#even in the blue there are speckles of brown but only in my right one

[greyrain23]

Biggest flex ab myself is my long lashes

The tops ones looks short cause they're straight but when I use a curler- gah dayum- lookin like Mr. Oliver Aiku

However, my bottom lashes curl down naturally and are even more visible when I put mascara on

#realmemberoftheitoshifamily

[theorist-fox]

Takes practice

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Crossposting from AO3.

Part 1 >> Part 2

In my feel-good romance era. Usually more of a slap me pull my hair touch me there, there, there - no more talking. But not today. No SIR.

The bit regarding the satellite phones and telemarketers was inspired by the first chapters of Shadowed by Tarajanee. Absolutely adore that work and I thought those scenes at the beginning were lovely!

Word count: 13k

Summary: Simon is deployed for the first time since the beginning of your relationship. Instead of finding purpose in keeping the world clean, he finds it in keeping himself alive, because he's never been this eager to come home.

18+

CW: smut!!! dry humping, mutual masturbation, thigh fucking, P in V. Fluff, this is very fluffy. Soft Simon Riley, Simon is absolutely fucking whipped. Self-deprecating thoughts, intrusive thoughts, angst if you squint so don't squint and you'll only get yearning and love making.

Masterlist 🦊

𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

Simon doesn’t remember your eyes.

He’s been clawing at his face, both literally and metaphorically, because each time he closes his eyelids to succumb to exhaustion, he sees your face.

And you’re pretty. So much. He envisions the curve of your smile and how your lips part to give way to your teeth. The lines at the corners that scrunch your nose and how it flushes when it’s too cold out. He has memorized the shape of your brows for every expression. Knows the line of your cheekbones and how they swell under your eyes when you smile.

Your face is lovely, even when he conjures it in his head. But when your form breaks through the mist, he gets startled every time. Because he can’t see your eyes.

It's like a mock picture of you. A mimicry gone bad. You’re there, fresh and real, whispering sweet words to him, tossing a quip, or moaning breathlessly as he remembers the way he’s fucked you, but your eyes are carved out. Blank spots instead of the windows to your soul, like everyone always seems to chatter about.

Sure, he remembers the shape of your eyes, and if he takes deep breaths, cancels out Johnny’s blabber blaring from his cot, and enters a deep meditative state, he might be able to draw their outline.

But it’s the shade he misses. Are they sapphire, dark, and cryptic? Or frostbite blues. Emerald, maybe. He ponders, but he’s not sure. Brown, like his? Chocolate, with swirling hazels like golden speckles. Stormy grey. Charcoal black. Amber. Gold. Fucking crimson.

He doesn’t know.

But it's only been three months since he left.

And it’s been six months since Simon has taken you on his bed and fucked his name into you. Six months since he’s finally tasted your skin and imprinted your flavor on his tongue. 

It’s your fault, he thinks, if now everything he eats tastes bland. Nothing sweeter than the salt of you. The dichotomy is not lost on him. He’s a rational man, and figures easily that skin can't be sweet, especially not after he made you sweat by pounding you into the mattress. Yet he might have lost a marble or two after that, because now not even honey can compare.

Which is why he’s moved his things in your room. Just because it’s bigger, he told you. No other reason, really.  

Fucking liar. 

But again, you’re as saccharine as you taste. And maybe not as naïve as he thinks. Because ever since that night, six months ago, your hands often intertwine with his own when you guide him to bed – your bed. 

And that’s how he found a nightstand full of his things on the side closer to the doorway of the room. There’s the book you’ve lent him and a re-filled plastic bottle of water right next to it, one that he should probably throw away like you constantly tell him. Something about microplastics, but fuck if he knows. Because ever since that night, he’s lost a bit of his logic, a lot more of his sanity: you can speak for hours on end and he wouldn’t hear a damn thing if not for how your voice vibrates against his eardrums, sending tingles down his spine. 

Surreptitiously, his things have started to appear in your room. He doesn’t have much, a phew photos of his family are shuffled with your trinkets. Plain, white frames stuffed in between your smiles on pictures you’ve taken with friends. 

A frame of his medals, the ones you insisted he kept, nailed to the wall next to your PhD certificate. 

Tidy, onyx wardrobe polluted with pinks and greens. Breathable cotton and faux furs. Fuzzy fabrics that leave a rainbow of synthetic hairs on his clothes. He doesn’t bother to pluck them off, it’s just another piece of you he’s lucky to carry around.

His old bedroom turns into a storage room. Filled with boxes of forgotten things and broken appliances you can’t be bothered to fix. 

And he promises to tinker a little with the vacuum, so you won’t have to spend money on a new one and use your savings for your guilty pleasures. That book you saw when you went out together for groceries? Consider it yours. The cooking classes you wanted to attend at that restaurant you’re always raging about? He’s already bought you a pristine new apron. 

And maybe he’ll take you there, too. Ask for a more secluded table where he can still spot the door, so he can also uncoil the muscles of his back and use his eyes only to look at you, instead of having them dart around for dangers.

But fuck, he can’t do any of that now. 

It’s his first mission after that night, six months ago, and Simon is already feeling withdrawal symptoms. You’re worse than morphine on a dying man; you leave him aching for something he knows he can have because you're so obviously there, but he’s so stupidly far away.

And he can’t even tell you where he is. Can’t even give you some peace of mind. Can barely call you, because Johnny’s been hogging the satellite phone to talk to Lord-knows-who.

The Scot is not selfish, Simon knows he would only have to ask, and the bulky device would practically materialize in his hand. But Simon also knows that if he dared, he wouldn’t hear the end of it. Because in the years spent in the task force, he’s never needed to call anyone. 

Can’t call the dead, now, can you? 

And now, popping a question like that would only raise suspicions. It would have his mates up his arse until his head would split in half.

But it’s been six months since that night. Three months since he left. 

And that pocket of time he’s managed to spend with you, uninterrupted, almost made him accustomed to civilian life. To the lack of his mask and the AC of the flat breezing against his face. The taste of homecooked meals. The constant presence of another soul (a beautiful one at that) in his same space. 

With you, he’s never parched – of anything. You feed him mind, heart and body, showering him with that innocent love you so easily dispense, allowing him to bathe in it. 

He’d listen to your never-ending chat for days. His mind has always roared with sounds, yet the more noise you make the more you silence it. Baffling, really, how he’s spent his whole life looking for quiet and found it in the loudest��person on earth.

He’s always sated with your kisses, your words, your quick mind and razor-sharp wit, your moans and your mewls, and God, anything you were willing to give. Your lips, your spit, the juices he makes you drip, and the ones he makes you spray. He dreams of cupping your clit with his mouth as he ravages your cunt with two thick fingers until you’re splashing on his tongue. He’d drink you dry, if you’d let him. 

And oh, you have. 

There’s  the wonderful catch. These are not wishes; these are memories. Too real and fresh ones for them to be just another one of his daydreams.

Finally, after three months of pondering – or better, yearning – he realizes that every skin-prickling migraine his mates would induce is worth the sweet, sweet sound of your voice.

He’s disgustingly sweaty. He tugs at the lip of his collar and grimaces when he feels the cotton unstick from the dampness on his chest. 

Johnny's sitting idly, enjoying the few days of break from mayhem. Just a handful of hours allowed, really, enough to get them back on their feet – tactical planning, refill of their resources. Boring shite like that. But at least it’s a breather all right.

“Got the phone, Johnny?” He grumbles.

And Johnny would love to act as none the wiser, but his eyes peek from behind the sketchbook he holds in his hand. The smirk that curls at his lips has Simon roll his eyes. 

He makes a beckoning gesture with his fingers, giving him a pointed look. “Johnny.”

“L.T.” He responds in kind. “Callin’ the landlord?”

Simon levels him with a deadpan look that could freeze the desert they’re stuck in. “Sergeant.”

Bastard’s too cunning for his own good.

Johnny drops the sketchbook immediately, showing the lieutenant his palms in defense. The cheeky bastard that he is doesn’t manage to conceal the absolute fascination in his eyes. He’s studying his superior as if he’s staring at another species.

And Simon doesn’t blame him. He’s like a sock that’s been turned inside out, the negative image of himself. All that gloomy energy turned blinding light, ever since he’s had a taste of what life could be with you in it.

But alas, no one wants to have the Ghost up their arse, so Johnny looks around the messy area around his cot and plucks the girthy satellite phone out of it.

Simon picks it up by pinching the tiny antenna on its side. It prompts Johnny’s smirk to broaden. 

“Haven’t done anythin’ with it.” He quips, letting it hang in the air for a second longer. “Or have I.”

Simon grunts a noise of disgust. “Spare me.”

He finds a secluded spot in the area they're occupying. There's nothing around them but the rubble of a city that has been torn by war and time. The sight is dour, and the silence echoes a dark past he hasn’t witnessed. Even so, the remains of the buildings are tall enough to offer their lot some cover. 

He slides with his back against a wall, knees spread wide. 

He knows your number by heart, his thumb presses each button with newfound resolve. Only when he brings the phone to his ear, does his determination falter. Because he hasn't contacted you in any way, shape, or form for three months. So, what if you’re livid, now? You’d have every right. He’d understand if you’d rip him a new one through the receiver. He just hopes you didn’t spend these days rethinking your choices. 

God, you’ve infected him with this overthinking bullshit.

“Hello?” Your voice breaks through the fog in his brain, like a hand wiping mist from glass, and his own breath threatens to choke him. He’s speechless for a moment, forgetting how to function properly.

Just your voice has sent his mind into overdrive - burnt his synapses to ashes. 

He reckons he’s completely fucked.

“Hello?” You repeat, sounding a little more annoyed. 

You grumble something about telemarketers having lost the decency to call at a reasonable hour. And when he doesn't answer again, he hears you sigh. Your voice gets all clinical, then, as if you were trained to repeat the same script over and over. “Listen, if you’re trying to sell me somethin’, my husband’s not home – he takes care of that stuff.”

He snorts.

“Your husband?”

Silence.

There’s a sort of shifting sound, he gathers you might have removed the phone from your ear and checked for the number on the screen. He can practically see your eyes squinting at the phone.

He hears you gasp, and he hints at a smile. Fucking hell, he doesn’t remember the last time he’s done that.

“Simon?” You venture.

“Hello, love.” 

You squeal, and he pulls the phone away from his ear with a grimace. But he’s tired of lying to himself – his heart is soaring. 

"Christ. Made my ears ring," he deadpans.

You chuckle, sighing afterward, as if a weight has been lifted from your chest. God, you’re a dream to listen to. If only he could also look at your face right now, just bask in the way your smile would light up the room. 

“Serves you right,” you chide him, as if that could ever be a punishment. “Could’ve called a little earlier than three months in. Was already looking for a new flatmate.”

He’s eternally thankful for the skull mask, even if it’s soddened with his sweat because if anyone were to walk by, they wouldn’t see how his face has softened. 

“Yeah?” He sniffs, “Made a new flyer and all tha’?” 

“Oh yeah,” You agree flippantly. There’s a shuffling sound that reminds him of bedsheets. “Made sure to add my boyfriend left me as a footnote.”

The corners of his lips twitch minutely. 

“Thought it was your husband who wasn’t home.” He retorts. “Got a stash of ‘em, then?”

Your chuckle is a breath of fresh air. He wants to have it imprinted in his eardrums, replacing the aggravating tinnitus. 

“Oh, y��know,” you sigh dramatically. “Bit o’ this, bit o’ that. Keeps things interesting.”

“Gotta have a chat with the lad, then.” He taunts, “Set some rules.”

“Good luck with that. He rarely listens.”

He hums fondly. It’s all he can give you, right now. 

He’s new to this, relationships have never been his forte. For the first time in his life, he’s having someone else guide him. It’s hard, he won’t deny it, having another set of hands grasp the wheel, instead of his own. But he’s letting you, however slowly. You’re understanding, and you’re allowing him to leave his foot on the brakes. You never push him, you go at his pace – even if it’s blatantly annoying, how sluggish his movements are. Yet you don’t seem to mind, and he’s eternally grateful for it.

“How…” You start. He can tell you’re unsure, whether or not you can ask these things. Whether or not he can answer them. “How are you?”

His eyes soften. 

“Good,” he reassures you. “’S hot.”

You hum. “North Africa.”

He clicks his tongue. “No.”

“Okay.” A beat. “Middle East?”

Eh.  “No.”

You gasp. 

“You’re throwing me off guard, aren’t you? You said it’s hot, but it actually isn’t.” You say cleverly, even if you’re aware it’s most likely untrue. “North America, then. Like - Canada.”

“Drop it, maybe.” He offers gently. “Making a fool o’ yourself.”

“Alaska.” 

“Love.”  He warns, but his voice is kind. “Wastin’ time.”

“Mh, the script has changed, I see.” You tease him, and he can tell you’re smiling, by the way your voice comes. “Thought you were gonna hit me with the classified.”

