#consci

[my-marciorodas-blog]

Ano Novo, mais exatamente 2023, quando você por meio dos rituais como ceia de ano novo, fogos de artifício demarcando o fechamento de um ciclo e abertura de outro onde você realiza suas promessas tanto para si quanto para as pessoas que você ama. Por exemplo, os seus desejos, nessa hora, você traz os seus desejos, suas vontades, o que você gostaria de realizar no próximo ano. Mas vai passando o tempo, os dias, os meses e olha você de novo repetindo as mesmas promessas do ano passado, e ano após anos daquele jeito... Quem nunca se viu nessa vida que atire a primeira pedra. Isso por que, você não toma suas decisões, apenas deseja, mas não decide, deseja, mas não decide e aí você deseja, mas não decide e isso se repete e repete e repete ... Não decide por que você não abre mão da mediocridade, das distrações, das ilusões e do preço a ser pago, compreende ?! Decidir é pagar o preço é se conhecer intimamente é se disciplinar e até mesmo buscar ajuda para resolver o seu problema. Para chegar onde se quer chegar se não está dando conta de chegar, você busca ajuda para sair do lugar, ao invés de ficar perdendo o seu tempo, lhe criando frustrações! . MARQUE SEUS AMIGOS 👇👇 Curta ✔ Comente ✔ Compartilhe ✔ 😀 #o #expansao #expans #ncia #neg #sucesso #conceito #goodies #o #expans #ncia #sucesso #gb #cios #integridade #a #cura #expansaodaconsciencia #amor #autoconhecimento #espiritualidade #consciencia #consci #empreendedorismo #evolu #brasil https://www.instagram.com/p/Cm7tVx8p9fJ/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[conscydraws]

Violent lil creature 🔪🍌

My beloved sketched this fella on a marker board, I turned it into a jewel.

It's crafted from bronze and covered with cold enamel.

[housederiva]

Wait wait hold on what do you mean I’m gonna be playing Dragon Age the Veilguard for the first time and I won’t know the consequences of my actions until the conscies come quencing?

[kailasakalpataruchinese]

你是否正在寻找一种方法来改善你的身心健康?来发觉帕冉玛希我含Paramashivoham 一级课程的力量吧 2023年4月8日第一级第二天的亮点 了解你身体的7个重要能量中心，也被称为脉轮，以及它们的运作如何影响你的整体健康。 对自己的情绪有一个彻底的了解，包括性、恐惧、担忧、注意力需求、嫉妒、自我和不满。 超越这些情绪，在你的生活中获得更大的平静和幸福。 ✅注册凯拉萨的帕冉玛希我含Paramashivoham 一级课:https://events.kailaasa.org/psm1/ 👉计划从2023年4月7日开始。 欢迎您加入一天或多天的课程！

原文链接： http://m.facebook.com/photo.php/?fbid=789070119252488

～尼希亚南达翻译小组

联繫凯拉萨华人世界的方式： 微信：14595087（Ma Kailasa） 联繫凯拉萨台湾的方式： 台灣凱拉薩 Line ID : kailasa_taiwan phone:0919-132331 phone:0910-880195

[almostempty]

Look at this photograph

(joel miller x f!reader)

The half sequel (Chapter 1.5) to Never made it as a wise man

WC: 3.5k | Part 1 | Other fics | Rating: 18+ 

Summary: you open Joel’s dick pic and (after examination) decide to give him a call

Note: it’s me ya boi (gn), back with more divorceddadrockdilf!joel bc you guys get me. i know y’all want them to fuck, and I want them to fuck too. unfortunately, this flowed through me first, and I am merely a vessel for the spirit of buttrock joel. 

so, until they get their freak nasty on, please enjoy this as a chapter 1.5, with gratuitous dick pic art critique and crankin’ it over the phone <3 don’t worry, he’s still a lil pathetic. mistakes and bad jokes are all on me. 

Tags: au no outbreak modern joel, divorced dad rock dilf joel x f!reader, picks up right where ch.1 ended, dick pic descriptions, alternating pov, dirty talk, phone sex, masturbation, it’s all just phone sex, but edge yourself through it with fond memories of ch. 1, still crackish, but i am still dead serious about it being hot so idc

inspo playlist i found on spotify: Divorced Dad Rock: BANGERZ

thanks: to @hellishjoel for hosting the #hotdilfsummerchallenge and to everyone who enjoyed part 1 

@gothcsz i promise fuckboy!joel is cookin, he’s just in the crockpot rn. he’s gotta tenderize like a white lady’s pinterest recipe for pulled pork. 

* i tried to tag everyone who wanted more, but if you don’t wanna be here i’ll remove it <3 or if i missed you and you want to be tagged next time pls let me know

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” you blurt out after opening the message from Joel. The vulgar dick pic sends a prickly worm of arousal slithering down your spine. 

Without thinking, you tilt the phone down toward your chest, and your eyes shoot up like you’ve got to make sure nobody saw your naughty message. Warmth blooms on your cheeks as the flash of embarrassment starts to dissolve. You don’t need to hide. 

You’re in your bed, in your apartment, wearing Joel’s grubby Creed t-shirt. The one that smells like Degree Sport and a Jiffy Lube break room. You're free to look at all the dick pics your heart desires. And that’s what you’re going to do. 

The wiggle of bashful energy turns into a squirm as you shift your hips, seeking a comfy position in bed. The t-shirt bunches up under your back and you wonder if the unique Joel scent of it will linger on your pillow beneath your shoulders. You knew pilfering the shirt on the way out the door was a good move, and now you get to enjoy your trophy. It makes it feel like the broad-as-a-barn-door DILF himself was still close enough to touch you. 

It gives you another bright shudder when you think about the noises he made when he came in your hand earlier. The disappointed grunts of “fuck, wait” and how he tried to choke down the throaty groan that came from deep in his chest. Fuck. The perverted gremlins that have a permanent residence in your mind have been roused by the digital dick, and now they chitter and squawk at you. More! More! More!  

You reopen the message, and seeing it gives you another rush. You save the picture to your phone storage. For your personal collection. Mine now, big boy. Your chin starts to dip towards your chest. It’s like you’re giving your phone the Kubrick stare with the ghost of a smirk. You’re free to take your time with this one. And you can be as much of a creep as you want. That makes you sigh softly and sink deeper against your pillows. 

Before this afternoon, it was titillating when Joel would pop up in your mind's eye with his slutty slo-mo scenes. The one where he was bent over your car's engine like Megan Fox in that Transformers movie. Or, that damn happy trail tease with the t-shirt-sweat-rag move. You had just enough imagery to let your dirty thoughts take the wheel. 

And, god, you had a good production team in your mind for projects starring Joel. Adding this will give the team a whole lot more to work with. You can hear them crashing around your conscious like the Animaniacs on the Warner Brothers lot. Horny chaos goblin mode activated. 

Now that you have time to study the image, from the luxury of your microfiber sheets and lamplit bedroom, you let it get pervy. It’s your first real, lingering look–earlier today, you were so busy trying to rile him up in his jeans that you didn’t even pull it out.

It had somehow been even more delicious that way. Having him all needy and unable to stop himself from making a mess in your hand. And not just the noises, but the erratic thrusts into your tight fist? The heat of his pulsing length as he forgot himself? Yeah, you’re gonna remember that one. 

