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[taemcains]

eroticism, sensuality & how cain embodies it

i've always called cain erotic but since the kiss has taken over every last braincell of mine, i've been wondering what exactly makes him so. from the moment i read i want to do with you what isn't customary to say out loud, the with immediately struck me. not do to you but with. which could either mean what he wants them to experience together, as equals, or having her helpless and at his mercy, or both.

the verbal aspect of sex is what almost everyone gets wrong in media, especially when it comes to men. dirty talk is cheap, vulgar, and disgusting but why does cain do it so well? because he reveals just enough to leave you wondering, grasping desperately at your own imagination. i should've been crucified long ago for my thoughts about you. so what are you thinking? sublimating admitting to animal basal impulses, considered dirty and impure with so much grace and sensuality. saving all his confessions for such a significant moment, as they always step around each other and walk in circles, never saying anything outright so when he does it's shocking, outrageously hot.

and the inch he does give is painted vividly. where the blood boils and languid sighs fill the air.

he doesn't impose himself onto her, doesn't overpower her, make her smaller. it's more of an enveloping, surrounding, surrendering. he hardly touched her in the church, but his words and presence eclipsed the outside world, making sin religious.

while he is more, or even completely, dominant in their relationship, his dominance isn't to assert his desire onto her, but to allow the revealing of hers. he doesn't push her around, doesn't order her but carefully spins a web around her, trapping her senses, trapping her in a web of her own desires, disregarding her inhibitions. everything about him is subtle and slow and seductive, and every final decision has rested on her shoulders. in the church, he has his fingers over her stomach, he looks up, he waits. in the bathroom, he has her trapped between his body and the cross, he says his piece, he waits. only when she touches him back does he kiss her.

the power gap between them, purely antagonistic of the usual immortal/mortal ship, is blurred and coexisting. cain was the one laying out his cards, his barest desires and wants but it was lane who felt caught between his jaws, like this was her surrender. he was pulling the strings even as he was being vulnerable.

over all this, intimacy and understanding is the most erotic thing of all, and it was captured beautifully in the kiss scene. cain knew what i liked because we were so similar. cain being able to read all her nonverbal cues, to know which is permission. cain laying on her lap, talking about acceptance and understanding and eternity.

it's so rare to see a male character who is actually erotic, not vulgar and as a 'bring back real sensuality in media' girl i'm fucking up this buffet. i can't wait to see how this evolves in his later scenes and thank you taemin for birthing him.

[lilac-5ky]

always darkest before the dawn (Satoru x Fem!Reader)

plot: your boyfriend finds you waiting on his porch after a mission you warned him against going.

tags: hurt/comfort with a silly ending cause I'm silly for this man.

wc: 2.4k

“Baby? What are you still doing up?”

The sound of his voice gets amplified with every step he takes toward the dim-lit engawa, a pleasant break from the incessant chirping of the cicadas slowly being traded for that of the first morning sparrows—midnight sky melting into the lightest shades of blue. Stars are sprinkled over the velvet canopy like powder sugar, a subtle bronze haze dividing the horizon from the heavens above, and you almost thank them for sending their most exalted angel your way.

He comes alive again—wings heavy from the blood that soaks them, its source hardly human.

The knitted blanket slides off your shoulders as you turn around to face Satoru, his otherwise sublime features wearier and more haggard than you remember seeing them this morning by your pillow. He carries a bag in each hand, his apology wrapped in layers upon layers of aluminum foil. You wonder what it tastes like. Last time was gyoza, and the time before that drunken noodles—always accompanied by some sort of dessert from some faraway corner of the map, which he (typically) promises to revisit with you.

“Welcome home.” You sigh, mustering a smile to distract him from the dried-up tears that stain the apples of your cheeks.

It was a long night, and his absence stretched it to eternity. You realized after he left for his mission that forever is a long time to be spent alone, especially when the last words you said to him echo harder than the cumbersome footsteps of his departure, scaring you into thinking that was the last you heard of each other.

No one ever told you that being with the strongest meant becoming stronger yourself.

It’s not fair.

He doesn’t miss the opportunity to call you weak, making a habit of teasing you when your puny arms fail to carry his excessive haul of grocery bags or when you can’t open a mere jar of jam without him loosening the cap beforehand. He doesn’t admit you are stronger than him, despite you being the one to carry his burden and your worries, the two brewing into a sickly cocktail of premonition you can barely stomach—one that initiated today’s fallout.

You feel wronged. Your roles were reversed against your will; the comfort of being the weak one viciously yanked from your grasp, feet forcefully put into a pair of shoes you were never meant to wear. You should be weak. He should be strong. You should be crying, and he should be comforting. You should be able to tell him, don’t go, and he should be able to stay.

But you didn’t. And he did not.

Unaffected by the war of contradictory motions in your head, Satoru plops down beside you, large palms emptying of the cheap plastic handles to fill up with you. The thrill of the fight still hasn’t worn out, muscles taut from the action, and eyes bright under their concealment. He feels warm, warmer than the blanket that’s now receded to your thighs, though not warm enough to appease the cold in your heart, goosebumps prickling your skin from the inside out like your body is trying to escape itself.

A lump forms in your throat from where his lips touch your neck, briefly and fleetingly, before they are replaced with the familiar fluff of hair. It’s ironic how he tries to fit in you. There isn’t a part of you that hasn’t been touched by him in one way or another, and if you could pull out your own guts to make more space for him, then you would. You’d let him consume you whole if that meant never spending a second without him.

You wonder if that’s how love is supposed to be. You aren’t sure. You don’t know if you’re just another person who foolishly let themselves worship Gojo Satoru—if, in your effort to get to know the real him, you became his biggest fan.

“You are abnormally quiet.” You point out, instantly hating how ragged your voice sounds. The only dissonance in the picturesque garden of his estate.

Satoru shifts in his position, heavy jaw rubbing sweetly against your bare shoulder, hot breath fanning your neck. “I’m just mimicking you.”

“Mimicking me?” A bit better this time.

“Mhm.”

You glance at him, following the curve of his nose down to the dip of his cupid’s bow, both highlighted under the waning moonlight. Even when the stars are slowly drained and those flattering shadows dispelled, his beauty remains a certain constant. He is so beautiful that your heart aches, a longing sigh caught at the far back of your palate, his soft smile begging for its release.

He won’t hear you say it. Not tonight.

You test out the waters with a teasing poke of your tongue. He does the same, mouths almost touching with how closely he leans forward. Then a pout. A scrunch of the nose. An unserious wiggle of his eyebrows that mirrors your own—an image far more perfect than the one you’re used to seeing in the mirror.

“Would you jump down a cliff if I did?” You taunt.

“Absolutely!” He breaks the loop, answering in less than a heartbeat. “You know I would. The world would be a horrible place without my sugarplum.”

“You know, you could save us both if you wanted.” You say with a level voice.

“The greatest love stories are sealed by tragedy.” Satoru argues back. “Romeo and Juliette. Jack and Rose. Orihime and Hikoboshi. Takeru and Hikari.”

You are quick to spot the odd one out. “First of all, stop sneaking in Digimon references thinking I won’t notice, and second of all, Takeru and Hikari didn’t die.”

“No, but they never got together.” He frowns.

You roll your eyes. “You are unbelievable.”

“And you’re soooo pretty. Did you do something to your face? Your dark circles look extra dark tonight.” Satoru tries to catch your cheek in his palm, fine sand slipping through his fingers as you pull away.

“Shut up!” Your mixed chuckles course through your body, reigning over the tremors that previously had you shriveling into a ball of tightly packed limps. Staying mad at him is impossible when he’s actually there; all mood for poignancy gone in an instant.

“You never answered my question.” A featherlight hum brushes against the shell of your ear, the pout easy on his tone. “What are you still doing up?”

With a knowing smile, you peer at the sky, feeling the press of his cheek on yours as he follows the movement of your eyes. “Whenever I miss you, the only thing that calms me is looking at the sky.”