“Like to keep you on your toes.”

“Been on my toes for three months.”

His heart clenches a little. He doesn’t want that. Doesn’t want you to live on the line like that. He wonders if you’ve ever felt like this, in the four years he’s lived with you without having anything tethering each other, if not a casual friendship. Were you ever afraid when he left for his deployments? Or is this new to you, like it is for him?

“Fixed the vacuum, by the way.” You tell him lightly, as if sensing the tense air your comment has instilled. 

He silently thanks you for breaking the silence when he couldn’t. A gentle huff of relief travels through the receiver. 

“What was the problem?” He asks, even if not really fussed about the state of the thing.

“Fuck if I know.” You shrug. “Gave it a few whacks and it started working again.”

He fails to keep in a huff of laughter. “Fucking hell, ‘s tha’ what you’ve been doing, then? Hitting appliances?”

“Fixing appliances.” You correct him. “And stress baking. Lots of it.”

“Work’s botherin’ ya?” 

“S’fine.” You sigh sweetly, as though that could give him some peace of mind. “Everything’s fine over here, you don’t have to worry.”

Selfless angel, you are. He would have to be daft not to realize that you’re probably leeching your heart dry at the thought that something might happen to him. He feels like a fool for not having contacted you sooner, even when he had only a minute to spare.

His pride be damned.

“’M sorry I didn’t call earlier.” He apologizes, because the least he can do is hope you forgive him for being like a baby deer on ice about all this. 

“You called.” Your voice is soft. “’S what matters.”

He knows what you mean. He’s alive, that’s what matters. He’s faring good enough to chat with you, that’s what matters. He’s missing you as much as you’re longing for him, that’s what matters. 

He leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. His offhand runs across his face and he has to rip his own head out of his arse before the thoughts overwhelm him. 

How can he put you through this?  He should’ve left three weeks in, four years ago; should’ve let you share your home with someone more reliable, one who didn’t have a blade oscillating above his neck.

And yet at the same time, he can't let go of you. 

You’re so good to him, you’re the drop of water in a life that’s always felt arid. You made his barren heart flourish without even trying – he didn’t think anyone could, he thought he was bound to be frozen soil, not a garden. But here you fucking are, with your tiny watering can, nourishing the earth and causing it to sprout.

He’s selfish. He is. There is no karmic balance in his reasons. The scale tips in his favor through and through, because he’s sure you’re not gaining anything from this relationship, if not a spike in anxiety and its hand around your neck.

“How long?” You ask, seemingly unable to bear the silence.

"Few weeks." He croaks and clears his throat when he notices how cracked his voice sounds. “Be back in three. Could be two, if things go to plan.”

The silence on your end is deafening. Unwittingly giving him a taste of his own medicine.

“Countdown starts, then.” You reply with that sunshine in your voice. Sunbeams through ominous clouds. “Gonna tally the days on the wall with one of your can openers.”

He snorts. “Lotta money to fix.”

“We can put ugly wallpaper over it,” you propose. “So the next person to rent the place will remove it and a whole kidnapping slash ghost story will spread around the neighborhood.”

You’re crazy, he thinks, but not unkindly. His heart squeezes in his chest.

“Fucking numpty.”

“Fucking numpty, or fucking numpty, derogative?”

He smirks. “Former.”

“Wonderful.” You say with a pinch of a smile he can’t see, sounding all smug.

However, nothing nice can last forever, not in Simon Riley’s plane of existence. He spots his captain approaching him, fiddling with the boonie hat in his grasp while his other hand lazily dries droplets of sweat on his forehead.

“Gotta go.” He mutters. Waits a bit. Shuffles through his thoughts and decides to swallow his pride, because you deserve at least that much. “Missed you. Still do.”

You're silent for a moment longer before you give him a last glimpse of your voice. The one he'll hold onto like a lifeline for the next three – hopefully two – weeks. 

“Miss you too.” You say gently. “Come home soon.”

And he’s back suddenly. 

Earlier than expected, at that – one week only. Price was all business, a few days after he caught him sneaking a phone call. Telling him things like “Need you at HQ. Work with Laswell, make sure classified intel stays classified”. And when he questioned why would he send his sniper and lieutenant to do a job an analyst should do, Price answered with a curt “Because I can trust you”.

Honestly, what could he have said to that? Even if it smelled fishy from afar, his reasoning sounded mostly reliable. Because you would send your most trusted to deal with sensitive information, right? And if Simon were a bit more daft and a bit less intuitive, he would've shrugged it off. 

But it was plain as day when his boot landed on British soil, duffel bag in hand. When his phone pinged after he turned off airplane mode, and a text popped up:

[Unknown number]: Take a few days off for the jet lag. 

That he realized the ploy his teammates had concocted. To be honest, he wasn’t as resentful as he thought he was going to be. There was lingering thankfulness – somewhere, deep below layers and layers of stoicism.

[You]: Time zones aren’t that different. 

[Unknown number]: Take a few days off to just rest, then. 

[You]: Not that tired. 

[Unknown number]: Never took you for one to question orders. 

[You]: Never took you for one to put personal life before our job. 

Simon waited patiently under the overhanging lip of the hangar. The Kevlar of his glove crinkled as his fingers curled around the hand of his duffle bag. The rain creates a gentle buzz against the metal.

It took a while for the other bubble to appear, as if the other person – most likely Price, judging by the vocabulary used in the texts – was thinking about the right thing to say.

And the right thing it was, when the words fluttered on Simon’s phone screen.

[Unknown number]: About time you put yours first, though. 

Simon, for once, agreed.

────────────

The keys slide into the keyhole with familiarity. He turns it three times, content to see you’ve locked the door all the way. When he steps in, the flat is quiet, but he isn’t expecting otherwise. It’s late at night, the hands of the clock that’s hanging above the telly mark somewhere around three in the morning, but it’s too dark to be sure. 

He's ever so gentle when he closes the door and gingerly sets the duffle bag at his feet. 

The first thought popping in his head it’s you. You’re not expecting him to be back so soon, and he has this trepidation in him that wants to command his feet to the door of your bedroom only to see how you’d react to his unexpected presence.

But he takes a moment to digest this new feeling. 

It's hard to realize that, finally, you're not dreading something. For the first time in an excruciatingly long while, Simon isn't afraid. While his brain is rigidly wired in a way that makes him refuse to acknowledge his vulnerabilities, the heart knows best.

And he is scared. He’s always been scared, ever since his mother granted him the possibility of walking this earth. Being excited to live has never been his strong suit, but he’s learning. He’s trying. 

Takes practice, to accept you’re worth your happiness.

So, as a novice learner, it’s a little jarring to realize that when his feet land on the hardwood floors of this house, there's no need for fear. He can tuck the dread away, stuff it in a pocket, and close the flap, all the while being sure no harm will come his way. Certainty that with you there’s no need for all that, for vigilance – he can unravel the knots, and simply feel what comes, because it's not going to hurt him. 

You could never.

Hooking a finger under the hem of the balaclava, he snatches it off his head and lays it on the shelf next to the doorway. It’s soaked in rain, but he’ll wash it tomorrow. And he’ll use your fabric softener, so it’ll smell like your sheets. 

The flat looks awfully dull with the lights off. The bright colors are mere shades of grey, and while he’ll never admit it out loud, he truly thinks the orange of the eastern wall brightens the room as you've told him. The thought itself baffles him – Simon Riley now knows a thing or two about home design. You’ve changed him in ways he never expected. 

However, the thing that shocks him even more than his newfound knowledge of home interior embellishments, is when the smell of baked goods bullies its way into his nose. His mouth waters in a Pavlovian response. 

Right.  

Stress baking. 

He kneels to unlace his boots, before toeing them off gently, making sure they won’t thud against the floor and disturb your sleep. Then, he practically floats to the kitchen, still unbelieving at the idea that he gets to come home and find delicacies as such ready to eat. Sometimes, in the span of life he decides to call the “Before you”, he’d snatch a few MREs from the stash in base and eat them once back in his flat. 

Easy, quick, and edible. Even if they taste like cardboard.

And now he gets to walk into a kitchen that smells like blueberries and buttercream and black tea. He gets to grab a lumpy muffin from the tray on the kitchen island and sink his teeth in its golden and blue fluff. The flavors erupt on his tongue, from the saccharine spongy cake to the sweet tang of the blueberry juice as the fruit bursts under his teeth.

He selfishly hopes your stress baking will last for a few more days.

Nevertheless, while he’d gladly eat the whole tray if it were up to him, there’s something he craves more than a full stomach. And you're currently waiting in the other room, probably tucked under the duvet because the British weather tonight is rigidly cold. 

He shrugs off his wind jacket and drapes it over the backrest of a kitchen chair. He can’t afford to take any steps backward. The coat rack is just a few paces back from the kitchen, nailed to the wall near the entrance, but he really doesn’t care. That handful of seconds is too precious to waste.

The steps he takes through the dark hallway are measured and silent; years of special forces training have taught a man his size how to be what his callsign implies.

Discreetly, he turns the knob, trying to make sure he won’t wake you with a startle because the door has barged open. However, the one caught by surprise it’s him. Because you’re not asleep, even if it’s three in the morning. 

Oh, he wants to give you a proper earful – sure, he's not your father, and if you're so keen on staying awake up until this hour on a weekday, then it's your funeral. 

Does it help school the unruly necessity of keeping you as healthy as can be? Absolutely fucking not. You’re a heathen and he hates you for it. 

But now you’re resting your back against the headboard, cross-legged on the bed. Satin blue navy camisole paired with matching shorts, big headphones on your ears, and your laptop on the mattress. You’re typing away. He’s sure you’ve pushed back an assignment from work and now you’re running out of time.

The room is dark, the only light being the screen of your computer casting your silhouette against the wall behind you. It’s silent aside from the patter of rain on the windowpane – you haven’t closed the blinds because Simon knows you love the moon flooding your room with gentle light. However, tonight the clouds are dominating the night sky, but the lampposts across the street are doing what the moon can’t, and you seem to favor that over complete darkness.

It’s clear you haven’t noticed him yet, music blaring in your ears and eyes focused on the monitor. But he’s seen you all right. And your eyes are cast downward, your lashes like annoying curtains depriving him of what he's been missing for the past three months. 

In spite of how muffled his movements have been, you seem to notice a shift in the air. Something that makes your skin prickle, a pair of eyes that shouldn’t be in the same room, nor in the same flat – not now, at least, when he should be mummified in Kevlar and breathable cotton somewhere in the desert. He's secretly proud of how easily you seem to feel fluctuations in the environment. Makes him take a breath of relief, that your reflexes aren't dull even when your senses are already busy.

You lift your head swiftly, and he helps you focus on him by flicking up the light switch. The sudden brightness makes you squint, but you blink it away and finally clock him at the door. 

And your eyes are the color of the sun, he thinks. How could he forget, that they’re the color of a bonfire when it's cold out. Of yellows, oranges, and those occasional sparkles of green when the wood is not dry, but still burns to keep him warm.

Realization paints your face with stunning colors: darkening cheeks, eyes shaped like crescent moons under the pressure of rising cheekbones. Mouth curving beautifully, and it seems to catch your teeth. The smile stretches your lips abruptly, morphing your face in spare seconds.

He sees it happen in slow motion. You rip your headphones and carelessly toss them on the bed, your laptop is skewed to the side so quickly that he instinctively reaches out a hand to prevent its fall. Thankfully, the stars are on your side tonight, and the balance tips it on the mattress, instead of the floor. 

You’re a little hurricane, scurrying off the bed and kicking off the sheets. Getting on your feet and almost slipping in the attempt to reach him in as little time as possible. A tornado of limbs envelops him in the blink of an eye. He barely has time to react that you’re already coiled around him like ivy– arms, legs, and all.

Luckily, the doorway is right behind him, and he manages to tumble back and lean against it. Your arms are vines around his neck. Your legs are roots encircling his waist. You seem to grow on him, supplying his wretched heart with the sap of life you carry – symbiotic. He feels like he can breathe again and has been doing it wrong all this time.

He helps your balance by keeping a firm hold around your waist with his arms, encapsulating you in his warmth. Lean fingers spread on your back, yearning to touch as much as he can reach.

“Easy,” he rumbles. His voice is hoarse because whatever reaction he'd imagined, all this fussing surely wasn’t it.

Your fingers thread through his hair and tug lightly at his scalp. He’s silently apologetic because it must be wet with both rain and sweat, and he's sure the smell wafting from him isn't exactly cologne-worthy. But you don't seem to care, because after you've thoroughly inspected the crook of his neck, your face comes back into view.

Your eyes are the color of joy.

“Welcome back.” You whisper, as if it’s a secret between you two. And you kiss him because surely you must want it as much as he does. A flutter of lashes brushes his cheekbone when you tilt your head to deepen the kiss. Nails scrape at his scalp in the gentlest of ways. 

