#ceil palmer

[chaotic-murder-gremlin]

I’m only 33 episodes into Welcome to Night Vale but I feel like Night Vale is tumblr and Dessert Bluffs is twitter

[novelconcepts]

Something something “secure your own oxygen mask before helping others”, Van Palmer.

[jolteonmchale]

I passed! I frickin' passed! I get to stay!

[girldickdotcom]

considering a twin peaks x thursday web weaving post rn

[or-not-2b---i-dont-know]

I do have to inform everyone that I unironically snorted watching the show for the first time when Corey basically stares directly at the audience and goes WE'RE GONNA CALL IT...

THE CEILING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[alicentsgf]

Rewatching recently and stopped to see what book Coach Ben tried to read in one scene and was pretty struck by it. It was The Magus by John Fowles, a psychological thriller that confronts the complexities of the human condition in a lot of the same ways Yellowjackets does (all whilst being filled to the brim with allegories to greek mythology and moral philosophy), the protagonist a young teacher who finds himself increasingly unable to tell reality from illusion (fitting). and, more relevant to this post ! it plays with identity and what it means to have free will - how truly free we are when we're so influenced by our environment.

This is one of its more notable quotes:

"The human race is unimportant. It is the self that must not be betrayed.” “I suppose one could say that Hitler didn’t betray his self.” “You are right. He did not. But millions of Germans did betray their selves. That was the tragedy. Not that one man had the courage to be evil. But that millions had not the courage to be good.”

This show really does tell us exactly what its about in nearly every single episode. You just have to pay attention.

some people are dodging the point so hard. like yes shaunas the "bad guy", shes the one who wants people dead (and maybe lottie too ig) but this story has always been about why its even possible for that to matter. shes literally just one person so why dont they all just refuse to participate? nat does, repeatedly, but no one stands with her so lottie and shauna get what they want. we saw that shauna literally backed down when tai stood up to her, she isnt some unstoppable force.

this is and has always been about passive violence. how being silent in the face of violence, not actively standing up and saying "No" is complicity. tai and van rigging the cards so it will be the "outsider" who gets hunted is complicity. it is commentary on how we allow "fringe" members of our communities to be cast out, othered, hunted, because we're too afraid for ourselves to stand in solidarity with them. but then in the end when the violence comes for you or your friend or your family theres no one left to stand with you because you abandoned those "others" who could have stood with you. shauna and lottie only have the power that the girls give them by being passively complicit in a similar way to how shauna was complicit in tai's plan for allie in the pilot. and so it goes again and again. they all ostracised jackie, watched javi drown, let shauna intimidate and lottie lead them to vote against ben. this show is literally inspired by twin peaks, a story in which an entire town is found to be complict in the murder of a girl they all snubbed every possible opportunity to save. the point is not that shauna is the villian but rather that she is only able to hurt people because the others have created an environment that indulges her worst impulses.

[pensthoughts]

call me crazy… and this just came to me recklessly… but i KNOW you would write the most insane, angsty and somehow fluffy, van palmer fic based on “pushing it down and praying” by lizzy mcalpine… van is just so that song and i’d love to see what you would do… ty!

pushing it down and praying | v.p

a/n: okay so i saw this request and was like omg why didn't i think of that because i seriously love that song and it matches van so perfectly! hope you enjoy <3 pairing: van palmer x f!reder summary: (au where no crash happened) you've spent years pushing it down—what you feel for van, what you're afraid to want. then one night, everything unravels in your bedroom. and suddenly pretending isn't so easy anymore. word count: 2.5k contains: angst, smut, fluff, alcohol

you were in bed, naked. and your boyfriend was over you as you stared at the ceiling.

he kissed your neck. said something about how much he missed you this week. you were always at soccer, and when you weren't at soccer you were hanging out with van. you murmured something back, a vague sound of agreement.

but your eyes stayed fixed on the water stain in the corner of his bedroom ceiling. you watched it like it meant something.

you knew a lot about him. you knew how he liked his eggs and his favorite baseball team. you knew he was sweet, and that your parents liked him, and that he always offered you his jacket when it got cold.

but he didn't make you feel electric. he didn't make your stomach twist just by walking into a room.

he wasn't van.

you and van had been friends since freshman year. soccer brought you together—late bus rides and bruised knees, the way she always made fun of your shoelaces and then tied them for you anyway. somewhere in the middle of all that, she became your favorite person. and then, without warning, something more.

it was easier not to name it.

easier to keep dating the boy who liked you and didn't ask questions.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

friday after practice, you were supposed to meet him. he said that he'd drive you to that diner you liked, grab food and then drop you off at home so you could get ready for jackie's party. he'd even told you that he'd wait outside the field.

"you better not flake," he's said with a half-smile.

"i won't," you'd replied.

but when practice ended, and you jogged off the field, still tying your hair up, it wasn't your boyfriend you saw.

it was van—leaning against her car, eating a granola bar, her hair messy but still cute. she raised her eyebrows when she she saw you.

"you need a ride?" she asked. "i got a fresh mixtape and a slurpee craving."

you froze. your cleats scuffed the pavement.

"my boyfriend's supposed to pick me up," you said slowly.

van made a face like, of course he is. "guess i'll just take my superior taste in music elsewhere, then."

she turned to go, keys jangling in her hand.

and you—before you even thought about it—called after her. "wait."

she looked over her shoulder.

you hesitated, then said, "can we just... go for a little bit?"

a beat passed. then she smiled—slow and crooked. "get in, loser."

the 7-eleven parking lot was mostly empty. you sat on the hood of her car, passing a bag of chips back and forth. she was ranting about a song she hated on the radio.

you didn't talk about the fact that you ditched your boyfriend. she didn't ask.

but your knee kept bumping against hers. and neither of you moved.

"you coming to jackie's tonight?" she asked

"i guess," you said, trying to sound casual

"you guessing because you're playing it cool, or because lover boy's dragging you there?"

you rolled your eyes. "he's not dragging me."

van smirked. "sure."

your fingers curled tight around your unfinished slurpee, "are you going?"

she shrugged. "only if you are."

and that was the problem. the way she said things like that, offhand, careless, but it never felt like nothing.

it felt like everything.

in her car, she had music playing low, some old tracks you both liked, and the windows cracked just enough to let in the spring air. she drummed the steering wheel as you passed through your neighborhood.

"you wanna hang at my place for a bit before you get ready?" she asked. "i still owe you a rematch. foosball."

you bit your lip. "i should go home. gotta figure out what to wear."

van shrugged. "i could help. i have amazing taste."

you rolled your eyes, but you still said, "fine, but only because i don't trust jackie to not wear the same thing as me."

you pretended that was the reason. but it wasn't.

in your room, van flopped onto your bed like she owned it, grinning at the pile of clothes on your floor.

"this what fashion looks like?" she teased.

you shot her a look, rifling through your closet. "help me pick something or shut up."

she stood and walked over, close enough that you could feel the warmth of her behind you. her fingers brushed past yours to pull out a black dress.