“You know I’m not dead, right?”

“Say one more stupid thing, and that will change!” You warn with your pointer up. He kisses it. God.

You tap your finger against his forehead, urging some distance be put between the two of you. “Whenever I look at the sky,” you start again, “I see you.”

Breaking from his embrace, you shape two circles with your thumbs and forefingers, narrowing their size until they turn into a pair of minuscule goggles you lower over to where his eyes supposedly lie behind the blindfold. “See? Just like your eyes.”

“Oh, I’m not too sure about that.” Satoru gazes at the sky through your fingers, eventually tipping in your direction. He smirks, “I mean, the eyes of the Gojo Satoru are kinda hard to beat. See?”

Peeling the blindfold off, he lets your palms spread over his cheeks, azure eyes losing their vibrancy as your dainty fingers frame them better than any pair of sunglasses in his collection. He’s right. The original cannot compare. It’s not Satoru’s eyes that resemble the sky. It’s the sky that resembles his eyes, for in his 28 years, he’s managed to make something as ancient as time itself seem like a cheap rip-off.

“But I am flattered.” Warm palms cushion yours as he brings them to his mouth. You don’t realize how frigid they are until he starts blowing the cold away, smiling against them. “Means I’m always on your mind with how often your head’s in the clouds.”

“Can’t go one minute without bringing me down, huh?” Your voice frail once more.

“I can. But where’s the fun in that?”

You pull each other into a gentle kiss, Satoru’s arms snaking around your waist while your fingers cup his cheeks with urgency, fearing that by the time your eyes blink open, he’ll already have faded into stardust. He doesn’t share your concern, soft pecks interrupted by muffled chuckles, the taste on his lips giving you an idea of what he brought home with him.

“Pancakes?” Your tongue drags against his bottom lip. Foreheads pressed against one another.

“Mhm. Figured you’d be hungry for breakfast at this ungodly hour.” Satoru pecks your lips again and again, making it impossible to think straight, let alone answer, given how often your mouths are smashed together.

“How did you know I’d be up?” You breathe out.

“Hmm, a premonition?” He grins, playing with fire with how he mocks your previous words of concern. “My six eyes—”

“Do your six eyes tell you that you’ll be smacked in three, two, one!”

Limitless activates before your forehead can ram into his skull, the number of times you bob your head futile.

“One of these days, my anger will outdo your technique.” You promise.

“Can’t wait for that!” Satoru beams earnestly. “Maybe then I can teach you about domains too. Make my baby into the best—well, second-best sorcerer.”

Truly impossible.

The world quiets down as the final veil of the night is lifted from the sky and dawn begins its dance, everything it touches slowly coming into life. Light seeps between the yellowing grass blades, illuminating the morning dew that rests upon them. Water sparkles as it pours from the bamboo fountain, the constant thump setting the tempo for the birds’ song. Fragrance is drawn out of the towering pine trees, grounding the elegance of the showy blue hydrangeas. No room for despair in this imagery of hope, complete with Satoru’s presence, white lashes fluttering shut as he stretches like a cat in the sun.

You love him.

You know you do. You mean it every morning and every night when he makes you say it in between chuckles, slender fingers tickling the admission out of your ribs. You mean it when he moves heaven and earth to fulfill a stupid promise you made at 4 AM when you were drunk out of your mind and he tucked you into the comfort of your shared bed—somehow less sober without a drop of alcohol in his system.

You mean it when there’s sand in his eyes, when his breath doesn’t smell as peachy as one would expect of someone as ridiculously perfect as him, when his voice cracks during a sing-along. You mean it when his tongue licks the luscious coffee cream from your lips and when it greedily laps between the puffy lips down under.

There is so much you love about him that you’d run out of synonyms for words before you could jot them all down in a way that’s not dull to read, and still, you’d lose out on describing how exactly he makes you feel.

Because Satoru isn’t a person, so much as he is art. Sometimes he is just splash of colors across a canvas without the masterful strokes needed to hone him into a finished product. Other times, he is just the notes composing the wonderful lilt of his voice, too audacious to be deemed a symphony. He can be poetry too, spilling out of the ordinary 17-syllable arrangement of a haiku. But most of all, he is raw energy, an untamed torrent ripping through mountains and a whirlwind sweeping everything in its path.

It’s hard not to romanticize him in moments like this. They don’t come too often.

“You know, you don’t need tragedy to write a good love story.” Your tendency to break the silence festers into a bad habit. “We might be doomed by the narrative, but we are here to live. I’d rather live with you than die with you, or live a life without you.” You whisper, voice getting caught in your throat.

Sincerity always scared you, but if there’s one thing more regrettable than words you’ve said, then that’d be words that were never told.

Your focus shifts to your dangling feet, grass grazing your toes at the completion of each nervous sway. You are no longer touching. Not purposely at least, contact reduced to the slight nudge of your shoulders as Satoru leans against his to smile.

“Gotcha.” He says, not quite pressuring you to face him just yet. “It was easy-peasy, by the way. Yuji and Nobara did most of the work, while Megumi—he fell inside a curse’s stomach. It was hilarious! You should visit them soon; see how my kids have grown.”

Your lips pucker their way around your mouth, tongue poking at your cheek from the inside—prelude to a slow nod. Too uncertain to be directed at him. You regret bringing this up. You should’ve let yourself bask in his affections when they didn’t require a verbal answer.

“You worry too much.” Your uneasiness prompts Satoru to crane his neck and lay a tender kiss on the crown of your head. His voice serious when he says, “I won’t die.”

“That’s what everyone says right before they die.”

“But I’m not everyone. I’m Gojo Satoru, and I won’t die.”

You gulp, then huff a forced chuckle. “H-hey, that’s a pretty good catchphrase. You should use it in your fights when you’re about to deal the killing blow.”

“I have a better one. I’m Gojo Satoru, and I love youuuu~” He sings, seconds before his lips attack your neck, deft fingers mercilessly tickling your sides against the hard wood.

“God! You are so corny!” You blurt in between giggles.

“You love it!” He protests, a wild glint to his eyes. “C’mon, don’t be shy. Say it.”

“N-no way!”

“No?” The sadist stops his torture, finding new ways to torment you as he slyly moves toward the forgotten takeout. “Guess I’ll be enjoying these myself then. Thank me for the food!”

“Hey, Satoru! Wait!” You concede.

Maybe it’s fine to let him stand on the podium alone this once.

a/n: my mood is all over the place nowadays, suffering writer's block, wrote this as a self-indulgent 5 AM craze, help satoru brainrot too strong

[invisible-pink-toast]

i never liked soulmates. i think it feels cheap, to some degree, if there is someone or something out there that picked you out and declared, “this is the one. there is only Them.” - i don’t want to love if it’s pre- determined or foretold or in any way guaranteed. i want a mystery. i want to be able to hope. i want to look at you and say, “i am choosing this on my own. i am the one who decides to love on purpose, and nobody told me to love you, and nobody taught me how, and that is the sublimity of it: i love you because we are not destined. i love the choice of you.”

no hate to canonically soulmate couples, some of my favourite fictional couples are, but honestly i love the idea that you find someone and care about them and decide to love them and make it work much more romantic then being 'destined' to be with 'the one'

also i wrote this poem down years ago and i cannot find it anywhere online if anyone knows the author please tell me!

[sgiandubh]

So in other words, you agree, Sam and Cait are not very good actors as exemplified by the scene being them and not Beauchamp and Fraser. On that, agreed. She might be a C actor, he's definitely a D

Dear Beauchamp and Fraser Anon,

I suspect you might be a returning one, by the way, hoping to catch me unprepared with a very cheap sophism. Check this concept on Wikipedia if you wish, but I will give you my definition: manipulated or derailed logic, i.e. formally sustainable, but in reality just a fallacy; or, if you prefer, a bunch of crap, just for the sake of it. Also, it would be wise not to try these cheap tricks on someone trained to work with words and doing so every single day: you might find no satisfaction, ultimately.