Simon feels your smile before he sees it. “You taste like blueberries.”

And he exhales against your lips. “Found ‘em waiting for me in the kitchen. Baked for an army, y’ have.”

You peck his lips once more, as if you couldn’t fathom a second longer without having them on yours. “Figured you’d be hungry. MRIs can’t be that tasty.”

"MREs,” he corrects. “And you’re right. They ain’t.”

Simon is not sure he’s ever received such a warm welcome, or such warmth in general. He’s not going to complain, of course, but that doesn't mean it leaves him any less rattled each time.

He gently sets you down at the edge of the mattress, standing between your legs – which you’ve pliantly spread to make room for him.

You gesture with your hand from left to right, "Potato, Po-tah-to."

"One is food, the other is medical equipment," he deadpans.

You glare up at him, as if to ask what the hell he wants now – it's three in the morning. Can’t be arsed to correct vowels at three in the morning.

“Potato.” You enunciate it better now, and it steals a lazy grin from him. “Po-tah-to.”

After having flicked your forehead at your insistence, he reverently lays his hand on your cheek and spreads his fingers into your hair.

“Alright?” You ask him.

“Mhmh,” it’s his only reply.

If only to feel you more, he guides your face to his belly. You seem to appreciate the gesture because you're already nuzzling his shirt, fisting it at his back for good measure. Simon feels your back expand and deflate under his palm when you breathe. Feels the rhythmic thump thump of your heart at his fingertips.

You’re life in its purest form. 

Face first into his abdomen, your voice is obviously muffled, but he hears it clearly anyway. "You smell like a sewer, mate."

He snorts, and lightly tugs at your hair, enough to make your head tilt back. He squints his eyes at you. “Cry ‘bout it, mate.”

Simon bends at the waist as you chuckle. Places a kiss on the crown of your head. Your eyes flutter closed and so do his. 

For a moment, there’s nothing but you two. The world muffles its noise to favor the sound of your breaths. The rain patters against the windowpane. Your laptop has gone into standby mode so now the screen is dark. The mellow light on the ceiling, a pale yellow, is like your discreet personal spotlight. 

Then, he reluctantly pulls away, and you chase him for more, pouting when he doesn’t seem to come back. But when he starts to undress, your scowl is easily replaced by a lazy grin. To increase the dramatics of the moment, you lean back on your elbows and wiggle your brows at him, “Well, well.”

You’re not subtle at all with the way your eyes follow a trail down his back, how the muscles fold when his hand reaches to the collar of his shirt and pulls it off his head. Curves and muscles and the indent of his spine. Skin freckled with scars you never ask a thing about because you're kind and you’re giving him time to open up on his own.

He’s put on some weight ever since your relationship has transitioned into something more meaningful, including feelings he still doesn’t have the guts to acknowledge. His abs are not as defined as before, they’re tucked under a layer of fat he’s not really accepting as of lately. The scar running across his stomach and its other companions only add to his self-deprecating streak.

He eyes you briefly as he unbuckles his belt, searching for what he’s sure is going to be a grimace, but he's met instead with the stupidest look he’s ever witnessed. Slow blinking at his form the more he undresses himself. Lips parted as if you’ve tried and failed to catch your jaw.

And that gives him the right to take those thoughts and shove them into the fear pocket. Sew it shut. No need to fear a thing, if you look at him that way.

You bite the tip of your tongue between your teeth. "Givin' me a show, lieutenant?"

The corner of Simon’s lips tugs upward and the sudden self-hatred sublimates under the warm adoration in your eyes.

“Cheeky little thing,” he rumbles, letting his khakis pool at his ankles. He steps out of them and shrugs them off when they catch his feet. 

One last step, and he’s already hooking a finger under the hem of your blue camisole, slowly lifting it up. There's an impish gleam in your eyes that promises trouble and he would love nothing more than to drown in whatever disaster you're planning.

He stands between your legs only in his underwear and after you’ve shut the laptop and placed it on your nightstand, your hands immediately come to rest on his stomach. Simon sighs at the touch.

“You’re a menace,” he says gently when you drum your fingers up to his chest.

Honestly, he hopes you don’t care if he smells like a cocktail of grime and sweat and rain, because, as much as he wishes for a hot shower, the sight of you melts whatever need away. 

Your eyes travel downward, taking a generous eyeful of him. However, he knows you’re not just ogling; you're searching him for wounds. 

Bandages. 

Sutures. 

Anything  that might tell you whether he's hurt or not. 

Obviously, Simon knows you want to ask. But you’re sensible when it comes to his job. In spite of the jabs about all the “Classified” he’s given you as answers, he knows you don’t hold a grudge against him. He also doesn't like to bring work at home, taking pains to leave his safe space untainted by it – instead, he lets you do the detective work yourself. 

A sweet sigh leaves your lips when you settle on the fact that he's unscathed, and you lift your arms up to help him take off your top.

"A menace?" You quip, feigning offense. "M’not the one looking naked and yummy."

“You’re about to.”

You don’t look away from his eyes when his fingers pull your top up and off. The camisole is gently removed past your head, the satin leaving your hair a little staticky. 

“A menace,” he murmurs once more, his tone softer now as he tosses the garment in a vague direction.

You wrap your arms around his waist, propping your chin on the hollow between his ribs, taking in his face as the sight that it is to your eyes. He doesn’t have the energy to question why, and just basks in the adoring attention and in the well-deserved skin-to-skin contact.

"How was it this time?" You ask gently.

His arm drapes over your shoulders, slowly stroking at your skin. A tender kiss to your hairline has you automatically sighing. You do it every time he kisses your head. He's mentally taken note of how his lips press a button of sorts that makes it all wash away, like suds under the jet of water.

“Same as always,” he murmurs, keeping his tone low and soft for your ears only. 

You hum in acknowledgment. "So?"

He smirks, a curve hidden in your hair. “Classified.”

You scoff and playfully slap his butt. He pulls back with a newfound glow in his eyes.

“Not Full Metal Jacket, if you’re wondering.” 

You hum, deciding to play along. “Spies involved?”

He snorts and tucks a rogue lock behind your ear. “Sure.”

You poke his chest as you make your definitive guess. “Three days of the condor!”

His eye twitches when, amongst the myriads of films you’ve ever watched in your life, you quote the one with the CIA involved. He has to flatten his face into something more neutral. Surely yours was a clear shot in the dark that somehow hit the right spot – even a broken clock is right, twice a day. Still, your blind guess doesn’t leave him any less distressed.

“Sorta.” He offers through gritted teeth.

And you don’t push any further, sluggishly resting your cheek on his belly.

"Were you more Robert Redford?” You mumble with half-closed eyes, "Or Faye Dunaway?”

Relief washes over him and he can’t help but huff. Plops a hand on top of your head and smooths down to the ends of your locks, rolling them between the pads of his fingers.

“Faye Dunaway, love.” He rumbles. “No question.”

You playfully tighten the hold around his waist, and with a tug, he's pulled down onto the bed. Simon knows he could easily win whichever battle if you’re the opponent, but he’ll always pretend to struggle just to humor you. He’s careful though, so he props himself on his forearms to avoid crushing you with his bulk. 

Gently, you kiss his nose but he doesn’t pull away, instead allowing the kiss to be reciprocated on your cheek. He reaches out for the switch next to the headboard and turns off the lights. 

Your eyes are the color of a summer’s night. 

They’re dark but twinkle with starlight. Pupils blown and the glowing halo of your irises around them like an eclipsed sun. The light coming from outside seems to favor you, creating shapes around your face able to turn you into a dream made reality.

“I’ll call in sick tomorrow.” You tell him, nose to nose. 

“Won't bother anyone, will it?” He asks mindfully, although he cares very little if your co-workers might get a little miffed about your last-minute call.

You shake your head softly, causing your noses to brush. “Nope, they’ll understand.”

And so, he unfolds, rolling onto his back and taking you with him. Your head is guided by a big hand to rest on his chest. He fits you perfectly into his side, making sure every piece of you adheres like glue to his skin.

“Y’need a shower?” You murmur in his skin, eyes fluttering closed. Your fingers are tracing mindless patterns on his chest, skimming over hair and the odd scar here and there.

“Tomorrow,” he replies quietly. “Sleep now.”

“Alright,” you whisper. “Wake me up when you do, yeah?”

“Sure.” He says, looking down at the top of your head. He leaves a kiss in its ruffled mess.

“G’night, love.” He breathes. 

You murmur it back, and fall into your slumber.

────────────

Simon opens his eyes with his heart thundering in his chest. He doesn’t know why, and likely pegs it to mere habit. Three months stuck in hypervigilance will have your body unconsciously overreact at the most subtle of changes, even if there are none.

There’s too much light in the room for it to be night, and a single look at the window tells him the sun is just shy of rising. 

During the night, you must’ve moved around and he must have followed you, because now he has your back to his chest. An arm slung around your waist, the other tucked beneath your neck. 

He gently tugs the duvet a little higher, over your shoulder, and spends the next few minutes just looking at how peaceful you look.

Next to a killer. 

His stomach churns wildly. 

You’re home,  his heart says. You’re not a killer here. 

A shame, truly, that his brain doesn’t agree in the slightest. Two organs fighting like separate entities, and the whole brawl is happening inside of him, mercilessly tearing his flesh apart. 

But it’s already broken, isn’t it? What else is there to shred. 

Yet he’s home and you’re comfortable next to him. So how broken can he be, really?

Torn. Shredded. Lookin’ like you went through the grinder and barely came out of it alive. 

He forces his eyes shut and buries his face in your hair, nuzzling your nape. 

Pretty thing, she is. Who the fuck d’you think you are, mh? 

A sharp inhale. Breathing you in. You smell sweet enough for the sounds in his head to buzz out. Not silent yet, but quiet enough for him to have a breather.

You don’t know how long it takes for his body to expel the exorbitant amount of adrenaline produced in three months of deployment. How his back cracks when it hits the comfortable mattress of yours and his bedroom, after having spent way too much time packed like a sardine on sordid cots or much-too-small sleeping bags.

How he fucking hates it, when you feel so soft and untouched, while he has more scars than bloody years on his back. 

Not right. Ain’t fucking right to you. 

His hand snakes from your waist to follow the curve of your arm. He follows the bulge it makes under the comforter. The rain has turned into a light drizzle, allowing the sound of his skin brushing over yours and the shuffle of the blanket to echo in his ears.

He scoots impossibly closer, pressing your back against his chest hoping your skin would mold with his. Nose buried in the crook of your shoulder; kisses light as breeze following the length of it. 

You smell so good you disarm him. He sighs as if he’s been utterly defeated, lost a battle he didn’t even know he was fighting. 

His mind hushes, finally. His heart unwinds itself – springs let loose, pulse calm. 

There’s you. The way your breaths come. Your limbs stirring at the gooseflesh left by his kisses. The rising sun lapping at your skin. The rise and fall of your back. 

It’s calm.

Your head turns slightly, looking over your shoulder. You must only see his eyes, lazily glancing at you through pale lashes.

Yours are a dawning sun.

They’re soft and gentle, pale yellows and blues, peeking above the sheer horizon of sleep you’re trying to overcome. Idle, slow, but most welcome.

“Hey,” you croak, blinking the drowsiness away. “You okay?”

He hums a quiet yeah in your skin. Hasn’t even noticed his hand returning to your stomach and pulling you in, angling you against his lap. 

And fuck him, but he’s sporting the hard-on of a lifetime. 

He knows you’ll understand that he’s been deprived of such pleasures for three months, but it doesn’t make him any less embarrassed. A hand in his pants, while he hid somewhere more private in the middle of nowhere was a temporary fix that fixed very fucking little. Especially not after having been spoiled by you.

Simon doesn’t necessarily want to fuck you, now. Sure, his dick might have a head of its own, and he wouldn’t complain against it were it to happen, but he still has control of his actions. And now he just wants to feel you, whether inside or out doesn’t matter – as long as it’s you.

Nevertheless, he isn’t expecting you to have much different plans. Naturally, he isn’t going to protest.

Your ass tentatively presses against his length, the satin of your shorts sliding easily along the cotton of his boxers. You’re still so sleepy – he sees you digging a knuckle in your eye, nostrils flaring as you let out a big yawn. 

Were you aware of what you were doing, or were you being a goddamn minx?

“Well, good mornin’,” you murmur, a lick of a smile on your lips. “Brought me a souvenir from bumfuck nowhere?”

Minx it is. 

He snuffs out a chuckle by harshly pressing his lips against your shoulder, sewing his lips shut. Unfortunately, his chest rumbles against your back and you catch it before he manages to catch himself. 

Your hand goes to rest above his own on your stomach, fingers intertwining. 

Soft skin on both sides: palm to your belly, knuckles to your hand. He’s sandwiched in bliss. Three months away, barely any contact, and all he apparently needed to alleviate some wounds was just a handful of hours spent asleep in your presence.

