not a plead for him to stop, but rather make this moment last forever. You’re shaking, your pelvis is trembling towards his sharp nose that’s dug into your private hair, before you collapse onto your mattress and San eventually stops, grinning pridefully.

His lips are swollen pink, eyes covered with a desirous veil and San has to swipe his bangs away from his face to look at  your exhausted expression that’s still recovering from that hell of a heavenly orgasm. He swallows whatever’s left inside his mouth and leans over to you in order to bathe in your bliss. Out of pure gratitude, you cup his face and kiss him.

“You look all messed up already,” he admits, and enjoyment can be heard in his voice. Returning the kiss, San prompts: “Can you handle a second round? Or want to handle a second round, that is.”

Still panting, you nod eagerly, your lips grazing against his repeatedly.

“With words, lovely.”

You whine at his mendacious, know-it-all smile and give him a slap. "Quit it with the fucking-, ugh!" With an airy voice, you groan: “Yes, San. Please. I can handle, want to handle— want you to handle me, right fucking now."

San pats your head, pressing another kiss on your forehead and crams through the night stand cabinet next to the bed, probably searching for a condom and finding an untouched package full of it.

“Freshly-bought or just unused?”, he asks jokingly, putting the hand on your cheek as if he was pitying you for your minimalistic sex life that he’s assuming. The other hand is occupied opening up the box. “When did you buy these?”, he lisps, holding the condom in his mouth to rip it open, “I hope these aren’t expired.”

“Expire my ass!”

Oh, he better know you were keeping those for a good reason every time he came over. (Though you’ll keep it a secret it took half a year to get them to use.)

“You should say how fortunate that there’s so many, San.” You sniff. “’Cause hell knows this isn’t going to be—“

San slips into the latex layer with ease and doesn’t hesitate to enter your hole with one big, smooth slide. His finger is nothing compared to the thickness you’re experiencing; you just feel full, the stretch inside you making you feel like your body is being turned inside out. Before you can finish your clap-back, a wrecked and whole-hearted moan leaves your mouth.

“Isn’t going to be what?”, San asks, lowering his upper body and ultimately pulling out a little bit, sticking a thumb into your open mouth, “The last time? Is that what it is? You know you’ll want this again? Really, sweetheart?”

You don’t even want to form words anymore and just nod eagerly, sucking at his finger that tastes slightly acidic.

“It’s so dangerous to say that, you know that?”, and he’s pressing his forehead against yours, his dark, deep eyes staring into you with suffocating concentration. His hand is buried deep in your scalp. “Because you don’t know how happy that would make me”, San purrs with a raspy voice, and an airy moan leaves his mouth the second he thrusts right back into you. “So, so, unfathomably happy.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm. I’m going to make you my little happy whore.”

It has already occurred to you that San had taken it as a challenge to call you every pet name that exists, but for him to degrade you like that, after every single word of of his sweet-talk has entranced you into numbing euphoria, has now just taken you to another state of pure bliss. With every creak of your bed and tug at your hair, your vision gets more blurry. You can see San and only San, piercing through you with his genitalia and eyes.

“Did you get that?”

“Y- yes!”

"I don't think so."

Your forehead cools down, when San gets his body back up again and installs his hands at your hips to get a good grab and also drive himself even deeper into you.

This has been your wet daydream for the longest of time— and even if you apparently could have been fucking him already during all those hours, which is frustrating, yes, but so, so fucking hot— listening to San’s sounds of pleasure, seeing his vision get all hazed from it and watching his eyes moving to the back of his, makes it all worth it. 

He pulls in and out again, finding a steady pace to really feel your inner space expand and close down on him again.

“Are you going to fuck me stupid?”, you lisp into his finger, your saliva sliding down your lip, cooling your fever down.

You can feel he’s sweating as well, as your fingers search through the cold wetness of his hair. "Do you want me to fuck you stupid?”

“Yes! Yes, please. Fuck me stupid, San!”

And with that appellation, San removes the thumb from your mouth and collars your throat with an almost animalistic growl and thrusts with ridiculous precision and force at the same time, a loud clap echoing through your bedroom. You’re not sure whether you’ve made a mistake, but San is absolutely blinded by pure desire now. With a slight choke, you try to moan, his shaft moving in and out of you mindlessly.

As he pounds into you, you notice once more that San’s breaths are being cut short because he’s still trying to stay as quiet as possible and you stare him down, his fingers collaring your neck.

“I, I want you to—“, you stutter, gasping for air and trying to catch up with your shaken body, “‘want to hear you moan. Moan for me, San, please!”

He laughs a little bit, panting along your plead and places his lips against your earlobe, letting you breathe freely for the short moment he's roaring things into it, his hand tangled in your hair.

“You, hah, feel just as delicious as you taste. You feel so good around my big cock. I bet you’ve never, unnh, had a big cock like mine, haven’t you? Never had someone like me, shit, fuck you out like this. How, ah, fuck, long have you been fantasizing this, huh? Days? Weeks? Months? Stupid little girl, thinks I didn't know, haha."

His breathy moans are absolute angelic, and that’s all you can comprehend, when you slowly feel your mind drift away. He’s hitting the spots just right, pressing your buttons with aligned movements. His thrusts are becoming sloppy, your moaning more strained. You don't even care that San is showing you that everything you knew was a lie, or at least an act he's kept up to mock you, because if your obliviousness has led to this moment— his cock crashing through you with a pace that makes you fear the next morning— then yes, again, it was all really worth it.

"I'm gonna—", you whine, and you're cut off by his hand again. Your eyes can barely perceive his sex-drunk expression, when you feel the knot inside you preparing itself for explosion.

"You're gonna cum?", San asks, his heavy breathing making it sound like he's gasping, "Are you going to cum for me?"

"Yes, I am!", you grunt and the male licks his whole palm to lube it up in order to rub it around your clitoris for maximum pleasure. You shiver, your legs trying to free themselves from the heavy weight that is Choi San, and screams for mercy leave your mouth, your second orgasm sending you to heaven, hell and back to earth, when he pulls out and continues to slide his hand over your clitoris until you spasm away from his touch. In the meanwhile, San has taken the collar off your neck and resumed jacking himself off, moaning your name and other pretty words to himself.

"You're so pretty like this, fuck," he cusses, the squelching sounds in his hands becoming more inaudible. "So fucked-out, because of me— shit .. I'll—"

He grabs you by your head, pulling his own face closer to yours to meet your lips for the last time, quickly removing the condom. Sharing a deep kiss, he ejaculates onto your abdomen, moaning from his own release into your opened lips. You lay there, wordlessly, your brain both foggy and clear as it has never been. You feel your warm sweat dry refreshingly on your skin and San shuffles away from the bed, walking to the bathroom with practiced steps to discard the empty condom and return with a towel to get you clean.

"And?", he asks, as you search for your pillow to clench onto it, feeling the stretched skin inside you. Sure, San has somewhat prepared you for the fucking, but no metronome could replicate the cruel rhythm he made you cum with.

"What, and?", you ask him back, your voice a bit raspy from the loud moaning.

"How was it?" 

San looks completely innocent again and it baffles you that you're falling for it again, even when his hair is forming unholy strands, immoral sweat dropping from his chin as he speaks. It's a cringe-worthy question and you would have dismissed it, if it wasn't for the cuddle you got from him.

"Come on, was it up to your imagination?", San begs you to answer, burying your body between his heated-up arms.

"Yes," you answer weakly. "Sannie, you’ve.. You've done your job. That was S-Level people pleasing, really."

San grins, placing multiple kisses over your temple and forehead. "You have such a way with words," he comments, "good thing that it really brings you far in life, hm?"

Was this the right time to make dad-jokes?

No, but nobody has fucked you out like San, so you'll let it slide. Even the corny "eating you out for breakfast" quip he makes in the morning, when you both notice that the fridge is still very much empty, or the "from study- to fuck-buddies" monologue he holds on your drive back to campus, you'll all let it slide. 

(And maybe you're stating the obvious here, but poor Seonghwa is never going to forgive you for San's laugh after you say something sensational with "letting it slide" used in another context, this time in the narrow space of his residency-bedroom, his roomie having listened to all the sounds coming out of your mouth behind the thin walls.)

part two: “into it, too deep”

[sequinsmile-x]

Coup de Grâce

Something had to give, she knew that, and she couldn't let it be her family.

-x-

Note: Tags aren't working properly because *tumblr* so I can't do the tag list currently. For context - I have to type the list ON MY PHONE and even that isn't working beyond the first 5 tags. I'll figure out a long term plan - but if you want to be notified for now maybe turn on post notifications for me!

-x-

Hi friends,

This is very much sponsored by my recent insomnia and a recent re-watch of Grey's Anatomy from the start. As with every fic I've ever written in the middle of the night when I can't sleep this has a LOT of feels.

The 5 + 1 fic I've been talking about is coming I promise <3

Please let me know what you think about this, it's been a hot minute since I wrote something sad so I hope I've still got it.

-x-

Warnings: Alzheimer's

Read over on Ao3, or under the cut

She’s slow to wake up, her body heavy as she rolls onto her back, groaning and pushing the heels of her hands into her eyes.

“Morning, sweetheart.” 

She opens her eyes, her lashes almost glued together by sleep and exhaustion, and she looks at her husband, unsurprised to find him already awake and dressed sitting on her side of the bed. His hand is on her waist, his thumb tracing slowly back and forth across the edge of her ribcage. 

“Morning,” she rasps, and the sound of her voice makes her wince, thick and rough and another indicator of how tired she was, “I’m sorry I got home so late.” 

Aaron and the kids had been asleep when she got home. She’d checked in on Jack as she walked past his room, leaning down to kiss his forehead and tuck the covers back around him from where they’d slipped down in his sleep. She’d done the same for Hazel, taking a moment to tuck some of her dark hair behind her ear, staring at the 7-year-old’s features in the low light of the room. She felt a brief flash of panic when she found her youngest daughter’s room empty, but when she realised that the bed hadn’t even been slept in, still as neatly made as it had been that morning, there would only be one place she’d find her. 

It had eased some of the tension in her chest that was ever present these days when she walked into the master bedroom to find Aaron and Ivy fast asleep, the 4-year-old tucked up against her father, her tiny fingers tangled in the neckline of his t-shirt. Emily had barely remembered to take her make-up off before she changed into her pjyamas and climbed into bed with them, curling herself around her husband and her little girl, seeking out the comfort that only they and Jack and Hazel could bring. 

“It’s okay,” he says, squeezing her waist, pressing his love into her through the callouses on his thumb and fingers, the slight roughness of his skin against hers drawing her back to herself a little, “I’m sorry I had to wake you up, I let you sleep in as much as I could but Garica just called about a case.” 

She sighs and she sits up, immediately sinking into the embrace he always had ready and waiting for her. Her cheek presses against his suit jacket and she smiles when he kisses her forehead, “Are the kids okay? Ivy was in here when I got home.” 

“They’re fine, they are all downstairs eating breakfast,” he assures her, running his hand up and down her back, “Ivy asked if she could sleep in here and we both know I can’t say no to her.” 

She hums and pulls back to look at him, “She knows that too.” 

He smiles and she can’t help but cup his cheek, her thumb against his dimple as she tugs him in for a kiss, the press of his lips against hers warming her from the inside out. She rests her forehead against his after she pulls back, desperate to have a few moments of solitude with the man she loves, something that had always been rare but was close to non-existent these days. It left her on edge, uneasy in a way that she hadn’t felt in years, and she could feel her long buried instinct to run clawing its way out where she’d buried it. 

“How was your mom last night?” 