Fun fact: I don't agree with any single word you just wrote. Sam and Cait are very good and gifted actors. Both of them. They did wonders with a very inconsistent script and under barbaric public pressure. What dragged you in here, Anon? Mrs. Gabaldon's florid, even luxuriant prose? What kept you in here, Anon? Blood and sperm and rape galore? I should wish you were honest, at least for once in your life, and let your answer be 'not really'.

What I meant by that phrase was something very simple: the actors' life experience deeply informing and sublimating their performance. If you think real and creative lives are strictly separate affairs in any intellectual endeavor, then you are probably completely unfamiliar with anything remotely related to writing, singing, playing (an instrument), acting, composing or painting. All these are akin to magic and all of the above are a summoning of sorts: ask any 'content creator', you will probably get a very similar answer. In Cait and Sam's case, their real life story nurtures and elevates their acting, despite people like you.

I am not an actor myself, but a long time ago it was acting that liberated me and taught me to not be afraid of anything. I did not make a living out of it, but I will always have the tools making me able to access that very special energy, any time I should need it. So, I can only offer you an educated opinion of These Two:

C is a very, very good actress. She is classy, sophisticated and knows instinctively how to occupy a stage or a set. She worked and progressed a LOT since Season 1, when it took me a good while to warm up to her. Add to this what I think is arresting beauty. Not really a C-level, in my book.

S is a wonderfully gifted actor who, unlike C, does not have any idea of this potential and, to be honest, gives the impression to even not care about it. He singlehandedly dominated some of the most difficult moments of the series (that unwatchable Wentworth episode comes to mind). His mastery of the Stanislavski and Lecoq methods and techniques is excellent. He is likeable, personable and has an innate emotional intelligence, helping him navigate and compensate the weaknesses of (yes, I insist!) an often insufficient script. I have already written about it, with arguments, when I found some very interesting parallels between The Fiery Cross episode and Laurence Olivier's performance in Shakespeare's Henry V. I will say it again: this guy has been grossly miscast, spare for JAMMF.

Perhaps you are unfamiliar with the whole preparation and rehearsal process when producing a movie or a series or a theatre show. These people don't just learn their lines by heart and turn up for readings and rehearsals. They also read and watch a lot of things that could help them build better, more credible characters. But what makes the sometimes very subtle difference between a decent performance and a stellar one is the amount of themselves they allow inside their acting. And in this respect, I think Sam and Cait have been very lucky, in what is a very clear case of Art (instinctively) imitating Life.

I doubt this answered your question and to be honest, I don't care.

[meetinginsamarra]

mayprompts2024, #2 box

So, I had this idea yesterday about a funny little "box"-AU.

I supposed it would become a short ficlet (famous last words) only to find out that it has a lot of potential and I have more ideas about what is going to happen.

I already worked over 2 hours today on it (time that I didn't really have in the first place) and it is nowhere from finished. I don't want to stress myself even more and/or rush this, therefore

Behold Part One of

"The Perfect Place"

--------

Sherlock turned up his collar and plucked up his courage.

Taking a deep breath, he plunged into his mind palace and went through every detail of his plan for the very last time before he would put it into action. He recalled stalking the man for two days, very carefully as to not reveal himself, to deduce all there was to be possibly gleaned from all the minutiae he could observe.

Sherlock found no flaw in his plan (of course he didn't, he never would because he himself came up with it). It had to succeed. There would be no second chance. It was now or never.

He entered and a tiny bell chimed above the door, announcing his arrival. Into battle, Sherlock thought.

“I want to buy a boxspring bed.”

+++++

John Watson startled badly in his seat when he heard the bell chime.

He had not been looking at the door since he had been fiddling with his gun for the umpteenth time (there were no rounds in it so it was safe) because it was boring as hell in the shop.

He had brought his illegal service weapon since the fourth day he worked here as a shop assistent, hoping against all hope that some benign person would storm in and try to rob the cash register (no robber worth their salt would even consider doing this) so that finally something fun and exciting would happen to him.

John had kept his hands and the weapon hidden behind the counter and thus out of sight from the potential customers (he was possibly mad but not that mad) and now he quickly shoved it into a drawer.

John stared at the surprise customer who had stumbled into “Bernie’s Bed Shop” and - holy moly - was he a sight to behold.

On a scale from 1 to 10 the man was a certified 11. John was already jealous of the mattress that would get to hug and caress and wrap itself around this sublime body every night. Life was just unfair.

Still, John could barely believe his luck. Finally, a customer who actually (apart from being the most gorgeuos human being John had ever seen) wanted to buy a bed, even one of those ridiculously posh and expensive ones with boxsprings. Also, being the first one asking for a bed in John's three and a half terrible weeks of working (suffering) as a bed shop assistant.

Thankfully, John remembered to plaster his most winning, helpful and customer-friendly smile onto his face (it was in fact not, resembling rather the anguished expression that a trapped animal with one leg stuck in a bear trap would have) and went around the counter to welcome the god. Godsend.

“Then you are in the perfect place. Bernie’s Bed Shop offers a lot of different boxspring beds. My name is John Watson, may I show you some variants or do you already have something special in mind?”

Sherlock blinked at John. Yes, you, he thought. His throat was suddenly dry with John Watson standing so close to him for the very first time. On a scale from dull to brilliant the man was a certified genius. Simply perfect.

“Show me what you have,” Sherlock asked, slightly husky and meaning something totally different. (He meant what was under these terrible grandpa clothes John wore, of course).

Please God, let him buy a bed, John prayed silently, being painfully aware that as a salesperson he had been utterly failing.

So far, he had merely sold a pair of cheap bedsheets to an elderly short-sighted woman and a heart-shaped decorative cushion to a sloshed builder. He had tried his very best every time when a customer had set their foot into the shop, being forthcoming and friendly and polite but somehow, they had all left more or less quickly without buying anything.

John did not know why that happened every time (it was his anguished smile, obviously) but he did know that this was his last chance to score or Bernie would definitely fire him at the end of this week. John would be without a job once again and would soon have to leave London because even the terrible bedsit he lived (existed) in would become unaffordable.

"Follow me then, please." John walked to the back of the shop where the premium beds stood. "May I present you the 'Royal Metropolis Deluxe'. It has every feature a boxspring bed can have that you could possibly imagine."

Just like your deluxe body, John thought.

I have a very vivid imagination, Sherlock thought and ogled John instead of the bed.

+++++

That's it for today!

Flower Shop AU? Coffee Shop AU? Tattoo Shop AU? Nope! All outdated. I felt there is crying need for a Bed Shop AU. 🤣

tagging some people (tagging on desktop seems to work) @calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @raina-at @lisbeth-kk

[dontsh0vethesun]

emily, i’m sorry

boy genius (the record) masterlist

emily prentiss x reader

18+ : super mild smut, kissing, alcohol consumption, implied alcohol use as a coping mechanism, smoking, angst, right person wrong time, a double dose of mommy issues, happy ending

word count: 2.9k

a/n: i started writing this so long ago and i feel like i only really like the last 500 words or smth 💀

You’d been sitting behind Emily since the beginning of the semester, two months in without an introduction, merely observing from afar. You’d never thought yourself to be a person to fall into those romantic clichés with your chin resting in the palm of your hand and your eyes on the side of her face instead of the professor at the front of the class.

Finding yourself smiling at the sound of her laugh, eyes darting away from her direction when she’d glance towards you. Because she’d noticed you too.

By chance your paths finally crossed at a party, a spilling of your overly strong drink from the red cup onto her arm and a rushed apology.

“Get me another drink and all is forgiven.” She smiled with a hand on your waist to keep you close as you made your way through drunken college students into the brightly lit kitchen. You’d never seen her this closely, her dark hazel eyes lined black and equally dark hair pushed behind her ear.