"this," she said. "you look good in black."

you turned. her eyes were already on you.

the air between you shifted.

you could've kissed her. you wanted to. your heart was hammering and your throat felt tight and her mouth was right there, soft and parted, like she was waiting for something.

you swallowed it all down.

"we shouldn't," you whispered, eyes flickering from her lips to her eyes

van didn't step back.

she didn't say anything either—just watched you, gaze heavy and unreadable, like she was trying to figure out if she should let you go or pull you in.

and when you didn't move, when your breath caught just slightly, when your fingers stayed tangled in the hem of your shirt instead of pushing her away; she closed the space.

her hands were careful as they found your waist, thumbs slipping just beneath your t-shirt. her mouth brushed yours like a question—one she'd already asked a thousand different ways in a thousand quierter moments. you answered her without words.

the kiss started tentative. but it didn't stay that way.

you clutched at her shirt, pulled her closer, and suddenly everything you've been holding back cracked wide open. van kissed you like she was starving. like she'd been holding her breath for years. and you let her.

clothes dissapeared in pieces. her mouth didn't leave yours until she had to—only when she knelt at the edge of your bed; her hands gripping your thighs like she was afraid you'd vanish if she let go.

"you sure?" she asked, voice low, wrecked.

your answer was a nod, breathless. "please."

van lowered her head, kissing the inside of your thigh first—slow, like she was learning you with her mouth. and when her tongue found you, warm and right, your whole body went taut.

she moved carefully at first. gentle licks. soft circles. testing what made you gasp, what made your hips rise off the bed. but once she found your rhythm, she didn't let up. her tongue pressed deeper, more deliberate now, and the heat in your gut coiled tight and fast.

you moaned—quiet, shaky—and van hummed against you like she liked the sound.

one of your hands tangled in her hair, the other fisting your sheets. your thighs trembled. she didn't stop. her grip on your hips tightened as her mouth worked you over, unrelenting, like she was trying to rewrite something in your bones.

it was too much. it wasn't enough. you whispered her name, broken and desperate, and that was what did it—van's eyes flicked up, locked on yours, and you came undone under her mouth, under her hands, under her everything.

you collapsed back against your pillows, heart pounding in your ears. van pressed a kiss to your hip, then rested her head against you like it was where she belonged.

neither of you spoke. you stayed tangled in each other for a few long, quiet minutes.

van's thumb traced lazy circles on your hip, her head resting just below your collarbone. her breath had evened out, but yours hadn't. not really.

you wanted to stay like this forever. you couldn't.

you cleared your throat softly. "you probably have to go."

van didn't move at first. just blinked, slow, against your skin. "oh. yeah. the party."

you nodded, not meeting her eyes as you sat up, pulling the edge of your comforter over your chest like it made a difference. "my boyfriend's supposed to pick me up soon anyway."

the silence that followed was thick.

van swung her legs over the side of the bed, grabbing her shirt off the floor. "right. of course."

you stood too, avoiding her gaze as you picked your clothes up one by one, like if you moved fast enough, you could pretend none of this happened.

but it did.

you felt it in every inch of you.

van paused at your doorway, one hand braced on the frame. she looked back once, her expression unreadable. "i'll see you tonight?"

you hesitated. "yeah."

she gave you a small smile. not her real one. not the one that lit up her whole face. just the one she wore when she was pretending to be okay.

and then she was gone.

you sat on the edge of your bed, still half-naked, staring at the closed door like it might open again. like she might change her mind and come back.

but she didn't.

you exhaled, long and shaky, then reached for the black dress van had picked out for you.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

jackie's house was already packed when you arrived. the music was loud enough to make the walls pulse. shauna pressed a red cup into your hand. mari grabbed your wrist and dragged you into the kitchen. jackie, the perfect host, was fluttering throughout the rooms making sure to greet everyone. you saw lottie sitting on the couch, laughing with laura lee, looking like a daydream.

and then van walked in.

you wouldn't be lying if you said you felt it before you saw her—that electric shift, the twist in your chest. her jacket was tied around her waist and she was talking to taissa. you couldn't hear the words, just the way van's face lit up when she laughed.

your boyfriend's arm slipped around your waist. you didn't lean away, but you also didn't hear whatever he was saying. not really.

"hey, did you hear me?" your boyfriend asked.

you blinked. "what?"

"i said i'm gonna grab drinks. you want one?"

you nodded, "sure."

when he disappeared into the kitchen, you started toward van. you didn't plan it. your feet just moved.

but before you could reach her, she turned—and someone pulled her in to dance.

you stopped short. just watched.

she didn't even see you.

the backyard was quieter. you stepped out with a red solo cup you weren't drinking from and sat on the steps. your heart was thudding in your throat and you couldn't name why.

until she sat down next to you.

van's jacket brushed your arm. "you ghosting me already?"

you glanced at her. "thought you were busy dancing."

her eyebrows lifted. "were you watching me?"

you didn't answer.

she took the cup from your hands and drank from it without asking.

"i saw you with him when i walked in," she said.

you stared at the grass. "he's my boyfriend."

van was quiet for a long beat.

then: "right. forgot. that makes everything fine."

you looked at her. "don't."

"no, seriously," she said, her words slurring slightly. "we fucked a few hours ago and now you're back to playing house. it's seriously impressive."

you flinched. "van—"

she laughed, bitter and sharp. "what? you thought i'd forget? that i'd pretend nothing happened because you're pretending too?"

"i'm not—" you started.

"yes, you are," she snapped. "you do this every time. you pull me in, and then you shove me back like it didn't matter."

"of course it mattered," you said. your voice cracked. "you think that didn't mean everything to me?"

van looked at you, really looked. "then say it."

you couldn't.

so she stood. her fingers were shaking a little as she brushed them through her hair.

"i'm trying," you said. your voice cracked. "i'm trying to do the right thing. it's just confusing"

van's face twisted. "then why does it feel like you're lying every time you touch him?"

the words hit like a slap. because they were true. and she knew it. and so did you.

"you're not confused," she said. "you're scared. and i get it. but i can't keep being the thing you hide."

"i didn't mean for it to go this far," you whispered.

van looked at you. "yeah," she whispered. "me neither."

she turned to go, but paused. her voice was quiet when she said, "why do you keep doing this? pushing it down like you're praying it'll just disappear. do you even want it to?"

you didn't have an answer. not one you were brave enough to say.

and then she was gone.

later, when the party spilled back inside and the music got louder, you stood in the doorway and watched van laugh with shauna, beer in her hand, head thrown back like nothing had ever happened.

"you okay?" your boyfriend asked, noticing your bad mood

you nodded.

you weren't.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

that night, when he dropped you off, you kissed him goodbye and said "i'll call you," knowing you wouldn't.

then you climbed into your bed, the ceiling dark above you, the silence heavier than usual.

van's voice echoed in your head.