But now? Now you need the visual. If the devil is in the details, you have a new neighbor with horns and a tail. 

You zoom in on everything. Holding your phone closer to your face than necessary, like how do we enhance this bitch? 

And holy shit. 

Drool pools in your mouth and between your legs. You have the knee-jerk reaction to lick your phone. 

You can hear Joel’s voice from earlier today. All husky and grumbly, arguing that you really were a slut for him, like, “You are, aren’t you, though? You came all this way in this excuse for a shirt just to see me?”  He might be touch-starved enough to cream his jeans, but you just know he’s got a nasty mouth in bed, and you’ve got to find out firsthand. Soon. There’s no reason not to, right? 

You pause when a flicker of reasoning tickles the back of your neck. 

You’re back to looking in your review mirror in Joel’s driveway. The last-ditch attempt at checking your ego before you marched to his front door like a Halloween hoe bag version of Betty Crocker. 

You had told yourself you weren’t trying to fuck your (almost) friend’s (sort of) dad. Told yourself there was nothing to pursue, and even if there was, you wouldn’t bite. 

You like Ellie. She’s been (mostly) welcoming to you. You told yourself not to fuck anything up with the only person that’s got a single one of your jokes at your new job. 

You were just bringing some food as a friendly gesture. The fresh visuals to add to your spank bank reel were supposed to be a harmless bonus. Okay, maybe it was a stretch to say you had rolled up to Joel’s driveway with pure intentions. 

And it was an even bigger stretch–when he added that third finger while he finger fucked you on the kitchen counter—wait, no. It was an even bigger stretch when you had told yourself you probably weren’t his type anyway. 

Like, that guy? With the fridge full of Coors Banquet? With those ugly Oakley sunglasses that you know are featured in his only picture on social media that isn’t a car or truck? The guy with all the words to Buckcherry’s “Crazy Bitch” and Puddle of Mudd’s “She Hates Me” memorized? 

Nah, deep down, you knew. You knew there was no way that middle-aged bachelor would turn down any action. But you hadn’t planned on actually making a move, especially not a handjob in the middle of the kitchen. 

That’s on Joel for leaving the door open while trying to rub one out to some bimbo on Brazzers. And for barking at you in that sexy, angry voice. And for teasing you with the bulge in his oil-stained jeans. What were you supposed to do? 

Something must be really rotting in the logic department of your brain. 

Hey! The gremlin voice in your head is still shouting at you. Hey!! Why are we not tasting that dick yet?!! You’re back from your daydream and the excuses you crafted for your behavior, back to laying in your bed with Joel’s dick pic emitting a bright glow in your hand. 

You still do want to lick the screen. 

Fortunately for your immune system, you control your tongue. The critical part of you expels a sigh when you zoom out and take in the picture. 

It’s undoubtedly a nice cock, but the image as a whole? Yikes. 

Why do men have to be so fucking thick? And blunt? Wait, now you’re just describing the slightly blurry boner lighting up your face. Thick as in dense. How can men be so dense? 

No imagination or creativity. No patience. 

You shake your head slightly, scoffing. No wonder you caught him hunched over his cracked phone screen. It was probably the first video loaded on the only site he had saved. 

No sweet, sweet, buildup, setting the mood, or getting cozy. Just whippin’ it out midday or snapping a photo in some ratty sweats. 

Like you’ve never been that touch-starved or down bad?

You ignore that voice to continue your art critique. 

The photo you sent is… sexy. 

Sultry. A flirty tease. It says, “Look who has your shirt? Am I wearing it in bed? Do you think I'm wearing anything else?” 

It’s all implied in the look in your eye and the picture's composition. The tease of the soft curves on the underside of your breasts, asking if he remembers what they felt like. Your hand bunching up the shirt, asking if he remembers the slide of that fist around his cock. If he remembers those fingers, the ones you sucked his sticky spend off of. 

Such delicately crafted imagery. Personalized erotic fine art.  

But men are so crude about it. He sees your tasteful, sexy pic, and immediately, the best his caveman brain can come up with is: send her ur dick! STAT!! Hard cock! Now!!

And, of course, he did. Taken in the dark with the flash on, making ominous shadows in the background. His old charcoal gray sweats are pulled down just enough to expose everything he’s offering. 

The color is slightly blown out from the flash, and it’s a touch blurry where his phone didn’t autofocus quickly enough. His hand looks like it’s straight up, just choking the base of his cock. It’s jarring. 

But that’s really the “man” of it all, right? Nothing subtle or demure about a rock-hard erection jutting towards you, reaching like it could get to you on its own if it just could get a little bit harder. No, there’s nothing coy about the raw thoughts of a man with no blood left in his brain who’s just aching to get inside you, either. 

And fuck if that doesn’t start to override your critical analysis. 

The glare from the flash reflects in the beads of precome rolling down his rosy tip. Mouth wateringly delicious. Your blood rushes to your pussy, filling your tender sex with heat and a deep, needy itch. It makes you dopey and silly. Not cock drunk, but like, dick pic buzzed. 

You know it felt sizeable in your hand earlier, but you aren’t an expert at estimating size from a through-the-pants handjob. You try to recreate your own grip around nothing to estimate the size. 

You giggle to yourself when you realize you're just a woman in her bed staring at her hand, jerking an invisible cock. The horny goblins aren’t amused, though. They’re sick of the daydreaming and distractions. They’re picking fights with the rest of your mind. Throwing rocks and sticks, shrieking and hissing. 

The part of your brain that was griping about how men used to write love letters and respect the art of romance is getting quieter and further from your faculty for caring. You can hear its muffled shouts, and you assure that voice that you won’t give it all up this easily. Then, you completely tune it out. 

The last brain cell with a complaint has you rolling your eyes. You have to be ovulating or something because it’s wholly debased the way this guy is doing it for you. 

He’s just shameless with it. 

You sent him tasteful underboob, and he gives you jumpscare dick-in-the-dark! How is this supposed to escalate? He gave it all up immediately! You send another picture, and he sends you his money shot? What’s he gonna do to give you more? Send you an asshole shot? That one makes you snort. You bet he would do it, too, if you asked. 

Oh, that gives you a better idea. He’s not getting another picture from you at all. You tap on his name and tap the call icon. Of course, this horny motherfucker answers immediately. You aren’t sure it even rang before you’re connected to his porny bedroom voice. 

“What are you wearing, dollface?” 

“I already showed you. Call me dollface again, and I’m hanging up.” 

You can hear his breathing like he’s got the mic on his phone in his mouth. That would typically drive you fucking nuts, but right now, you wanna hear his heavy breath against your ear and feel it hot against your skin.

“All right,” he speaks slowly, distracted. You know why. “You wanna be my slut, instead?” 

Fuck. That has you throbbing between your legs, but he doesn’t get to know that yet. 

“I already told you,” you keep your voice low and soft, “you don’t get to call me a slut for you, not with your behavior.” You strain, trying to hear any other noises, but his mic is probably clogged with dust from his shop or lint from the pocket of his sweats. You can just hear his fucking breathing. 

“What behavior, baby?” he rasps.

“You always jump straight to sending a picture of your cock?” 

You hear the soft snort through the phone. Followed by a deeper, throatier noise. A noise that makes you go cross-eyed and has you running a hand down to your naked lower half to tease yourself. 

“You always steal a man’s clothes after you come on his fingers?” 