“So, what can I get you?” You asked, looking over the options scattered messily on the kitchen counter, space taken up by tipped over plastic cups and spilled liquor and mixers making the surface sticky. “We have beer, cheap vodka, something blue,” you twisted bottles to see their labels with a shrug at the poor selection the student budget could afford. “Or cheap vodka.”

“I’ll have what you’re having then.” Emily laughed, leaning her hip against the counter as she watched you pour bottles into two cups. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

You lifted a brow at her statement with a small smile as you passed her the drink. “You have?”

“Of course. Who wouldn’t wanna talk to a pretty girl like you?” She was bolder than you’d expected, what with the way you’d seen her blush.

“Well I’m glad you finally did.”

“Oh, so you’ve been waiting for this then, hm?” She smirked, keeping a fixed gaze on you over the top of her cup as she swigged at its contents.

“No, I was just getting a little tired of you staring at me so much.” You huffed mockingly, grinning into your drink at the way she stumbled over a response.

“I find that hard to believe,” she finally uttered, inching closer with a hint of alcohol on her breath. “I know you’ve been pining after me. It’s cute.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Emily.”

Her name sounded delicious as it rolled off your tongue and she just had to hear it again. She was overcome with a need for you, to talk with you and dance with you and learn each centimetre of your skin.

Neither of you were very good at dancing, especially with the liquor pumping through your veins, heads dazed with the buzz and a coating of sweat lining your foreheads. She kept you close, a hold more possessive than you’d expected on your hips moving your bodies together.

She dragged you away to somewhere quieter where you could actually hear the mutterings of one another’s voices. You got to know each other as well as two drunk people could, conversations barely scratching the surface but in the back of your mind you knew there’d be more time for that. You could hardly let her go now.

The closeness of your bodies set your skin alight, hardly able to keep your eyes off her. The way her fingers held a cigarette and her lips parted with a stream of smoke. You could taste it on one another’s tongues when she finally kissed you, escaping to a bathroom with your body perched atop the counter; the flavour of ash and coca cola, the bitterness of vodka and the sweetness of cherry lip gloss.

The way she slotted her lips with yours was sublime, a heat pulsing through you at the hand on the back of your neck. Her hair was soft and perfect between your fingers and the sound of a moan falling from her throat to yours made your stomach flip.

Movements were sloppy and fuelled with drunkenness and lust, a building tension of the evening finally being untangled in the transference of warm hands beneath your shirt. Her touch wandered desperately and yours was just as hungry, grabbing at any part of her you could reach, the material of her t-shirt clenched in your fist.

Neither of you thought it through, giggling in your tipsy haze when she haphazardly pulled your jeans down your legs and trailed her nails upwards across the skin of your thighs. Her breath was hot against the column of your throat where her lips lay kisses and licks of her tongue, her teeth grazed the crook of your neck while her fingers inched past the waistband of your underwear.

Your head fell backwards and your hands kept her head where it was, where she made you dizzy with sucks against your flesh. It was as though she’d already learnt your body off by heart with the way her fingers pulled noises from you that the both of you could only hope were kept within the four walls of the bathroom. With your legs wrapped around her waist you were as close as you could be, the heat of each other’s bodies pulsing through you like lightning and a thick tension simmering.

It was a moment you’d come to find amusing, being walked in on by a girl stumbling over her heels. It would become a memory of that first night together, that fateful night you met and you’d laugh wondering where that stranger was now.

–

It was routine by now to be sprawled on the living room floor with textbooks and papers scattered in front of you. Overused highlighters scratched across printed sheets with a bright pink left behind, less and less information seeping into your brains as the hours would add up.

You’d forgone buying desks, using your shared apartment floor as an infinite display of university work - it was a definite benefit of sharing a degree with your girlfriend.

Your evenings were either spent with bleary eyes straining to read for hours on end, shooting one another questions to test knowledge whilst you drank copious amounts of coffee. Or you’d be dancing together tipsily with a bunch of other students, rooms blurred with smoke, smelling like cigarettes and the sourness of cheap beer.

You were happy together, you could never imagine your love for Emily to fade away.

There was a perfectly intimate domesticity between you; smiling conversations half asleep over breakfast and evenings watching tv, lighting incense and candles to mask the smell of nicotine.

She’d smiled to herself this evening at the sight of you staring at the ceiling in frustrated boredom, lying on your back on the ground with an open textbook face down on your chest. You’d been studying for a while and she could see the burnout all over you.

She went to the kitchen wordlessly and poured two glasses of the cheap wine from the kitchen counter; she always swore she’d be able to afford the good stuff when she was older.

When she came back you took it from her with an appreciative smile.

“You read my mind, Em.”

“Reading your mind is a stretch, I just saw you staring at the ceiling despondently and I know you like the back of my hand.” She laughed and you shrugged - she wasn’t wrong.

“I bet you can’t guess what I’m thinking now then.”

“I think I have an idea.” She smirked, letting you take another sip of your drink before she took your glass and set it aside, lowering herself to straddle your legs. She pushed your back against the ground with her lips ghosting yours with her voice. “Something like this?”

The taste of her lips was so familiar, cigarettes and wine. They pushed into yours sublimely with her hand cupping your cheek while yours held her closely by her belt loops. The kiss grew heated as it always did, that perfect electrical heat that never failed to make your skin alight with goosebumps and your body arch into hers in an effort to get closer than possible.

“There’s a party across campus. Wanna go?” Emily muttered once she’d pulled away to catch her breath. Of course you agreed, diving head first into a night of liquor fuelled sex, rooms misty with smoke. Intoxicated by each other, dizzy from the lust.

—

And now you’re walking home alone, feet scuffing against the loose debris along the cement with your dazed steps, struggling to keep your footsteps linear with the way your head buzzed with the swill of unmoderated alcohol.

It wasn’t the same without Emily. Parties were just an excuse to get drunk, to let your mind finally drift away, distracted by the overly loud music and crowds of people hiding you away. They used to be fun, a way to let yourselves loose, drinking together and laughing and enjoying the night before giggling drunkenly on your way home.

But you were here and Emily was at home, her head buried in textbooks as she crammed for the same exams you should be focussing on.

It’s hard to know when it began to go downhill, when the parties stopped being fun and the stress of graduation overtook you both. When you started to spend more and more time apart with different focuses and goals.

All you’d yearned after for so long was a freedom your bones ached for. Free from the judging gaze of your mother, living up to the expectations she loomed above your head. And you’d found it, you felt liberated, truly able to smile and laugh and party with friends. You were finally figuring out who you are with this freedom you’d always wanted, who you are with Emily and on your own; who you are in your own apartment and in the cafe down the street.

You just want to be free but even this freedom is dotted with downsides.

While you’re making your way home to her, Emily is finishing another cup of coffee, blinking away the exhaustion in her eyes in hopes to unblur the words on the paper in front of her.

She could only sigh when she looked at the clock. 1am and you weren’t home, it wasn’t new but it was frustrating. It was frustrating how your newfound freedoms had led you down different paths.

Sure, she was no longer living with her mother, peering over her shoulder with bated breath waiting for her to fail. Her freedom may be literal, oftentimes in a differing country to the ambassador, but nothing had truly changed. Elizabeth’s voice was always there in the back of her mind, with each assignment and exam. Each time her phone would ring she’d prepare herself with a deep breath before trying to appease her mother on the other end.

Keep her happy, keep her proud and satisfied at her academic progress. She’d placate and be agreeable, thanking her for helping her pay for the apartment all whilst fidgeting with the lighter in her pocket, desperate to ease the anxious tension her mother never failed to arise in her.

With each passage highlighted, page turned and hand cramped from scribbling notes for too long, she thought of Elizabeth. The standards she couldn’t help but stare at with each decision she made. She’d tried to let herself live and breathe but she wasn’t ready to be free yet. She knew she would be eventually but for now she needs to get her degree, excel or disappoint, and let herself be free with you.

You were the only true freedom she could hold on to but she could feel it slipping away.