His lips part slightly. Kisses turn wetter and teeth bite at your neck, his tongue darting out to subsequently soothe the ache. Your hand has already guided his own to your breast, and your mouth is breathing sounds he’s missed.

And he tells you, because why should he hide a thing from you.

“Missed ya,” he croaks, voice a little shaky for reasons unknown. He could look in his head (or his heart) and find them – surely, they’re there. But he figures the present feels much better than the jumbled mess inside.

Reasons can wait.

“Let me feel you, yeah?” 

Your head bending backward to his face is the answer you give him, back pressed flush against his chest. You guide his hand up and squeeze it around the fat of your breast to assert your approval. 

But he’s not satisfied with that. Needs your voice to tell him it’s alright, that you’re not under some sleep-induced spell. That you’re fine with having him feel you, and you’re not just offering yourself because he’s been away for so long and you want to give him some sort of reward.

Simply, that you want him as much as he wants you.

His voice is raspy and low, “Words, love.”

"Please," you whisper and vigorously grind your ass against his groin. “Touch me.”

He hisses and presses forward too, meeting your movements. 

He’s still a little out of it, senses overrun by the general fatigue clinging to his muscles as the aftermath of deployment, his bones weary and getting accustomed once more to the comfort of a bed instead of a cot. 

Mind absolutely quiet.

He flicks his thumb over your nipple. Rolls it between thumb and forefinger. Your shuddering breath prompts him to pull at it, and it causes you to arch your back off of him, pressing further against his painfully hard cock. 

He grunts against your shoulder, hand busy teasing your breasts and hips rutting against the plump flesh of your ass. You grind back against him, working in tandem to relieve at least some of that ache. 

Each movement is a languid stroke of fabric that gives him enough pleasure to cause his resolve to falter. When he turns your head sideways, leaving your tits to grasp your jaw, he loses it. Your flushed cheeks, lower lip trapped between your teeth, the whites of your eyes still a little red from sleep.

Lips on lips, slotting together like magnets. 

Too long. 

Too damn long. 

Sure, he kissed you when he came back, a bunch of hours before. But this is a whole other thing. The connection behind it, the pinch of your brows conveying the same desperation he has. Hands grabbing at flesh, bodies grinding against each other. Tongues dancing privately. Eyes closed to shut the world out. Moans and pants, dotted with the occasional curse slipping from his lips when the length of his cock catches the cleft of your ass.

His palm slides down and crosses the threshold marked by your shorts. He’s awfully delighted to find out you have nothing underneath them. Feels blessed when his middle finger slides down your cunt to find it impossibly wet. 

“Oh - Simon,” He hears you whimper, and he almost comes in his briefs then and there because he has no right to hear you say his sullied name with such devotion behind it. 

Seemingly feeling the need to respond in kind, your arm blindly reaches behind, and you slip it between your butt and his groin. Your hand is soft as it palms his cock, the cotton of his boxers an annoying barrier. 

The tip is leaking tremendously, and he should be embarrassed about the obvious wet spot he must be sporting on his briefs. However, he can’t even manage to concoct the thought that your fingers are already fumbling with the elastic band of his underwear and finding their way in.

Simon shudders when your warm hand curls around his shaft. 

You glide your hand up, collecting precum on your palm, before sliding back down again – velvet skin being pulled over the head to steer clear of overstimulation, and then down once more. Similarly, he crooks his finger to gather your wetness and uses it to roll idle circles around your clit. 

And it goes on, and on, and on, and on. It’s slow and drawn out, both of you wanting to reach that high but at the same time don’t – cutting off pleasure doesn’t seem fitting, when both of you have been starved of one another.

He bends the arm beneath your neck to pull your head back, next to his own, cheek to cheek. Simon’s hips jerk to blatantly fuck your fist, yours flow with the movement of his fingers circling your clit, stroking yourself against his hand.

He starts getting antsy, however, when he notices that he can’t properly reach you. Can’t have you unravel on his fingers like he’s done so many times before. Simon wants – needs – to see you unfold and squirm under the pressure of his hand. Needs to have you cream on his fingers – as simple as it’s primal.

He murmurs against the shell of your ear, “Need to stretch you out, love.”

And – goddamn you, you whine. Your hand doesn’t stop its languid movements, but it further slows down, as if you needed all of yourself to cooperate and form a single thought.

“Jus’ do it, I missed you.” You whimper, breathy and high-pitched. “Won’t hurt much, I promise.”

Simon sucks in a sharp breath, closing his eyes because your voice has gone straight to his cock and he needs to disassociate for a second to recollect himself.

You’re a temptress, even in your loving, tender desperation. And how sweet it is to know that he isn’t the only one craving those intimate touches he can only give you. You’ve had your fair share of relationships and lovers, but has he? Some quick ones, enough to get rid of natural aches. Definitely not with a connection so deeply ingrained. 

And he tastes, then, the beauty of mutuality. Of giving and receiving. 

He retreats his hand and prompts you to do the same. Helps you take off your shorts and pulls his cock out of his underwear. He holds you still with one arm around your waist, palm flat against your lower belly to angle you better. 

Gingerly, he guides the tip to your slit, dragging it upward until it catches your clit and you hiss, and then down to your hole. Back and forth, happily realizing that he has, in fact, made you wet enough to make it hurt less. And while he tends to be open to many requests made under the bedsheets, anything that causes you pain is a huge, firm no in his book. 

Which is why he’s a bit hesitant now, pressing chaste kisses against your shoulder, trying to soften the ache that will inevitably come. A juxtaposition, really, to his cock dragging a raw, slow dance down your cunt.

It’s then that you turn your head in the pillow to groan against the fabric, and your legs clamp together and essentially choke him between the plush of your thighs.

The sensation is initially a sharp jolt that makes him spout a series of curses under his breath. But then the glisten of your cunt mixed with the precum you’ve diligently smeared all over him, with your folds and your plump thighs wrapped around him in a warm, wet hug – he sees the appeal. 

And thrusts. Shamelessly – once, twice, thrice. Snapping harshly, only to draw back slowly. Grunting to your skin. Chest vibrating against your back.

“F – fuck,” he manages to choke out, wringing his eyes closed to regain some control over his actions and failing spectacularly.

Your moans don’t help. They perfectly align with the slap of his hips against your ass, with the wet noises of your sodden cunt against his cock. It’s as filthy as it’s fucking wonderful, and he’s terribly afraid he’ll finish before he can even fit the head inside of you. 

The grip he has around your waist only tightens, leaving you breathless by the second. Simon has his mouth next to your ear, giving you the privilege of hearing even the smallest breaths he exhales. 

“You’re so fuckin’ soft,” he whispers, panting from the effort. 

Curiously, he takes a peek over your shoulder as he fucks your thighs, catching the flushed head of his cock stroking your clit and appearing each time he thrusts in. It’s fucking debauched and he loves it to bits. So much that he groans and rolls his eyes, struggling not to paint your thighs with his spend.

“Need to fuck you,” he hurries, choking on the words. “Now, love.”

Rapidly (and reluctantly), he pulls out of the pillowy, snug space your thighs had inadvertently created for him, almost hissing when the cold air hits the sensitive skin of his cock, coated in yours and his arousal. 

“On your back, swee’heart,” he gently guides you down, adding a brisk yet tender “C’mon.”

And you comply, feeling almost like a ragdoll in his hands. Lips parted and slick as they form small Yes’s to convey the same ache he feels. It takes him less than a breath to place his mouth over yours again. 

As he hovers above you, thick arms on each side of your head and chapped lips crashing against your own, he slots his hips between your legs. The softer flesh of the inside of your thighs is still wet from when he’s buried his cock between them. He feels the fluids stick to the skin of his hips.

Taking his time, he lets a hand wander down your chest, flowing to your belly until his fingers reach your core – where you’re wet, and warm, and still pressing up against his cock, searching for friction.

He plunges a finger inside, making the movement of your hips stutter and your mouth gasp at the sudden intrusion.

“Gotta stretch you out," he repeats languidly, because he cannot - for the life of him - put words into sentences without thinking about the structure beforehand.

He’s aware he’s big. It used to chub up his ego when he was younger and brash, but now he can’t be arsed about it. Big or small, he’s learned that it’s how you use it – and to be frank, he hasn’t used it much before you.

But he knows it’s going to hurt if he just puts it in with little to no preparation. He hasn’t seen you in three months, and you can trust him when he says he’s as ravenous as you are and can’t bloody wait to be inside you where he’s warm and blessed – but causing you pain? When it can be avoided so easily (and he can make it feel good, too)?

Absolutely not. Categorical. 

He wants you to indulge in the blissful touches and the highs he can bring. Needs you to associate him to kindness and soft breaths and how much he hungers for you – he'll gladly eat you up, but only if you say so. 

“’S not gonna hurt,” you mumble again, sounding a little drunk in the effort to convince him. “Please.”

Your eyes flutter to him, and they’re this dark pool he can’t seem to navigate. Lust overflowing like fat, miry tears that can’t fit in the space of your sockets, and then something even darker – longing. You’re looking at him as if it's the first time you’re seeing him.

He gets it, then, how good you’ve been at hiding it so he wouldn’t hurt at the thought of hurting you. He must've unconsciously taught you a thing or two, by wearing stoicism, neutrality, and more tangible skull masks. 

You’ve missed him body and soul. 

You’re there, eyes heavy and full, begging for him to come back to you. 

How long have you been waiting for me like this? 

“Oh, love,”  he breathes and kisses you again.

A long finger inside, pushing against the place he knows makes your eyes water.

“M’sorry,” he whispers, thumb steadfast on your clit, as if he could apologize just by using his fingers because words tend to fail him when he needs them the most.

And so, he slides in his ring finger too, feeling the momentarily tight fit and the subsequent way you relax to welcome him. Your lips part to sharply breathe in, eyes scrunching close at the stretch. He can feel your hands stiffen against his back until they travel up his spine and tangle through shorn blond hair. 

You’re keeping him close, with your forehead pressed to his almost to the point of pain. Your noses are in the way of the onslaught you’re causing on his mouth. Strained, heavy pants brush his lips when you part from him to breathe, before lavishing him with attention again.

You’re always good with words. You always know what to say, and yet you’re being extremely quiet – it worries him more than the look you have in your eyes. 

“M’sorry.”

For being away. 

For not telling you where I was. 

For leaving you to wonder whether I’d come back, or not. 

For not calling. 

I’m sorry. 

“M’so sorry.”

My girl.  

His hand cradles the back of your head as if he could get you any closer, and he fucks you with his fingers.

“Don’t be,” you reply, your voice so faint and lost in the sounds of your bodies he has to perk his ears for it. “You’re home.”

My sweet, sweet girl. 

And he buries his face in your neck, leaving wanton kisses that have very little erotic power to them. He’s just trying to taste you, really. Trying to commit you to memory again, conveying fierce apologies to your skin. 

He can feel you clench around him, almost sucking him in, each time his fingers reach deep.

“Fuck, need to see you come.” He murmurs to the skin of your neck.

Thumb aching, he replaces it with the heel of his hand. A continuous and tortuous curl of his fingers inside of you, palm cupping your cunt and rolling against your clit. His cock aches when you whimper and stifle it by biting into his shoulder. A sharp exhale. Skin sweaty and pressed against his chest. Hands tugging at his hair. 

“Don’t-” You croak. “Just- just fuck me, Si.”

He groans because stop being stubborn, will ya?

“I’ll cum the moment I get in, swee’heart.” He tries to reason and almost loses it at the raunchy, squelching sounds caused by his fingers between your legs. "Lemme take care of you before tha'."

But it's like talking to a wall.

"'s fine, love. I don't care, yeah?" Your hips move against his hand, but at this point, he gathers it's just a natural body response to pleasure. “You’ll take care of me tomorrow, and the days after that.”

Just when he’s about to rebut, you sandwich an arm between your bodies and curl soft fingers around his cock. The simple act makes him stop his motions, and he feels you pulse and clench around his fingers.

“Please.” You whisper, voice like silk. 

He crumbles, then, at the sight of your eyes. Watery and glossy and wide – lust a long-forgotten thing. 

He nods briefly when he surrenders. A jerky movement of his jaw as he swallows thickly. Doesn’t dare to avert his gaze from yours when he retrieves his hand and loves to catch how your brows pinch at the sudden emptiness inside. Sloppily, he coats his stiff cock with your wetness with a few weak pumps.

His eyes stay on you, as he goes in blindly, guided by touch only, and drives the tip to your hole. Tries to gauge your thoughts by the expressions on your face, and fails miserably, for once, at keeping his own concealed.

Barely aware and in control of what his face is conveying, he gathers you must appreciate it because you shift your palms to cradle his cheeks. He doesn’t know why you do it because there’s nothing on this godforsaken planet that could make his attention swerve to any thoughts but how beautiful you look when your lips stroke his own with featherlight pressure.