You don’t really care what he asked. His voice makes your tongue go numb. Your mind goes blank. You start slowly, coating your own fingers in your slick arousal and drawing circles with a light touch. 

You hum a noncommittal response into the phone. 

“You look good in my shirt, baby, fuck,” he trails off breathlessly. The idea of you in his clothes gets him too close. 

You don’t answer, and he’s too far gone to wait and tease. 

He’s been wound up since you took off this afternoon, and it doesn’t feel like a coincidence that you sent him that pic when he had just gotten into bed.

It had taken ages to get his brother out of the shop this afternoon, and then Joel completely fucked up when he mentioned you and the lasagna. He had to begrudgingly host Tommy for dinner when he couldn’t come up with a better excuse than saying, “I’m gonna need you to fuck off so I can deal with the aching balls I’ve got from your surprise visit scaring away the woman I had my fingers knuckle deep inside.”

But when he was finally alone, it was like fate; your text came through right after he flopped onto his bed. His semi-stiff cock had sprung to full mast at the sight of you. The shirt he knew he didn’t fuckin’ lose, your soft curves, and the expression on your face. Like a vixen. Your PG-13 tease would do more for him than any X-rated video. 

Knowing you were thinking about him and that you wanted him to know? That had him throbbing. He already knew from the desire in your eyes earlier today that you wanted more.

He could swear his fingers still hold the lingering flavor of your wet cunt. The visceral memory of you has him on edge. When he wraps his hand around the base of his cock, he has to pause, holding firmly in place. His body screams and aches for release, but he’s determined to keep it in check. He doesn’t want to blow his load until he gets a response from you. 

He fights his urges, trying not to fuck his own fist in a frantic race to come. 

But, fuck, it’s difficult when he can imagine the sounds you’d make as you sank onto his cock for the first time. The face you’d make. Your tight, wet walls hugging him just right. Like, he’s where he’s meant to be. 

And the way you would look, bouncing on top of him. Your tits, your blissed-out face, the way your soft lips would part when you called out his name and cried for more. 

Those lips. 

The way he’d love to see them swollen and slobbering around the base of his cock. Fuck. His hips buck reflexively, and he hisses out a breath through his clenched teeth. When his phone lights up with your name, he answers before it can make a sound. You’re so bold. He likes that. It plasters a saucy grin on his face. 

And now, with your breathy voice crackling through his janky phone speaker, he’s not gonna last long. You've got him losing his composure for the second time in one day. His whole body is rigid. His toes flex and snap unconsciously, and his jaw tenses. He hears your soft moan, and his thoughts are overflowing. He has no filter left. 

“Yeah, baby? You moaning for me?” His hips punch up into his fist, and he gives in, allowing himself firm, severe strokes. “You’ve got me so hard. You moaning for my cock?” 

You are so not gonna answer that one. If the next words out his mouth are, “Yeah, you like that?” you’re gonna block him for that. But it is undeniably hot to hear him already so worked up. You just know he’s gonna be coming all over himself again for you, and that really does make you moan just for him.

Your noises earn you another growly groan from Joel that you’d kill to hear again. The more uninhibited his noises are, the louder you get in response.

“You using your fingers, or you have a toy?” his question is punctuated with a grunt. 

“Mm, just fingers,” you purr, finally granting him an actual response as you roll your hips. Having Joel on the line gives you a heady sense of satisfaction. Wondering what’s going to come out of his filthy mouth next gives you a shiver of anticipation. 

“I know that sweet pussy is just achin’ to be filled again.” Correct. 

“Yes.” 

“S’right, baby, I know.” 

Joel whimpering on the phone for you is absolutely going to get you off. Your hips chase your own fingers. You switch your phone audio to speakerphone and drop it on your pillow so you can use both hands. Pinching at your own nipples as if it were Joel’s big hand under your smuggled shirt. 

“Tell me,” he pants, “who do you need to fill it for you?” 

“You, Joel.” 

“Fuck,” he chokes out, “you wanna ride this cock, huh baby?” 

“Mhmm.” Bingo. Right again. You wish you could feel the pressure of him inside of you, massaging and soothing away the agony. The weight of his body atop of yours, so solid and secure. You can just about feel the pressure of his pelvis grinding into you. The friction from the coarse curls at the base of his cock getting you closer and closer. 

“Know you’d do so good,” he cuts himself off with a low noise, “so damn sexy.” 

“What else would you do with me?” You wanna hear it. For your own fantasy and to know what he’s into.  

“I’d have you taking me down your throat til you’re crying on it for me, fuck,” a primal noise erupts from him.

Face fucking. Of course. You can’t deny that when he says it, your body responds instantaneously. Your pussy floods eagerly at the idea, and your cheeks burn hot from the visual he gives you. You swallow down your moans, and you can imagine the weight of him on your tongue and the strain of trying to swallow around his cock. 

“You wanna come down my throat?” As if that isn’t a fucking siren song that would make him steer a fleet of ships into a cliff? Your salacious words are too much. 

“Shit. Yeah, baby, wanna watch you swallow for me.” You let all your moans and gasps flow freely for him to hear. “I’m so fuckin’ close,” he can’t stop the words from spilling out his mouth, “let me hear it, baby,” he can’t stop his pending bliss either. “Please, baby, I can’t, oh f-fuck,” he cuts himself off with another primitive grunt, and that’s precisely what your cavewoman cunt wanted to hear. 

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” The horny goblins chant out loud this time. You can envision sweaty, pleading Joel lurching toward a reckless, full-body climax. 

You’re far from grace when the crude sounds he lets out turn you into an uncivilized beast. You hear him gasping, growling, and whining for you. It plunges you into a staggering orgasm. Rolling waves of ecstasy leave you panting and sweating.  

You lie in bed, chest rising and falling beneath the Creed logo. You’re left stunned at the intensity. A dreamy smile spreads across your face, and warm contentment, like honey, pours slowly over your muscles. Relaxing you as your tension softens and you turn to pick your phone back up.

Why was it so wholly consuming just to listen to him? Imagining the mess he made again,

because of you. 

Maybe you’re just made for each other. 

You and Joel. 

Oh, god. You should start listening to Alanis Morissette and Evanescence and trade your car for a 1990s-era Toyota 4runner and a pack of Marlboro Smooths. Really lean into matching his freak and the divorced alt-rock vibes.

You laugh softly into your phone before a deep sigh possesses you, and you nearly fall asleep. You stretch and smile, letting your heavy eyelids rest. 

He’s muttering something at you, catching his breath from the stress of being that fucking horned up for you all evening. And the overexertion of lasting long enough to hear your sweet cries of release. 

“You’re unreal,” his smoky voice rings with awe. “Got me shooting loads like a fucking teenager.”

You snort at the juxtaposition of his tender voice and crude comment before ending the call with a whispered, “Goodnight.” 

It shouldn’t make you smile. 

But he’s somehow such an enticing disaster. A cliche lonely bachelor, a cocksure idiot who knows he’s got a big dick and a generous guy who was willing to fix a stranger's car. 

You shouldn’t be trying to justify it, but you know he had you figured out earlier. 

You may be sated tonight, but you won’t be able to rest.