The door closed behind you when she poured herself another cup of crappy coffee and she habitually grabbed another mug - your favourite one with the chip in the handle.

You took it from the counter with an appreciative smile when she pushed it towards you and you both sipped without a word. It was quiet. Too quiet. Neither of you knew what to say, there were so many words you wanted to utter yet neither of you could form any.

“I thought you weren’t gonna be out so late tonight.” She murmured to break the silence.

“I lost track of time.” You shrugged with the slightest slur decorating your words.

“You’ve been saying that a lot lately.”

“I didn’t realise I had a curfew.”

“That’s not what I mean and you know that.” Emily sighed. “We’re about to graduate and you’re out at any party you can find while I work my ass off. You’re not taking it seriously.”

“My grades are fine, Emily. I just want to feel like I have a life outside of all this.”

“Well I can’t keep being woken up with you stumbling in at night. I can’t keep being interrupted by you coming back drunk when I’m studying. You know I can’t afford to fuck this up.”

“I know.”

“It’s like we’re on different wavelengths.”

“I know.”

You couldn’t meet each other’s eyes with the way they stung with tears, so scared that you’d both break with just a glance.

“I love you so much but it’s as though we’re different people now, y’know?” Emily uttered through a shaking voice, wiping at the tear on her cheek with the end of her sleeve.

“Mhm.” You nodded, clearing your throat to find your voice again. “We’re not who we were at the beginning. We’ve changed.”

You’re so right for each other. Perfect. But the world is cruel and time is painful and sometimes things don’t align the way they should.

“I love you, Emily. I’m so sorry. I wish I could be better for you. I wish I didn’t feel so suffocated and trapped in this hole that I’m trying to climb out of. The hole my mother buried me in. God, I wish I could be better for you.”

“No. You don’t have to be sorry.” She returned with tears matching your own and her arms wrapping around your body. “You haven’t done anything wrong. We’re just not ready for the same things. The timing isn’t right, no matter how much it fucking hurts my heart to admit.”

The taste of salt coated your lips when you kissed and each breath that sounded in the room was stuttered, lingering in an embrace you so desperately wished to last forever. It was unspoken for now, you’d work out the formalities another time but for tonight you let yourselves live the night with freedom. Teary freedom with each other, kisses and touches so perfect, falling asleep entwined with puffy eyes.

“You are the truest love I could have ever imagined.” Emily whispered. “Nothing could ever take away this feeling I have for you. I think it was created for you. I think that you were made for me.”

“You will always have my heart, Em. I can only dream of one day being able to take it back.”

—

Years passed. So many years with an Emily shaped space looming near. Though she lived in the back of your mind it wasn’t uncommon for her to be the only thought your brain could focus on. But that was a different time. You hadn’t seen her since graduation and even that was merely a smile across the room, you couldn’t bear anything more, not with the inevitable ending. You’d thought it best to interact as little as possible, sparing yourselves of the agony. There was no cure for the pain, only the numbing of time.

The ding of the elevator closing behind you was the beginning of your new job, the career you’d been working towards. A bubbly blonde grinning at you from across the room caught you off guard and her excited announcement made you want to hide your face in embarrassment.

“You must be the newbie.” She smiled with quick steps carrying her towards you. “I’m Penelope Garcia.” She introduced with an excited shake of your hand with hers as she guided you towards the others.

She looked the same. Her jaw was sharper maybe and her eyes sported lines of laughter but it was still her. Emily Prentiss, the one who’d kept your heart. Perhaps you could feel the thumping in your chest again if she’d be so gracious to let you. If she could forgive you.

You didn’t quite know what to expect. Would she pretend your past was nothing, brush you off like a tarnish? Would she unleash some kind of anger she’d been holding onto, send you running, wishing you’d never even applied to this job? You felt your palms grow clammy with the way her eyes were so set on yours, unwavering for what felt like eternity.

It was like it was just the two of you, soul peering into soul. And then you had your answer, as though nothing had soured between you. Like the clock that once was broken had been repaired and the time that once controlled you was being steered into place by your own wanting hands.

She smiled that smile you’d been dreaming of for all this time; a beaming upturn of her lips that told you all she wanted you to know, that she still held your heart for safe keeping. That just seeing you again, both of you free, standing on the line of time with one foot in front of the other, was all she ever needed. You were the same people but time had changed for the better.

And in that moment, for the first time since that night, you had your heart again.

And you smiled back.

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[poindexters-labratory]

Thinking a lot about Bill Watterson again.

'Calvin and Hobbes' was one of my first special interests while I was growing up, right after dinosaurs, and it say that it navigated me through my life would be an understatement. I collected all of the compilations of the comics, I've read all of them, my personality in elementary school revolved around my odd obsession with these comics, that turned out not to be so odd looking back as a late-diagnosed autistic. That's where my art journey started was with eight-year-old fanart, and my love of reading. The idea of imagination, I didn't have much of an imagination as a child, but Calvin had an imagination, so I tried to have one too.

'Calvin and Hobbes' was so important to me as an autistic kid growing up. It may have unlocked the abilities that I have now. My storytelling, my art, especially my comic style that I've been struggling to find. The way I draw to exaggerate facial expressions, situational comedy (sitcom) that I put a lot of characters in, and the simplicity of it all.

Bill Watterson, because of how fast and cheap he had to produce a comic strip would only use black and white. There were times that he used very beautiful colors and complex shapes, I have fond memories of his backgrounds and landscapes, sometimes the sublime nature of his pieces of work. He could draw in both realism and cartoon, poked and prodded at his modern world through satire, spoke through a six-year-old boy about the conundrums of philosophy and it would make sense!

There was a sort of absurdism to those comic strips that the world was a big place, the universe was drawn out on those strips with God's hand holding it, but there was still a punchline in that final panel that brought you back to sit in place within that universe. Bill Watterson speaking through Calvin to explain that the view on comics was indeed not fair. A piece of literature and a piece of quality art could be considered 'high art' separate, but a comic, a mix of the two weren't held that same standard.

During Bill Watterson's time, the late 80s, early 90s, there was rampant consumerism, a trend that may have gotten worse over the last three decades. He was very against the commercialization of his art, his characters. You can find all of the comic strips and Sunday pages for free online, by the way. He was extremely talented as an artist and writer, he didn't do it for money, he hates public notoriety, he's only been seen at a few public events for his work, the art and stories that I was so entranced by during the early stages of my life, my childhood was made simply for the love of doing it.

I love Calvin and Hobbes. I always have. There was nothing that pointed me into writing all this out, I just love it. I love and I care so deeply about the narrative that didn't make much sense, but really does anything?

[mysticstarlightduck]

Big OC Questionnaire!

Gonna answer this one before I start today's writing session so here we go! Thanks for the tag, @the-golden-comet (here)!

Let's go with Adrien Rosetrom and Luke Katt (my ANGSTY bois who I adore) from my WIP Scrapyard Boys for this one! (:

What is your favorite thing to do to avoid responsibility?

Adrien - Eh, that one's pretty easy to answer dude. I just hole up in my apartment, lock the door, turn off the notifications on my phone, and then drink and smoke myself mindless while watching whatever's on TV. Sometimes I like watching the phone ring while not answering it just out of spite, that's fun. And if anyone I don't know tries to interrupt my peace they'll have a very sudden meeting with my baseball bat, if you get what I'm saying.

Luke - I just run off somewhere else until whoever or whatever I'm trying to avoid forgets about me or the dust settles. But that's only in more extreme cases - like if the cops are trying to get me or some gang wants to square up. Otherwise, I'm usually pretty responsible - I mean, I have to be, or else who the fuck is gonna take care of my little brother, or make sure my friends don't do some stupid shit again?

If you could choose anyone in the world to be your sibling who would it be?

Adrien - Don't even ask me that, dude (laughs bitterly). I've already got two half-siblings crashing at my apartment who show no intent on leaving me alone, I don't need anyone else leeching off my patience. (Begrudgingly) Fine, I actually do care for the two ankle-biters but don't let them find out or I'll never hear the end of it, dumbshit.