"you're not confused. you're scared."

you closed your eyes. but van's face was still there.

you tried to sleep. you flipped onto your side, then your stomach, then your back again. nothing helped.

you stared at the ceiling again. but now all you could think about was the way van had looked at you when she said, "do you even want it to go away?"

you didn't.

so you got up. pulled a sweatshirt over your pajama top, sat by your baywindow, and just...waited.

for what? you weren't sure. maybe a sign of some sort.

and then, just like some cosmic joke or a small miracle, you saw it.

headlights. her car pulling up to the curb, engine cutting off.

a few seconds later, a pebble tapped against your window. you were alredy opening it.

she looked up at you from below, jacket zipped halfway, hair a little windblown. "you gonna let me in or just keep staring like some tragic diary entry?"

you smiled before you could stop it. "come up."

she climbed the lattice by your window like it wasn't her first time, slipping in with the same ease she always did. but tonight felt different.

heavier and lighter all at once.

you stood across from her in the dark then finally said it.

"i don't want to keep pretending."

van's shoulders softened. "good. 'cause i'm really bad at pretending."

you walked to her, slow. "i'm scared."

"me too," she whispered.

she reached for you gently—just fingertips at first. then a full touch. her hands resting at your waist, like she was checking to make sure you were real.

and you leaned in. no one had to make the first move. you met in the middle. quiet and warm and finally, finally honest.

outside, the streetlights buzzed softly.

inside, you fell asleep with her breath on your neck.

and for the first time in forever, you didn't feel like you had to run from it.

[vevobly]

Reader Being Their First Kiss Headcanons! [Pre-crash]

A/N: just pretend for a moment, please! 😭

Jackie Taylor:

Jackie lets you kiss her first, but only because she lets you believe it was your idea. Maybe you're talking about or maybe she's teasing you about your lack of experience when you finally roll your eyes and just do it out of nowhere. She doesn't get flustered when you kiss her. If anything, she acts like she expected it. She hums afterward, tilting her head like she's evaluating it. "Not bad," She says, and then, casually so, she adds, "I think you need to do that again, you didn't do it right that time" But then the next day after? She never brings it up again. It's as if it just never happened. But if you do bring it up to her? Oh, she'll just smile at you as if it were a joke and completely dismiss it by changing the subject one way or another.

Shauna Shipman:

You kiss Shauna on impulse, maybe after a long night of talking, maybe because she's just looking at you like she's waiting for something to happen. And when you do kiss her, she kisses you back. It's soft and uncertain before she suddenly pulls away from you and blinks rapidly like she's just woken up. "We can't," She says it so quickly before she looks away. She won't explain why, but she spends the next few days avoiding eye contact with you. Just pretending it didn't mean anything. But oh, later in her home during the night, she just stares up at her ceiling. Replaying the moment over and over again, while asking herself why she let it happen. And why, just why in the hell, does she kind of want it to happen again?

Taissa Turner:

You kiss Taissa because she dared you to. Or at least, that's how she frames it after. “You hesitated,” She teases when you pull back, even though she was the one frozen for half a second too long. “What, did you expect fireworks?” she jokes after you don't reply to her, her voice just a little too even. She acts like it was no big deal for the following days like she's already forgotten about the whole thing ever happening. But when she lies down in her bed at night? She just stares at the ceiling for too long, touching her lips without thinking and frowning. No matter what she does, she just can't keep her mind off that night with you. Hell, she keeps tossing and turning in her bed because of it when she's asleep. Even when she's sleeping, you're there in her dreams.

Van Palmer:

When you kiss Van, she laughs. Not because it's funny! But because she's nervous. Oh, and because she can't believe that it just happened. “Whoa,” She eventually says, grinning. “That was… huh.” She tilts her head, looking at you like she’s trying to figure something out. “Wanna do it again?” She plays it off like a joke. Like she’s not taking it seriously. But her face is red, and she keeps glancing at your lips like she’s waiting for you to take her up on it. When you don't? She makes jokes about it the following days after it. Calling you a heartbreaker, and waggling her eyebrows at you whenever someone mentions kissing. But if you ever kissed her again after it, even if it's a bit late? She'd be nonfunctional.

Natalie Scatorccio:

Natalie kisses you first, but only after making some sarcastic remark about how dumb it all is. It's quick, just a test for something, but when she pulls away? She hesitates like she wants to do it again. But instead of doing it again, she just scoffs and shrugs. “Guess that’s off the bucket list,” She mutters. Then she says something about how it wasn't bad, before immediately changing the subject. She thinks about it a few days later at a party with you, where she's lingering near you more than usual. When she drinks, she mumbles something about wondering what would've happened if you'd done it again. You pretend not to hear it and take her home to your house. It's not like she's gonna remember saying it, right? But you're wrong! Because Nat is asking how you feel about her a few days later.

Lottie Matthews:

When you kiss Lottie, it's inside her car, parked in your driveway after she drove you home from her party. You don't know what came over you, just that she was the prettiest girl you've ever seen, and you wanted to know how her lips would feel against yours. And Lottie? She leans into your kiss and deepens it slightly, just enough to let you know she means it. That it isn't a fluke, a mistake, or a rich girl's whim. When she finally pulls back from you? She's blinking a lot as if she'd just woke up. “…So that happened.” She says, her voice quiet and her cheeks tinged red. “Was that a thank you for the ride or the party?” She jokes, smiling softly at you. You laugh, before grabbing the collar of her shirt and kissing her again.

Laura Lee:

You kiss Laura Lee during a moment of comfortable silence. Maybe it was after a heartfelt conversation with her, or perhaps just because you wanted to. But she gasps, eyes wide as she immediately covers her mouth like she just committed a crime. “I-I wasn’t expecting that,” She stammers, her face turning red. She doesn't bring it up after. And as much as she just wants to avoid you so things don't become awkward between the two of you, she goes for being more quieter around you instead. She writes about what happened and about you in her journal. She prays about it for the following nights after, not because she regrets it! But because she doesn't know what it meant. She doesn't understand why her heart keeps racing around you, and how she feels like she's out of breath with you.

Misty Quigley:

You kiss Misty, and for half a second, she's completely still. Then her whole face lights up, her breath hitching like she just won the lottery. “Really?” She whispers. Her eyes are practically shining, and you think for a moment that she might just start crying right now somehow. “You-you kissed me?” She says it like the whole idea of her being kissed by you is unfathomable. You chuckled, before nodding and smiling softly at her. She practically beams at you, tackling you into a really tight sorta uncomfortable hug after. Then for the following days, she talks about it constantly like it was the most important thing to ever happen to her.

[moonwateraura]

“Almost” pt. 2

“We Almost Kissed, Right?”

(Van Palmer x Reader – pre-crash, slow burn, yearning, first kiss, eventual smut)

⸻

Van couldn’t stop thinking about it.

The way you looked at her right before Misty interrupted. The brush of your hand against hers. Your voice, teasing, low, a little breathless—“You ever stop talking?”

No amount of sarcasm, deflection, or self-deprecating jokes could cover how wrecked she was from that moment. Or from the way you’d smiled before walking away with a “Maybe” about their date.

She replayed it over and over, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling of her tiny-ass room, clutching a pillow like it could tell her if you’d actually wanted to kiss her back.

And now it was Friday. The movie night.

And Van was panicking.

⸻

“You’re not even watching the movie.”