And he slides in, comfortably easy. Feels your puffy lips stretch to welcome him whole, inch by inch. Piece by piece of him, in every way you want to interpret it. 

His jaw is locked tight because as soon as your walls envelop the head of his cock, he already feels himself shutting down. His eyes close – he can’t afford to look at how you morph for him. How your pussy swallows the first inches of his cock, puffy clit begging to be touched and lavished. How your mouth parts against his own to yield soft moans and breathy whispers that encourage him to please, please, please go deeper. 

He can’t. Stubbornly thinking he must last long enough to give you some pleasure or it will all be worthless. And so, it’s a repetitive dance: an inch in, and a full pull out. Stop. Another inch, and pull out. 

It’s driving him fucking mental.

“Let go,” you say, tearing his head out of the gutter. “Look at me, and let go.”

He can’t exactly decide whether you’re being the devil on his shoulder, or an angel sent from heaven – either way, the aim is to ruin him. Yet it doesn’t matter when he opens his eyes, and you look so beautiful his heart cracks, with a thin layer of sweat on your brow and the sheen of his spit on bitten lips. 

You don't have to tell him twice at this point, because the way your hands force his face steady so he keeps his eyes on you does most of the trick. His resolve crumbles at breakneck speed.

He bottoms out, pushing his pelvis flush against yours. Your eyes roll back at the same time, legs going stiff and tight around his hips. He does a tentative roll that causes the coarse hair on his groin to press against your bundle of nerves.

"Fuck," you breathe, your voice cracking at the edges. He echoes it right after you, or at the same time – he's not sure, but in his defense, he's not confident about a single thing right now.

If not how absurdly scorching you are, all wrapped around him.

With that, he hooks one arm around your waist and tucks his other hand behind your head. He holds you close like you might slip away, and he’s sure as hell not taking any chances.

He fucks you slowly, deep thrusts that fill you up all the way, and greedy love bites on your neck. Open-mouthed kisses at your throat, sliding up to your jaw and cheeks, all the way to your lips. Truthfully, he’s both trying to get his senses chock full of you, and keep his mouth shut so no words spoken while in ecstasy escape.

The slap of his hips against yours drowns the taps of the morning drizzle against the windowpane. He’s got your face buried in the crook of his neck, and your pants echo in his ears like a fucking promise that threatens to unravel him.

Each thrust has him fully sheathed inside of you. It fills him with primal pride and fuels his pleasure, because you take him so fucking well he can't help but think he's modeled you in his perfect image. He grunts against you and tugs at your hair out of sheer desperation to hold on – just a little longer.

But you’re swearing in his ear. Breathless fuck’s whispered like a curse and a vow at the same time. You shift your hips to change the angle and that makes him hit even deeper and he swears he hears you whimper in that telltale way he knows well.

He lifts your hips up and hooks your legs over his shoulders.

And he absolutely rams into you.

“Christ I missed you.” He rumbles and his voice cracks while your moans rise in pitch and your nails scratch his back. “Fuckin’ thought of you," Thrust. "Every bleedin’ day.”

He’s rambling now, intoxicated on the feeling of you. His words are slurred and strained and, deep down, there’s a more sober version of Simon Riley cursing at himself for speaking his heart out.

Luckily, it’s drowned by the slap of flesh against flesh and the wet sounds of your cunt milking him dry. 

Finally, he thinks, he's using his strength not to wield a heavy M4 or to ram against hostiles, but to fuck you on his cock – knee-deep in the mattress for leverage.

He lets go, like you asked.

He murmurs in your ear (Fuckin’ beautiful), words alternated with heavy pants (An’ all mine) and the animalistic grunts of a man cocooned in bliss (All fuckin’ mine).

His hips stutter and he knows he’s close, but you’re not even nearby, in spite of how he can feel you clench around him, sucking him in. And God, the guilt that fills him almost makes him stop even if he has that sweet, sweet release just around the bend.

But you won’t have that, naturally. 

Your fingers thread through his hair, clammy and sticking out weirdly because he’s sweaty and hot. He feels his head being shifted to the side, so you can look into his eyes.

And oh, how can you look at him like that? How is he even deserving of it – fuck you and your relentless ways to crawl under his skin and make him feel like he’s worth a damn, with your eyes glossy and hooded. A thick veil of admiration, fondness, and you. 

You, you, you. 

Where have you been all his life, with this color in your eyes?

“Come inside.” You plead tenderly, breathless and raspy, as he pounds you into your own bed. Your fingers smooth back rogue strands that are sticking to his forehead. “Please come inside.”

And you crush his mouth to yours in a searing kiss. One that marks his demise. He’s falling hard into your embrace, figuratively and literally, too.

He uses whatever shreds of strength he has left to ram into you as if his life depended on it, punching gasp after heaving gasp out of your beautiful lips into his hungry mouth.

It works like a spell because he feels the familiar pressure building at the base of his cock. Syrupy hot warmth runs down his legs to the tips of his toes. Tingling. Tightening. Burning so good he thinks he's melting within you.

Suddenly, his head spins, and he groans in your parted lips as he ruts into you one last time – until he has you filled to the brim. His eyes slam shut as he spills inside of you – cock pulsating and hot. 

His high takes its sweet time, canceling out all background noises and only leaving your sweet breaths to fill in his ears, and the pounding of his heart. 

Simon unceremoniously drops on you like dead weight, allowing your legs to return around his waist. His lips slide off yours until his head is tucked in the crook of your neck. He’s absolutely spent, but there isn’t enough fatigue in this world that could keep him away from you. You’re sweaty and he’s worse, but he doesn’t see why, in the haze of his orgasm, he shouldn’t have his lips reach every inch of skin he can.

His kisses are lazy – a stark contrast from the desperation he’s displayed until now. 

He feels safe. He feels at home, still buried deep inside of you, feeling the come that couldn’t fit inside ooze out and onto the bedsheets. A bummer to clean, he’ll realize when he’ll get his sanity back.

And he wants to tell you so many things when he feels your hands skimming down his back in a soothing dance. Wants to tell you how you’ve flipped his life, with the ease of tossing a coin – heads and tails. Opposites so striking you should be deemed a witch. 

He was in deep fucking shit before you offered your smile. Inching closer and closer to dead-ended alleys and dark, murky thoughts that could only lead to dreadful places.

You gave him something to yearn for, something to miss when he's away, and something to cherish when he's here. 

There’s nothing he can do to return the favor but love you in equal measure. 

It’s not the first time the word love has come up in his head when his mind was lost in memories of you. And while he’d rather not dwell on it now, while you hold him to your chest as he comes back to his senses, he knows the time will eventually come.

Yet he doesn’t dread it. Not one bit.

Fear pocket sewn shut. Finally. 

He lifts his head to look up at you and finds you doing the same – he’s sure he’s thoroughly fucked in the best way imaginable. 

“I’ll take care of everything later,” you say, reading his thoughts. “You okay?”

It takes him a while to respond. Mental gymnastics to reawaken the parts of his brain that are still tingling in the afterglow. 

“Never better, love.” 

“Sleep?” You offer, as if he isn’t still buried inside of you and effectively crushing you under his weight. 

You don’t seem to mind, and so he trusts you and doesn’t either.

His eyes are half closed as he slides down to rest his head in the valley of your breasts. "Y' didn't cum," he mumbles, leaving an open mouthed kiss on the fat of your tits.

Your fingers brush through his hair to keep him close, and when your nails scrape at his scalp he feels gooseflesh rise along his arms. 

"'S fine," you whisper gently, and he's struck by the earnestness in your tone. But then you quip, "I'll have ya on your knees tomorrow."

And he scoffs. "Makin' it sound like a punishment."

You purse your lips and land a kiss on the crown of his head. "Then stop complaining."

He grunts something he himself can't even discern. 

“Y’need to piss first.” He grumbles mindlessly, as if the thought of you standing up annoys him but he knows a UTI is even more aggravating.

You snort. “Charming."

And he responds in kind. "Chivalry's dead anyway."

There's a few seconds of silence only broken by your quiet chuckle. "I’ll wait for you to fall asleep, then ‘m off to the loo. Deal?”

He grunts in agreement, liking the compromise you’re offering. “Deal.” 

And his head stays quiet. Sleazy hands and raging voices cease, silenced under the thunder of your heartbeat.

“I missed you.” He thinks he hears you whisper, your voice thick and wet. He closes his eyes with his head on your chest. “’M so happy you’re home.”

────────────

Simon wakes up with shy sunbeams peeking through the blinds and brushing his brow. You must’ve closed them when you woke up, to shield him from the sun.

He blinks idly, momentarily lost in that phase between sleep and waking life, still unsure of where he is. His mouth is pasty, and his eyes struggle against sunlight. The duvet is up to his chin, and it smells of grapefruit-scented softener, and of you. The pillow is a little wet, and he embarrassingly notices that it’s because he’s drooled on it – he smacks his lips once, twice, but his tongue might as well be a dried-up cinderblock.

It has been a long time since he’s slept like this. Since his mind has shut down and left him alone. Since his night has gone smoothly, sleep comatose and dreamless – nightmare-less.

And you’re not there, but that’s okay.

Because he hears your music from the kitchen, kept at a low volume so you won’t wake him up. The clanking of utensils frames the beat, pans and pots being moved around as you hum to yourself following the melody. The smell of eggs, sausages, potatoes, and fresh veggies – a full English. Wafts of that disgusting coffee you drink in the morning intertwined with the softer notes of the tea you’re brewing for him.

You were right: he is home.

And he can’t see your eyes, but that’s okay too.

He guesses he’ll never remember their exact shade, Simon’s fine with it. No better thing than to discover you once more, each time he gets to come home.

They change with you, following the flow of whatever you allow to show, and of what he’s learned to read. They’re the color of that life he’s unwittingly always looked for. That life promising a pocket of peace for himself. Chock full of love and nice things he’s always been deprived of.

A balm to both his ancient and newest wounds.

He has never shared a single story about his past, never told you why his body is like a tattered book whose tale is as horrific as it looks. But you don’t mind, and he doesn’t know why because he’s firmly set on the idea that you must know someone inside out to be sure you care.

And it’s then that it hits him, that you do know him – better than anyone. You know the man he is. You want the man he is now, the man he will be one day – as mental as it sounds to him. His present, and his future. And sure, his past might have made this man you know, but he’s not the same Simon under his father's thumb or the one felled by Roba’s tortures.

Although he’s not sure he can reopen certain sutures without the wounds bleeding all over the floor, he'll try. He’ll clean up, if he must, knowing that you’ll help him have each injury scab over again. 

What baffles him is that you’re not saying he has to. You’re saying he can. And this choice you’re giving him is a privilege he’s never had the chance to bear.

He can tell you everything, and you’ll listen. He can keep it to himself, and you’ll stay, accepting that there will be places of him you’ll never venture – and to you, that is fine.

As long as he stays, too.

There are no words he can use to express his gratitude. He can only love you – and it might take him a while to acknowledge that he’s capable, but he already does love you.

You appear at the door as he’s lost in his own head, still tucked under the duvet. Strips of sunlight cross your form, curving around the beautiful shape of you.

“Good morning, you.” You say, with a smile that reminds him of the sun.

Lazily, he offers one of his own to you. It’s lopsided and he thinks not quite as beautiful. 

He hopes you forgive him for it: takes practice to be happy, and he’s still learning.

And so, he smiles, and looks at you like you're the most tangible form of joy he's ever witnessed. 

His voice is raspy from sleep, and soft from you.

“Mornin’, love.”

[floppyponysart]

Mane 6 redesigns - mlpfim fanart

I made these a good while ago and thought hard about them but no-one cared at the time coz it wasn't a trend but now it is for some reason so I guess I'm gonna try reposting lol -v-'

get ready coz there is a long description of my inspirations and more details about these redesigns coming below. get ready for crazy amount of text

Twilight

This is basically my concept for "what if twilight was like an actual nerd?".

i gave her freckles/acne and glasses coz they are typical nerdy things. i think they look super cute on her tho ^w^. i got rid of her highlights in her hair coz (even tho it is probably meant to be natural in the show) nerds dont have time for adding highlights to their hair. her hair is also shorter to make it look more like the kind of practical hair cut girl nerds often have. she is wearing her comfy clothes coz she wants to be cozy when studying and doesnt care how she looks. she is wearing her favourite nerdy fluffy socks with her fav star constellations on them (i only know the big dipper lol -v-'). she is also wearing her comfy grey plain hoodie. for some reason every nerd seems to have a plain grey hoodie. it has spare pens in the pockets to.

she has a different cutiemark here which is basically my concept for what her cutiemark might have been if she wasn't the fated leader of the elements of harmony. it represents her studious personality and her love of stars. I also gave her a big backpack stuffed full of supplies. i can attest to the fact that studious students never have enough equipment and our bags look like this XD. it is an old but sturdy bag which has even been patched up but still going. there is a pink ruler sticking out coz everyone seemed to have those pink rulers when i was at school lol.