Luke - I'm not sure. Riley's my little brother and I would do anything to keep him safe - I've killed to protect him before, and I would do it again, even though it landed me in juvie for two years before I broke out. Valen - my best friend - and the other members of our little gang of chaos are also kinda like siblings to me by now, if I'm being fully honest, so there you have it.

What is the most sublime thing you have ever eaten and why?

Adrien - Sublime?! I'm not exactly an expert in high-cuisine, my dude. Most of my diet consists of like... cheap hamburgers, pizza, or nuggets. And a truckload of energy drinks. I guess a good dish of spaghetti with red sauce or a strawberry cupcake is as close as I'm gonna get to eating something "sublime." (chuckles)

Luke - I dunno, I know how to cook quite well but I rarely have like, the time and patience for it. I like microwave lasagna and chocolate cake covered with ganache, which are respectively my favorite dish and my favorite dessert, but that's about it.

What was the worst day of your life?

Adrien - I'm gonna be honest with you real quick: if I were going to answer that question in detail we would still be here talking this at this day and time next week. In short? Pretty much the majority of my days since I was kicked out, though the specific day I was kicked out of home and whenever my current boss decides to get too uh... handsy, for lack of a more 'family-friendly' word, are the runner-ups for Top 1 worst days of my life for sure.

Luke - I know most folks would expect the day I killed my abusive godfather to be the Number 1 Worst Day in my life but if I'm being frank... I kinda enjoyed it? Like really got a kick out of it (smiles widely). I know it sounds twisted and kinda insane to say, but I mean, the fucker had it coming, and knowing that he would never hurt Riley ever again was worth all the struggles that followed. I guess the actual worst day of my life was the day that followed when I was arrested and taken away from my little brother - but hey, I got out, and we're together again! So I say it was worth it.

What’s your worst nightmare?

Adrien - Being trapped in that fucking nightclub forever or being unable to pay off my debt to Zander so I can finally be free without fearing that the mob would skin me alive and feed me to the fishes. And as much as I hate admitting it - I guess now I kinda fear the twins will follow in my footsteps and end up hurt by my boss. It's kinda weird for me to admit and it does trip me out to think about how much I did change. Yeah, I know, I'm that pathetic.

Luke - Losing Riley and our friends, or them getting hurt in some way that I would be unable to heal them with my powers. And I don't fucking care who I have to kill to keep that from happening (laughs)

If a monster asked you your worst nightmare what would you tell it and why?

Adrien - Hell nah, man. I don't need anyone having that kinda power over me and my family, I know how that story ends and it ends with whoever was stupid enough to tell someone else their fears dead in a ditch. Not for me, pal! And let's say, if someone tried to use my fears against me, I would probably make their worst fear come true in the worst way possible, trust me on that.

Luke - Oh the 'monster' would have to spend a fucking fortune to recover from the damage I would do to them. You know I've done it before.

Would you give away secret information if tortured? Be honest.

Adrien - Honestly, I don't think I would give a damn either way but if that information was that important my captors would have one hell of a struggle getting it out of me - I'd probably lead them on with false hope that I'll talk and then don't say shit just so see the look on their faces, like, just to spite them and watch them losing their shit.

Luke - (chuckles darkly) Oh, how I'd love to see them try. If I'm going down, I'm taking their sanity with me, that's for sure.

Who could you trust most with a secret?

Adrien - Myself, and even then like... with a considerable, healthy concern, because you never know!

Luke - Probably my best friend, Valen - I know he would follow me to the depths of hell if need be, and I would do the same for him without a second thought. While I do trust Riley unconditionally, I'm not sure I wanna burden a twelve-year-old with the kind of secrets I keep, y'know.

You have been caught somewhere you shouldn’t be! Quick, what is your excuse?

Adrien - Dude, as if someone would be able to find me. If people were catching me slacking like that, I wouldn't be alive talking to ya right now, given the kind of company I usually keep. So in short: I'm almost always sneaking somewhere I shouldn't, but no one has caught me yet. That I know of.

Luke - Only like, all the time! Me and my friends are just that kind of trouble. Usually, I don't really make up an excuse, I just go "Oh, would you look at the time -", stun whoever found me, and just like, haul ass in the furthest direction as soon as possible.

How good is your sleep schedule?

Adrien - That'd better be a joke because my man you don't wanna know the answer to that. I'm a stripper working for the mob, do the math yourself how fucked up my whole schedule is at night. I usually go home at like, 3AM, on good days, crash on the couch, wake up sometime in the mid-morning if insomnia doesn't come to haunt me, down like three bottles of energy drinks and a cheap coffee, and then rinse and repeat the next day. If I sleep at all.

Luke - It's pretty good, especially when compared to some people I know. I go to sleep at like, 11PM, or 10.30PM, then sleep a solid 6 to 8 hours every day before waking up early. My powers require a lot of rest to recharge, and what kinda healer would I be if I didn't know how to take care of my own body?

Do you have any siblings?

Adrien - Already answered that but alright: I have two, half-siblings. They're twins who might as well be two gremlins coming to haunt my waking life. One's a boy, Rhys, and he's nice and all if his ideas didn't almost give me one heart attack per week, and the other one - the dangerously quiet one that is almost always up to some shady shit if she's out of sight - is a girl named Gwyn. Yes, I regret every life choice that led me to this situation and I'll probably end up grey before thirty.

Luke - Only one biological one, Riley - he's twelve. If you count my best friends then the list gets much longer, haha.

What’s the toughest time you had to endure growing up?

Adrien - Oh my time living old hag of a grandmother wasn't exactly paradise, putting it lightly. The nicest thing she and my grandfather ever did to me was kicking me out of the house at fifteen - and that led to a whole other hellish chapter.

Luke - Oh, you can take your pick. Being orphaned, moving in with our abusive, toxic bitch of a godmother and her husband, having to kill said husband when he got drunk and tried to hurt my kid brother (which would have probably killed Riley if I wasn't there), being arrested, breaking out of jail, helping Riley escape from that woman's house, then finally finding some friends and getting a semblance of normalcy.

What’s your relationship with your family like?

Adrien - Eh. Mother dearest dropped me off with my grandparents, then I got kicked out, and years later my estranged teenage half-siblings broke into my apartment one night and were like "Hey dude! We'll live with you now!". So yeah. Complicated is an understatement, huh.

Luke - Didn't really have a family other than Riley, though now, I would say that our group of friends are actually the closest thing to a real family we've ever had. They're great and honestly, I'm glad we met them!

Do you have any hobbies? If so, what ones?

Adrien - Watching TV, listening to music, sleeping. Drinking energy drinks. Smoking. Wandering around in the city thinking about what the fuck I'm doing with my life and having a breakdown --

Y'know, the usual.

Luke - I like sneaking into the movies when I can. I also love skateboarding, dancing, and playing the guitar. Oh, and watching those funny morning cartoons on TV, while eating cereal!

Do you dream often?

Adrien - Most nights, though they're usually not the coolest dreams. I usually wake up and like, turn on the TV to drown it out until I collapse back to sleep.

Luke - Eh, not really. And when I do I usually don't really remember them or they are just the... most unhinged, concerning, weirdest dreams that leave me thinking "Yep, I have seriously issues, huh" when I wake up, haha.

What do you dream about?

Adrien - Uh - Nope! Not answering that one for the sake of your peace of mind and what's left of my own pride.

Luke - When I do remember? Man, stuff like - a T-Rex dancing ballet while hopping in multicolored clouds in the sky, or some kind of weird gremlin creature following me through a musty hallway while singing "Peanut Butter Jelly Time!". Now you get what I meant by concerning?

Have you ever been in love?

Adrien - Romance is the oldest lie of all time, my friend, and its not one I'm that keen to fall for either. I'm gonna fall in love for what? To get disappointed? Nah, man, I'm good.