His question makes her sigh, her eyes drifting shut as she holds him a little tighter, her fist creasing the material of his freshly-pressed jacket, “Like she always is,” she pulls back and looks at him, her smile sad, “She thought I was a nurse, which I guess is better than thinking I’m the sister she hasn’t spoken to in 30 years,” she sighs, and it catches on a humourless laugh, her chest aching with it, “At least this way she actually talks to me. She was mostly talking about me to me though. And the kids.” 

When she looked back on it, the early warning signs had been there for a while. Her mother had become forgetful, missing dinners they’d planned and Jack’s birthday, his card and gift arriving a few days late after Emily had prompted her. It had been easy enough to dismiss as a sign of just getting older, nothing more nefarious than the forgetfulness that came with still leading a busy life. Emily had tried to talk Elizabeth into retiring, or at least pull back on the amount of work she was doing for a while, but she’d always refused, claiming that staying busy kept her healthy. It was only when the personality change had started, when she’d show disinterest in her grandchildren, that Emily realised something was wrong. Things had deteriorated quickly, and only a few months after her diagnosis, the world Alzheimer's and its impact still reverberating outwards, the ripples of it still leaving the ground beneath them shaky, Elizabeth was now living in a home.

Even though she no longer recognised her, Emily went to visit her every evening after work. It felt like her penance, like she deserved to sit opposite the woman who had barely shown her affection even when she did recognise her, because she should have seen what was happening sooner. No matter what Aaron said, no matter how he tried to assure her that this wasn’t something she could have changed, she was sure that if she wasn’t so caught up in her own life, if she wasn’t so busy basking in the beautiful, ordinary happiness she’d found she would have seen the change in Elizabeth before she had. 

“She talked about the kids?” Aaron asks, tucking some of her hair behind her ear, his touch lingering on her neck afterwards, the beat of her pulse beneath his fingertips. 

“Yeah,” her smile shakes and she looks down, “She told me she has a grandson called Jack and a newborn granddaughter called Hazel,” she presses her lips together as her eyes meet his, “She doesn’t seem to remember Ivy at all.” 

Her mother may not have ever been the mother she’d wanted or needed, but she’d been a fantastic grandmother from the get-go. She’d lavished Jack, and the girls when they came along, with the attention and love Emily had always craved, what she’d looked for in all the wrong places for most of her life. On her worst days, Emily envied what her children had with Elizabeth, hated that it took becoming a grandmother for her to soften in the way she’d always refused to do for her own daughter. 

Aaron sighs, something she feels pass from his chest to hers, “Em-”

“We should get going,” she says, her smile tight as she removes herself from his grip and stands up. If she let herself fall apart, if she let him comfort her like she so desperately wanted, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to slot all the pieces of her back into place. The weight of it all was too much. Her job, her family who she missed even though they were right here with her, her mother and the illness she couldn’t save her from, “I haven’t even showered yet.” 

She can feel him watching her from where he’s still sitting on the bed, his gaze unrelenting as he weighs if it’s worth pushing her to talk to him or not, but he relents, he stands up and walks over, his touch ghosting across her waist as he kisses her temple. 

“I’ll go make you some tea and something to eat.” 

She smiles her thanks and watches him go. Her smile falls the moment she’s alone and she closes her eyes, breathing out a slow breath, the taste of sorrow thick on her tongue, before she shakes her head at herself and starts the day. 

___

She’s grateful when the case is local, that she won’t have to go across the country on top of everything else. 

She only half listens as Penelope briefs them, embarrassment burning up her neck when she asks a question she realises has already been answered during the briefing. It’s one of many tiny mistakes she’d been making lately, another question she usually wouldn’t ask, another moment which made her feel like she was failing at everything. Aaron cuts Derek off as he tries to tease her with a stern look and a clearing of his throat, and it’s forgotten by everyone other than her. 

No one knew about her mother’s illness. It was one of the last promises Emily had made to her during one of their last conversations when Elizabeth was lucid, her reputation and image important to her until the end. It meant that not only did the team not know about what was happening, but that Emily and Aaron were actively lying to them. They turned down pasta nights and nights out, their life now a pattern of work, visits to the home and far too little family time for Emily’s liking. 

Emily knew it didn’t stop there, that Aaron was covering for her with the higher-ups too. She’d been making errors in her paperwork that he was correcting for her with no comment, something she’d only found out when she overheard Strauss talking to another Section Chief in the bathroom. She hadn’t mentioned it to Aaron yet, not sure if she was angry or thought it was sweet, or if it was somewhere between the two, but it was just another thing that was falling at the wayside whilst her life collapsed in on her. 

She’s trying to read a crime scene report when she hears it, a voice she hasn’t heard in years pulling her out of her work as she looks up, a friend of her mother’s, a fellow ambassador, walking toward her. 

“Emily Prentiss, it’s been a long time,” she says, smiling widely as Emily stands up and shakes her hand. 

“Ambassador Diaz,” she says, her eyes flicking over to Aaron standing just a few paces behind the woman in front of her, “What are you doing here?” 

“Oh please, call me Claudia. And I was just helping Agent Hotchner with some details about the case you’re on,” she says, her smile wide, and Emily wonders when she’d missed that detail about the case, if it was something Penelope had explained to them that morning, “I understand he’s your husband.” 

Emily chuckles and nods, knowing that Claudia’s curiosity would have been piqued by the pictures she would have seen on Aaron’s desk, “Yes, he” she replies, smiling at Aaron, “You don’t get much chance to date outside of the BAU, so there were limited options.” 

Aaron rolls his eyes, the joke a familiar one, something she’d made at countless events of her mother’s that they’d gone to together over the years. It was her way of fighting back against the intrigue, the underlying implication of what it meant to not only be married to her boss, but to a man they’d consider beneath her. 

Claudia smiles politely, “How is your mother by the way? I haven’t seen her in a long time, is she on assignment?” 

It feels like the air has been sucked out of the room and her lungs burn with it, the seemingly innocent question one she should have anticipated but hadn’t. The team's curious gaze that mere seconds ago hadn’t bothered her makes her skin tingle, and she swallows thickly, well aware that she had to give a suitable answer that wouldn’t draw attention to everything she’d been hiding for months. 

“Yes,” she replies, looking at Aaron again, the empathy and love she can see in his eyes threatening to overwhelm her, “She’s in the Middle East.” 

“Oh,” Claudia replies, her smile still endlessly polite, “Well, next time you speak to her tell her I send my regards.”

Emily nods, shaking her hand again as she turns to leave, their polite interaction, something her childhood had been stuffed full of, at an end, “I will.” 

She excuses herself from the bullpen as soon as it won’t draw attention to her. She sneaks down a hallway that is always quiet, the supply closet at the end of it rarely used since the one with all the best stationery was closer to their desks. She leans against the wall, the lie about her mother still sitting on her tongue, the weight of it pressing on her lungs. She crosses her arms over her chest and blows out a shaky breath, her eyes closed as she rests her head back against the wall, the slight thunk of it echoing throughout the empty hallway. 

Her solitude is brief, the clicking of Penelope’s heels on the floor giving her away a second before she speaks. 

“Em, are you alright?”

She suppresses a bitter laugh, “Yeah,” she says, standing up straight and turning to look at her friend, “I’m fine, I just needed a minute.” 

She tries to step past Penelope but she stands in her way, her hands on her hips in defiance as she stops Emily from even asking her what she is doing, “If you think that’s going to satisfy me you have another thing coming,” she says, her tone as fierce as it ever got, “You and boss man have been shady for months,” she wraps her arm around Emily’s shoulder and starts to lead her down the hallway, “At first, I thought you might be making me an aunt again to one of your gorgeous children.” 

Emily laughs as she lets herself be led towards Penelope’s office, “Pen, I’m 48. I don’t know if another kid would be more of an inconvenience or a miracle.” 

Penelope hums sympathetically and closes her office door behind them, only letting go of Emily once they are alone, “And when it became clear that wasn’t what was going on…” she clears her throat as she sits down and encourages Emily to do the same thing, “I…did some sleuthing.” 

Emily’s eyes go wide, anger burning through her quickly, so hot and fierce it burns out before she can express it. It’s chased by anxiety, forcing her to swallow thickly, “What did you do?” 

Penelope has the decency to look embarrassed, her cheeks tinged almost the same shade of pink as her cardigan and she clasps her hands together in her lap, “I want to make it clear everything I did I did out of love and concern. The last time you were acting like this was when Doyle was after you and-”

“Pen,” she says, cutting her off, not needing the reminder of one of the worst times of her life on top of everything else, “What did you do?” 

Penelope sighs at the repeated question and she sighs, her lips briefly pressed together before she answers, “I know about your mom.” 

Even though she could see that this was where the conversation was going, it still feels like a kick to the gut. She stares at her friend for a moment, conflicting feelings of anger and relief that someone knew mixing in her gut, “How did you find out?” 

“You were disappearing after work so frequently, and I heard Ivy say she missed you tucking her at night the last time I saw her. And I know how important that is to you so I knew something was wrong,” Penelope says, and Emily somehow feels worse at the mention of her youngest, guilt that her little girl was missing her threatening to drown her, “So…I tracked your phone one night and saw you were spending your evenings at a nursing home out in Arlington,” she wrings her hands together in her lap, “After that, it wasn’t hard to put together.” 

She chuckles, the sound catching in her throat and she shakes her head, “Most people would think I was cheating on my husband or something.” 

It’s a bad joke, but it makes Penelope smile, and it’s enough to make Emily feel more comfortable. 

“Well, if you weren’t so disgustingly in love with Hotch I’m sure it would have crossed my mind,” she says, reaching out and placing her hand on Emily’s arms, “Why didn’t you tell us?” 

She shrugs half-heartedly, “She said she didn’t want anyone to know. And even though…even though she’s not really there anymore, and everything that made her her has been stripped away, I didn’t want to betray that.” 

Penelope squeezes her arm, “I won’t tell anyone,” she says, “I haven’t told anyone,” she adds, “But I wanted you to know that I know, so you have someone else to talk to if you want.” 

She still isn’t sure how she should feel, if this was an invasion of her privacy she shouldn’t let slide, but right now, still unsteady from her encounter with someone from her mother’s life, she was grateful for it. 

“Do you know what she has?” She asks, and Penelope shakes her head. 

“Only that she’s been a resident there for five months.” 

Emily nods, “She has Alzheimer’s, it’s advanced. She no longer remembers who I am, and she doesn’t really know where she is,” she swallows thickly, her tongue pressed against the roof of her mouth as she tries to stop herself from crying, a humourless laugh escaping as she tries to relax. 

“Oh, Peaches, I’m sorry. It’s an awful disease.” 

“It’s also completely removed her filter. So she’s finally saying every awful thought she’s ever had about me,” she smiles sadly and purposely avoids her friend's gaze, her sympathy burning through her skin, leaving behind marks Emily was sure would be permanent, her emotional trauma on display for everyone to see in a grim pattern painted across her face, “Except, she’s not saying them to me. She’s saying them to my 7-year-old daughter who she thinks is me,” she hears Penelope’s gasp, as if her imagination could conjure up just how awful it had been to hold her little girl as she cried and begged to know why grandma had said all those horrible things. Hazel had fallen asleep pressed up against her that night, her face warm and sticky on Emily’s neck, her daughter’s grief and confusion a vice around her heart that even Aaron hadn’t been able to loosen. “So now I don’t take the kids to go and see her because I won’t put them through it. Aaron stays home with them and I go and see her alone and it’s awful. And part of me wonders why I go at all because she doesn’t know me, and even if she speaks about me it’s not kind. But…”

She drifts off, the rest of her sentence stuck in her throat, bitter and cloying as she struggles to say it. It’s like she’s drowning on dry land, pulled under by a riptide of grief that was pre-emptive and too late all at once. Grief for the relationship she never had with her mother. Grief for the one she did have that was now gone. Grief for when she’d lose her entirely, when her children would lose her too, when they’d lose the grandmother who, until recently, had done nothing but shower them with the love and kindness Emily had craved as a child. 