Every badge on this bag actually is meant to have a specific subject although its hard to see so small. now i will go through each one. Top left green one with dark blue what looks like an animal is a picture of an Ursa Minor. Brown one top right is a man holding a bow ancient etching on a cave wall picture. Big blue one is obviously more star constellations. Bottom right is a fire so hot the flame is blue. Right middle one is a skull. Middle brown and green one is an abandoned church structure. Bottom middle blue one is the Milky Way. Bottom left is a nerdy funny quote. Middle green one I actually don’t remember what it was meant to be anymore. I’m gonna day it is a rare plant tho coz that makes sense I think it was something like that. It might have also been an old weapon artefact as I remember that being one of my ideas at the time. Brown middle left was a catapult shooting a melon.

Applejack

This one is simpler than the last one. I already really like applejacks design and I had less ideas but I still like this. First things first, I think it would be more fitting if Applejack was a different species of pony. Here I have her as more of a wild pony which is hairier. I have her hair as rougher and shorter coz a farmer realistically would definitely not have long hair as it would get in the way of work. That has always been something that annoys me. Her hair in the show does look very nice but it just makes no sense. I didn’t change her cutiemark much coz her cutiemark from Pony Life is almost perfect. I just changed the shape of the leaf a little bit. I did add a speckled spot on her thigh around it tho. This is reminiscent of another species of horse and I think it adds a little more detail to make her look nice. It also matches her freckles on her face.

Speaking of her freckles, I added more all over her face and ears coz anyone with freckles will know it doesn’t usually stay in one pretty place on the cheeks. I think she looks cuter this way to be honest. She has cheeks which are a little chubby which makes her look younger than she actually is. Some people have a baby face for a longer time than most and idk but I felt this fit. She looks super cute and I love it. She has a hole in one ear which makes her look a little more imperfect and it shows her tough side. It’s a scar left from her tough working days in the past. Finally, I changed her hat. Yes I know. Probably people are going to hate me for this and I do like the hat but I always felt it was a little too stereotypical. So I gave her another hat which is often used in farming; a sunhat. I think this looks nice on her as well.

Fluttershy

Yes I made a lot of changes here. I started off just wanting to draw her with braids and flowers and longer legs like her childhood self but then I thought she looked more like a deer. Tbh I prefer her as a deer coz it makes more sense. Deers are very skittish and timid so it makes perfect sense for Fluttershy. I like the little tail puff to coz it’s just so cute. Several people have drawn Fluttershy with flowers in her hair and she has even done it in the show. It makes perfect sense to me for her to have lovely flowers, seeds, twigs and saplings in her hair all the time if she is in nature all the time.

Braids make more sense to me for Fluttershy coz long hair not tied up is going to get in the way and braids take a long time but is relaxing to do. I can imagine Fluttershy just slowly and calmly enjoying making her braids in the morning. I also changed her cutiemark to an animal paw. I have always thought this would make more sense for her cutiemark although I do like the butterflies to don’t get me wrong. I have tried 2 different sets of colours here but really I had many different ideas for different combinations of these colours. What colours would you use? Which of these do you prefer? Let me know Btw she does have wings still but it’s hard to see them behind the braids.

Pinkie

It’s alpaca Pinkie! yeah I just thought it would be more fitting for her to be another animal considering I already did it for Fluttershy. Pinkie is the weird one so it makes sense if she is also a completely different species and not a very common one. Plus alpacas are friendly, like to bounce and fluffy so it’s perfect in my eyes.

She has a buck tooth coz that makes her seem more cute and imperfect which fits her personality. She has very puffy hair coz I kinda hate how Pinkie has those nonsensical curls at the ends when her hair is supposed to be super curly and puffy. Curly puffy hair just doesn’t work that way.

She has confetti stuck in her hair coz I mean puffy hair is hard to clean and she has parties all the time so it makes sense. she also has colourful spots which match the colours of the balloons in her cutiemark. A spotty colourful pattern just makes sense for bubbly party Pinkie.

I actually decided to make her a unicorn to but you can’t see her horn coz she is so fluffy. I mean she is constantly doing weird and magical things so why isn’t she a unicorn?! It also makes sense people would think she is strange coz they can’t see her horn.

Last but not least, I like her cutiemark in the show but why does it have to be 3 separate balloons when balloons are often together anyway? So I grouped them together to make one big cutiemark instead and I think it looks better. What do you think?

Rainbow

I couldn’t do much with this one coz rainbow dash is already perfect. I tried some ideas here tho and I still like the results. It’s good in its own way.

I basically focused on the sporty side of rainbow dash here as you can probably tell. I made her thicker with strong cheek bones like an actual sporty person. I also gave her sweatbands coz of course she should be wearing those if she is doing sports all the time.

I gave her shorter hair coz they get in the way when doing sports and gave her the hair she has in pony life coz it just looks better sorry not sorry.

Anyone else always bothered by the fact her hair has half of it one o half of the colours and the other half the other half of the colours? Originally her hair had red, orange and yellow on top of her head and green, blue and purple on the hair on the back of her head. I just always felt that was weird so I made her tail and head have all the colours instead.

I also thought it was always a missed opportunity with the wings to not have them rainbow feathers like this. I mean why not?! It’s perfect!

I am really happy with her new cutiemark. I kept the rainbow and lightning bolt but made it have a football in instead. She’s into football in equestrian girls so this made sense to me and I love how the design came out. What do you think?

Last but not least I even designed an accessory for her. Of course it’s not fashionable or anything. It’s just a water bottle she carries around with her to make sure she stays hydrated when exercising. Hydration is important!

Rarity

At first I had no idea how to redesign rarity coz she is already pretty dang perfectly designed for her personality. But then I had the idea of making her older and more experienced with life kinda like a fashionista which has had kids or a cougar.

So here she is. She is no longer a unicorn but an earth pony instead. I never thought she needed magic tbh. She still wants to look pretty but her fashion sense is not great and she instead is just wearing bits and bobs of things she likes which don’t go together.

Her hair is shorter as she has less time to clean and maintain it and she wants to show off her accessories more anyway. She had a handbag which is a mixture between nice looking and big so it’s practical to use.

She has purple lipstick (just in case you can’t tell coz it is kinda hard to see). I also tried giving her a different eye colour which I think still looks nice on her and is more fitting of this version of her design.

I also gave her a different cutiemark. I do like her cutiemark but it doesn’t really relate to her love of fashion much and didn’t seem fitting to my design so I made this one for her. It’s a heart which represents her generosity and it wears a hat and and an earring which represents her love of fashion. What do you think? I love this cutiemark design personally.

The accessories are pretty self explanatory but just in case (coz I’m bad at drawing objects -v-') I’m gonna explain some of them. There is a pearl necklace with a nice big green gem. There is a gold bracelet with small red gems in it.

She is wearing earrings which are supposed to be green and blue opals. It was hard to get them to look like opals do with different colours merged together but I think I ended up with a pretty good result. It’s more green and murky than I intended tho. It also was difficult coz of how small it is. Any tips for how to make something look like that?

[happyandticklish]

The Gift of Your Laughter

Notes: I literally pulled this fic out of my ass last night for the holiday so be kind to it ;-; This fic doesn’t technically have a ton of tickling actually in it but you know what I don’t care because anticipation is more than half the fun anyway~ Happy Valentine’s Day, and enjoy a heavily flustered Levi with me~ 

Summary: Erwin knows Levi a little too well. Normally, Levi appreciates this, until it comes to a certain shared interest of theirs. 

It started with a feather, which is what clued Levi in that he wasn’t overthinking it. A brown feather with white spots speckled throughout it and black streaks curving up the inside. It glistened in the sunlight coming in from the window, perfectly innocent on his desk. Erwin—the only person it could be, the only person who had access to his office—had made sure it was placed directly in the center, not wanting Levi to be able to miss it.

He hesitated, as though something was going to pop out of it and attack him, but after a moment Levi picked it up. He pinched the stem gingerly between his fingers holding it up to the light.

Soft. Beautiful. Rare. He brushed a fingertip over the edge of it, allowing the downy tufts to kiss his skin. He wasn’t sure where Erwin would have gotten something like this. He wasn’t even aware there were birds with such elaborate designs still around. 

He looked around for a note, some sign of what it could possibly mean, but there was nothing. Just a feather and a world of questions. Levi grimaced in annoyance. He wasn’t fond of antics or surprises, and Erwin knew that. Whatever game he was playing, he wasn’t in the mood for it and he would be sure to let Erwin know the next time he saw him.

He kept the feather, though. He felt too bad not to. It was too delicate of a thing to simply throw away.

The second one came at lunch, nearly crushed by Levi before he noticed it. It was sitting on a chair, his chair, the chair he always sat at because it was isolated and far away from the noise of the cadets. This one was blue and Levi sucked in his breath helplessly. Blue. It was such an unimaginable color nowadays as the ink was far too expensive to ship in. To see it so blatantly in nature…

He picked it up, placing it carefully beside his lunch tray before continuing to eat with a growing sense of unease. He felt ridiculous for putting so much thought into it, but the gesture was so un-Erwin-like that he couldn’t help but dwell on it. There was yellow in the blue too. Probably, these were collected items from the olden years, before the Titans. It didn’t surprise him that Erwin had them, but this strange scavenger hunt method of gifting them was weird and suspicious all at once.

Finally, at feather number three, he put the pieces together.

The room was mostly Hange’s domain, part of their perverted scientific ‘experiments’ that they liked to execute. It had become less of an office at this point and more of some mad scientist lab mixed with a torture chamber. Levi was supposed to pick up some paperwork from them, but he paused when he entered the room and noticed them..

It wasn’t just feather number three. It was feather number four, five, and six as well, all four of them tied with a string that was dangling out of one of the holes in a pair of rustic stocks. The rush of air from the doorway ruffled them gently, causing them to twist and buffet in the air. Realization hit Levi at the same time that a flush crept its way up his neck and out to his ears.

Oh.

Oh. 

Thankfully Hange was absent, otherwise, Levi would have killed the both of them right then and there to cover up his oncoming embarrassment. He marched forward and snatched the feathers out of the stocks, crushing them in his hands and trying to ignore the way his heart was racing.

He tried to act casual as he made his way back to his office, one hand shoved in his pocket where he fiddled with the feathers. They felt soft. Really, really fucking soft. Anger and humiliation and something else that Levi didn’t want to put a name to rose inside of him at the ploy.

More than anything, however, he tried to stifle the creeping anticipation growing inside him. If he was right, and he sincerely doubted that he wasn’t, Erwin had planned this. Which meant Erwin was waiting, somewhere, to ambush him with this. Which meant that Levi had to choose whether or not to confront him or hide like a coward.

It really wasn’t a fair decision.

By the time he reached the door he felt jittery like he’d just pulled an all-nighter, his body tense with nervous energy.

It’s just tickling, he told himself, hand wavering over the knob. It’s just fucking tickling so get a hold of yourself. At least in your office, you’ll be safe so stop freaking out.

He pushed open the door determinedly and froze when he saw Erwin casually sitting in his chair.

“Levi.” He looked unfairly calm for how rattled Levi felt. “I see you got my message.”

He hadn’t realized he was still messing with the feathers. He stopped, pulling his hand out and glaring at him. “You’re in my spot.”

An arched brow. “You want to trade places?”

The implications of it sent a thrill running down Levi’s spine. Sitting down, strong arms wrapping around him, fingers crawling ever so softly up his sides, a voice whispering in his ear—

Instinctually, he glanced towards the open door and Erwin followed his gaze. “I’ll just catch you, you know. It would serve no purpose but to draw this out and make things worse for yourself.”

He was being so unbearably smug about this and Levi wanted to punch him for it. Instead, he settled on trying to shove down the smile begging to make itself known on his features, and focused his efforts towards survival. Erwin was right. There was no way he could outrun him even if he wanted to and right now Levi didn’t trust his body not to betray him into Erwin’s awaiting hands.

Still.

There was no way he was just gonna take this gift disguised as punishment.

Erwin’s chuckle rang out behind him as Levi bolted, an affectionate, amused sound that sent goosebumps prickling up the back of his neck. He slid around a corner, years of training kicking into gear as he expertly navigated his way through the building. He could hear Erwin pounding behind him and panic sent him flying down the stairs, skipping half a dozen steps in the process.

He knew he looked stupid as he raced past the barracks, a grown man running for his life and probably alerting half the camp while doing so, but he didn’t care. He could feel Erwin right behind him and his thoughts were betraying him as he imagined what it would be like to be caught, to be grabbed, to have his arms forced over his head—

Nope, no, not going there, not right now, now he needed to focus. Left or right. Dining hall or living quarters. Both public, both dead ends. He cursed under his breath, hesitating a bit too long as he weighed out the decision. Voices of confusion murmured behind him as soldiers recovered from the shock of their captain running for his life, and, more importantly, the last of Erwin’s boot falls landed on the stairs indicating he was catching up.