Not until you get your hands on that DILF – or rather, your pussy on that dick. 

divider by @cyberangel-graphics

PLEASE tell me if you enjoyed or hated it 

OR throw rocks at me if you’re upset they didn’t smash yet or tell me ur favorite divorced dad rock song

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[boyfhee]

﹙𝓲ssue﹚ㅤ:ㅤfever dreamㅤ...ㅤ( 제이 )

꒰ ✉️ ꒱ where jay reckons that the stars aren’t worth watching, and so do you.

ㅤㅤ﹙1509﹚ ㅤ장르 fluff, suggestive, bsf2lㅤㅤwarnings kissing / making out, drinking, awk ending probsㅤㅤᐢᗜᐢ cooked this up on the way to the doctor's :/ happy reading, pls rb and leave feedback >_< iNDEX

being friends with jay comes with surprises. 

just like the one in front of you— a whole camping scene prepared in front of you even though it’s on the huge open balcony of his house. a tent placed right where the potted plant used to be, decorated with fairy lights connected to an extension board. you don’t miss the amount of pillows inside, your heart swelling up at how warm everything looks, especially at the sight of the endearing smile on his face as he brings in another blanket. 

“i didn’t know you were serious about this,” you could only manage to whisper a few words out of amusement, earning a playful huff in response. 

“of course, i was. what do you even take me for?” you stand still as he brings the snacks from the kitchen— all your favourites. 

all because you mentioned wanting to stay up all night stargazing, and then witnessing the sunrise. it was abrupt, just something said out of the blue when sunghoon asked what you’ll be doing during the summer breaks. you hadn’t enough finished dreaming about it, and jay was already in front of you, turning it into a reality.

he turns to ask you something before noticing your glistening eyes, the tear rolling down your cheek which brings him at a loss of words, the whole scene tugging his heartstrings a little painfully. it isn’t until you notice his surprise that a soft chuckle falls off your lips, your voice faltering for a moment. “i’m sorry, i just—”

“hey, don’t be embarrassed,” and jay knows how you get emotional so easily. he finds it endearing, your tears leaving a twinge of sadness in his chest. he reaches out instinctively, gently tugging strands of hair behind your ears. “i think it’s sweet how easily you are moved,”

you almost freeze at his actions, hearing your heart beats reverberating through your ears, afraid he would hear them too. it’s cinematic how time seems to stop when you look in his eyes— and he thinks you look impossibly breathtaking under moonlight with beads of tears resting on your eyelashes. 

you almost feel your eyes darting to his lips, almost, before you break away from the contact and try to calm your nerves. you grab two cans of beer from the tray kept aside, passing one to him. “let’s make a toast,”

he laughs softly, the sound almost a relief from the sombre mood that had settled between you two. he gladly takes the can and pops it open, taking a sip from his beer can and eyeing you as you take yours. “you’re emotional and lightweight. what a deal,”

all it takes is a playful slap on his arm for you to settle between the pillows and blankets, grabbing a packet of chips. you both had agreed on the ‘no phone’ condition, leaving your devices somewhere in the living room. you didn’t have time for your phone anyway, having your hands full with the opportunity to look at the stars, and jay.

you barely finish a can before he’s reaching out for another, already dazed by the drink messing with his neurotransmitters. this usually never happens, even after two and a half bottles of soju. today, he’s tripping down the tipsy lane, just nodding and smiling aimlessly as you talk and talk— and he thinks to himself how lacklustre the stars look compared to you, and the way the soft yellow glow of fairy lights illuminates every single feature of yours that makes him swoon. 

the stars aren’t even worth watching.  

he takes another swig of his beer, his eyes never leaving your face, just like your gaze that refuses to leave the stars. he studies you for a few seconds, enjoying the blissful silence between you two. you are the one with less tolerance between him and you, but today jay is feeling the buzz of alcohol blurring his conscience. “you really are a sight, you know that?”

it doesn’t dawn upon you how close his face was until you turn to look at him. he takes in your reaction, the way your eyes widen. your shyness only emboldens him further, making him lean even closer, face now mere inches away from yours. he feels the subtle scent of your perfume tingling his senses, driving him crazier than you have already done. 

he reaches one hand to cup your face tenderly, his thumb lingering a little too close to your lips. it sends a shiver down your spine, a sensation that makes it hard for you to think straight. he notices the way your lips part ever so slightly, although not a single word coming out of your lips. “so beautiful,” 

sobriety wouldn’t have let him cruise this far, nothing would’ve convinced jay to act upon his feelings, except maybe a little bit of liquid courage that makes him bolder than usual. his gaze remains fixed on you, his silence giving you an excuse to back down from whatever this could lead to, eyes tracing every single feature on your face. and when you don’t, he leans in even closer, his breath hot against your skin. “stop me before i lose myself to you, yn,” 

his voice is a heady mix of desperation and desire, as if pleading for you to drive him out of whatever spell you’ve done on him. he watches you intently, waiting for you to push him away, to stop him before he does something he might regret, but your silence only fuels his desires. he moves his hand down to your chin, tilting your face up slightly, thumb gently tracing your lower lip. his gaze locks into yours yet again— an action that sends your heart racing a thousand miles, unbeknownst to him, faster than it was already beating. “say something, please,”

you almost melt under his touch, under his pretty voice and a gaze admiring you as if you put the stars in the sky. it feels like a fever dream to be this close to him, stuff that your highschool self used to daydream about. you would go to bed, giggling about the slightest possibility of him giving you flowers on valentines, something your friend indulged you into. it was a dream, wanting to be with someone who embodied perfection, and yet again, jay was in front of you, making it come true even before you had finished dreaming. 

so, you just stay quiet for a few more seconds that feel like hours on empty before whispering against his lips. “kiss me,”

a pause, his breath catching up in his throat. 

jay wasn’t expecting you to initiate it, it felt like he was going to get a heart attack. hell worse, if he’s starting to hear things due to alcohol. however, your eyes tell a whole different story with the way they’re taking in every single part of him, begging him to do something. he doesn’t hesitate— with a swift, fluid movement, he closes the small distance between you two, pressing his lips against yours in a searing kiss. 

it’s like a need, the way every part of him years for you. the way flesh wants to knit itself over a wound. as if he’s drowning and you’re the air he needs. his lips refuse to leave yours, hands sliding down your body to pull you onto his lap. he deepens the kiss, letting his free hand down to the small of your back to pull you even closer. he feels himself slipping out of his sanity when your fingers get tangled in his hair, tugging onto them ever so slightly. 

“you have no idea what you do to me,” he whispers, lips trailing kisses down your neck and leaving faint marks in their wake, his nose brushing softly against your skin that makes you sigh in bliss. he stops abruptly, breathing erratically against your neck before looking up at you. he takes in your appearance, your flushed look with hair a bit dishevelled. you looked like a mess, and unbelievably his. “you’re so beautiful,”

you smile at his words, feeling your face heat up even more than it already has. this has to be a fever dream, you tell yourself, and then cup his face ever so gently. “you should kiss me again,”

he smiles. “you always order me around,”

“kiss me.”

“are you sure?” he murmurs, lips curved into a teasing grin as he leans in even closer with his forehead against yours. “i’m really bad at keeping my hands to my—”

and then you grab the back of his neck, yanking him towards your lips and pulling him into a chaste kiss. you feel him smile into the kiss, his hands resting on your sides as they pull you closer than possible. soft giggles erupt in between, sweet nothings shared between quick pecks oozing with admiration, and ‘i love you’ spun in the air and you realise that the stars aren’t even worth watching, for you have yours right in front of you.

taglist

[mrchiipchrome]

Nosebleed(s)

W.C - 1,6k

The moment you hear the resounding crack of your nose, you know something is wrong, seriously wrong. Pain sprouts from your nose out towards your eyes in unsettling waves and you feel how a warm liquid seeps down from your nose and into your mouth, half open in a silent scream.