It would be Hazel and Ivy’s first brush with death and Jack’s second, something Emily had hoped to spare them for a little longer. 

“She’s still your mom.”

It’s only when she looks up at Penelope that she realises she’d looked away at all, her focus having unintentionally fallen to her wedding rings as she twisted them around her fingers. A nervous habit that had long replaced picking at her cuticles, the touch of the metal against her skin, the spin of it as the diamonds of her engagement ring knocked on the neighbouring fingers, a well-needed reminder that she wasn’t alone. That she hadn’t been in years. 

“Yeah,” she pressed her lips together to contain the shake of them, “She’s still my mom.”

___

It’s late when she gets home.

She sighs as she steps into the house, her shoulders slumping the second she closes the front door and shrugs off her jacket. She’s nothing short of relieved when Aaron appears in the hallway, his socks dulling his footfall against the hardwood floor, because the thought of not speaking to him, of having to make do with falling asleep next to him and hoping his warmth would make her feel better, almost too much to bear. 

“Hi, sweetheart,” he says as he makes it to her side, his lips against her forehead, “Did you eat?” 

She nods, thinking idly about the takeout wrappers stuffed in the door of her car, and she places her hand on his shoulder to steady herself as she unzips her boots, “Yeah, I had dinner on the way home.” 

He drops his hands to her waist, holding her still as she switches to her other boot, “Do you want something to drink?” He asks, and she nods, “Wine or hot chocolate?” 

She smiles as she lowers her foot back to the floor, “Hot chocolate,” she says, tugging him closer as he tries to step away, pressing herself against his chest, using the height difference now she was no longer in heels to tuck her head underneath his chin, “Can we do this first, though?” 

He doesn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around her, his embrace firm and soft all at once as he tilts his head just enough to drop a kiss on her hairline, “Of course,” he replies, “Want to go sit on the couch for a bit?”

She nods and they walk towards the living room together, their arms still wrapped around the other, tangling them like vines. She practically sits on top of him on the couch, her legs over his lap, her arms wrapped around one of his as she hugs it to her chest, and her cheek on her shoulder. She was trying to leach all the comfort out of him, all the love and affection she knew would make everything better if it was possible, if him loving her was enough to make her mother better, if it could stop the inevitable, she knew it would. 

“How was it tonight?” He asks softly, his spare hand heavy and warm on her thigh, his thumb tracing back and forth on the seam of her pants.

“I told her that I saw Claudia,” she smiles sadly, pulling back to look at him, “She lit up like she hasn’t in weeks. She told me about a time when they were on the same assignment back in 1978,” she presses her lips together, “She said something about me too. Said her daughter was wild and unruly,” she shakes her head, her laugh sad as it bursts past her ribs, “But I would have been Hazel’s age…and just a normal 7-year-old. Then she asked if I have kids.” 

His eyes drift closed as he sighs, his grip on her leg tighter for a second, and he kisses her forehead, “Em, if you took a break from visiting no one would judge you,” he pulls back to look at her, I know it’s not easy.”

She shakes her head, already dismissing the suggestion he’d tried to raise before, “No, I can’t. It wouldn’t feel right,” she licks her lips before she bites the lower one, her teeth sinking into the flesh of it as she gives herself a moment to prepare herself for what she’d wanted to say for weeks, “I do think something has to give though.” 

He frowns, his hand leaving her thigh, the phantom feel of it still lingering, so he can tuck some of her hair behind her ear, “What do you mean?” 

“I feel like I’m failing at everything, Aaron,” she says, shaking her head as she looks at him, “I’m failing at being a daughter, at being a mother, a wife. I keep making mistakes at work and…something has got to give and it cannot be this,” she says, her hand thrown up as she indicates their home, what it represents, “It can’t be our family.” 

“Em, sweetheart, you aren’t failing at anything, least of all being a mom and a wife,” he says fiercely, protective of her even when it was her he was protecting her from.

“I feel like I hardly see the kids at the moment,” she says, shaking her head, “And I know you’re covering for me at work with some things,” she adds, her lips twitching into a smile when he frowns in confusion, “I heard Strauss talking about the paperwork.” 

He clears his throat, “Em-”

“I’m not mad,” she clarifies, reaching for his hand and tangling it with hers, “I know you’re just trying to help. But…I’ve been thinking about it and I think I should take a leave of absence from work until…” she trails off, the fact that the thing that would bring this stressful season of her life to an end would be her mother dying a painful reality she didn’t know how to face. 

“Until things are a little easier,” he finishes for her, always in pace with her and what she was thinking. 

She nods, “Yeah,” she replies, her voice thick as tears she’d been suppressing all day push at the back of her eyes, “I could go see Mom during the day, the nurses say she’s a little more lucid then anyway, and then I could be here in the evenings,” she wipes her cheeks as tears splash down onto them, “I could pick the kids up from school and pretend I’m not going to take them for doughnuts on the way home,” her smile shakes as he smiles at her softly, his thumb delicate against her skin as he wipes her tears away for her, “And I could put Ivy to bed, help Jack and Hazel with their homework. I could just be their mom again, instead of the daughter of someone who doesn’t even know who I am.” 

He nods, pulling her closer as he rubs comforting circles on her back, the warmth of her tears burning against the skin of his neck, “I’ll support you no matter what, sweetheart,” he turns his head to kiss her cheek, “You know that. I’ll go to talk to Strauss with you tomorrow if you want.” 

She nods and pulls back, “Yes, I’d like that.” 

He opens his mouth to respond, but is cut off by a tiny voice in the doorway, “Mommy?”

They both turn to see Ivy standing there, her hair and pjyamas wrinkled, her favourite toy, a stuffed sloth that Penelope had bought her, hanging from her hand and dragging along the floor. 

“Hi sweet girl,” Emily says, “You should be sleeping.” 

“Bad dream,” Ivy replies, still rubbing at her eyes, her lower lip trembling a little. Emily pulls back from Aaron and holds her arms out.

“Come here, sweetie,” she says, smiling when Ivy wastes no time in running over, all but throwing herself into her mother’s arms after she clambers onto the couch, “Mommy’s got you,” she kisses her head, breathing in the comforting scent of her little girl, “Want to tell me and Daddy about the dream.” 

“There’s a monster in my closet,” she says seriously, a frown that was all Aaron fixed across her face as she looks at her parents, “He got you Mommy.”

The ache in her chest is palpable, hollow and full of grief at the knowledge that her daughter’s subconscious would have picked up on her increased absence at home. She holds Ivy even tighter, and feels Aaron do the same as he loops his arms around them both. 

“I’m right here, baby,” she says, “And you know what Daddy is really good at?” She says, fake enthusiasm wrapped around every word, “He’s the best monster chaser in the world.”

Ivy’s eyes go wide as she looks between the two of them, “Really?” 

“Really,” Emily confirms, looking up at her husband, “He chases mine away all the time.” It’s an all too brief moment of sincerity between the two of them, hidden in the pretence of calming down their daughter, but she knows he understands, his hold on her briefly tighter before he unwraps himself from around them. 

“I also make the best hot chocolate in the world,” he says, winking at Ivy when she smiles widely, delighted by the idea of her favourite drink, “I’ll go chase away the monster and make some hot chocolate,” he drops kisses to each of their foreheads, “You two sit here and look pretty.” 

Emily hums, love for him filling the gap in her chest, allowing her to forget, however briefly, just how complicated life had become recently. 

“Good thing we’re excellent at that, huh Ivy?” She says, smiling when the little girl nods as she settles in her lap. Ivy’s smile fades and she presses her hand to Emily’s cheek, her fingers touching drying tear tracks. 

“Mommy, are you sad?” 

She sighs and grabs Ivy’s hand, pressing a kiss to her tiny knuckles, “I’m a little sad, baby. But I’ll be okay.” 

Ivy frowns and leans forward, stamping a kiss on her mother’s forehead, something Emily did for all of her children when they were sick or sad. When she pulls back she has a serious look on her face, and the expression makes her look so much like Aaron it makes Emily ache. 

“Better?” 

In reality, she knew nothing had changed. She still needed to get her leave of absence approved, still needed to figure out what she wanted to do long term, how she’d balance looking after her mother and everything that came with it and her family. But right in this moment, the phantom feel of a kiss from her daughter still tingling on her forehead, the press of her little girl's innocence passing from her skin into her own, she lets herself feel better. 

“Yes, sweet girl,” she says, hugging Ivy to her chest, “I’m feeling much better.” 

[toscrollperchancetomeme]

Is there a life after IwtV Season 2?

So, Interview with the Vampire Season 2 is over, you have already rewatched it a dozen times and don’t know what to do with yourself?

Here’s a list of suggestions!

Read the books

I might be biased because I have been a fan since the early 2000s, but they are genuinely worth a read. A lot of people struggle especially with the first book, which I understand – but you can absolutely skip it and start right away with The Vampire Lestat! Especially The Vampire Lestat and Queen of the Damned are a great read and they are what is coming up next in the show. A lot of the plot of QotD happens at the same time as The Vampire Lestat, so I expect that material from both books will come up in the next season.

If you have a brain that enjoys audio books, they are actually available for free on youtube (though the narrator pronounces Louis’ name wrong). The version on the commercial audio book platforms read by Simon Vance is better though, if that’s an option for you. :)

The books after that are very much a mixed bag, but they all have some great and some downright crazy stuff in them, because Anne Rice’s writing was pretty unhinged at times. It’s a ride, but imho one worth taking.

Watch reaction videos on YouTube

I think I have by now watched all reactions that are available. For me it really brings a lot of joy to relive the experience of a first-time watch by proxy. Some are frustrating because people talk over important dialogue, some hold genuine galaxy brain moments by people who know nothing of the material. I will not recommend anyone, because vibes vary for everyone, but I’m sure there’s a reactor out there that YOU will vibe with.

Watch other shows/movies with the actors

Did you know that “Talk Radio”, written by and starring Eric Bogosian is available in full on youtube? I haven’t watched it yet, but I hear it’s really good.

For Sam Reid, I can’t recommend “Lambs of God” highly enough, and I hear great things about The Newsreader, which I sadly can’t get my hands on at the moment. “Belle” is also a beautiful movie, but his part is rather small as far as I remember.

Then of course there’s Hotel Portofino for Assad (but I’m not yet that desperate).

I actually haven’t watched anything with Jacob Anderson except Game of Thrones, which I will NOT rewatch, so I’m happy for suggestions there!

Watch the movies that have been namedropped by Rolin Jones

Hedwig and the Angry Inch – a phenomenal movie and stage show in its own right. It’s fun, it’s beautiful, it’s queer as fuck, the music is excellent and it’s an absolute must-watch.

Rocky Horror Picture Show – honestly, if you have never seen this movie, what are you waiting for?

The Dirt – Rolin Jones has mentioned the book, but there was actually a pretty decent movie made about Mötley Crüe a few years ago, that I really enjoyed.

Also, I have seen Amadeus mentioned several times, I’m not sure if that came up in an interview but it’s an excellent movie and the parallels to the relationship between Lestat and Armand are definitely there.

Honorary mention: Fight Club, not because anyone has mentioned it but… the parallels warrant an essay that I might one day have to write. (Themes: Queerness of male on male violence, imaginary boyfriends, idealization of toxic masculinity)

Read the books from Rolin Jones' reading list

I have now spent 10 minutes googling for that interview where he lists the books he’s reading for Season 3, but can’t find it. Someone please drop it in the comments?

Learn French

Want to feel closer to your favorite actors? Why not go through the same hell as them and get bullied by the Duolingo owl while at it? ❤

Discord servers

I’m not active there right now, but I have found several fandom servers that seem like great communities.