Levi flung open the bedroom door haphazardly, just barely managing to get inside before the door was shoved open once more. Levi flinched, stumbling back against the wall as Erwin calmly closed and locked the door behind him. Levi silently thanked any deity that was still be remaining that this particular room was absent at the moment.

“You shouldn’t have run.” Erwin looked more amused than annoyed, which wasn’t helping matters. “It’s impolite to turn down a gift.”

“A gift?” Levi scoffed, hating how out of breath he sounded. His gaze darted anxiously about the room, looking for any path of escape. “Is that what you’re calling this?”

Erwin arched a brow. He was taking slow, steady steps towards him that set Levi on edge. “Are you saying you don’t want it?”

“Fuck you.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Levi thinned his lips together in irritation. He could feel the heat crawling over his features and prayed that Erwin didn’t notice. He didn’t move when Erwin approached him, glaring up into his eyes as he pressed him against the wall.

Stop looking so goddamn helpless already.

“Wrists?”

Levi didn’t move, stubbornness rooting him to the spot.

“Should I make it an order?”

Levi’s gaze snapped up at him before slanting off to the side. “Cheater.”

“As if you didn’t cheat first.”

He felt positively giddy and he hated how much he loved it. Erwin had grabbed his wrists anyway, tugging them firmly up and against the wall. Levi pulled at them to check their hold—breakable, if he wanted. Which only made this worse because now Levi was forced to stand there and just endure it until Erwin had had his fill.

Levi tensed when fingers came to rest at his sides. “Erwin, the cadets.”

“What about them?” A twitch to his sides.

“They’ll hear,” Levi hissed, trying not to squirm already because god would that be embarrassing if one touch of Erwin’s hands was all it took to get to him. “They’ll hear and they’ll talk and the last thing I need is to deal with rumors about us spreading through the whole garrison.”

“Well then…” Erwin’s fingers jumped into action now, skritching and digging into Levi’s sides in a manner that made him want to crawl out of his skin. “I guess you’d better be quiet.”

Levi bit his lip, something that was horrendously close to a giggle nearly slipping past his lips. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, this was not happening, this was not happening right here, right now, not when there’s a bunch of nosy soldiers standing right outside that room forcing Levi to keep silent despite how ungodly ticklish Erwin’s nails felt against his shirt.

He kind of hated it.

He kind of loved it.

“Oh, and Levi?”

Erwin’s voice was close, his breath hitting the shell of Levi’s ears and making him scrunch his shoulders in defense. Nails slipped under his shirt to get at bare skin as a shiver rippled down Levi’s spine.

“Happy Valentine’s Day.”

[herald-divine-hell]

Writing prompt: “don’t you trust me”

Thank you for the prompt!

TW: Mentions and vague depictions of abuse

Time Period: Dragon Age: Origins (2008)

Setting: Lost in Dreams - The Broken Circle

Characters: Amayian Trevelyan, Lady Jacqueline Trevelyan, Warden Surana

Length: 2k+

~

He found his mother in Vasenarg's gardens, with a faint cool sea-wind crawling over the high stone walls crowned in their horned crenellations, bringing the scent of roses and violets and marigolds.

Seated high upon the stone throne with its blue-tiled dome, slender spiraled pillars topped at both ends with the rearing chest and neighing head of stallions, and vine-woven railing stretching from pillar to pillar, his mother was turned away from him, staring out to the gardens. A blissful smile lifted the corners of her mouth, and the soft echoes of laughing lines could be glimpsed with the small scrunch of her amber eyes. Long thick waves of chestnut brown hair tumbled down from a high crown of braided hair, speckled with fine gems of ruby and sapphire and amethyst. That day, she wore her birthing dress, plain and white, with only the faintest silver embroidery along the sweeping sleeves and across the bodice. The skirt spread about her like the flowering lotus, like a gown of starlight.

His feet carried him, and his thoughts swam in and out of his mind, cresting the high waves before darting into the fearful depths. The stone paved road twisting around a little bond, sprinkled with loosened petals that had been carried by the wind. Sunlight glistened across the waters, as if a thousands gems twinkled beneath. And yet, his eyes were only on his mother, and the soft song borne by the air to his ears as he drew closer. A little lullaby, the one she sang when the dreams grasped him in its hold and refused to let him go.

But on this day, no words were spoken, only hummed. But that seemed only fair. He did not deserve those words, after what he had done. After his failure.

For a brief moment, he halted, unsured if his mother would even wanted to see him. Behind, the wind scurried against him, delicate hands of unseen air pressing against his back, grasping fistfuls of cloth, as if to drag him forward. And yet, Amayian's feet seemed buried into the stone, trapped. His right thumb searched for his mother's ring, felt the cold silver touch his skin, and the tightened breath clasping his chest flowed out of him.

"My sweet son, my brave son, why are you so far?" called his mother, though she did not turn to see him. "Do you not trust me?"

Ever obedient, Amayian took long steps to his mother. No words touched his tongue. All ability to speak seemed to have fled him, just like his fears when he heard his mother's voice. A voice he had not heard for nearly fourteen years. A soft voice, warm and melodious and flowing, touched with the highborn accents of Orlais.

Small wide steps greeted him at the trefoil-arched entrance of the high stone seat, and above loomed his mother, buried in that great gown of melted starlight. Golden armbands wrought in the appearance of flowers knitted upon a delicate string wrapped around her arms, each center set with a new gem that flashed with the passing sunlight. And she was smiling, smiling that sweet smile that said he could do no wrong. Gently she patted her lap. "Come, my sweet colt. You looked so tired." The wind tugged at him, like chains bound at his wrist and neck, trying to hurl him further. "It is ok. You do not have to fear. I am not angry with you."

One step flowed into a second then a third, until he was before his mother, the Lady Jacqueline who was the Dawn of Vasenarg. His mother extended her hands; and Amayian fell to his knees, took them into his own, kissed and pressed his forehead against them, as was the way of House Trevelyan. Long fingers tightened around his, a slender palm smoothed and unworn by work, drawing him close.

Those hands released, rising and combing their fingers through Amayian's dark hair, softly scratching and smoothing the loose strands of curls, just as Lady Jacqueline always did when she came to put her children to sleep. Her palms pressed against his head, drawing him down to hide his face in her lap, her fingers never ceasing to stop their strokes. "Oh, my sweet, tired boy. Why are you so thin? Have you not eaten?"

Though his mind rushed with words, and his heart a thousand more, they could not find his lips, as if they were sewn with silver.

Even still, his mother continued. "You have not visited for so long, my son." His heart clutched with terror. Brushed upon those words were...disappointment. No, no, he thought. I cannot disappoint her. It was forbidden.

"Do you not trust your own mother so that when you fled you did not dare pay your respect her, to honor her? Did we teach you anything?"

The crack of a tongue of leather, the rush of fire along his flesh, the whisper of blood flowing along the length of his back. The kiss of leather across his face, the bursting of agony across his cheeks, over his nose, a veil of warmth that poured unto his mouth. And beneath those crackles, his uncle's voice, rolling and untroubled, conquering. "As the Maker made us to serve, magic is meant to serve, never to rule. As the Maker made us to serve, a son is a slave to his father, to his mother, to his uncle, to his aunt. Any disobedience is forbidden, be them a word, an act, a flash across the gaze."

I am dutiful, Mother. You know this. I only ever meant to serve, just as Uncle Esmarian ordained. Yes, that was his purpose. Over and over again, his uncle had made that clear. By his father's pardon and his mother's compassion, he was given life, permitted to live even after the magic stirred within his limbs. How could he be so ignorant, to refuse to honor his mother, when he failed her so? "The blood shall be shed, shall be hardened, and the wounds may heal into scars," his Uncle said, pitying. "But the lessons shall be engraved, in the mind, in the heart. Take the Maker's forgiveness, and be honored we shed it to you."

"You failed me once, yes," said his mother, in the tones of fall's mourning when the first snows came. Her fingers were still untangling the locks of his hair, still stroking his head. But her nails dug deeper, scrapping along his head, over and over again. "Yes, you failed me. I had put my trust in you, my speechless son. And how did you repay me? By forsaking your duty? For fleeing the orders of your father?"

Yes, my duty was at the Circle. Even when the blade of his cousins' drew across his chest, for his insolence in seeking to flee, the lesson was learned, the reminder to kin installed. My duty to serve my father was there, and I forbad him. I fled. But you called, Mother. No one ever told Amayian what could he do when Father's and Mother's will opposed. His mother called, and he was ordained to listen.

Something warm crawled down his neck, wet and thick, trailing down from his head. Deeper and deeper his mother's fingers dug, slowing as they curled and pressed into his skin, untangling his hair, untangling his lies, untangling his failures. The wind touched his ears, cracking as the tongue of leather in the dark room.

"But it can be pardoned, all of it. If you put your trust in me, my sweet little boy who is empty without purpose. Did you think that coming to the land of the dogs would be freeing? Ever the dogs are leashed, obedient to their masters. Ever is the grey griffons leashed to their duty. Ever is the ministerial and the sister leashed to their songs, to their Maker. Duty, my son, is the crown of mankind. Do your duty now, and stay."

These words, so very strange they were. She never spoke in such a manner. Such a thought wriggled through his mind, though not in his voice. A woman's, quiet, almost too small that it was nearly lost in the hissing winds. His heart tightening, Amayian pressed his face deeper into his mother's skirts. Too much choices. Mother knows of my failure. Who am I to deny her? His dark curls were swept up by his mother's hair, and the wind laid kisses upon the revealed skin there. Still, the slow-moving wetness dragged down his skin, burning.

"Yes." The word came dragging, drawn out. "Yes, my son. Good. You are learning. And of the lessons, the heart shall remember, even when the mind grows forgetful, arrogant. Here you shall rest, by my side. You always wanted that, no? To serve your father, your uncle, your aunt, your sister, and your brother? That was what you were made for. To serve your House. To only serve, for magic was made to serve and never to rule. Never to rule the heart or the mind. Stay, and put your trust in me. You trust me, no? You think I died, but how can I leave my son guideless, he who needed most of all, whose heart could not feel except what we ordained? Oh, my son. I do live. Can you not tell?"

Yes. He was a fool, to trust in his heart. How wrong he was...how foolish...how...disobedient. His mother was alive, and she will still live, if he obeyed, if he stayed.

A footfall, echoing across the garden, piercing through the air like an arrow whistling and taking flight. "Amayian?" A familiar voice. A man's voice, and beneath that a woman's. The woman's seemed so far away, and yet so close, kissing his ears, lifting out from his heart.

His mother's hands strangled in his hair, pushing deeper into those white skirts that swallowed all sight, almost all hearing. "Begone, intruder. This is my house, and he is my son."

The voice, the man's voice, ignored her, and something hot tore at his chest, quickly sparking before dying. "Amayian, this world is an illusion."

No, it is not. Duty is not an illusion. She is here. My mother lives. I have my duty to her, to all of them. I just need to put my trust in her, to obey. It is so very simply. There is no illusion in that.

"Yes, my son. There is no illusion, no cloud to obscure your vision. If you serve, if you stay." Her words were steel as she spoke to this intruder, this deceiver that did not exist. The only thing that existed was him, his mother, his family, here in Ostwick. "Begone, interpolar. He knows his duty, knows where his place belong."

And still, the voice ignored her. "Amayian, you know she is dead. You saw her, didn't you? I don't know what happened that day. But she is dead, Amayian. Just like my parents are. Nothing I can do can bring them back. I know. I tried. Whatever happened that day, your mother does not blame you."

Yes, she does blame me. I let her die. If I had only been stronger. If I had not let the iron chain to wrap around my heart, she would still be alive.

The woman's voice, the one closer than his own heart. She begged you to stop, said this woman's voice, the voice he heard in those suffocating dreams. The fire was burning her, in and out, the ashes pouring out of her in crimson. No matter what we could have done, she would have died. She knew that. Your father knew that.

No, no. Too much. This was all too much. Why could everything not be simple, like when he was a child? When he only had to obey his father, his mother, his uncle. He wanted to stay. Her voice, it was still there. He could still smell her perfume, soft and scented like hyacinith and jasmine. I don't want to forget. I don't want to go searching. I'm home.

The woman's voice whispered around him, hoarse and harsh and mournful. We have no home.

The man's voice urged, so far and yet pressing. "You do have a home. With us. With Sten and Raila, with Alistair and Zevran, with Leliana and I. Even Morrigan, though don't tell her I said that." And he laughed, tilted with nervousness. But it was a laugh all the same. A similar laugh that erupted from Athlaros when Amayian had answered Zevran's deviant jest with truth, and when he had to explain how the joke went to Amayian. It still made no sense, even with Leliana interrupting to get the idea in his head.