The metallic taste of the sticky liquid clues you into what it was, the red staining your hands in an unsettling way. You can feel the tears welling up in the corners of your eyes as your surroundings fall away, the pain much too overwhelming as your face throbs. 

Your knees find the ground in an instant, the turf scratching uncomfortably against the tough skin. The rest of your body soon follows in its path, meeting the ground painfully. 

Your already red jersey stains with a deeper shade of red as the waterfall of blood continues its rampage. The warm blood soon transfers onto the vibrant green grass, making it an ugly greenish brown color as you shove your forehead into it, willing the pain to go away.

Only moments after your form dropped onto the hard ground, you can feel pain spreading on the left side of your face, distracting you a smidge from the pain in the middle of your face. The scratching sensation disappears after a second or two but leaves behind paralyzing pain that makes the wail stuck in your throat escape.

Blood mixes with sweat and drips dangerously into your sensitive eyes, something you can feel as the burning sensation in your eyes blinds you. 

In the span of a few seconds, you had gone from running all over the pitch and creating chances left and right to laying on the ground twisting and turning as the pain creates spots in the little vision you had.

The last thing you could feel before everything went black was a hand giving you a soft pat on your shoulder and someone trying to turn you over onto your back. 

The limp nature of your body concerns the Chelsea player who’d taken you down, the blood not noticed by her yet. She stands up, dusting herself off all while thinking that you were fine. 

It’s when the whistle blows and she notices that you still haven’t moved from your position that she starts to become slightly concerned. She bows down, putting her hand on your shoulder softly as she waits for you to react, only you don’t. 

The referee approaches with a slight jog as she notices the small commotion happening on the field. All the players' eyes follow after her and soon after they notice the pool of deep red appearing around your head. 

The Arsenal players rush towards you, pushing the Chelsea player out of their way as they crowd around you. A few of them turn you on your back, gasping at the horrific scene that might as well have come directly from a horror movie. Blood covers the majority of your face as deep scratches on your left side continue to seep out metallic liquid at an alarming rate.

There is a gurgling sound coming from your throat and your girlfriend drops down to her knees worriedly by your head. Leah pulls your head onto her lap and with the help of a few teammates, she turns you on your side looking on in worry as a few drops of blood slip out from between your lips.

Somewhere in the far distance she can faintly hear how Katie argues with half of the Chelsea team and the referee to card the player that took you down, but she tunes it out, all too focused on you and the continuous flow of blood from your nose and cuts. Leah strips her shirt off in a desperate attempt at stopping the bleeding, pressing it firmly to the side of your face, the blood staining yet another shirt.

Leah presses a soft, reassuring kiss to the only piece of skin she can find that isn’t smeared in blood, muttering soft reassurances to you as she strokes your hair carefully. She doesn’t want to mess you up any further.

Soon enough, the once steady shallow breaths turn labored and deep, the puffs of oxygen mixing with whines as the pain hits you like a truck. Your face feels sticky and dirty as you regain consciousness, the soft and familiar feeling of your girlfriend's thighs making everything better. 

Your senses are in overdrive as you feel everything all at once, the roughness of the turf beneath the rest of your body and everyone’s eyes on you, the smell of sweat and metal mixing together in an unpleasant symphony and how everything just hurts.

“Make it stop, please Lee make it stop.” You manage to get out from between clenched teeth and chapped lips, the whisper being near inaudible due to the surrounding noise and yet, Leah could hear you perfectly fine.

“The medics are coming love, don’t worry you’ll get some help. See they’re nearly here.” She dips her head to whisper in your ear, fearing that the rather obvious concussion would get worse if she were to talk normally. 

She continues to reassure you, telling you that the help was near when it wasn’t in fact near, the slight tremor to her voice telling you as much. Leah grasps the hand that comes up to touch your face in her own, her fingers hugging yours tightly in a comforting gesture.

After what feels like an eternity, but in reality closer to minutes, the medical personnel finally show up. Leah wants to scream and question why in hell it took so long for them to get there, but she realizes that it’ll help no one, not you nor the medics if she did. She lets them run through the concussion protocols, and as it turns out you in fact have one. 

The garment she placed over your cuts gets removed, the shirt having formed a glue-like bond to the cuts on your face which in turn reopens the cuts and lets the blood start to flow yet again. You groan in pain as the normally stinging sensation instead turns out to be a sharp and stabbing pain.

The medics take one look at the deep scratches made from the Chelsea player’s studs and decide that they’re deep enough for you to need stitches. The continued groaning and moaning pierces Leah’s ears and she keeps her hold on your hand firm as the medics wrap your head in blindingly white gauze.

Red spots soon appear on the light bit of fabric, looking more like an abstract artwork than a football player’s head, and you can feel how fingers prod at your nose. Your eyes start to water once again and as one single tear slips down your face, it leaves a noticeable path of unstained skin.

They decide that it’s broken fairly quickly, sticking two wads of cotton up your nose to stave off the bleeding a bit.

The grass feels pokey in your hands as you put them to the ground, pushing yourself up to your feet with help from your girlfriend who keeps you steady with her arm hanging firmly around your waist. Your body sways dangerously as you put your arm around her shoulders, steadying yourself while the other one goes around one of the medics shoulders.

The two escort you to the sidelines and as you reach them, you feel Leah let go of you, Jen quickly taking her place so as to not let you fall down. Leah presses a quick kiss to your lips, the blood having been wiped off earlier, before she tugs on her new shirt and runs off towards her place on the pitch. 

The rest of the game is played with surprising vigor from Arsenal, the red side scoring a few more goals in your honor and as soon as the whistle signaling the end of the game blows, Leah legs it to the medical room. 

The door slams open, leaving you to turn your head quickly and spot your girlfriend standing in the doorway panting slightly. A smile paints your now clean face as you open your arms for her to enter, and she springs into them carefully so as to not put pressure on any of your cuts and bruises.

“Are you okay? It doesn’t hurt too much right? You’re coming home with me, I’m not letting you drive let alone be alone at your apartment.” Leah rambles, her nerves quickly becoming noticeable as she rants to you, cupping your face in her soft hands.

“Lee, stop worrying, I just have a pretty bad concussion and my nose is broken but I’m fine. I love you so much babe.” You respond to the pretty blonde, a small smirk situated on your swollen and bruised face.

“Okay, you're still coming home with me, I’m not letting you out of my sight for the next few weeks.” Leah tells you sternly, but the loving look in her eyes betrays her as she looks down at you where you’re sitting on your bed.

“I can agree to that, I guess”

Six days later

Looking down at the field from your place in the nosebleeds is an ethereal feeling. The club had been nice enough to give you some seats with an incredible view to watch the rest of its fixtures until you were back to training again. 

Sitting in the nosebleeds, watching your team destroy another team was bittersweet as you’d much rather be down there playing with them, but you had a much better view of your girlfriend which sweetened the deal oh so much…

a/n; honestly this is so shitty, but i felt like posting something

[demonslayedher]

Just thinking about how Chachamaru is a male calico, at least according the Taisho Secret right before chapter 195 that calls him manly. It really doesn't surprise me that he's male, because so many references to calicos I've seen in manga, mascots, and temple architecture specify that the featured calico is male.