Read Fanfic

Honestly the reason this is down here is because it’s so obvious. :)

Get creative

Write fanfic, draw fan art, roleplay, edit videos, make unhinged memes!

And always: Support the content creators!

Everytime I scroll the tag I see new creators entering the fandom and let me tell you, after almost 20 years of drought, I am overjoyed. Same goes for fic writers, youtube reactors and reviewers! Leave them a like, a comment or whatever is available on the platform they are using.

Edit:

Watch the musical!

I completely forgot! There’s a Lestat musical by Elton John. Yes, you read that right. This lovely YouTube account has full bootlegs for you to enjoy some camp broadway fun!

[definitelynotshouting]

context: ik most of my asks are pretty disorganized, stream of consciousness type of thing but GEEZ this got out of hand. you know that thing cats do when they bring you a dead mouse and *they're* super proud of it and you're just like dude.. why /lh

i usually put whatever my immediate thoughts are after reading the chapter and this time i thought it might be fun to write it out before. can you tell im running on five hours of sleep?? lmk if this made any coherent sense because even i dont understand it!!

so last chapter ripped my heartt out and stomped on it. i am LIVING for the way this whole thing was written, gorgeous prose as always <3. i was very curious as to wether Mumbo would question Grian but i think him NOT doing that was SO in character, and i adore it. I feel like w/ some fics (my own writing included) Scar is the ONLY one Grian relies on for support (in ANY area), and whenever Mumbo is even in the picture, he's just kinda "there", he doesn't check up on Grian or broach the topic of whatever is currently plaguing our little bird guy (basically, he's not involved in Grian's life despite being "his best friend"). And the way you characterized him was just So Real?? I would wager a guess (correct me if im wrong ofc) that part of it is that he just DOESNT know, (because Grian is oh so good at telling half truths and privately justifying his self sabotage) but a part of it is also him being lowkey willfully ignorant. he doesnt WANT Grian to be sick (mentally or otherwise) but definetly knows that SOMETHING is up. he really WANTS to help fix whatever is going on (evident by the gold farm) but he doesnt know what Grian needs or how to help him.

i have been OBSESSING over how Grian saying goodnight to Mumbo was ACTUALLY his goodbye to him but Mumbo DOESNT KNOW AND ITS EATING ME ALIVE. (also thought it was super interesting how Grian sort of took Mumbo leaving to sleep as "permission" to do the deed)

side ish note: how tf does Grian even plan to do that?? ik he's got the spider eyes and i *think* he's planning to turn the healing potions into weakness potions but like?? how is he going to do that??? i would assume that the gang would be watching the potions AS they were brewing, and even if they weren't, healing potions and weakness potions are.... vastly different colors. (unless im mixing them up with something else). also aren't they going to walk in on him prepping or already being in the middle of it and just save him like last time? the team as a whole has done a pretty good job on keeping an eye on Grian (from just a "this person can't walk" standpoint) so far. is he waiting for a chance when everyone is busy or does he plan to use MORE weakness potions to make it stronger or quicker?? im interested to see if he's even going to follow The Plan, because up until this point he's been pretty careful with trying to make plans and sneak around EXCEPT for the spider eyes basement adventure, which makes me wonder is he'll get more frantic/desperate as the appointed time draws closer.

Real talk though, Mumbo (and everyone else) is going to be beating himself up over not noticing when stuff goes down (which i would assume would be next chapter, but idk). Also, the fact that Grian asked him to stay means A LOT. To me (and idk if this is what you meant to convey) that signals that a part of him WANTS to stay. theres a part of him that wants to continue to experience the comfort and joy he gets from his friends, but he feels like he's only going to continue to hurt them, so to him this is the ONLY option to keep them safe. also the majority of his existence is just misery and pain so thats probably not helping. (PLUS the whole slew of mental health issues, this is not purely self sacrificial).

anyway, i LOVED this chapter as always, it was like chicken noodle soup for my overworked little soul and i savored every bit of it!! (also, no need to apologize for not having enough spoons!! i dont have any chronic illnesses but i know that shit sucks. this is a particularly long ask for me so dont feel compelled to answer everything in it, or answer right away. hope ur doing well <3)

-🐛

BUG ANONNNN THIS COMMENT IS SO SWEET AND I LOVED READING IT OMGGGG

you hit the nail exactly on the head for where im going with mumbo's characterization-- there is 100% a level of willful ignorance there. Ive always felt like mumbo is the kind of guy who has a thing about avoidance-- he feels very much like a character who will absolutely do his best to ignore things that hes decided arent his business (right up until he stops LMFAO) and part of that in hunger au is him being so anxious for grian to get better that he stops looking at the red flags grian is aggressively waving around. It'll work out!! He's sure of it!! Grian even directly said he's trying to get better!! And i think if he looked at that for longer than it takes for him to flinch away from the entire subject, he would see how much of a bald lie that is.

But he doesnt, because thats a LOT to deal with, and hes never really??? Seen this side of Grian before??? Not the way Pearl and Scar have. Theres a lot of intricacy there that i feel im skimming over but like Mumbo is very much keeping his own sanity in mind here too and thats another painful factor to the whole situation. Idk i have lots of thoughts about it and about the choice here to depict Mumbo giving in to that willful ignorance, and how its going to affect his and Grian's relationship in the future of the fic

(Quick tw for frank discussions of suicide below)

You've also completely nailed the subtext i was getting at with Grian asking Mumbo to stay-- smth ive always felt is a bit underrepresented in narratives like these are how at its most base core, suicide and suicidal ideation are often about needing something to fundamentally change in your life. It takes a LOT of both hopelessness and sheer willpower to actively try and overcome your body's instinctive will to survive. That instinct is baked into our very cells; when someone commits, it means their hopelessness for meaningful change to happen in their lives was so strong it overpowered everything else. And that is something deeply, deeply tragic, and also something i really wanted to respectfully highlight in this portrayal-- how bad things are when you spiral that far. Grian is starving to death. He wasnt lying about maybe having a week to live-- the intermittent feeding has kept him alive longer than anticipated, but its like trying to wall off an avalanche; theres only so much you can do in the face of all that :( and that hopelessness, in combination with how guilty he feels for what he did to his friends, has manifested in him feeling like his only recourse is to kill himself... but at the same time, that instinct to survive and KEEP SURVIVING is still blaring in his veins, and that manifests as him asking Mumbo to stay. Its a bit paradoxical, but its meant to really show how bad his mental state is, that he is willfully ignoring all the frantic signals his body is screaming at him to try and stay alive rn 🥺🥺🥺🥺

Also, with the potions-- without revealing too much about how this is going to happen, Grian is planning on making fermented spider eyes and using them to turn the healing potions into harming potions, which he'll then drink in the in-between to make sure he dies immediately. Now.. i know how this is gonna go, and i know the exact mechanics around how this is gonna shake out, but smth to keep in mind is hes not thinking logically anymore, he has FULLY capitulated to his own storm of emotional wreckage. So yes there are DEFINITELY some questions to be asked about how hes gonna try and get this done, but in all honesty they mostly boil down to "sheer opportunity" which you'll see a bit more of in the next chapter >:] but yeah its meant to be a bit illogical skdbwkdjskd since he just isnt thinking coherently anymore at this point :(

Bug anon thank u for my entire life this comment was so sweet and so wonderful to receive, i really love it when my writing is analyzed like this and seen and understood!!! Its amazing its such a wonderful feeling to have your work be seen like this and its something i very much do not take for granted :]]]❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️ tysm for the ask i am seriously treasuring it SO MUCH rn (and also thank you for the well-wishes!! Im doing my best to stay silly out here HEHE)❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

[robinsno1lesbian]

Neighbor!robin who has a dacryphilia kink licking your tears whenever she’s edging or overstimulating you…laughing at your tears and calling you soo pathetic because she’s barely started🫣🫣🫣😵‍💫😵‍💫-🍓

older!neighbor!robin x fem!reader

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 737

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 18+ mature content (MDNI), dacryphilia, overstimulation, fingering, light choking, robin mocking reader?, as always let me know if i missed anything! :)

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: this is super short, but i'm challenging myself to write as much as i can today so expect a little drabble spam.

robin loves to make you cry. not when you're emotional or sad over something, but when you're beneath her in bed.

she loves to see the physical impact that she has on your body, loves to see you shiver and squirm while your eyes are watering and tears start falling from your eyes.

robin loves to get you to the point where your legs are shaking and you're holding onto her for dear life while she's just pounding into you relentlessly.

and you would be lying if you said you didn't love it too.

you're sitting on her lap, legs wrapped around her waist while her fingers are thrusting into you.

you have been like this for what feels like hours and she had you in a variety of different positions already; on your stomach with her mouth on your cunt from behind, on your back with robin towering above you, on her thigh...

and robin is coaxing orgasm after orgasm out of you, your pussy aching from the overstimulation already.

and yet there is no end in sight.

you know you could use the safe word anytime and she would stop.

but the thing is, you don't want her to.

you want this. you want her to ruin you however she pleases and you will gladly let her.

robin stares up at you through her lashes, lust and pleasure written all over her features.

she is watching your moves and reactions while her thumb flicks over your sensitive clit.

"fuck robin" you hiss through gritted teeth. "fuck"

she reaches out and puts a strand of hair behind your ear softly. such a contrary gesture to the things her fingers are doing to you between your legs.

"is it too much?" her raspy voice whispers but you can tell she doesn't mean it.

"is it too much for you to handle? hm?"

she curls her fingers harder at every word and watches the way you squirm on top of her.

you whimper and nod your head, your lips tucked between your teeth so hard you're actually scared it'll draw blood.

you can feel tears forming in your eyes at all the different sensations flooding through you. the edge of pain, all the pleasure, the sound of robin's voice...

it's all too much. too much and not nearly enough.

you try to keep your eyes shut tightly, the tears spilling from their corners freely.

you can sense robin leaning in closer, her hands wrapping around your neck loosely.

"well that's too bad, because you're gonna fucking take it"

a desperate whine from your lips is the only response you can manage and the woman beneath you chuckles right at your face.

"such a pathetic thing" she hums. "i'm only just getting started with you and you're already crying?"

and then, in a moment of pure obscenity, she pulls you closer to her by the neck and her tongue runs over your cheek, licking the tears from your face.

it runs from the side of your mouth, all the way up until your eyes, cleaning up the salt streams from your face.

she moans against your skin and you shiver.

the sensation of her velvet tongue on your face just adds on to the intense pleasure, only that this time you can't stay in control of it.

it washes over you like a wave, your toes curling and your back arching against her as you scream out her name.

the last thing you're fully capable of registering is her chuckling against your neck and whispering sweet praise before you cum all over her hand.

your orgasm hits you with all its strength and the only thing that is steading you to this earth is robin's firm hold of you.

you roll your hips against each thrust of her long fingers and she lets you, allowing you to ride out your orgasm in the ways you need to.

you're pounding and your breathing is shallow when you finally come down from the height, your entire body shaking from her actions.

robin has both of her hands wrapped around you, palms sitting on your shoulder blades while she is peppering kisses over your chest.

"you did so good for me" she praises, as she lays you down on your bedsheets.

and then, before you know it, she's kissing and licking down your body again, eyes rolling back and fingers gripping the comforter underneath you as she reaches your center.

[undiscovered-horizon]

Imagine being the one who releases Morpheus. - Part 4

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 5] [Part 6] [Part 7] [ENDING] [ALT. ENDING] || Sandman-inspired playlist

[TW: blood, graphic depictions of an injury/illness]

The burning wood in the fireplace cracked pleasantly, reminding one that the cold sea breeze no longer had them in her grasp. In a way, it was that very same freezing wind that made one appreciate the warmth of the fire. The quiet cracking was a nice change from the loudness of the shore.