Van flinched, caught. “I’m watching it. I’m just… also watching the door. In case someone tries to break in and stop this moment of cinematic genius.”

Natalie rolled her eyes, arms crossed as she sat on Van’s bed. “You’re a disaster. Why are you freaking out? You like her. She obviously likes you back. You have this stupid smile every time she talks to you.”

“I do not,” Van muttered. She absolutely did.

“You do,” Natalie said. “Like a Golden Retriever seeing their leash. It’s embarrassing actually.”

Van flopped back on her bed with a groan. “What if she’s just nice? Like, what if I’m reading everything wrong? Maybe she almost kissed me because she’s polite”

Natalie gave her a look. “Yeah, that’s what people do. They politely lean in to make out by firelight.”

Van threw a pillow at her.

⸻

You showed up fifteen minutes late. On purpose.

Your heart had been racing all afternoon. You kept reliving the bonfire, too—the closeness, the way Van’s voice dropped when she flirted, like even she was unsure if it was safe to hope.

And that stupid, perfect, almost-kiss.

You wanted it. You still wanted it. But a part of you had been so used to playing it safe—keeping your feelings inside, holding back just in case it was all in your head.

But then Van opened the door.

Hair a little messy, wearing her favorite hoodie and a lopsided grin like she’d been pacing for the past hour. And her eyes when she saw you—like the world had tilted just a little in her direction.

“Hey,” you said, suddenly shy.

“You came,” Van said, breath catching.

You stepped inside. “You invited me.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t know if you were just flirting back out of pity.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You think I flirt out of pity?”

Van looked like she was about to dig herself into a hole, so you took mercy and dropped your bag, brushing your shoulder against hers as you stepped into the room.

“Depends on the movie,” you said casually. “If you picked something terrible, I’m leaving and never talking to you again.”

Van perked up. “So high stakes. Perfect. I thrive under pressure.”

She had not picked a bad movie. You ended up on the couch together, both pretending to focus on the opening credits of The Thing while your knees brushed and your shared blanket got pulled just a little too high.

Halfway through the movie, you realized neither of you had spoken in fifteen minutes. You were both too aware of the silence.

You turned to say something just as Van turned toward you.

Your faces were close. Like bonfire close. Like someone move or this is happening close.

You didn’t move.

Neither did she.

Van licked her lips nervously. “So, uh. We almost kissed, right?”

You blinked. “That’s what you got out of this movie night?”

“I mean…” Van swallowed. “It’s not the only thing. But it’s up there.”

You looked down, smiling—shy, a little embarrassed.

Then you nodded. “Yeah. We almost did.”

Van’s voice dropped. “Is that something you… wanted?”

You met her eyes, heart pounding. “Yeah.”

Van exhaled, like she’d been holding her breath since the bonfire.

And then, slow and uncertain but so goddamn gentle, she leaned in. This time, you met her halfway.

The kiss was soft—more emotional than either of you expected. Her hand came up to your cheek, warm and shaking slightly. Your fingers twisted in the fabric of her hoodie, pulling her closer.

You parted just an inch, foreheads touching.

“Took you long enough,” you whispered.

Van laughed against your lips. “You’re the one who walked away!”

“You got interrupted!”

You both dissolved into quiet laughter, grinning like idiots, still touching, still too close to think straight.

And then she kissed you again.

This time with more certainty. Less fear.

More heat.

Her hands found your waist, tugging you closer until you were halfway in her lap, and neither of you were really paying attention to the movie anymore. Her lips moved with yours like she’d been waiting forever for this—and god, maybe she had. All the yearning, the wondering, the near-misses—all of it spilled into this kiss.

Your hands were in her hair now. Her hoodie was halfway off. You both broke apart, breathless.

Van looked at you, eyes wide and bright. “So, uh. Is this still technically the first date?”

You grinned. “It’s going very well.”

She laughed, giddy. “Do we stop?”

You kissed her again, slower this time, thumb brushing her jaw. “Do you want to?”

Van groaned softly against your lips. “Not even a little.”

The blanket was kicked off. The movie forgotten. Her hands explored your sides like she was memorizing the shape of you. You kissed her neck and she shivered, letting out the softest sound that went straight to your core.

She kissed you like she was starving. Desperate. Like she couldn’t believe you were really there.

It didn’t go further than heated kisses, tangled limbs, roaming hands and soft gasps—but it was enough. It was more than enough.

When you both finally collapsed back against the couch, wrapped in each other, flushed and breathing hard, Van whispered, “This might be the best movie night in the history of the world.”

You nuzzled closer to her neck. “Even better than The Shining?”

She laughed, wrapping her arms tighter around you. “Okay, now you’re pushing it.”

But neither of you moved. You just stayed there, tangled up, hearts still racing.

And Van, for once, didn’t wonder if you liked her.

She knew.

[neon-impressions]

Straightjacket

Laura?

February 24th, 1989 | Twin Peaks

[leonkennedybreedingkink]

I MUST BE SPOILED AND ROTTEN (CAUSE NO ONE ELSE WOULD EVER DO)

real dad!leon x fem reader

warnings: father-daughter incest. could perhaps be read as a sequel for too close for comfort. daddy kink. also more nicole dollanganger, this is a little more directly inspired by uncle. pussy smacking, d/s dynamics, established relationship. title taken from spoiled and rotten by darling violetta.

Summer is blisteringly hot. It’s been nothing but eighties and nineties and humidity. It doesn’t even have the decency to cool the hell down at night. Your box fan doesn’t do much for you, the only air conditioner is in the living room.

Which is why you’re awake, staring at the ceiling with a gnawing in your lower stomach.

You get up, clad in dad’s old t-shirt and ruffle socks, and pad down to dad’s room.

The door creaks when it opens, there’s no reprieve from the heat in his room or the hallway.

You slip silently into his room and crawl into bed with him. “Daddy?”

Leon’s up in a moment, strong arms wrapping around you. Government training left its mark all these years later. “What is it, baby?”

“Can’t sleep.” You nuzzle his neck, leaving a kiss over his pulse.

He laughs, voice ragged from sleep, and your stomach flutters as one of his arms unwinds from you and dives into your panties. “Yeah? Think I know why, baby. Want me to make it better?”

You nod, lifting your leg up a little more for him.

Quickly, he withdraws his hand and smacks your pussy hard enough to make you jolt and cry out.

“What do we say?” No change in his inflection, but that’s your daddy.

“Thank you, daddy.” You mumble, rewarded with a kiss to your jaw and his hand gently petting over your stinging clit.

“My poor baby.” Leon coos, nudging your nose with his and leaving a kiss near your mouth as he slowly fumbles with your clit. “Your fingers not doing it for you anymore?”

You shake your head. “No, daddy.” They haven’t since he got inside you that first time, bending you over the kitchen counter while dinner burned on the stove.

Yeah, it was real fun trying to shut up the fire alarm whilst you both were naked from the waist down. Doing the dishes was awful, but that’s his job.

You stiffen up when he pushes two fingers in, no burning stretch because he got you used to three in no time.