This is because they are rare, and therefore considered lucky.

The figure that gets thrown around the internet is that supposedly only 1 in every 3000 calicos is male. (I'll bet the people who did the often quoted study at U. of Minn. College of Vet Med would love to tell you how it's more complicated than that.) This has long made male calicos popular not only in Japan, but in other countries as well. The thing is, though, the male calico might not always be so lucky.

To be very brief about why calicos (and some other multicolored cats) are almost always female, this is because, put very simply, one X chromosome gives us the black splotches, and one X chromosome gives us the orange splotches. That might leave you wondering where the white patches come from, and this is the part where I say that genetics is never simple and you should have fun reading about it. The important takeaway here is that in order to show this color pattern, a cat needs two X chromosomes, one from its mother and one from its father.

Typically, a male cat has an X chromosome (from its female mother, who only has two X chromosomes) and a Y chromosome (from its father, who had both an X and a Y), but because the calico coating can only occur with two X chromosomes, this male cat somehow got an X, a Y, and... hmm, another X somewhere.

So not a typical XY male, not a typical XX calico... this sterile XXY male calico has an extra chromosome, and mutations often are not ideal for the health of the animal with the extra chromosome. This particular condition is Klinefelter’s Syndrome, which can lead to a male calico having cognitive and behavior issues, weaker bones, increased risk of diabetes due to higher body fat, and perhaps a shorter lifespan.

Now, none of the fictitious lucky cats I've seen have ever been portrayed as anything less than smart and pleasant, though a lot of the maneki-neko are pretty round. For everything Chachamaru is tasked with, I have to assume he's above-average when it comes to intelligence, reasonably healthy enough to handle long-distance travel, and for a cat, he's extremely, extremely cooperative. For the record, the same Taisho Secret (as well as Yushiro's statement in Chapter 194) makes it clear that for most of canon Chachamaru was a regular cat, for he was not made into a demon until right before the final showdown with Muzan. Even with her hands full making the medicine for Muzan, she still put a lot of effort into changing Chachamaru so that Yushiro wouldn't be lonely. It's ironic that Chachamaru winds up immortal, rather than doomed to a potentially shorter lifespan due to his mark...ings. In the first place, was Tamayo perhaps moved with pity for a sickly kitten and nursed him to the health he's in now?

Or did she always keep her eye out for a male calico, wanting to put some faith in them being good luck?

Also, what sticks out to me in this Taisho Secret is that Chachamaru, not having a language in which he could communicate with Tamayo, had no choice in becoming a demon. Tamayo felt sorry about that. The word bubble over manly little Chachamaru says, with bravado, "Fine by me, if that's what the woman I'm smitten with wishes." If Chachamaru truly is that smitten with her, that perhaps accounts for what an unusually cooperative cat he is. But it also reminds me of a fan theory that I saw once (and found worthy of weight) which said that perhaps Tamayo's blood technique has an effect like makes others smitten with her, and Yushiro might had been under its influence, however strongly or subtly. If such a thing were the case, it might or might not had been something Tamayo was conscious of. If she was conscious of having some effect like that, she probably felt awful about it but found it a necessary precaution to keep any demon she made under control. If she wasn't conscious of such a thing, that means she might had subconsciously developed it out of loneliness, and had been trying to keep company at her side.

[tomarry-harry-meet-more-harry]

Typical time-travel tomarry Harry meet Typical A/B/O Tomarry universe; 3- A Favour?

Context: Following a typical A/B/O Tomarry story, Harry would be an Omega, Voldemort (let's go with snake-face) will be an Alpha. However, the view of Omegas in these omegaverse tend to lean towards weak and easily dominated- so, assuming Harry wasn't born an Omega (otherwise Voldemort wouldn't have deemed him worthy of being the 'chosen one') and instead presented later during his teens, the context I'm going for in this one is the Omegaverse Order summon an other Harry Potter from a different universe to take the place of their own Omega Harry Potter, whom they consider too weak to fight.

Harry blew gently into the mug of hot chocolate he had been given.

Sitting in an armchair next to the fireplace at Grimmauld Place was giving him all manners of deja vu ; if he closed his eyes, he could pretend he was visiting Orion during the Easter Break with Tom lurking just an arm's breadth away, but he could also remember crouching in anticipation with the Weasleys around this exact place, waiting for news of Arthur Weasley's condition after Nagini attacked him.

A good moment and a bad moment.

What does this one count as?

He wasn't even sure how he felt right now.

"….So," he begun slowly. No-one had spoken since Dumbledore (not his own, another one, who looked and sounded and acted just like the one who fell from the Astronomy Tower) explained to him what had really happened. Their gazes weighed heavy on the back of his neck, prickling with pity and caution. It itched on his skin. "To summarise, you guys summoned me, from my universe, into your universe, because different universes exist now, to defeat your Voldemort, because you thought the other me- your Harry- was too weak to do it?"

There were murmurs of affirmations from all around the table.

"Oh," he couldn't stop his voice from coming out strange. His hands trembled around the mug and he clutched it tighter. "I thought…"

Remus (his heart palpitated within his chest so painfully Harry almost glanced up to check if someone had cursed him) reached across the table to fold Harry's hands within his sympathetically. "I'm so sorry, Harry. You must've thought the Sirius of your world was brought back to life?"

That was not quite it, but Harry didn't want to explain the whole time-travelled-back-to-the-1930s-by-accident thing, so he nodded mutely. He would just bring it up later if it became important.

(He had hoped, for one disastrously vulnerable moment that he had been brought back to his own time.)

(Stupidstupidstupidstupid.)

The hands around his own squeezed tightly in encouragement. "I understand if you want to leave-" Moody made an angry noise in the background. "-but we have to get rid of Voldemort. Could you help us? Please, do us a favour?"

Harry remained silent for a moment.

He was angry, for starters.

Voldemort. It was always Voldemort, from his cradle to his cupboard, to Hogwarts, to the Horcrux Hunt, to the 1930s, and now here. Every single aspect of his life always seemed to have Voldemort as centre stage, and nothing seemed to be separate from him. It didn't matter if he in a separate universe, it always seemed to loop right back to Voldemort.

Secondly, he felt so out of place.

He was firstly The Freak at Dursley's, then The Chosen One at Hogwarts, then time-travelled Harry Evans the Transfer Student Who Punched Tom Riddle On The Train, and now this.... whatever this could be.

Lastly, he was tired.

It was also always 'Harry, could you help us?', 'Harry! Help!', 'Save us, Harry!', or 'You're the chosen one, Harry!'. He had loved it at first; handing the Remembrall back to Neville felt like being wanted for the first time in his life. But then-

then-

-dirt blood screaming run run running away HELP HELP HELPUSPLEASE YOUHAVETODEFEATVOLDEMORT ANDDEATHLURKSWITHIN-

Yet Harry always answered.

How could he not?

He often acted first, then thought later, and even if he didn't he knew his conscience would gnaw him hollow inside.

"Alright." he said. It felt like signing his death warrant; tasting bitter at the back of his mouth. "I'll do you this favour. What do you guys know about Horcruxes?"