The inside of your house looked more like a workshop or a laboratory rather than a place where someone lived. Sketches, manuscripts and pieces of newspapers covered most of the walls. The spots where the old flowery wallpaper was left uncovered, had drawings and inscriptions written in chalk made on them. Looking at the seemingly chaotic groupings of all things strange and deranged, one may experience doubts as to the owner's sanity: it was either madness that drove them among cults, botany, astronomy and unsolved crimes or pure genius yet to be recognized. But as it is with all matters that toe this fascinating line, the final decision, whether one was a genius, a madman or a bit of both, belonged to the generations yet to be born; eyes that were yet to blink and tongues that were yet to speak.

"What is this?" Morpheus asked hesitantly as he looked around the room. He deserved a generous portion of understanding for that moment of anxiety: the last time he witnessed those symbols, he ended up imprisoned for a decade. It was only natural that he should react like that. Additionally, the jars with strange contents and dubious labels couldn't be comfort-bringing.

"A monument of my desperation," you answered as you tried to bring even a fraction of order to the papers cluttering your desk. A new, unread newspaper lay among your notes and old books. The front page's headline read 'Louisville theft still unsolved' in bolded letters. "I studied the occult and alchemy to find out what curse my father had put on me but to no avail. Years I have spent chasing after my own ailment, an answer as to what tragedy awaits me around the corner of tomorrow. The question, however, I have left unanswered."

"You have given up," he stated. Despite having no knowledge of your life during those years, Morpheus appeared surprisingly certain in his judgement.

"Yes..." you drew out your answer. Perhaps it was at that very moment that you finally understood it. You nodded your head slightly before continuing. "Yes, I have. But then a new endeavour occupied my mind, one that wouldn't render my studies useless, a waste of time. I wanted to find you."

Momentarily, his attention deviated from the jars, drying plants and unintelligible diagrams only to focus on you. It was a lovely sentiment in all of its romanticism - that the moment your paths diverged, both of you worked to make them cross again and all of that because you were simply curious about one another. Standing under the night sky diagram you had hand drawn in chalk on the ceiling of the room, perhaps it wasn't a stretch to call the two of you starcrossed. There was, however, a certain sadness to that statement: stars, as it befits their whims, align in a specific way only once in a long while. Maybe, just maybe, the gods that watch over stars were going to be merciful towards Dream and you.

Morpheus was standing with his back towards the fireplace. The flame made him cast a long shadow over the old, stained carpet that was already there when you moved into the house years ago. With that bright, dancing halo he appeared both heavenly and hellish like frostbite that feels so cold it burns like the hottest fire. But in all of those contradictory extremes, he never appeared dangerous or you simply couldn't perceive him in that way. Perhaps he was like that fireplace in your house: a raging flame consuming everything in sight but still contained enough to not feel scared of turning away from it. "What for?" he asked in a low voice. For some reason, his tone appeared angered as if he wasn't quite keen on you succeeding in your quest.

"Do not grow anxious, my dear stranger," you spoke mildly with your hands clasped together as if some part of you wanted to beg him to not treat you like a danger waiting to happen. There was something painfully lonely about a man who saw betrayal and ruthlessness in every pair of eyes he encountered. "My heart never harboured any malice towards you. I wished to find you only to ask how you've been doing, whether all those years when you were stripped of freedom had corrupted any goodwill you once had." Unable to help your empathetic nature, your mind began conjuring all possible pain and misery he was forced to endure. Your gaze fell to the floor, for a moment admiring the hue of the flames dancing across the old carpet. "It is beyond my imagination to fantasize about what torment such cruelty must do to a human," you added quietly.

"I am not human."

"I know," you looked back at him but only for a moment. Morpheus had a curious habit of staring at you, maybe at everyone else too, in a very intense way and you found it difficult to hold his stare each time you wanted to or felt like you should. "But that doesn't necessarily mean you're invincible."

Suddenly, a piercing pain struck the left side of your chest - the same area where the blasphemous mark stained your skin. A fit of dry, suffocating cough shook your entire body. Weakness overtook your body and you would have fallen hard to the ground had Morpheus not caught you. Careful and anxious, he lay you on the nearby sofa with a washed-out floral print - it could be roughly his age. With the continued cough came spatters of blood that now stained your clothes and the antique day bed. Terrifyingly quickly, your eyes became bloodshot and a thin streak of crimson run down from your nostril. If Morpheus could get any more pasty white, he surely would have as such cruel magic was unfamiliar to him.

"The shelf..." you strained as your shaking hand vaguely pointed at an antique dresser filled with jars and tins that once sparked fear in Dream's mind. "Madrake... thyme... rosemary... throw in... in fire." Trying to desperately catch a breath, you wheezed between each word, a sickly whitening resounding in your constricted throat.

He didn't know what any of those plants looked like because he never had to. At that moment, when he opened the glass doors of the dresser with enough strength to tear them off, it all went down to the legibility of your writing and whether or not you had labelled the containers correctly. How funny it truly would be - to die because of one's own inattention in their own house like tyrants and heirs do; to suffer the consequences of one's actions with the mercilessness of gods of death. Morpheus rummaged through the dresser, throwing away any jar or tin that was not labelled as mandrake, rosemary or thyme. Perhaps, if you were a little further away from the line between life and death you'd feel a little upset at his carelessness.

When he finally found the correct herbs, Morpheus did not bother with maintaining correct proportions and so he simply opened the jars and threw all of their contents into the fire. He could, of course, dispute your orders as he was a king - not a simpleton to boss around. However, Dream knew better than to disregard a witch when black magic was at play.

The fire suddenly became purple and doubled if not tripled in its size and ferocity. Its flames licked the ceiling but never dared to set it ablaze. Just as swiftly the violet hearth returned to its original form and no change in its appearance could ever suggest something akin to supernatural had taken place inside that fireplace. With the blaze red and contained again, you gasped for air as the pain momentarily subsided. Although only minutes had passed since the curse sunk its teeth into your innocent skin, it felt as if it was the very first time in your life that you took such a deep breath and felt no unbearable, stinging pain. What a blessing it was, to be a victim only occasionally and not constantly.

Morpheus crouched next to you, remaining at your eye level. If you focused your exhausted mind, you could nearly see his face clearly. "Is this the curse your father put on you?" he asked quietly. But, truthfully, he didn't seek an answer. His question was more of an expression of disbelief. And how curious that disbelief was - that the King of Dreams found something unimaginable.

The blood on your shirt was the price of his freedom. If that was the fate of someone who took his side on their own accord, was it not also his affair? Morpheus could have stopped you that day and yet he didn't. Was he not, at least partially, responsible for those crimson stains? Priests often say that 'idle hands are the Devil's best friend' and Morpheus, in his convenient passiveness towards your brave though foolish choice, had both of them; he made a decision of making no decision and you were the one who suffered the consequences as if you weren't human but a figment of Shakespeare's imagination. He knew that if he lets your suffering continue, if he doesn't even try no matter the odds of success, he too could become of Shakespear's fantasy: as though he was the true Lady Macbeth, your blood wasn't going to wash off his pale skin, forever screaming into the void "He could! He could! And he didn't!"

And yet, you never spoke a bad word about your father, at least not to him. Should you not grieve this unfairness? Seeth at the greed and violence of the one man who was supposed to love you above all creation? Your father sentenced you to a cruel, painful and excruciatingly long death and you fed mallards on a winter morning. At that moment, for the first time since he met you, Morpheus finally saw you for what you really were. If you had no fury for such injustice, he was willing to lend you some of his. Oh but his rage... it was aeons old, rotting inside a heart that never dared to acknowledge its severity. It was fury audible in storms that drowned ships and felt in earthquakes that swallowed entire cities.

"Thank you," you whispered to him. "I suppose it's quite rude of me to faint on a stranger." Your words came out a little slurred.

"We are not strangers. Not anymore. You have seen to that." Although he never specified that, you knew he didn't necessarily mean saving your life.

"Good." Your gaze was hazy, vision becoming blurry as restful sleep forced itself on your eyelids. Despite that overwhelming exhaustion, a soft smile entered your face and Morpheus wondered if you gave that kind grin to everyone or only him. "I heard it's a bad practice to let strange men into one's home."

Seriously considering just coming up with a nice title and making this into a mini-series and not a thousand parts of one imagine... Thank you for all the kind words and support!

Tagging people who were interested in a follow-up: @rosaren2498 @jessiboobdbdb @chantzmar @lexi-anastasia @bisexualunicronrunningloose @farintonorth @oo0lady-mad0oo @all-bi-myselfs-blog @piperstofu101 @magic-magnoliaa @kotonei-molyneux @wheresmyboo @supermegapauselouca

[lobsel-erik]

I was originally going to write on Twitter but character limits are too much of a bother so here I am. This will probably be very messy but I'm dealing with media that probably 10 people are familiar with, so... Whatever!

I've recently found this site: https://nervetower.neocities.org/analysis.html

It has a bunch of translations and essays on the game Baroque, originally released on the Sega Saturn.

This specific bit of info has made me OBSESSED with thinking about the game.

Sure the game was literally written in burst of inspiration by drawing tarot cards because the writers had a deadline and writer's block at the same time, and the protagonist being canonically trans was only in a draft for the prequel material, but the game is surprisingly consistent with its themes and the symbolism can still be read through a trans lens.

And because it's not confirmed and ambiguous, the protagonist can be read through multiple gender povs.

But like, why is this such a big deal? Well, Baroque and its prequel material just so happens to have one of the most incredible anti-bigotry narratives I've ever seen in a game. Specifically anti-ableism and anti-eugenics, among probably some questioning of organized religion and how corporations use it to further alienate the public into a cycle of oppression towards marginalized people. etc.

The protagonist is mass produced and manipulated by the Archangel to "purify" whatever he deems should be "purified", using guilt (the Christians/Catholics favorite thing) to do so as the protagonist is made to not remember anything besides their immense guilt over something.

For the game to progress the protag must regain their memories and find out they're a copy of who knows how many other copies, a human made into a product basically, made to feel special because they won't be distorted by their desperate delusions to escape a world destroyed by corporate greed like all the rest and have the power to "purify" things, when in reality they're just emotionally and genetically manipulated into being that.

A perfect pawn.

Now where is the trans symbolism? Well, aside from how little bodily autonomy the protagonist has, here's where things really get interesting:

In Baroque, God is presented as a woman. Before the Great Heat (aka apocalypse), God's Sense Spheres (her omnipresence, transferring data like the world is a body) assured that no great distortion would come to the reality humanity lived in, God would feel pain and know there was a wound to heal. Then the Archangel, who's really just some scientist, started fucking with the population's mental health on purpose because he wanted to kill God and create his own perfect little world. That's the short summary anyway.

At one point, with a lot of brainwashing using God's screams of pain, he created the Order of Malkuth to help him. But later the members woke up from the brainwashing and organized a desperate attempt to stop the Archangel: they would fuse Koriel number 12 (presented as a boy) with God so she could communicate in data that humans could understand. What they didn't expect however is that Koriel 12 had their own problems, and with Archangel interrupting the fusion, those problems were very amplified.

Koriel 12's guilt over being alive and God's suffering made shit hit the fan for good with the Great Heat.

And that's how the protagonist becomes mute and receives the power of God and anim- I mean, "purification".

The game begins and despite Koriel and God being now two parts of the same being, the Archangel tells Koriel to go to the bottom of the Nerve Tower, where the "Mad God" is basically imprisoned, and "purify" her with a rifle (with ammo made from the embodiment of her pain hormones).

The Archangel is literally making Koriel kill a part of themselves that's already literally buried deep into a mind tower that goes down instead of up but still has the image of a tower instead of a hole. He's basically forcing Koriel to bury the closet with them inside it because the closet isn't enough apparently.