When you moan, Dad rewards you with the heel of his palm grinding against your clit. “That’s my sweet girl.” He rests his forehead against yours, then kisses you as you get close, feeding off your moans and the way your walls squeeze his fingers.

Leon withdraws his fingers and gently wipes his hand on your tummy, patting your mound gently and grinning when you giggle. “Is that better?” He wraps an arm around your waist and tugs you over, head in your neck.

“Mhm…” you nod lazily, already nodding off.

One orgasm plus dad’s weight on you equals a good ten hours of sleep.

You shift a little as you stand in front of your mom’s grave, feeling sort of ashamed in some odd way. Would mom be horrified if she was alive? If she knew her husband and kid were doing it on the daily?

Then again, you kinda ceded the kid label the second you let dad get inside you. Maybe that’s why you’re so interested in Twin Peaks, Laura Palmer was her dad’s own daughter-wife.

You lean into dad’s side unconsciously, staring at the headstone and sweating through your t-shirt in the fucking sun.

Later, as you’re cooking for the two of you, dad’s hands slip beneath your shirt, resting on your waist. “You’ve been all weird today, baby.” He sets his chin on top of your head and comes a little closer, fingers drumming on your sides.

He’s like a cat, Leon is. Never shows up when you’re actively showing attention to him and is bothered by it at best, only to turn around and come begging for it when you inevitably fuck off. You’d think he’d sleep at your feet if he could.

You sigh, stirring the noodles around the pan. “It’s complicated.”

Leon sighs too, dropping his head to ghost his mouth over your cheekbone. “So? Talk about it with me. I’ll uncomplicate it for you.”

You stir a little more, staring down at the pan and slowly sweating through your previously clean shirt. You should’ve just thrown this shit in the crockpot and called it a day. “Feel like I’m disrespecting her. Mom.”

His hands freeze; called it.

“Why?” He asks slowly, like he’s trying to interrogate you. Kinda reminds you of when he’d run a full investigation of why there were no leftover pizza slices left. If there are none left and only two people in the house, no dog, then how many graves are you spitting on?

You scoff, trying to pull away, but Leon’s got you cornered against the stove. “Come on, baby.” He goads, wrapping big fucking arms around your middle and pulling you in. “Why?”

You’d look at him as if he grew two heads if you could. “Because she’s my mom. Cause she’s your wife. You fucked her before me.”

He snorts in your ear, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Is that jealousy I hear, baby?”

You growl in annoyance, turning off the heat. “Don’t ‘baby’ me.”

Dad smiles against your face. “You sound just like your mother.” Of course this motherfucker isn’t bothered by it. “Just like her too.” He pats your ass. “In some ways, at least.” A wet kiss on your neck.

You make an unhappy noise, aiming an elbow at his ribs. “Focus, dad, Jesus fucking Christ. You can’t just fuck me every time we have a disagreement.” It’s not really a disagreement, he thinks you’re all in your head again. Got that from mom too.

Dad freezes, then withdraws, turning you to face him with the hands on your sides. “I’m sorry. Promise I’ll be serious.” Leon takes a hand and kisses it, keeping a hold of it like a bridge between you.

You huff, only slightly mollified by him. “You don’t feel… you’re not bothered by it?”

Leon’s eyes study you for a while, brows slowly furrowing. “I love you. Lots and lots, baby. What—“ he holds your hand a little tighter. “what we have, what we do, is only a natural extension of that.”

When you’re silent again, he reels you in, his fish on a line and hook in your cheek. “The royals did that, didn’t they?”

“Yeah, and Prince Phillip was a ghastly looking beast.” You mutter, pressing your ear to his heart. Dad snorts above you.

Hear that? That beats for you. Used to beat for mom, but he got a new one just for his precious girl.

“And Nicholas the second’s son had that blood disorder because of it.” That’s probably not true, but also could be true, who knows.

Divine punishment, like in a One Hundred Years of Solitude when that kid was born with the pig tail after generations of inbreeding. The entire settlement in Venezuela got wiped from the face of the earth for that. Rocks fall, everyone dies.

Lot’s daughters raped him. His wife got turned into a pillar of salt because she looked back after they fled Sodom and the girls never got any comeuppance.

He smooths a palm over your head. “Honey, Alexandra also had the same problem. So did at least two of the daughters.”

“But we don’t know.” You look up at him and frown.

Dad pouts down at you too before kissing you. “Your mom is always in my heart.” He says once he’s pulled away, wiping a bit of his spit from the corner of your mouth. “And so are you. She’d want me to be happy.”

You hold back a snarky comment, only giving him a look. Leon shrugs and straightens up. “Is that all it was, babydoll?”

You nod after a moment and he pats you on the ass again. “Better?”

You suppose so, you’re not really sure.

You feel a little like everyone knows when they look at you. Like Girl, Interrupted when Angelina Jolie looks at Brittany Murphy’s character and tells her everyone knows her dad rapes her, but what they—we—all missed is that she likes it.

Liked. Likes. Same difference, honestly. All that matters is that she—you—liked what her dad did to her. Rape.

God, what if his coworkers found out? Incest is a felony in most states. You and him go in the clinker, and everyone knows what happens in prison showers.

There are some things better kept between family.

Your dad loves you, you know he does. You love him too, even if everyone else is weirded out about it. He needed a relic of mom’s around, and what are you if not that?

Cum is thicker than water, in that sense.

[rottenpumpkin13]

*coughs* so! how will the executives celebrate the holidays? 🙏

Things That Happen at Shinra During The Holidays, A List

• Hojo hates Christmas because it's "futile and sentimental nonsense that detracts from scientific progress," so Sephiroth makes it a point to be seen wearing a santa hat in his presence at least once. He's calculated the exact angle at which the pompom will be most irritating to Hojo's peripheral vision.

• Reeve attempts to spread holiday cheer by creating an automated Elf on The Shelf that not only moves autonomously, but films people's misdeeds and emails the footage to them via a cryptic email signed "the elf." This is a spectacularly bad idea, as Genesis received footage of himself. His attempt to incinerate the elf only revealed its fire-resistant properties and inability to die. Genesis had a nervous breakdown and is now on leave. Sephiroth was seen collecting the elf "for future use."

• Scarlet designs explosive ornaments. Zack likes to touch and grab shiny things. Zack nearly lost a hand when he attempted to steal a candy cane ornament in the lobby.

• Palmer is a man of taste and knows where to order the best, expensive, gourmet gingerbread cookies from. Zack knows this, which is why he's been stationed outside his office every day to steal them, wearing all black like a burglar, complete with ski mask.

• Heidegger thought it'd be funny to bark out during infantry drills that "that one kid out there is the size of an elf." Cloud's resulting look of rage was so potent it projected a telepathic middle finger directly into Heidegger's brain. He now has recurring nightmares about Cloud Strife.

• Lazard organizes a "professionally appropriate" Secret Santa at SOLDIER that ended in tears and fire because Genesis got Angeal a plastic plant, while Angeal got Genesis a book of "Poetry for Beginners." Sephiroth and Zack had to physically pry them apart because tried to kill each other.