Luke - Not really, like in real life and stuff. I had a crush on some movie stars and pop singers when I was younger, but that's just teenage dreams, haha. I actually really want to meet someone I would fall in love with in real life, as cheesy as that sounds! I may be a killer, but I'm a killer who still wants a fairytale wedding with someone just as weird as me.

What is your least favorite thing in the world?

Adrien - Sex with strangers. The mob. My boss. People who put their hands where they don't belong because they're drunk and apparently I'm "supposed to like it". Stupid fuckers who bully others. Just the usual.

Luke - Abusive people. Rich people who think they can do whatever they want to others who are not as rich as them. The police and the shitty government of this shitty city.

What is your pet peeve?

Adrien - People who aren't hygienic or are just like... downright nasty and clearly need a good shower. Loud music. I also kinda hate how Gwyn chooses to watch a cheesy stand up comedy show on my TV at full blast in the morning and eating those crunchy potato chips on my couch which causes the crumbs to be everywhere, because -- FUCK'S SAKE SHE'S AT IT AGAIN HOLD ON - (gets up, running to his living room done with life)

Luke - People who don't look me - or others - in the eye while talking or who keep checking their smartwatch or phone in the middle of the conversation and then just answer you like "uhuh" or "yeah, that's wild". Like, yeah Karen, I'm fucking aware you didn't hear a single word that left my mouth and the fact I wasted five minutes trying to talk to you makes me wanna strangle that bad haircut out of your head.

Would you consider yourself different?

Adrien - Different than what? Everyone's unique in their own way. And I ain't about to be no "pick-me" dude that's always like "Oh, I'm so quirky, look how different I am from all the other bland humans", or like dramatically, "I'm just weird, you wouldn't get me". Hell nah.

Luke - I guess I am kinda different than most teens my age. Because like, let's be honest, who else do you know that has killed someone at fourteen, has extreme regeneration powers, and undermines the government with a group of other fucked up teenagers? Though I don't know if this is a good or bad thing, that's too philosophical of a question to answer.

How far would you go to save a loved one?

Adrien - I may be a heartless bitch but I would actually go pretty damn far to keep those twins safe. Like, for example - hypothetically: Does the mob want to "upgrade" my job from stripper to whore in exchange for their safety? Uncomfortable but yeah, fine, I'd do it. Do I need to beat up someone who is threatening my siblings? Oh, yeah, that someone is gonna wake up with their face smushed in by my baseball bat. Do I need to blackmail a billionaire who basically owns the country (this one I actually did so its not hypothetic)? Sure, I've done weirder shit before.

So you get the idea. I may be vicious, but I ain't disloyal.

Luke - I've killed a man with my bare hands, and I would do it again, and again, and again, if I needed to. And I don't regret it one bit. Do I need to say more? (smiles dangerously, with that feral guard dog aura to him)

Would you team up with your worst enemy if it was your only option?

Adrien - I kinda already do that every day already, so yeah, sure. Fuck it, we'll be besties and braid each other's hair if I get to live another day, I don't give a shit.

Luke - Oh hell no, I'd rather they just put a bullet through my brains than ever team up with those fuckers.

What is the worst insult you can give?

Adrien - I already swear like a sailor on a daily basis, so I have a pretty wide dictionary of insults. But I ain't sure what would be the worst one, and I don't got enough time to figure that out either.

Luke - (Tilts his head, with a smirk) I think littering their body with wounds using my power would get the message across better than any words ever could, don't you think?

What is the nicest thing someone could say to you?

Adrien - I dunno. Like, I'm not a sentimental kinda dude, but I think I would be pretty fucking happy if someone just acknowledged that I'm doing my best. I think hearing an earnest, "Hey, dude, you matter to me!" with no strings attached actually would be pretty nice.

Luke - I'm not quite sure (chuckles awkwardly). I guess that just being loyal and kind and spending quality time with me - just like, actually being there when I need someone, would matter more to me than any words ever could.

Are you a jealous person?

Adrien - Oh hell yeah, you bet your ass I am!

Luke - Not really. I don't like being betrayed or deceived, but other than that I think I'm a pretty chill dude. I'd hate to be overbearing.

Have you ever committed a crime?

Adrien - Yeah, all the time. How else would I get by in this stupid rathole of a city I'm stuck in huh? And working for the mob, committing crimes kinda does come with the territory, in a way.

Luke - (laughs drily) Are you seriously asking me that question?

Are you neat or messy?

Adrien - I ain't got the time or patience to be organized, so I guess messy it is. Not dirty though, I hate dirt. Just chaotically disorganized.

Luke - I guess I'm pretty organized, now that I think about it. Not over-the-top, interior designer-like organized, but at least a bit above the bare minimum most days.

How do you feel about crying? Let it out or hold it in?

Adrien - Cry? Nah. I just hold it in like a pressure cooker, laugh it off, drink my sorrows away until I collapse on the floor of my kitchen, wake up with the worst hangover of my life, and then be like "Let's go get some fast food!" like nothing happened.

Luke - It's normal and healthy, I just don't do it very often or in front of others. I like to be the rock they can rely on, and so I usually don't.... burden them with my feelings unless I have to. I cry quite often when I'm alone and the stress gets to me.

Who do you live for? Why?

Adrien - Myself, because throughout this shitty life, I've been pretty much the only one I can trust. (sighs) And yeah, fine, now I live for the twins too, because like it or not I really fucking care about those two gremlins, probably more than I should.

Luke - For my little brother, Riley, and our group of friends.

What style of accessories do you wear? Is it willingly?

Adrien - I like sunglasses, earrings, actual rings, and occasionally a necklace or two. I also like simple makeup - not the glittery one that makes my eyes water with allergies and Zander likes so fucking much - just like, eyeliner, nail polish, lip gloss. I may be broke but I like to look stylish when I can. My personal style is willing. The gaudy and glittery accessories and persona I put on for Zander's stupid show? That shit's not really willing but I don't get a choice, now do I?

Luke - I have a lot of tattoos, most of them on my arms. I also love wearing metal rings with cool designs, and leather and plastic bracelets, and I have a few, small ear piercings. It's willing, and I like having control of my style. It gives me certainty about my personality and I adore that.

Tagging (gently): @sleepy-night-child, @kaylinalexanderbooks, @smol-feralgremlin, @oh-no-another-idea, @littleladymab,

@winterandwords, @eccaiia, @sarahlizziewrites, @illarian-rambling

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@lassiesandiego, @thepeculiarbird, @clairelsonao3, @memento-morri-writes, @starlit-hopes-and-dreams

@wyked-ao3 and OPEN TAG

[bambiniibambz]

My Lover, My Destruction, My Resurrection. --SMUT

Picture is from Pinterest

Original story, original characters.

TW - Smut, vulgar language, daddy issues, age gap, ETC. (Read at your own discretion)

A/N: Thank you for reading, I am open to criticism, please tell me your thoughts. Make special requests through my inbox or comments, I will always reply.

Male - Silas Female - Seraphina

It was like being kissed by fire, the sting of it traveling from my nerves to my brain, kissing my receptors before plunging me back into the bucket of emotion. His taste was that of tar from cheap cigarettes, all tobacco and barely any menthol. His cologne that seeped into my skin, staining my clothes with their pine scent.

He was the epitome of authority and safety; and to me, he was comfort. Always there to console me. A secure dam to run to when the water got too high for my liking, and I never learned. He kept the water at bay but his cold seeped into my bones like a blizzard, and no matter how much frostbite I got I kept on, like a brainless athlete.

I was his compliant dove, flying wherever he sent me, coming back to him like a loyal hound. I sniffed out his scent like a lustful dog, ready to drown in the falsity of his solace, letting him pick my naivety like the petals of a flower. Which, I knew that he discarded when his jaded persona returned with full vigor.

What was it that made him so enticing to me? I asked myself many times but decided that the answer I would conjure was too much for my mind to implore. My mind was more appealed to the idea that he wanted me for me and not for whatever sickness was festering inside his deliciously rotten heart.