[renecdote]

In case you want mORE :’)

cuddling in the first morning light + buddie anniversary? ❤️

hi amy ily I hope you enjoy these sappy boys (ft party dog socks as requested) mwah 💛 [Read on AO3]

It’s a miracle, really, that they make it out of the ER before five a.m. A miracle that they make it out of the ER without an admittance at all, Buck thinks privately, but that’s more to do with his shitty luck with ending up in the hospital than any feeling that he actually needs to be there right now. If it had been up to him, they wouldn’t have come at all.

“Which is why it’s not up to you,” is all Eddie had said to that on the drive in, his hands tight around the wheel and his foot a little heavier than normal through the yellow lights. The real miracle, honestly, is that Buck managed to talk his way out of an ambulance trip. He only fainted, like, one and half times, he’s fine, but you have one little history of cardiac arrest after being struck by lightning and suddenly everyone is more worried than they need to be.

No. That’s not fair. He’s just—he’s tired. He wants to be home already.

Eddie’s hand guides him back to the car and Buck tries not to lean into it too much, more unsteady than he is willing to admit but not wanting to keep worrying Eddie. He focuses on putting one foot in front of the other, thinking dreamily about getting home and sinking into their very comfortable bed with his very snuggle-able husband.

He slumps against the window, eyes closing as he lets out a shaky breath, and he only remembers to put on his seatbelt when Eddie gets in the driver’s seat and clicks his own belt into place. The snap is loud in the quiet bubble of the car. Buck winces at the pulse of pain through his head. The fluids the hospital gave him did something, he’s pretty sure, but the headache is clinging tight.

Eddie fiddles with the radio, searching for a traffic report, and Buck winces again when a host far too cheery for the early hour informs them that there has been an accident so they’ll have to take a detour.

“Sorry,” Buck sighs. He has said it too many times already, he knows, but he can’t help it. It doesn’t make sense that traffic would be his fault but it feels like one more thing he needs to apologise for anyway.

“You don’t need to apologise, Buck,” Eddie tells him, and somehow there’s still none of the exasperation Buck keeps expecting to hear there. He sounds more tired than he did at the start of the night, exhaustion dripping from his consonants and his shoulders as he glances in the rearview mirror before pulling out of the carpark, but his voice is just as patient as it was the first and second and tenth time Buck said he was sorry.

“It’s just.” Buck bites his lip, working through the frustrating press of tears behind his eyes. He’s just tired. He’s tired, and feeling more like crap than he wants Eddie to know, and, “It’s our anniversary.”

Eddie glances at him then. His hand twitches towards the gear stick like he wants to shift it into reverse and back up down the road until they’re back in front of the hospital.

“You said you didn’t hit your head when you fell.”

Buck groans. “Please don’t turn the car around.”

“Our anniversary is in March,” Eddie reminds him, as if Buck doesn’t know that. He was the one who wanted a spring wedding and then he spent the whole day sneezing because of hay fever. It would have been miserable if it wasn’t the best day of his life.

“I know it’s not March,” Buck insists, fully aware that he’s being too insist-y about it. He’s just so tired. “I didn’t mean that anniversary.”

Eddie frowns. He opens his mouth, then closes it, and in the flash of orange streetlights, Buck can see him flipping through a calendar in his mind, Chris’ school events and work shifts and all the important days in their lives marked on it with colourful pens and stickers. Buck can see him coming up blank on anything that matches today’s date.

It’s stupid, really. Extra stupid because Buck didn’t even know about it, not consciously, and then he accidentally caught a glimpse of Eddie’s personnel file in Bobby’s office on Monday and—

“It’s the day we met,” he says, playing with the plastic band around his wrist. “The day you joined the 118.”

The day their lives changed forever, even though they didn’t know it at the time.

“It’s stupid,” Buck adds, mumbling.

They’re at a stop light now, and the cross street is clear, but instead of accelerating forward, Eddie puts the handbrake on and leans across the console to pull Buck into a kiss. A sound of surprise catches in the back of Buck’s throat, but then he curls his fingers into the front of Eddie’s hoodie and kisses back.

“I love you,” Eddie says when they pull apart, his eyes crinkling with his smile. Buck can hardly see it in the dim interior of the car, but he can hear it in Eddie’s voice, the kind of warmth and fondness that is so sticky Buck will find traces of it clinging to him for the rest of the day.

“I love you too,” he replies, a little breathless. He hopes Eddie thinks it’s just from the kissing.

“I’m gonna take you home,” Eddie says, thumb a caress at the edge of Buck’s jaw. “And we’re gonna sleep for at least five hours. Probably more.” Buck smiles. “And then we can celebrate our anniversary, okay?”

“It’s not even a real anniversary,” Buck tries, not even really sure why he’s arguing. A more sensible person would just agree, and maybe remind their husband that they’re stopped in the middle of the road, so maybe they should put the car back in gear and hurry up with the getting home part of the plan? Any minute now some early morning commuter is probably going to come along and beep at them.

Eddie kisses him again, quicker and chaster than before, his lips gone before Buck can even try to chase them.

“It can be an anniversary if we want it to be,” he says, shrugging the kind of one-shouldered shrug that means he’s trying to seem unbothered when he’s actually feeling a lot of things, probably very deeply. Then he puts the car back in gear and checks both directions are clear before continuing to drive. It’s not fair, really, because it means Buck can’t work through the many, very deep feelings in his own chest by kissing Eddie stupid.

When we get home, he tells himself. But by the time they pull into the driveway, Buck is flagging.

They shower together—“it’ll be faster,” Eddie says, as if Buck doesn’t know it’s just so he can make sure Buck doesn’t pass out and crack open his skull on the tiles—and with the smell of the hospital gone and the bone-deep exhaustion amplified by the heat, Buck is half-asleep before he makes it into bed. He seriously considers not getting dressed at all, maybe not even drying off, just rolling under the covers and passing out (metaphorically, this time). But then Eddie is in front of him with a t-shirt and sleep shorts, a pair of party-themed dog socks tucked under his arm, and it’s just as easy to let him help.

“Bet you didn’t think we’d end up here,” Buck finds himself saying, watching Eddie roll the socks onto his feet. He could do it himself, but.

“No,” Eddie agrees, looking up at him. His smile is teasing when he adds, “Especially not those first few days.”

The embarrassment Buck used to feel looking back at that has been tempered by time and the life they have built together.

“I was a dick,” he says easily.

Eddie snorts. “You thought you were so tough.”

“Hey,” Buck protests, unable to fully bite back his own smile. “I am tough.”

“My tough firefighter husband.”

Only half teasing.

"Don’t worry, Eds," Buck tells him, “you’re my tough firefighter husband too.”

Eddie’s knees crack when he stands and they both laugh.

Eddie holds out a hand and Buck takes it, bracing himself before Eddie pulls him to his feet. He sways there a second, takes another second to figure out it’s because Eddie is pulling him in, not because of head rush, then he’s ducking his head down to Eddie’s shoulder while they hug. He likes hugging Eddie. He likes pretty much everything about Eddie, likes doing pretty much everything with him, but even before they started dating, Buck always liked the way Eddie hugged him. Liked the way it made him feel held.

“Good?” Eddie checks.

He’s not really asking anything, but he’s also asking everything, so Buck takes the time to squeeze him a little tighter before he answers, “Yeah, ‘m good.”