• Rufus keeps dressing Dark Nation in little holiday outfits like Santa Claus, an elf, an angel, etc. when people aren't around and it brings him immense joy.

• President Shinra throws an extravagant company holiday party every year, mostly to show off the year's profits and the company's opulence. This year's party was particularly memorable when Reeve's unkillable Elf on the Shelf crashed through the ceiling during the president's speech, projecting a compilation of everyone's embarrassing moments onto the main wall.

[smilesession]

i have an intense craving to try to smoke pot again and this happens all the time. every time it happens i end up taking inventory of all of the reasons i should not smoke pot again. i probably should not smoke pot for the rest of my life. i watched a semi popular youtuber who is a neuroscientist talking about the relationship between marijuana psychosis and full throttle schizophrenia. if you wade in similar waters to me on the computer you probably already know the guy i'm talking about and the studies he was talking about. but i'm not a neuroscientist and i don't know what's really true and what's basically just Reefer Madness. but i have "reefer madness." i'm a "reefer madness" sleeper agent essentially. i don't know what i think is gonna happen. the guy in the videos' essential point was: if you ever experience psychosis from marijuana, stop right away before it develops into full throttle schizophrenia

inventory:

-i am 15? 16? and smoking bongs regularly. i smoke with my dad sometimes. he gets into dabs. he gives me a dab. the world shatters. i try to go into my bedroom, he is still talking to me about something and i don't want to be impolite, so i try to hold myself up on the banister. i completely, abruptly lose consciousness and the next thing i know, my mom is helping me up from the ground. i fell into a laundry basket. i go to bed and for the next unknown span of time, i can feel my body is on fire and being burned from the inside. i am seeing a geometric hallucination overtaking everything. it's like a grid of images, like a sheet of LSD overtaking everything, it's really stupid and pissing me off because it's alternating between malicious faces and wiggly cartoon pot leafs. i'm so mad that i'm in so much pain and being shown something so generic and goofy. <- this same sort of thing will happen when i'm on LSD later on in life, like a parody of itself

-i am 16 or 17 and smoked with friends and we are walking to the gas station down the block. it's winter and it's really, really cold and there's snow on the ground. i watch my feet in the snow and i become terrified. i'm convinced we're never going to make it to the gas station. i start believing it's wwii and i'm in a concentration camp. i start believing my friends are going to kill me. i start believing there was never any gas station and this is just an endless walk that they took me on to torture me to death

-i am 17 and smoked with friends and they put on twin peaks. i become convinced that the show is about my real life before i died, it is the story of how i died. i was Laura Palmer and now i don't exist anymore and "reality is trying to contact me" and let me know that i am already dead

-between the ages of 17 and 20 i make it a hobby to "lean into the fear" and use the fear recreationally. various encounters with the fear enhance the experiences of listening to Negativland - Helter Stupid, Swans' discography, and such things. i stop doing this forever at 20 when it goes too far, listening to "Carnis Vale" by Non and feel the weight of all torture throughout history. i feel like i am being invaded by all torture throughout the entirety of history all at once. all the torture that has ever been done to anyone is happening to me, personally, all at once. i am spinning in Hell

-i am 21 and let myself be convinced to smoke a dab again. we are watching "Haxan." i become completely distressed before the introduction of the film is even over, when it's just a slideshow of historical facts about witchcraft beliefs throughout history. i feel unbelievably enormous grief that everyone who made the film is now dead. i feel like the film was made "back when the world was real and people still had souls" and that all souls had since been destroyed. i was thinking about how few people watch such movies, and how that's because no one has souls. i am nonverbal and convulsing and twitching and gasping and crying. turn off the movie and i just stare at my ceiling and see a giant fish made out of tiny pieces of pulsing light on my ceiling. it looks like a mosaic, but it's alive, and it's comforting. i feel like i am Brian Wilson.

-i am 24 and intake 1 single small bong rip and have to leave a group of people, drop my boyfriend off at his apartment, i am terrified of everything and everyone i know more than can be described. i am terrified of myself. i go home and put on The Dead C - Trapdoor Fucking Exit and lay in bed absolutely wired, twitching and babbling and gurgling and occasionally spontaneously shouting at myself. all control of mind and body lost. feeling of being split into 2 consciousnesses, one is absolute terror and one is absolute hostility. i look in the mirror and see in myself both a pathetic and limp child completely destroyed by abuse, and a conduit of the anger and disgust and rage of the people who did the abusing. this is characteristic of many miscellaneous times not detailed individually here

so i don't know what i really think is going to happen for the better if i try to smoke pot again. i like the idea of being a regular guy who smokes and chills. i also feel strongly like there is "some knowledge" that i can only be privy to if i smoke again. but at what costtttt

edit: after taking inventory, i was too flippant with what i see the positives as. there was once a genuine feeling of exploration and freedom in that "riding the wave of fear" type of phase. i feel like there are certain sensations that are not all negative that i cannot access without this substance. i think there are things about myself i cannot know without this substance. i feel like if i could ever smoke regularly enough to just overcome the fear, and get to a point where i could be closer to having a normative experience with it, it would improve my quality of life and functioning closer to the way it does for others with CPTSD. i am unmedicated and untreated for many ills and desperate for something that takes away the other terrors i feel while SOBER that are outside of the scope of this post

[sunbeamlessreads]

Eyes Off Target - Pete Mitchell x OC - Chapter 1

Chapter One - Call Sign: Trouble

❝ She looked like she belonged everywhere and nowhere… like she’d walked into a bar full of sharks and brought her own teeth. ❞

[maverick x reader]

~2.3k words | rated: T

tw: bar flirting, unresolved sexual tension, one hell of a “morning-after”

she drinks cocktails with umbrellas and walks away before you get the chance to fall. too bad maverick already did.

Word Count: 2.3k

1986 – Naval Air Station Miramar

The Officers’ Club was already alive with energy when Maverick and Goose walked through the door, boots hitting the worn floorboards like they owned the place. It was a Friday night in Miramar—everyone buzzed from the day’s flight exercises, the hangar heat, the endless push to be faster, sharper, better.

The place reeked of jet fuel, cologne, beer, and bravado. Overhead, ceiling fans stirred the muggy air but couldn’t cut through the haze of cigarette smoke, which hovered like low cloud cover under yellow-tinted lights. The music blaring from the aging jukebox was classic—tonight, it was Robert Palmer, bass-heavy, addictive. Every surface seemed to be gleamed under a film of sweat and motion.

Maverick’s shoulders relaxed the second he crossed the threshold. He didn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth lifted. This was his arena.

“Same crowd,” Goose said, scanning the room. “Same songs. Same beers.”

“Same desperate second lieutenants,” Maverick added.

They moved to the bar, sliding into a spot near the corner—Mav always liked to have a view of the room. His aviators stayed on—an affectation, maybe, but also a shield. The world always looked a little easier to handle through dark lenses, especially after a long day in the air.

It was the usual crowd. Pilots in whites with loosened collars and rolled sleeves. Some fresh-faced Navy boys, drunk on adrenaline and cheap beer. A few civilian women perched at the bar like they were auditioning to be someone’s mistake. He recognized half of them. Slept with more than he could comfortably admit.