It was in him that I lost myself, pushing the ache in my heart farther and farther until all that was left was him. Until he and his pine scent and menthol-less tobacco cigarettes consumed me in all of their sublimity. "Silas?"

My voice reverberated off of the beige walls, I walked further into the empty hallway decorated with nothing but a vintage carpet. It was in his favorite color, a deep, rich red.

The floor creaked lightly with each step I took, the stairs groaning under my weight as I took them towards the living room. The air was chilly, winter's arrival imminent, making it's presence known with the looming cold.

I watched as he walked towards me, cigarette in hand. He wore a black sweater with black pajamas, I hugged myself, engulfed by the sweater he had lended me last night.

"Aren't your ma and pa wonderin' where you are?"

His voice was gentle as he pulled me close, breathing in my scent instinctively. He pushed a few strands of hair behind my ear, peppering my face in kisses as I giggled. "No, I told them I had to go to a convention." I smiled as he laughed, the gruff sound like music to my ears. His eyes twinkled while I marveled at his ease. How could a single person emit so much beauty? "Want some breakfast Phina?"

I nodded, feeling him squeeze my arm before walking towards the kitchen to make some eggs and hash-browns. It was sweet, he took good care of me, making sure I ate and was fed, cooking me whatever he was used to making.

I ate it happily, loving that it was him that made it only for me. It was endearing. It put an end to all of the questions I had about us, if only for the moment.

"Thank you Silas"

He nodded, cracking an egg over the hot pan, watching it sizzle a little before scrambling it in the pan.

"No problem Seraphina."

I watched as he continued to scramble the eggs, the spatula hitting the pan again and again, breaking the eggs and turning them into little worms of white, orange, and yellow. It made my stomach turn and twist, much like the eggs on the pan.

My insides feeling jumbled and convoluted much like the relationship that I shared with Silas, who was double my age. It was taboo but I couldn't help but crave this social convention, I couldn't help but feed my delusions of lust-filled intimacy with him.

Me, who so desperately wanted love, settled for nights filled with nothing but breeding and false promises. It made my heart wrench and fill with something that was much less like love and more like regret. Even then, his smile, his scent, all of his white lies and his targeted ploys to make me more compliant made me all the more willing.

I forgot about who I was or what I felt. I only felt what he wanted me to feel, and it was always amazing. He tantalized me, dangling a carrot in front of me, pledging me something tangible before stripping me of my purity night after night, yet I indulged in it.

"Here you are sweetheart, you want ketchup?"

The plate was set in front of me with a light thud, the steamy goodness of fresh eggs and shredded potatoes rising up to my nostrils. I licked my lips before nodding, "Yes please, thank you."

I shifted in my seat, easing myself out of the spiraling words my brain was meshing together to create sentences. I refused to let myself entertain it any longer.

I didn't want to think that he was capable of doing bad things, even though I knew he was. I looked at him, my mouth chewing on the scrambled eggs, the taste erupting on my buds in joy.

He smiled as he wolfed down his plate, always finishing way before me but always staying to let me finish. He watched as I finished the last of my eggs, taking my plate to the sink and rinsing it, setting it aside for the dishwasher later.

I knew full well what was going to happen next. We would waste the day away in our secluded isolation, observing each other with a carnal gaze. Our subconscious vocalizing our lewd desire to our bodies which in turn produced the palpable feeling of pleasure that led to our sinful affairs.

He knew what I wanted, pushing everything he could into me, letting me feel every inch of what he had. His touch grazing over my perky nipples before cupping my breast whole with his large hand. He kneaded it over and over, breathlessly kissing along my neck before reaching my chin.

I mewled out, wanting him to go even faster, even harder. I wanted him to ravage me inside and out, until I couldn't think about whether it was love or lust, until I wasn't even worried about whether it was love or lust.

"Oh g~god, S~Silas~!"

My voice sounded utterly pathetic underneath him, whimpering and whining like a needy dog. My hips bucked upwards, meeting his unevenly as he plowed into me with fervor. He groaned, moaning out my name as he continued in his destruction of my self.

"Just take it Phina, you can take it pretty girl, my little Phina~."

He breathed into my ear, his arms coming to tighten around my hips as he dug into my supple flesh. I felt like I was being radicalized into existence, every fiber of my being molding into him like I was merely an extension.

His gentle hand came to pet my hair, cooing at me gently. His soft eyes bore into mine, leaning his head against mine as he whispered his words of false affection. It made me feel fuzzy, so warm and cozy; and there it was, that undeniable feeling of release that was building up in the pit of my stomach, slowly reaching a fever pitch.

"Silas p~please~, I'm so c~close."

I mewled out softly, his hand coming down to roughly rub at my clit. He made fast circles, bringing me closer and closer to the edge until I was almost toppling over. "Come on Phina~ do it for me, make a mess for me angel." My fingers raked along his bare back, clawing at him desperately as he filled me to the brim with his thickness. My senses heightened as I felt every vein drag along the inside of my velvety walls. I saw white as I came all over him, my insides tightening as I whimpered out his name. "Oh what a pretty little girl, that's it, that's a good girl sweetheart."

He continued to overstimulate me, still pushing into me with full force as he rubbed at my clit and licked at my perky breasts.

"You want me inside you hm? Want daddy's babies?"

I nodded my head dumbly, my heart thrumming in my chest as I mumbled out nonsensical words. They came out jumbled, I was speaking like a true cock-drunk whore.

"yesyesyesyespleaseyespleasepleaseprettypleaseyes" He simply chuckled in response, lifting me slightly as I arched my back into him, the hilt of his cock sheathing itself deeper inside of me.

He let out a gruff moan as he spurted his seed inside of me. I felt him paint my walls with his white, my mind happily taking everything he was so generously pumping inside of me.

I smiled, feeling it seep out of me. He pulled out, his semen began gushing out even more. He took two fingers, looking at me with a certain animosity in his eyes as he shoved his cum back inside me.

I was enthralled, addicted to watching him play with me. It was so wrong but I couldn't help myself. I knew that soon I would be back again, next weekend or the weekend after that; ready for even more.

It was a vicious cycle, one that I had no intension of breaking. His pleasure was blissfully revolutionary. It was heavenly, he was heavenly. "I love you Silas~" I heard myself mumble out, my voice breathless as he simply stared at me with those half-lidded eyes of his. "I know little one."

[rock-and-roll-hell]

September 8, 1980

Unmasked Tour

Wembley Arena - London, England

“From the wonders of Wonder to the overblown kitsch of KIϟϟ – anyone monitoring events at Wembley over the past few days may be forgiven for questioning what extremes, from the truly sublime to the truly ridiculous, currently coexist under the banners of pop music. Of Stevie represented the heights of black American music in the Seventies, then KIϟϟ represent if not quite the total depth, then at least an overemplified vaudeville circus that has done wonders for the band balance of white American ‘theatrical heavy metal…’ Gene Simmons – whose unlikely friend Diana Ross was the only attractive sight at Wembley last night – wore a cloak, a sci-fi Roman costume and makeup that was somewhere between Chinese Emperor, clown and a vampire bat. He also stuck out his tongue a great deal. If that’s what gives little American girls erotic nightmares, then my profound condolences to all little American girls. The problem with the band’s performance was not a lack of music but that there was far too much of it in between the expensively cheap and jolly garish special effects. KIϟϟ played with thunderous slick professionalism and no feeling, with a deafening sound that easily disguised their few reasonable songs like 'I Was Made for Loving You.’ But music didn’t sell this band, as you might have guessed, and after the first minute I was hoping for the much-publicised special effects if only to relieve the painful tedium. When they came these included Simmons breathing fire (very briefly), and a guitar that started belching smoke and was then hauled above the stage where it was shot down by another guitar apparently firing rockets. I staggered out, musing on the devotion that must have led Ms. Ross to sit through such a tacky show more than once” (The Guardian, 9/9/80).