Koriel also can't speak for themselves anymore but their thoughts can be read by the Horned Woman, which she just says out loud without explaining anything and unless you're thinking about it you won't even recognize those are "your" thoughts being spoken by another person.

Jumping ahead, when Koriel gets to the bottom of the tower, you can either do what the Archangel tells you or can just walk towards God and unite with her.

When you do this after some dying and finding out, you'll receive the true ending, in which it is made clear that while it is in a state at which it's harming everyone, the "distortion" is actually the natural way of the world, everyone needs to cope at least a little to survive, the Archangel's eugenicist campaign was the greater problem here, not the people "distorted" into representations of their suffering and coping mechanisms by his actions.

This is primarily focused on ableism and particularly the stigma around mental health.

With a trans reading, it forms a bridge so it can also just mean bigotry in general too.

Why? Well, since the 70s or something, trans people basically have to be diagnosed with a disorder to be granted legal access to transition, that's even truer for Japan, which literally puts it on paper as a disorder. And overall, transphobia and ableism go very hand in hand.

This game is now the closest I've come across to finding a game that's secretly about trans people too like The Matrix.

And this has greatly developed the brain worms 👍

[rusquared]

Life, rudely, interrupts my mourning.

Walking up and down my most familiar part of the city, podcast blaring in my ears lest any Silence creep in, I am rudely interrupted by the fireflies coming alight. It’s a gentle twinkle, a passing flicker in one’s periphery, and so you feel compelled to look. Even the rainbow, just faintly visible outside my window after a brief thunderstorm - or the remnants of that lighting to the east half an hour later, illuminating clouds that looked something out of a childhood film - they interrupt me. They interrupt me.

Back to schedule, I pass by a science building and I think, “I should’ve gone there more often.” Or I think of the emails still left unread and go, “I shouldn’t be in this position.” or the uncomfortable envy that occasionally takes over, that I know to be selfish and cruel, but tantalizing nonetheless. This is my daily routine, permeating every moment, interrupted just briefly by the Present.

Sometimes I get sick of mourning Me (the perfect, untouchable, lovable Me) and I turn to other avenues. A piece of art that will occupy my time (I have emails to send, I have work to do) or even the occasional poem, never really written out of joy anymore. Or a paper flower, a crane (I haven’t called my mother in two months).  A dog greeting me in boundless joy every morning  because I can manage the bare minimum of kissing her soft head.

Walking downhill from my evening walk, and determinedly ignoring any person whose silhouette could be someone I know (and therefore someone who will hear of my failure), I read an essay on mourning. Actual mourning, mind you. Of death that is not simply the loss of a possible self, but the loss of a person you could touch and hug and tease relentlessly over a misspoken phrase. I have not, thus far, become familiar with that sort of mourning. I know it will arrive, I can only hope for it to take its time.

But the essay was still gripping. I haven’t even finished it, but it’s echoes are already becoming noticeable in the way I write this poem tonight.  Twice during this reading I paused, took a screenshot, and thought of the story that I love. And immediately I was filled with a slight shame. This beautiful piece on loss and love was probably not meant to be shared with a fictional name by someone who spends most of their waking hours avoiding reality. I wasn’t the target audience, though I know and fear that I one day will be. When that day comes, I wonder if my mourning of Me will finally cease, become silly and ridiculous. How could I mourn a nonexistent self when I’ve lost someone I actually knew and loved?

I digress. The slight chill of the rain is still in the air and the dog once again welcomed me home with her tail wagging furiously. I still have a laundry list of tasks and I still have the aching guilt of shame. Or the aching shame of guilt. The terms tend to get juggled around in my head. I know there is no point in dreaming every minute of a life re-done, much better, a regression, if you will (hah). I only have this life and its mundane hurt, the way the clock doesn’t humor my desperate attempts to stop it, the way the days on the calendar got lost to me even as I was acutely aware of them. Even as I stared at the calendar.

There we go. I’m back on track, fireflies and stories be damned. My imagination is once again active and if you could only see the beautiful plans I have for when that time machine is complete. A life of no mourning except the inevitable mourning that will take its time, because I asked it to. 

I want to draw again.

[hangingslothcentral]

New Project is so odd because its pieces have fallen together so fast even though the concept is very new to me, and is simultaneously a synthesis of everything I've learned in my last few years making audio dramas. I feel like usually when I'm talking about the creative processes for shows, I'm talking about something which has some sort of pre-existing lore, or which is drawing on some deeply held vibes I've been desperate to express.

Clockwork Bird is an adaptation of the first novel I ever wrote, which nobody wanted to publish. it is a MUCH better audio drama than it ever was a novel, and it was a great place to begin, with all that structure already in place.

Spirit Box Radio was born out of everything I WANTED to happen in several different shows but which didn't happen. some of those story threads are pulled out of work I've been writing for years, though the actual story of the show was brand new. I remember pulling from so many things I loved so deliberately, too; SBR is a show which wears its inspirations on its sleeves.

Not Quite Dead is the first time I've let a vampire story take the spotlight but it's not the first time I've written one. as I've discussed at length before, I've been writing bits and pieces about vampires purely for myself for over a decade and a half. NQD is not the SAME as those stories, but it relies on them, draws on them to make it what it is.

Twelvelms (which I will make, somehow. I will do this.) is a combination of all three of those things. a fantasy world I've been writing since my childhood, built in part as a response to frustrations I felt with other fantasy worlds, and which I've been writing bits and pieces of here and there for many, many years.

the New Project, though, is kind of touching ideas I've handled before again, but kind of not. the format is similar to some things I've made, but it also isn't. the structure of the plot is a little bit like other projects I've worked on but it's also brand new. except it's also an assemblage of ideas I've had for other shows I didn't have the confidence or skills to pull off before.

it's still not ready to be announced quite yet, but what I have made so far for this show, I am already immensely proud of and extremely excited about. I cannot wait to share it with you all <3

--- Eira xxx

[adamwatchesmovies]

A Quiet Place: Day One (2024)

Of all the ways to extend a franchise, prequels look like the most desperate option. What is there to show before the action in the original started? If it was anything worthwhile, wouldn’t it have been included from the beginning? If there are unanswered questions, how can we be sure they shouldn’t stay unanswered? Seems like someone in Hollywood has figured out the formula because we’ve gotten a string of pretty good prequels recently - Orphan: First Kill, The Omen: First Born, Wonka and Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga. Count A Quiet Place: Day One among them. Though it may not reach the same levels of suspense as the other chapters, it makes up for it with original, well-developed characters and never-before-seen visuals. Written and directed by Michael Sarnoski, it tells us more about what’s going on in this world without shattering any of the mysteries that got us invested in the first place.

Terminally ill cancer patient Sam (Lupita Nyong’o) is in New York City when meteor-like objects fall from the sky. Soon, the streets are overrun by blind, vicious alien creatures with an acute sense of hearing. As the US military tries its best to warn civilians about the dangers the creatures pose and rescue the survivors, Sam meets Eric (Joseph Quinn). Together, they navigate through the city, making as little noise as possible to avoid drawing the creatures to them.

A Quiet Place and its sequel showed the Abbott family in a world where the creatures had already taken over, civilization had mostly broken down and everyone left just did their best to survive. The nice thing about A Quiet Place: Day One is that the only recurring character (Djimon Hounsou’s Henri) plays a tiny part in the story. It still feels like there are many unanswered questions between this story and the ones that introduced us to this world. Why did the creatures land on Earth? We don’t find out because a) it doesn’t matter and b) Sam and Eric are not in a position to find out. Setting the film in New York right as the creatures land means the film has loads of new things to offer us. We’ve never seen this many creatures at once and never with this many people around. The film’s best scene has a crowd trying to make its way toward the safety promised by the government. There are so many people you know someone is going to screw it all up for everybody. Even if everyone is super quiet, the sound of all those footsteps and that collective breathing is on the cusp of being enough to get them noticed by the monsters all around.

But A Quiet Place: Day One isn’t only about Sam and Eric navigating through smashed-up streets while space beasties lie in wait. There’s a surprisingly emotional portion of the film: Sam’s quest to visit a pizza joint. We meet Sam at a hospice. There’s death everywhere now that the creatures have landed, but she was already going to die so she simultaneously doesn’t care if she goes and wants to survive - so she can visit Patsy’s Pizzeria (the East Harlem location) and protect her cat, Frodo. Of all the things to do when the world is falling apart, you think getting a slice should be the least of her priorities until we learn what the restaurant means to her. This quest provides the character with a reason to keep moving (rather than constantly hiding) bringing us from one blasted location to the next all while enriching the character.

In terms of scares and tension, Day One is the least intense of the series - we’ve seen the creatures so much now that even if they’re hiding in the dark, you know what to expect - but this prequel preserves many of the monsters' secrets and even gets us to ask new questions by showing some previously-unseen behavior from them. Ultimately, I don’t think this is a necessary or game-changing chapter but the story, characters and performances are strong. A Quiet Place: Day One is certainly worth your time if you've been following the series. It's also likely to bring new members to the fan club. (September 13, 2024)

[kosmicdream]

Well, Chapter 6 of Nasty red Dogs is finally complete. This chapter took about a year to make and it was one of the hardest chapters to make. A lot of factors played into this, but probably the hardest one was my day job making the whole process much slower. This meant that there was a lot more time for me to sit and think, sometimes this was a benefit, but in general I am a massive over-thinker, so that dragged down a lot of my enjoyment of the process as I kept over analyzing all my choices. 

But, it wasn’t just chapter 6 that was tough. For a while, i have been struggling with Nasty Red Dogs. This isn’t a surprise, its something i face with every long-term project and it makes sense that I would hit that moment at some point. NRD is 5 years old now and while its getting closer to being complete, we still have a few more chapters to go. My process for it is much slower, so a single chapter can end up taking a long time. Still, this past chapter was both the longest in length for a NRD chapter and also took the longest to make, so it was a very tedious process.

I have dont a lot more writing and rewriting than I normally would do, and while I don’t consider myself much of a perfectionist, it was really starting to creep back in my mind in a way I haven’t experienced in years, but more so targeting my writing than anything. I also got very critical over my drawings, but I have felt that way outside of NRD too. I am still very proud of the end result of this chapter, but I don’t think im out of the storm yet. It took years for me to refind my footing with FFAK and Eggshells, but I eventually got there and both projects, and I, got stronger for it. I expect that to happen here too, its just pretty draining and difficult. Regardless of the struggle, I am glad that it’s bringing deep feelings like that out of me because I feel like that’s the whole point of trying to make something that takes so many years to finish, cuz it really creates a situation where you are having to challenge your own personal demons on a mundane, daily level and sorting through those feelings. I don’t really know if the story is going to end up “good” or even how i want it to, but I know I’ve changed from it as an artist, and that already makes it invaluable to my journey to make great stories, which has always been my deepest dream to do on this planet.

That being said, I need a break from NRD to rebuild my stamina again. As I said, we’re nearing the end of the story.. But not quite there. I do expect there to be at least 3 more chapters, but considering how I originally planned for Chapter 5 & Chapter 6 to be a single chapter, that could change. It is still all written though, and has been, but pacing the scenes often changes as I’m actually “on the set” and “directing” the moments. While NRD is on hiatus, I will be returning to FFAK, which I have been pretty desperate to return to as I’ve been looking forward to ARC2 for literally years. I also know ARC2 of FFAK is tremendously long, possibly 4x longer in length than all of NRD (my expected length of ARC2 is around 4k or 5k pages).. So Of course, i get anxious when I’m not drawing it for too long. As I mentioned before, I already kinda got through a really huge block with FFAK that took years to address & heal from and I’m very happy to say that I’m in a great place with the project again, in a way that i haven’t felt in years (even if it still feels very different and new.) So returning to it makes me tremendously happy, which I will need to be in high spirits to feel like I can tackle the next NRD chapter. Anyway, I just wanted to share some of my thoughts on this past chapter and as always- thanks for reading my comics. Every day, Its the first thing i check are comments on them and it is always the last thing i do before sleeping. They are always on my mind, but also so are the readers, and I want to deliver my story to those who are willing to listen to them. -kosmic

[3terna15unshin3]

Then Because She Goes

When you leave, I cry on the inside

★ Chapter 11 of 15, 5082 words

★ Matty Healy x Original Female Character

★ warnings: !!! mature content, minors please do not interact !!!, smut, thigh riding, edging

<< 10

9 June, 2019

“Fuck,” Este cursed, as a loud sound in the flat below hers caused her to spill a drop of tea on her pants. She quickly wiped it away and got up to grab her beloved Tide pen—drawing on the spot to prevent any staining.