He wasn’t looking for anything tonight.

At least, not until he saw her.

She was seated alone, toward the far end of the bar, posture easy and assured. One boot hooked on the brass foot rail, back arched slightly like she didn’t even know she was being watched—though Maverick had a feeling she knew exactly what she was doing.

Blonde hair twisted into a loose knot, a few strands escaping to frame her face. Her jeans were faded, hugging her hips perfectly, and her black tank top clung in all the right places.  Combat boots. A smirk on her lips. She sipped something pink with a little umbrella, and when the bartender said something to her, she tilted her head back and laughed.

That laugh. It cracked through the noise like sunlight. Not high-pitched or coy—deep and throaty, the kind of laugh that came from someone who didn’t care if you thought she was pretty.

She looked like she belonged everywhere and nowhere. Civilian, for sure. But not just someone’s girlfriend or a local hanger-on. There was something about her—confidence laced with danger like she’d walked into a bar full of sharks and brought her own teeth.

Maverick didn’t realize he was still staring until Goose nudged him hard with an elbow.

“Jesus, Mav,” Goose said, following his gaze. “You’re gonna burn a hole in her.”

Maverick blinked. “She’s…”

“Yeah, she is,” Goose said, grinning. “Hot. Mysterious. Probably trouble. Your type.”

Maverick looked down at his beer and then back up. She hadn’t noticed him yet—or if she had, she was playing it cool.

“You gonna talk to her or what?” Goose asked.

Maverick didn’t answer.

“C’mon,” Goose goaded. “What’s the move tonight? Serenade? Song and dance?”

Maverick’s eyes flicked to the jukebox. “I’m retired from singing.”

“Good. I still have nightmares about that performance last month.” Goose leaned in, conspiratorial. “So go on, Romeo. You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“That ‘I’m-about-to-do-something-stupid-and-hot’ look.”

Maverick smirked. He picked up his beer, took one last sip, and left it on the bar.

Goose raised his hands in surrender. “Godspeed, flyboy.”

Maverick passed through the crowd like it parted for him—which it often did. He moved slowly, purposeful. By the time he reached the empty stool beside her, his cocky grin was already in place.

“Let me guess,” he said, sliding into the seat. “You’re somebody’s sister, and he’s going to kill me in about five minutes.”

She didn’t flinch. Just turned toward him with cool amusement in her eyes.

Up close, she was even more striking. Long lashes, sun-kissed skin, and a mouth that looked like it always knew what to say. Her drink matched the coral color painted on her nails. She had presence—capital P—and Maverick felt it hum beneath his skin like static.

“That obvious, huh?” she said, her voice smooth like honey dripped over ice.

“That dangerous.”

“I like dangerous.”

She said it so simply. Like it was a preference. A favorite flavor.

He smiled, letting the tension simmer. “Lucky me.”

She gave him a once-over that was slow and deliberate. “You got a name, flyboy?”

He tilted his head. “Depends. You asking for it or collecting them?”

She snorted, amused. “I’m just trying to figure out if you’re worth finishing this drink with.”

Maverick laughed. “Fair. What’s your verdict?”

She lifted her Sea Breeze and took another long sip, eyes on his the entire time.

“Still pending.”

He could already tell she was better at this than most. She had an edge—sharp, playful, just dangerous enough to hook him without trying too hard. She reminded him of someone. A vibe he couldn’t quite place.

He gestured at her glass. “That’s your drink of choice?”

“Only on weekends. Only when I want to get into a little trouble.”

“Ah. So this is your warm-up.”

“You could say that.”

He leaned a little closer, catching the scent of coconut from her skin. “You always drink cocktails with umbrellas in them?”

She arched an eyebrow. “You always wear sunglasses in bars?”

“Touché.”

She grinned. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I wear them because I like the way the world looks when I can stare without getting caught.”

She didn’t react. Just stared right back at him, eyes level. “And what do I look like behind those shades?”

He considered his answer. “Like trouble I’m already far too deep in.”

She tilted her head. “Maybe you are.”

He nodded toward the jukebox. “Dance?”

She shrugged like it was inevitable. “Sure.”

And just like that, she slid off the stool and turned away—expecting him to follow.

Of course, he did.

The jukebox shifted into Walk This Way— perhaps too on the nose, but somehow perfect in the swirl of beer, sweat, and neon. The dance floor wasn’t much—just a cleared patch of wood surrounded by tables, crowded at the edges with drunken pilots and wide-eyed civilians. Maverick didn’t care. The only thing he could see was her.

She moved like she owned the music. Her hips swayed in slow sync with the beat, her arms lifted, and her head tilted back like she was soaking up the attention and spinning it into gold. She didn’t dance to be watched—but if you were watching, she gave a hell of a show.

He let her take the lead at first. Stayed just out of reach, matching her rhythm but giving her space. She smiled at that—a genuine smile, a little wicked like she was surprised and impressed at the same time.

Then she spun into him.

Not by accident.

Her back hit his chest, one hand snaking behind to rest lightly on his hip. The contact was brief but shot through him like a G-force pull. He let his hands settle on her waist. Loose. Suggestive. Not possessive.

She didn’t move away.

“You’re not terrible,” she said, her voice barely audible over the music, spoken just for him. "Flyboys tend to be too stiff on the dancefloor."

He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “You’re dangerous.”

“Already said I like that.”

He was about to say something else, maybe lean in closer, maybe risk something stupid—when she turned again. Face to face. Close enough, he could see the tiny freckle beneath her left eye. Close enough, he could kiss her if he wanted to.

And he did. God, he wanted to.

But before he could, she smiled.

“I should go.”

“What?” The music still played, but it suddenly felt distant. “Why?”

She stepped back, leaving him with a smirk. “No name. No number. No promises.”

“You’re serious?”

Her grin widened. “What would be the fun in making it easy?”

He watched her walk backward into the crowd, her boots clicking on the scuffed wood floor, her ponytail swaying like punctuation.

Then she was gone.

Maverick stood there for a moment, stunned. A little breathless. More than a little wrecked.

Goose appeared at his side, holding two beers and looking like he’d just won a bet.

“You’re still standing,” he said. “Good sign.”

Maverick didn’t answer right away. He was still looking at the spot she’d disappeared through.

“No name?” Goose asked, handing him a beer.

He shook his head.

“No number?”

“Nope.”

Goose laughed, full and loud. “Oh, man. She played you.”

“She did,” Maverick admitted. “And I liked it.”

Goose clapped him on the back. “Guess you’ve got a new mission.”

Maverick took a long drink, eyes still scanning the bar, even though he knew she was gone.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Find her again.”

And when he did—God help him—he hoped she’d still smile like that.

Because he already knew he was in trouble.

The sun hit Miramar like it had a personal grudge.

Maverick squinted into the glare bouncing off the tarmac, his aviators not doing half as much as he wanted them to. His head ached faintly from too little sleep and too much thinking—not drinking, thinking—about the girl with the Sea Breeze and the slow, wicked smile.

She hadn’t left his head. Not for a second.