They separate just long enough to climb into bed, then Eddie wraps an arm around his waist and Buck melts back against him. Behind the blinds, the sky is probably just starting to lighten, alarm clocks starting to go off around the city, birds chirping, a thousand days starting while theirs finally ends. Buck closes his eyes, breathing slow and deep with the rise and fall of Eddie’s chest against his back.

“Wake me if you need me, okay?”

Buck wants to say that he won’t need him—he’s fine, really, the doctor said so and everything—but he just yawns and agrees with a half-garbled, “Uh huh.”

Eddie presses a kiss behind his ear. Or maybe Buck just imagines that he does. He can’t be sure whether he really hears the whispered, “love you,” either. It doesn’t really matter; they’re just words. He can feel all the branching, overlapping layers of Eddie’s love even without I love you.

It’s nice, though, hearing the words anyway.

Buck falls asleep wondering whether Bobby knew just how much he would change their lives when he asked Eddie to join the 118.

[quartafuga]

A settembre inizio a scuola a fare il lavoro che sogno da una vita e la sindrome dell'impostore mi sta divorando dall'interno da giorni. È la prima volta in assoluto per me e sono certa che non sarò in grado di gestire le classi, i colleghi, la didattica, i rapporti umani. Come fanno quelle persone che anche conscie di star partendo da zero sono così sicure, fiduciose, serene? A volte sono stanca di essere me

[conscydraws]

Well, it's gonna take a loooooot of time to finish

[ma-pi-ma]

Lo scopo della vita è vivere, e vivere significa essere consci, gioiosamente, ebbramente, serenamente, divinamente consci.

Henry Miller

[the-strength-of-the-wolffe]

Finally! I get to share my headcanons about this loveable piece-of-work, my boy Sinker.

Like Boost, he didn't choose his name; their batchmates came up with it because of his pessimism, a quirk that stress exacerbated (more on that below).

He was a reluctant “older” brother—not naturally responsible or nurturing but arbitrarily chosen to be in charge of his batchmates by their superiors. Although it felt unfair at the time, it’s the reason he’s a sergeant at the start of the war.

One of their trainers didn't get on with him (personality clash) and took every opportunity to beat him down. He put on a front of insolent indifference, but the harsh words (on top of Kaminoan indoctrination) eroded his spirit, leading him to develop that famously bleak estimation of himself and all clones.

For an engineered soldier, stress had an unusually adverse effect on him. It didn’t just sway his mood; by young adulthood, his hair started to thin and show gray roots. He couldn't stomach shaving it off, nor admit his shame by dyeing it black, so his solution was to dye it entirely gray and pretend to own it.

Needless to say, he isn’t in the healthiest frame of mind as we meet him in “Rising Malevolence.” He has a callousness about him that strikes me as a defense mechanism. Sadly, he doesn't take General Plo's words to heart that day. In fact, he isn't sure what to make of the General for some time.

If he had met Wolffe under any other circumstances, they wouldn't have become friends; they're too different, and Sinker is nothing if not realistic. Suffering the massacre together, and later rebuilding the 104th, bonds them like nothing else could. Even though rank and duties often keep them apart now, they hold fast to that bond.

He tries to move past the loss of his old squad by falling back on cadethood excuses ("I didn't want this job!") and cold memorized truths ("that's the reality of war"), but the horror and guilt get to him on occasion. For a while, he's at turns distant and aggressively protective toward his new squad.

He takes an immediate disliking to Comet, regarding him as a liability at best and a threat to the squad's safety at worst. Truthfully, he sees a bit of himself in the rookie (that defensive apathy), and he hates it. The tension between them erupts one day into physical violence, which he immaturely instigates. The brawl puts a bad mark on his record (and is my explanation for why he doesn't seem to climb any higher in rank). However, by coming to blows, the two of them are able to confront their issues with each other. Gradually, they work toward a more amiable relationship.

His personal beliefs and his mixed feelings about General Plo come to a head during a dangerous search-and-rescue operation. When half his squad (including Boost) become trapped in a damaged building, he fully expects he'll have to leave them to prioritize civilians, a prospect he suddenly finds chilling. To his shock, Wolffe and the General converge at once, the former taking over evacuations while the latter goes after the troopers. In the end, not a single one is lost.

Because of this harrowing event, he realizes first how much he cares about his men, what their lives are worth to him (not expendable!), and second that he's not alone in feeling that way—General Plo meant what he said. He still has some qualms about the General (e.g. the health considerations are a source of stress), but his love language is acts of service, and the General's tremendous act of saving his squad wins him over.

From this point onward, he's able to shoulder his responsibilities with less fear, and that confidence does wonders for him. He really evolves as a character—just look at how different he is in "Mercy Mission"! (I've got a separate post about this in the works: contrasting his arc with Wolffe's.) He doesn't lose all of his rough edges, of course (he can still get nasty when stressed, and be rather angsty at times), but overall he rounds out to be a tough, conscientious, steadfast individual.

His sense of humor, however, does not improve.

[libero-de-mente]

Io un po' vi capisco, sapete?

Vi state impegnando, tanto anche, ma non tutte le cose vanno per il verso giusto. Eppure siete consci che state facendo tutto quello che potete.

Quando sperate di essere nella testa di qualcuno, ma se questo qualcuno non ve lo dice, così vi chiedete a che serve essere "pensati"?

Il cercare sempre delle basi solide, per i vari aspetti della vita, che spesso anziché essere granitiche si rivelano di sabbia. Le basi, dico.

La voglia di essere circondati da persone che comprendano, di braccia che sorreggano o di parole che rincuorano. Ma spesso si è avvolti dal silenzio e dalle mancanze. E allora s'impara a convivere con la solitudine.

Sentire la notifica di un messaggio dal telefonino, aspettarsi quel messaggio. Anche un semplice "Ciao, come stai? Hai mangiato?", invece della solita e inutile proposta commerciale. Offerte non richieste che fanno il paio con le richieste non offerte. Desiderate.

Essere stanchi di cercare, provare, attendere, pazientare, fare e resistere. Senza un ritorno, sincero.

Io vi capisco. Davvero.

Siete stanchi, rassegnati, il vostro cuore sembra battere altrove, eppure tutto questo passerà. Verrà il giorno in cui tutto quanto descritto non peserà più. Tutto sarà leggero, dimenticato o percepito con leggerezza.

Perché nulla dura in eterno, soprattutto i sentimenti e le percezioni. Come la durata di una settimana, dal lunedì alla domenica. E questa sera, mentre scrivo, è venerdì.

[trollblivion-ooc]

my atomized guys. below the cut is my reasonings for some of these sign designs :•)

Cherie: based off of the typical Burgundy sign and the Ourobouros (to represent a his identity confusion and his self consuming behavior)

Coleop: based off of a beetle with elements from a few Lime signs (also an upside down peach sign)

Caiine: based off the aquarius sign and a shooting star

Cosmos: Two circles to represent his initial color wheel design, how he is a chimera (the color white and the whole circle symbolism)

Magnus: represents a mantis head with some Libra (teal) elements

Corall: meant to represent a star and coral. (also mimics the starfish parasite thing: dendrogaster)

Teevie: is a True Taurus but prefers to design their own sign

Luciel: Oval elements taken from fuschia design, meant to look like a 707 (to represent the character hes made from)

Chiani/Noraxi: Tauranius

Consci (Endur): Aquo

Akrine: Golden Aquo