With a film on the TV, it was a quiet morning and a relaxing day off for her. She stayed in comfy clothes, hair tucked away messily in a clip, not worrying about work or bills needing to be paid or how desperately her room needed tidying. Her body had been stationary for most of the morning. It was a deserved laziness, in her opinion. But, a buzz from her phone signalled an incoming text, interrupting her and her tea once more.

matty <3

Sun, 9 Jun at 10:59 AM

Attachment: 1 Image

Thinking of you x

It was a photo of a small yellow origami star. He held it delicately between his thumb and middle finger, raising it up in the air in front of his hotel window. Este could see the architecture of the city he stayed in in the background. Germany, I think, she considered, though she couldn’t remember which city.

Sun, 9 Jun at 11:00 AM

Xx

:((((((((

Why the sad face

You’re getting all sappy on me and i miss you

Am I being too sweet for your liking??

Yea like chill for a sec

I’m smiling at my phone and everything

Soz x

But you’ve got me doing little crafts alone in my hotel room just because they remind me of you so maybe you should chill

Or maybe be less chill bc why are you never sappy or sweet with me ????? Hm???

hey I’m sweet !!!!!!!!!! Don’t be rude

The star thing is like painfully cute tho how do you expect me to top that

--- 22 June, 2019

Este ★

Sat, 22 Jun at 18:35 PM

Hey, I know it’s been hard lately and that you’ve been busy writing but this poem makes me happy and I think you need some hope at the moment

Attachment: 1 Image

Maybe you’ve heard of it already or will think it’s too simple but it's what I want to say to u :)

Matty’s heavy eyes stared at the bright blue light of his screen. The band were closing out on their sixth month of touring, and his head had gotten a bit cloudy. Desperate to get Notes On A Conditional Form out as soon as possible, any free moments they had were spent writing and recording. He poured so much of himself during every show and even more into every song written that not much was left when he was on his own. It was nonstop. Slumps like this were bound to occur while on the road, and now that Matty had healthier ways of coping with them, they weren’t as big of a deal. But they were still there, eating away at his energy—blurring the lines of his self esteem and self hatred.

The poem Este attached was “The Orange” by Wendy Cope. He hadn’t heard of it before. So, he read the words quietly to himself.

“At lunchtime I bought a huge orange—the size of it made us all laugh. I peeled it and shared it with Robert and Dave—they got quarters and I had a half.

And that orange, it made me so happy, as ordinary things often do. Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park. This is peace and contentment. It's new.

The rest of the day was quite easy. I did all the jobs on my list and enjoyed them and had some time over. I love you. I'm glad I exist.”

Este was right about it being simple. But it was its simplicity that made Matty feel it deeply in his stomach. If he’d been sent such words by any other person in the world, it might have felt patronising—but coming from her, it made sense. There wasn’t anything that he loved more than things, art, that commanded him how to feel. Este knew that. And the words she sent commanded him to find light in the simple things. To bask in the innocence of life. To realise that if he isn’t happy, he’s just human. Fleeting moments of beauty are what matter. It was exactly what he needed to hear.

Este ★

Sat, 22 Jun at 19:00 PM

Please never stop sending me stuff

Reading the line “I’m glad I exist” felt so important

Because I am

Especially with you around x

--- 1 July, 2019

Luckily, flying from Stockholm back to Manchester wasn’t very far. So, it was easy for Matty to get on a plane to catch Este’s 28th birthday between his shows. He was a day early, but it was the only chance he had to come see her—so he took it. And somehow managed to keep it a surprise.

With Cate’s help, Matty followed through with his plan to Uber to their flat as soon as he landed; to drop off his stuff, grab food, and set up birthday decorations before walking over to Greenhouse to see Este. A bouquet of variously coloured tulips with brown paper surrounding it was cradled in his arms as he made his way. The sun peeked through the partly cloudy sky, beaming down on his tired state. He shook the nerves out and reached for the door handle.

The familiar chime caught him by surprise, as the seven months it had been since he’d last stepped into the shop forced him to forget that they were there. It brought Este’s attention to the front from her spot in the back corner where she was shelving. Sam poked his head out from the back room in curiosity.

“I heard an ‘Este Manansala’ turns 28 tomorrow…” Matty announced sarcastically before she realised who he was. The look on her face once she did was priceless.

“Oh my god. Shut up,” muttered Este as she weaved through the cramped furniture to embrace him excitedly. A giddy and uncontrollably happy laugh came from her belly had Matty leaned back while they hugged to lift her feet off the orange carpet.

“Happy Birthday, love.” he whispered in her ear before putting her down. Este tried to wipe the dumb smile on her face but failed. She kissed him instead.

Matty tasted like cigarette smoke and smelt of the flowers he held. The month between their last kiss didn’t stop her from recognizing the familiar shape of his lips when they were against hers. It lingered long and deep. They sighed into each other with satisfaction.

“What are you doing here? You’re mad,” reacted Este when they pulled away.

“To take you out on your birthday.” His hand remained on her cheek as he responded, enjoying the feeling of her soft skin. “And by ‘take you out’ I mean take you to the food I’ve put on your dining room table.”

“Have you already been by my flat?”

Matty nodded. “Went straight there after I landed. We boarded early, so Cate said I almost caught you before you left.” He laughed at the dumbfounded look on Este’s face as she struggled to accept the fact that he was real and face-to-face with her. His arms extended to shove the flowers into her grasp. Tulips were her favourite.

“Are you going to introduce me?” His finger pointed at Sam. “Or will you just stare at me with your mouth open right in front of your boss?”

She snapped out of it and turned to face the blond shop owner.

“Gosh, I’m sorry. Sam, this is Matty. My, um, my—”

“Nice to meet you, mate. I’ve been in here a couple times over the years and seen you then, but I’m glad to be formally introduced, I guess,” interrupted Matty.

It was a bit odd that he cut her off so quickly, as the timing allowed her to almost hear his fear of the topic—audibly in his voice. Her smile faltered slightly as the two men made small talk, and she spiralled silently about what she could’ve said. I should’ve just stopped at ‘This is Matty,’ instead of trying to explain who he is, thought Este. Did Matty think I was going to say he was my boyfriend? Do I want him to be my boyfriend? Does the idea of me thinking he’s my boyfriend scare him?

Her ears perked and she snapped back into the conversation when Matty mentioned that they should be taking off soon.

“Food might be getting cold by now, E. We should get going,”

“Matty, it’s half two.” She looked over at Sam for confirmation that she couldn’t just leave in the middle of her shift, but was met with a smug smile instead.

“Go on.” he encouraged with little explanation.

“Who’s going to look after the—“

“Oliver’s on his way. He wanted extra hours this week anyway.”

Guilt settled into Este’s chest. “You didn’t have to call him in and make him rush over just for me, Sam. I feel terrible,”

“I didn’t call him in. I put him down for a three o’clock start when I made his schedule last month.” Sam reassured, as he came around the counter to stand in front and lean on it. He crossed his arms, waiting for Este to accept that he had been in on the plan to let her off early.

But, she didn’t let down. “Then why would you schedule me as well?”

“Jesus Christ Este, to surprise you! Now please leave, I’m begging. I can’t take this any longer,” Sam said while laughing in her face and forcing her towards the door. “Happy early birthday.”

“How long have you had this planned?” asked Este, turning to Matty and waiting for a response.

“A while. Any more questions, or can we go?”

-

Este’s arm tangled within Matty’s as they walked the few blocks back home along the pavement. Her work bag was slung over his shoulder as she held the tulips and sniffed them occasionally for the comfort of their fresh smell. Now that the shock had disappeared and she had the time to fully take in his appearance, Este smiled at his outfit. The Vans tied round his feet were paired with a bright and fitted graphic tee, tucked into high-waisted green trousers.

“You’re staring at me.”

A giggle escaped her lips as her and Matty turned down her street and approached her flat. “Am I not allowed to?” she argued.

He shrugged, with a smile. “I don’t mind. Just want to know why.”

“Dunno, really. You’re just pretty. And I like your outfit.”

Her keys jingled when she pulled them out of her pocket to let them into the building. As they stepped in and through the next couple of doors, soon finding and pressing the ‘up’ button for the lift, Matty said, “You know, you’d think I’d be weird about you calling me ‘pretty’, but it actually felt quite nice.”

“I can call you ‘pretty’ more often, if you want. I think of it all the time, so I’d just have to start letting you know when I do,” Este suggested, turning her doorknob and entering her place.

There was a banner of letters that spelled out ‘happy birthday’ delicately strung across the wall that sat above the dining room table. The decoration was slightly crooked, but colourful and iridescent—so the sun pouring in through the window bounced off of them and shone glittery reflections all over the room. Floaty balloons were trapped against the ceiling with their strings hanging downwards at different lengths. A vase of water was the centrepiece, ready to be the home for the tulips that Este still held as she looked around. Her eyes travelled to everything else littered on the table; noticing the handful of tall tapered candles whose colours matched that of the flowers, confetti scattered across the surface of the stained wood, a bottle of wine, and a couple of takeaway bags.

A nervous Matty stood behind and waited for her to say something. When silence remained, as she continued to search for ways to thank him, he filled the space by slinging his arm around her shoulder and rubbing it gently.

Bringing his face next to hers, Matty asked, “Do you like it?” and pecked her temple.

“Does the general public know that you’re this soft of a bloke?”

He shook his head at her inability to take things seriously. “They’ll catch on eventually.”

Este laughed and turned to him, grabbing his chin, pulling it towards her to give him a kiss on the cheek back. “It’s perfect. You have a good eye,”

“Cate helped pick everything out. I’m not the best decorator. But she was busy dealing with the helium tank to fill all the balloons so I ended up laying everything out by myself in a rush. That’s why it looks a bit shit.” Matty explained, pointing at the crooked letters on the wall.

“Stop it,” she insisted, unwrapping the tulips to dip their stems in the vase and complete the decor. “There’s nothing ‘shit’ about you. It would’ve been enough even if you’d shown up empty handed and sat on the sofa with me all night.”

Stepping closer to the table to copy her, Matty unpacked the food he’d ordered for them. He uncorked the bottle and poured a glass of wine for each of them. She sat down, getting comfortable and increasingly hungry as her stomach rumbled. Hearing its noises and laughing, the two of them dug in.

Once their plates were scraped clean, Matty threw out a “Room for cake?” while a smile sat on his face, knowing they were both too stuffed to even sniff something sweet.

She cradled her full belly, slouching in her chair. “I can’t bring myself to turn down cake but I’m frightened that like, anatomically, it won’t fit in here.”

Matty got up and walked to the fridge to fetch it anyway. “Let's just do the whole ‘sing and blow out the candles’ thing. We can eat it later.”

The white box was set on the table. He let her open the lid and slide out the dessert herself. It was a small heart-shaped cake with light green and white piped icing, reading ‘Happy 28th Este’ across the top. Bright maraschino cherries lined its edge. She grinned at how perfect and delicate it was. A 2 and an 8 candle were peeled out of their package by Matty, who stuck them into the icing, getting a bit on his finger in the process and licking it. Once a match was struck and the wicks were ignited, Matty sang the classic song to her gently.