He could still feel the ghost of her hand on his hip, the sound of her laugh echoing over the jukebox, the way her voice had curved around no name, no number like she was carving the words into his skin.

Goose walked beside him, sipping coffee like he was immune to the heat. He wasn’t sweating. Goose never sweated.

Maverick, on the other hand, felt he would combust from the inside out.

“God, you look like hell. She really got to you, huh?” Goose asked, not looking at him.

Maverick didn’t answer.

“You’re quiet,” Goose said. “You’re never quiet unless you’re hungover, in trouble, or obsessed. And you weren’t that drunk last nigh.”

Maverick sighed and ran a hand down his face. “She was… something else.”

Goose chuckled. “Understatement of the century.” Even a married man could appreciate something that nice to look at. 

They turned the corner near the hangar, heading toward the morning briefing. Just another day in the sky. Just another batch of cocky sons of bitches trying to outfly each other.

Maverick looked up—

And his heart stopped.

There she was.

Leaning casually against a fence near the flight line. Same hair, down this time, soft waves brushing her shoulders. Same legs—bare today, long and golden, and far too exposed for a military base. She wore a plain white T-shirt, knotted at the waist, and cutoff shorts that had no business being legal. A plastic cup of iced coffee was sweating in her hand, condensation dripping onto the pavement like a countdown.

She was laughing.

Beside her was Ice.

No.

No, no, no, no.

Maverick stopped walking. Dead still. Goose took two more steps before realizing he was alone and turned back with a confused look.

“You okay?”

Maverick didn’t speak. He was too busy watching her lean into Ice’s arm, laughing like this was the most normal morning of her life. Ice grinned at something she said and gestured toward the two of them.

“Maverick! Goose!” he called out, waving them over coolly.

Maverick felt the ground tilt.

“She knows him?” Goose asked under his breath.

“Ice knows her,” Maverick corrected hoarsely. “This is bad.”

“Worse than bad. This is… nuclear.”

They approached because they had no choice. Maverick kept his shoulders square, his hands relaxed, his face as blank as he could manage.

“Gentlemen,” Ice said, all sunny confidence. “Glad you’re here. I want to introduce someone.”

She turned.

When her eyes met Maverick’s, she didn’t blink. Didn’t gasp. Didn’t falter.

She smiled.

A slow, perfectly smug, I-told-you-so smile.

“Gentlemen,” Ice said proudly, gesturing between them. “This is my sister. Nicole.”

“Nikki,” she added, eyes still on Maverick. “Most people call me Nikki.”

Maverick stared.

She held out a hand like they hadn’t already danced close enough to feel each other breathe.

“I don’t think we got to introductions last night.”

Goose coughed behind him. Choked, actually.

Maverick took her hand. It was warm. Steady. Her grip was confident, a little too tight—like she was daring him to react.

Ice looked between them, completely unaware of the hellfire.

“She’s in town for a few days,” Ice said proudly. “My baby sister. Visiting while she’s on summer break.”

Maverick’s entire brain short-circuited.

Sister.

Sister.

Iceman’s sister.

He was going to die.

“I thought she could meet some of the guys,” Ice continued, “see the place. You know. The safe ones.”

That word—safe—hit like a missile.

Nikki gave Maverick a lazy once-over. “So far, so good.”

Ice didn’t notice. Or maybe he did and was just good at pretending. His smile stayed even, but there was a flicker of something… calculating.

Maverick cleared his throat. “It’s… good to meet you. Officially.”

“Likewise,” Nikki said, still watching him like a cat watching a nervous bird.

Ice nodded, catching on subtly to the tension. “She’s off-limits, obviously.”

Goose made a noise that sounded like a laugh being strangled.

Maverick forced a smile. “Crystal clear.”

“Great,” Ice said, clapping him on the shoulder. “See you boys in briefing.”

He turned, and Nikki followed. But not before shooting Maverick a final look over her shoulder. That same wicked smirk from last night.

Maverick stared after her, stunned.

Goose whistled low. “You, my friend, are so fucked.”

“Yeah,” Maverick muttered. “I know.” 

© Copyright, 2025.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Welcome to Villa Barton built in 1993 and remodeled in 2006. The villa is located in Straffan, Co. Kildare, Ireland. It has 5bds, 6ba, and is listed for €4.5M / $4,903,078.50. I don't know how to describe the decor, you just have to see it for yourself.

The tour begins with this very large room lined with wood paneling, and travertine floors.

If you like this carpet, good news, b/c you'll see it again.

Like here, in the sitting room with red walls to match. Note that the bar is quilted in red leather to match the Chesterfield sofas.

Quite a large bar with plenty of space for bottles.

The room also has an ornate fireplace.

This is my favorite room, big, white, and perfect for showing off the best feature of all- the big gold legs screwed into the ceiling.

This is some big dining room. It appears that the carpet is framed by the floor. This table seats 16.

Initially, I thought, what is a kitchen set doing in an office? But, it's the kitchen, which is so large, but so disappointingly sparse. They don't even show the stove or anything.

More hall, more carpet.

This is a very cool home gym. Barbie would love it.

Purple walls with the red carpet wouldn't have been my choice.

I think that this may be the empty wine cellar.

This is one of the bedrooms, and it's quite spacious. Could be a guest room.

The matching en suite has a big jetted tub. Does the floor match the wall? I've never see anything like that.

This palatial white, black & gold bedroom is the primary. You can see that it also has a large sitting room.

It has an en-suite, with that carpet. The shower seems awfully high off the floor.

Wow, look at the office. I've never seen computer screens attached like that. What the listing photos don't show, and I wouldn't expect them to, is the home's safe room, in case of a home invasion.

Look at this patio and garden. It's like in a movie.

The outdoor grounds are stunning.

The bad news is that the nearby golf course was designed by the famous golfer Arnold Palmer, and there is a mandatory yearly service charge and membership fee of €5,244.26 / $5,714.88.

https://www.daft.ie/for-sale/detached-house-villa-barton-1-churchfield-straffan-co-kildare/5723217

[ebenelephant]

Happy Wincest Wednesday!

What are some of your wincest songs? No limit on number or genre or anything. Personally, I just remembered "Backbeat" by Dagny exists and is absolutely Dean in the pilot.

- @schizosamwincester

behold! my wincest playlist!

it starts off quite slow and gentle, i know, but bear with me; the entire thing is following a vague storyline which exists only in my imagination but hopefully you get the gist of it?

i feel like a lot of it is pretty self explanatory (i'm basic 🤷‍♀️) but a couple of specifics i feel the need to highlight include:

(sam's realisation a while post-stanford that he's never going to get that normal life)

(THEE john song imo)

(angry early seasons dean processing the john of it all)

(incest as the family curse. pays homage to my personal roman empire: mary/samuel. winchester-campbell incest web time.)

(introduction of jack kline and the divorce-core era. mommy!sam?? 😳 more likely than you think)

(losercore bastard late seasons dean my love <3)

(late seasons sam staring at the ceiling at 2 in the morning, unable to sleep, feeling strange, thinking about how things used to be)