“Happy birthday to you,” he finished with the last line, maintaining eye contact from across the table.

Este’s brown irises glowed a honey colour from the warmth of the flickering fire, while her cheeks ached from the smile plastered onto it that refused to leave. Looking down to the cake to avoid confronting Matty’s phone that now pointed up at her as he took a picture, she paused to make a wish. He admired her through his screen. A couple of seconds passed before she finally blew out the flames.

As expected, they couldn’t bear the idea of eating a slice. So, they packed it up into its box and placed it back in her fridge, continuing to clean their lunchtime mess, collecting the dishes in the sink and tucking their seats in. But, Matty knew that the corny birthday celebrations weren’t over just yet—he still had her small pile of wrapped presents sat next to his bag, which he then picked up and brought over.

“You really didn’t need to get me anything. All of this is so great already,” she complained, guilty that she hadn’t done anything for his birthday, and gesturing to everything he’d done so far.

They found comfort on her fluffy sofa as he shook his head.

“It’s just something small. Don’t worry.” reassured Matty, who set the three rectangular gifts in her lap. They were similar in shape and size, individually & messily wrapped in patterned paper. He watched as Este’s apprehensive fingertips ripped through the material and revealed what was beneath it.

Of course they’re books, she thought, smiling at how predictable the two of them were. But, what she saw next caught her by surprise. As the other two got unwrapped, Este came to realise that they were all books she had been desperate to read. The shock came from the fact that she hadn’t ever mentioned the titles to Matty, and that as she flipped through them, they were written in. Sticky tabbed, underlined, and starred lines jumped out to catch her attention. Her mouth remained agape for a minute.

“How did you know that I’ve been wanting these?”

“Just looked at that app you showed me during Big Weekend. Came in handy,” he explained. “I picked the five from your ‘to read’ list that seemed the most interesting to me but only ended up getting to finish these three.”

“See, I told you it’s useful.” She laughed in disbelief as she inspected each novel. “Did you really read all of these and write in them for me?”

Matty nodded, grabbing one and looking through it himself. “They’re all great. Helped quiet down my thoughts, I think, since they’ve been too loud lately. Plus, they’re kind of like letters—everything I marked as important or stand-out, and every note I wrote in the margins was done with you in mind. Written for you. It made it fun,”

Este pulled him in for an embrace, squeezing him with delight. A couple of repeated pecks landed on his cheek.

“This is so thoughtful of you, Matty. I don’t know what to say,”

He kissed her once she finished speaking. Her lips had a minty flavour to them.

“So what did you wish for? When you blew out your candles?” Matty wondered aloud, while turning sideways and crossing his legs over one another, to face her fully.

Este copied him. “It won’t come true if I tell you,” she defended, “But there is something I was thinking of getting for my birthday.”

“And what’s that?”

“Do you know of a good piercer around here?”

-

Less than ten minutes later, Matty and Este found themselves walking side by side into the heart of downtown Manchester. Affleck’s was their destination; and the journey was short and sweet. She’d explained to him that she loved the adrenaline of getting pierced and was in the mood for some change. Since The Studio, the piercing and tattoo parlour within the beloved market, took walk-ins, they wasted no time before heading out of the flat with determination.

It was the early evening on a Monday, so there weren’t many people around, and there wasn’t a wait to get seen by a piercer. A couple of waivers were signed before Este winced in pain from the needle going through the cartilage between her nostrils.

Matty held her hand while it happened and hissed painfully alongside her as she squeezed his fingers to brace herself. The minute he complained that she was hurting him, Este gave him a death stare as the needle still sat in her nose and the piercer prepared the jewellery for insertion. Clearly her pain was a bit more intense than his. He got the message.

After it was done, she was handed a mirror to take a look. Este liked the symmetry of the new silver hoop that went through her septum; how it balanced out the weight of the plethora of jewellery stacked on either of her ears. She grinned at her reflection.

“I love it, thank you so much!” said Este, to the piercer. She then looked over to Matty, waiting for his opinion. He reached out to flick a piece of fluff out of her hair, lovingly.

“You’re like my little bull.”

There were stars in his eyes.

With their mission accomplished, they wandered around the rest of the shops without any intention of buying anything else. Her arm was linked with his. They pointed at mannequins clad in heinous clothing to make fun of them and people watched.

“Want to see something funny?” asked Matty as they approached a stairwell far too familiar to him.

“Depends on what it is.”

He dragged her up the first flight and Este’s eyes scanned over its walls. Every inch was covered in posters. A certain one caught her eye, and she instantly knew what he was referencing. Young Ross, Adam, Matty, and George were displayed on an angsty black and white poster near the floor, casually accompanied by ones of David Bowie, The Smiths, and Bob Dylan. Este couldn’t help but laugh at how different Matty looked in the dramatically contrasted shot.

“My god, look at the state of your hair!” she teased.

“A lot of people actually want me to bring the shaved sides back, you know.”

She stepped back and held her phone up, gesturing for him to pose for a picture next to the silly anecdote, still laughing. “I can’t even recall how many times I’ve walked up these stairs without even noticing your little face down there.”

Matty kept a straight face and held up his hand in a thumbs-down position for her photo. “I like to come here whenever I’m in town and have the time to. Seems to get smaller every time.”

“Okay, granddad.”

-

Their legs grew tired of sauntering around with no objective, so soon enough, they collapsed back onto Este’s sofa. She lazily put something random on the telly and sprawled her legs across Matty’s lap—laying down while he sat upward. Rhythmic circles were traced onto the skin right above her ankles by his fingertips as they happily relaxed in the privilege of doing nothing, but together. The lack of plans helped them appreciate every minute passing; how they somehow seemed to pass by slower and feel sweeter as they sat in each other’s company.

In need of the toilet, Este forced herself to leave the nestled position they’d spent the recent hours in. The chill enveloping Matty after her body warmth was no longer draped across him made him frown. But, she came back quickly, and wasn’t even gone long enough to need to ask him what she’d missed on the episode of Bake Off that flashed on her TV screen.

Returning to Matty and the sofa, she decided to sit on top of him. Her knees were on either side of his hips. He smirked at her forward and suddenly bold demeanour as his hands found themselves on Este’s arse. They were comfortable there.

“Have a good wee?” Matty asked with a laugh.

“Yeah, great actually. Thanks.” Her fingers combed through the long and shaggy section of his hair, near the front, to part it down the centre and tuck the curls behind his ears. Seeing more of his face was the goal in her action. “You look pretty.” she repeated, from earlier. Matty’s smirk morphed into a closed-mouth smile at the sound of her niceties.

“I feel pretty with you on top of me.” he retaliated, suspending the suggestive mood she initiated.

Este’s hands remained on either side of his neck when he brought her lips down to meet his. They moved against one another delicately, but both wanted more. It was only a matter of time before the lust between them escalated the heat of the moment. So, she deepened their kiss, pulling Matty in closer and shifting her hips to feel more of him and humming in the process. She winced when his nose brushed against hers and her fresh piercing, but it didn’t stop her.

The friction she created over his bulge made him groan. He pinched the skin at her waist with greed as his hands crept beneath her top. It only encouraged Este to continue with her fluid movements, his pants growing tighter.

As much as Matty wanted to revel in the pleasure of his girl hovering above him—one of his favourite places for her to be—he considered the fact that it was her birthday. Her day. The thought made him want to try something new.

“Can I make you feel good?” he whispered, breaking their lips apart for air and to squeeze his question into the muggy air.

She nodded against him, beginning to climb off of his lap to lay on her back; assuming Matty wanted to go down on her. But, he stopped her before she could. Instead, he just sat up straighter, nearer to the edge of the cushion beneath them, and used his hands to position her straddle over only one of his legs. He wanted Este to ride his thigh.

They didn’t bother taking off any of their clothes. His hands guided her back and forth, her eyes fluttering shut in indulgence as the seam of her shorts and the pressure of his leg pressed against her clit. She bit back a moan with her bottom lip trapped between her teeth.

“Let me hear you, E.” encouraged Matty. Obliging, the next roll of her hips dragged a string of profanity out of her throat. “That’s better.”

The tightness in her lower stomach grew. Hot breath cycled between them as they breathed through their mouths during the lulls that found their lips no longer tangled together. Este could feel his hard-on when the top of her thigh came forward to graze it, growing wetter and closer to her climax by the second. She was a mess, and putty in Matty’s hands.

His eyes were glued to her. The way she moved and moaned his name with determination drove him insane, and made it hard for him to ignore the throbbing in his pants. Her face dropped into his neck, scratching at his skin softly with her teeth as she whined.

“Harder,” Este muttered, clearly getting close. He listened to her command and used his hands to bring her heat along his leg with aggression. The increased force made her cry out into him, head still hidden beneath his jaw.

Matty let her moans heighten in pitch, feeling her start to shake against him. But, suddenly, his hands slowed down her movements. “No,” he told her, “Not yet.”

Cruelly, he deprived her of the feeling she was chasing. A gentler and slower pace continued, much to Este’s dismay, as she quietly begged for more.

“Matty, please,” fell from her lips with desperation.

In response, he began building up the pressure, but at a snail’s pace. Her hips buckled forward in attempts for any pleasure she could get.

“Ask me one more time, baby.”

Her thick hair fell around her face, sticking to her sweaty skin as her head spun. “I need to come. Please, let me,” she forced out to him between her heavy breathing, and as soon as Matty heard her words, he tightened his grip and encouraged her hips to move faster. The sudden boom of resistance on her sensitive core drew more noises from her mouth as she wrapped her arms around his neck.

Este could almost see stars. Only a couple seconds of him grinding her against him and uttering filth into her ear finally brought her to her orgasm, the convulsed muscles in her abdomen releasing their pressure. A wet patch soaked through her shorts and onto Matty’s when she moaned his name. The two of them slowed to a stop to catch their breath and kiss hungrily once more. A giddy expression couldn’t be wiped from her face if she tried.

When she gained a bit of her composure back, still sat on Matty’s lap, she took note of the almost concerning amount of sweat that encompassed their skin and the now dirty clothing they were wearing. “I think I need a shower,” Este decided.

Matty scoffed. “You’re going to leave and take a shower? When this is what you did to me?” he pointed to his crotch in disbelief. He was painfully hard.

Giggling and with a shrug, she responded, “Then come with.”

--- 2 July, 2019

That night, they washed the perspiration off of each other (after the shower head Este promised) and threw on comfy clothes. Both exhausted, they planned on climbing into her bed—but when Matty caught The Goonies popping up on the TV out in the lounge, they ended up staying awake.

Not for much longer, though. They must have only seen ten minutes of the cult classic film before dozing off and spending the night with their jumbled limbs squished together on the sofa. Aching muscles were a theme of the morning that followed.

It was reasonably early when they woke. Matty remembered to wish Este happy birthday the minute he learned she was conscious, showering her face in playful pecks. She didn’t want to do anything more with her day though, and thought yesterday was kind enough for him to plan. A quiet day in with Matty by her side was what she wanted. So they did exactly that, and stayed round her flat to do more nothings. It was peaceful. It was needed.

The annoying thing was that Este didn’t allow him to smoke in the house. When it was a joint, cracking a window was fine—as she frequently did so herself—but she forced him to take his cigarettes outside. As Matty needed another one, she followed him down, to soak up all of him she could get.

But, in the back of her mind, Este knew she was looking for a moment to be serious with him. Have a conversation about what had been fogging her conscience since he surprised her at Greenhouse the previous day.

Leaning against the wall of her building while he took a drag next to her, she mustered up the courage.

“So,” she started quietly, “Do you see other people?”

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