Zevran, Morrigan, Ralia, Sten, Alistair, Athlaros, Leliana. He lifted his head a little, confusion casting assurance in his mind into the depths. But his mother's fingers dug deeper, flesh and bones seemingly crushing into his skin. Fire burned through him, in and out, over and within. "No, he is mine. Mine. Mine."

The wind screamed, the petals struck at his face in rapid slashes and cuts. And in those winds, he heard Lady Jacqueline Trevelyan's screams as the blood pour out from her, and Amayian's magic did nothing. Did nothing to save her. I tried and failed.

There was a whorl and a terrible screech that broke at Amayian's world. Dark soot and wisps of fire kissed his skin as his mother's hands seemed to flung off his head, and the demon withered and screamed, carried away by the winds of the Fade. The screams were still there, even after the white skirts was gone, and Amayian was upon his knees, seeing but not seeing.

"Amayian?" asked Athlaros. And Amayian turned, seeing a long-faced man with brown hair - not chestnut brown, but the brown of soil and earth. And behind, a woman. A woman shrouded in darkness and gowned in ash and snow, with long red-golden hair cascading down the length of her right shoulder, while melted bone and flesh, flecked in angry embers smoldered from blackened, withered skin, twisted and gorged. But her eyes remained, eyes of pale blue crystal, seeing and not seeing, keen and misty, all at once.

But then they were fading, and Amayian wondered...

What was this wetness on his cheeks?

[seasonal-writes]

“bruised / kissed” (from this prompt list i found.) pairing: Jimmy/Tango (Team Rancher) cw: bruises (if that’s something to mention?), kissing (only a little!) “Where did you-” “It’s fine, Tango.” “This is not-! These aren’t..”  Tango didn’t know how to describe it. He’d only just hugged Jimmy minutes ago, sneaking up on him and wrapping his arms around him tightly from behind after a long day of being apart. This was a common ritual between them, one Tango adored, so it surprised him when Jimmy let out a wince of pain when he did so. There was brief panic and questions and a gentle shove before Jimmy’s sitting on the edge of the bed, white t-shirt tugged over his head and hanging on his shoulders with his back exposed. Tango perches behind him, shaky fingers dancing just inches above his skin, hesitant to touch as his breath hitches at the sight. All his words seem to get lost in the dark blues and purples that spill across Jimmy’s skin, all patchy and thick with the blood congealing beneath. The colors are so stark against his paleness, and despite their odd beauty, the sight makes Tango’s throat go tight. The bruising is dense up at his right shoulder, muddling down to his left side as they speckle out into smaller, brown spots that look less like he’d been beaten to shit. Jimmy keeps his head turned, trying to look back at Tango. Eyebrows turned down, but with a sheepish smile, he hums. “Really, it’s alright. You don’t have to worry.” “Uh-uh, mister! These are.. nasty. How are you even able to move?” Tango asks, eyes still tracing the shapes and funky lines that the bruises create down his back. “Not very easily..” Jimmy says, “But I’m managing, I promise.” Tango grunts. He wasn’t a medical expert, far from it, but he could tell that whatever did this, the impact was fresh. Jimmy also easily bruised, despite his constant hard labor, as Tango had discovered through his partner’s clumsy tendencies. Still, even though this was well-known, this instance worried him. “How did you do this? Did someone do this?” Tango asks, the second question holding a sharp edge. He’s about to jump onto his feet at any indication that other hands or beings caused it. “No! No, it wasn’t anyone’s fault but my own,” he says, dropping his head forward, “I just.. I fell.” “You fell?” “Off.. off the..ladder. In the barn.” Defeat laces his voice, quivering with some hesitation. Tango doesn’t have to see Jimmy to know he’s embarrassed by it. He’s sure his face is all red and his eyes are all shifty, and if there were any eye contact to make, there’d be none. Careful not to touch the bruised area, Tango reaches a hand forward and lightly holds Jimmy’s side. Jimmy’s shoulders tense up a little, but he visibly forces them to relax. “Why didn’t you mention it?” Tango asks, taking a gentler tone. “I didn’t think it was that big’ve a deal,” Jimmy says through a deep breath, “I was just trying to fix the railing on the hayloft and then I leaned just a little too far to whack at a nail annnd..” Tango cringes. “Splatty?” “Splatty..” “When did you fall?” Tango asks again, not sure if he wants to hear the answer. “..Um.. Maybe.. last night, just before I came in for supper.” “Last night? And you didn’t think to share? What if you broke something, or worse?” Tango stresses. Jimmy mumbles something under his breath, something with a little attitude and yeah yeah okay, but Tango barely hears him over the sound an idea makes when it pokes into his head. He releases Jimmy’s side, glancing down at his own hands. It’s very quiet for a moment, the only sound being their soft breathing and the sounds of the house around them, some animal noises coming from outside. He watches Jimmy shuffle a bit, almost like he’s about to pull his shirt back down before Tango jolts. “Wait, wait. Not yet,” he says, rubbing his hands together a little, “Can I try something?” “I don’t know what’ll help a bruised ba-hahaaa..” Jimmy starts to say, though his words float off as Tango’s hands press against his injuries. He’s gentle, of course, despite the little bit of wanting to punish him for not coming to him about something so important. He doesn’t, though. Tango doesn’t push too hard into the bruises, especially since the muscles feel like rock underneath his fingers even at the light touch. It’s light and tender, warm hands palming over the discolored skin and hoping the heat is enough to permeate through. Jimmy’s reaction seems to prove it works, as Tango’s fully aware of his biological advantage and feels a giddy sense of pride that it’s finally being put to more use than just “space heater.” “Does that hurt?” he asks. It takes a second for Jimmy to answer, head fully forward and shoulder muscles melting into a melted slump. “N..Noo..” Jimmy coos, “Very good.” Tango rubs in soft, little circles. “Good. Figured the heat could be useful here.” Jimmy nods, hair flopping a little as his head dangles forward. They stay like that for a moment, Tango gently rubbing at the sore skin while Jimmy hums his approval. The skin starts to stay warm, now softer and malleable compared to the solid texture of swollen muscle from when they started. Tango, though busying himself, stares as he works. He watches his fingers roll over the muscles in his back, wanting to trace the lines but forcing himself to stay on the task at hand. There hadn’t ever been a moment where he got to just look at Jimmy, especially a part of him so often hidden and disregarded. It was.. well, beautiful, even with the problems that he wants so badly to fix. He wants to say something about it too, but the words are all jumbled still and why would he think about him that way at a time like this and so he does the next best thing. Tango leans forward, hands still pressed, and plants the lightest of kisses on the back of Jimmy’s neck, just between his shoulder blades. He can see Jimmy’s visible chills, watching them practically dance up his spine as his shoulders jump. A shuddered breath escapes him, and Tango can’t help but grin. He moves down again, slowly giving him another kiss. And another. Till gently, in a perfect line, he sprinkles little kisses across his left shoulder—careful to avoid the bruises. Tango reels in the reactions, the twitches paired with the heavy sigh and apparent undoing occurring before him. Even as he’s the one doing it, he feels the warmth creep up in his own chest. It makes his own hands want to tremble, his own air daring to come out in wobbly patterns but he holds it together. Barely. The intimacy is just enough to nearly whelm him. “Ha..hey.. You-” Jimmy finally says, his voice tight and almost sounding choked up, “Tango.” “Hm?” Tango hums, “Sorry, I’ll stop.” Jimmy groans in protest, and Tango chuckles. “You’re getting all twitchy. I should quit before you hurt yourself again,” he adds, pulling back and continuing to rub at his skin. “But..” Jimmy starts to say, but cuts himself off and huffs. Tango reaches up and ruffles at Jimmy’s hair. “You’ll survive. Promise. Now, let’s see about getting some ice on this, huh?” It isn’t until a couple days later, when Tango’s hunched in the kitchen and prepping some breakfast, that he feels a presence behind him. He barely has time to register before two arms are wrapped tight around him from behind. Tango chuckles, reaching up and affectionately patting at the face that tucks into the crook of his neck, warming his skin with Jimmy’s breath. “Hi there,” Tango says with a grin building, “You’re supposed to be resting.” “I think my back is doing much better now, thank you,” Jimmy coos, “And I think some payback is in order.” Tango’s face starts to burn at his low, graveled voice. There’s a kiss on his cheek. Then another. And another on his jawline, scraggly beard tickling his skin, moving down. Then another and- Oh boy.

[rjalker]

aproximate drawing of the giant wolf from my dream using public domain lineart with a scribbled stick figure for scale.

[ID: A digital drawing of a wolf against a grey background, with a stick figure rider in white sitting on a scribbled brown saddle with reins. The wolf is in fantastic colors, striped with grey, tan, taup, and dark brown, with white on one paw, the tip of the tail, and under the eyes and in the ears. The wolf has pale green eyes. End ID.]

I don't remember what his name was.

how this went:

[ID: A very crude scribbled drawing of the characters above, with the wolf running at full speed, and the stick figure almost flying off, holding onto the reigns. End ID.]

Original post for this dream:

Events from my dream in whatever order I remember them (not even remotely chronological order)

this is definitely because in the Arthurian legend I was reading last night King Arthur is attacking Rome.

"I (not me)" signifies that I was in the shoes of a character and didn't actually have control over the events, as opposed to when I'm lucid dreaming and do and say whatever I want. I am in no way a princess lol.

There had apparently been some TV show about ancient Rome that lasted for 30 seasons, then later had a spinoff that lasted for 16. Everyone hated fans of the show because it was every kind of bigotry under the sun. Fans of the show were rioting that the spinoff had ended.

A bunch of Actual Roman Soldiers had raided a castle and were trying to enslave everyone. A bunch of women had been locked up near the armory and escaped and armed themselves and started attacking the soldiers.

I (not me) was a noble lady of that castle and had a giant wolf for a mount rather than a horse, and so did some guy who might have been a dragon? it wasn't clear. We got on our wolves, who we had soul bonds with, and ran out of the castle by jumping off the roof (the wolves were magical and didn't take falling damage I guess) and ran to get help from some tiny people who lived in the forest nearby. On the way there me and the guy got separated somehow. possibly he died. IDK. Anyways he was supposed to be there to greet the tiny people as "the War King".

So when I (not me) got there wearing the same kind of armour they thought I (not me) was him and were like "War King!!!! You're back!!! How's it been!!! Long time no see!!!!!" and I (not me) had to be like, "Well....uh,,,,, War Princess is a bit closer...." and took off my helmet and explained the situation. They decided they would help even thought I (not me) wasn't the friend they'd been expecting.

On the way there while riding the wolf mount I kept almost flying off because the saddle wasn't very well built and every time he jumped it was like a roller coaster. He definitely had a name but I don't remember it. He was very pretty. Definitely more dog coat colors than wolf. Dragon-guy's wolf was black with silver speckles. I don't remember either of their names either.

The only person whose name I remember was Cinderella, who was also called Sentinel and Segregation. She had been captured by, and I'm not joking, Joe Biden and Kamala Harris and they had been using her to brainwash people into Voting Blue No Matter Who.

I (not me) the knight princess rescued her and blew up a whole bunch of evil robots and cars by throwing a crap ton of mines because the world suddenly had Fallout 4 mechanics.

Then Cinderella / Sentinel (who was only called Segregation when brainwashed as a code name so no one would realize she was a person) turned into a Barbie doll for some reason. Dragon-guy and his wolf came back from wherever they'd disappeared to and turned out to be my (not me)'s father? adoptive father maybe? Again, not sure.

uhhhh

Oh right someone was definitely planning to murder King Arthur. Might have been me (not me)

[lunarscaled]

drabble scene: The Twilight Assembly, post-tournament

Lyric arrives at the Assembly doors in handcuffs. Not alone, of course—who would let someone walk around in handcuffs unattended?—but escorted by two tall, silver armored guards, one with long elvish ears and the other with speckled brown primary feathers protruding from an open space in his bracer. Each one keeps a hand on their thick biceps with thumbs pressed into the muscle uncomfortably, and every twist of their arm or roll of their shoulder is met with a hard pull of the limb back to their side. They can’t even raise a hand to push the one errant curl of dark hair hanging between their eyes out of their face. If they twist their neck, they can see their haggard reflection in the polished metal of the bracers on either side of them: unkempt brunette curls fallen over their shoulders and down their back; the purple mottled skin under their eyes which reeked of exhaustion and pronounced their orange stare; clusters of opalescent white scales on their olive skin, growing more and more numerous every day whether they wanted them to or not. 

They had never been the type of person to dress up for appearances, but a bath would have been nice before being dragged here.

The closed door before them is at least a story tall, built from marble and embossed pewter and blends in perfectly with the surrounding monument; Lyric had only glimpsed a fraction of its towering exterior very briefly during their escort through its halls, surrounded for miles by empty, blue ocean. Pale dawn light filters through arched windowpanes and throws glares in their eyes as the doors open with a weighted clack and scrape, their heft parting sluggishly to bare the amphitheater of the Twilight Assembly to them. It is constructed from the same white stone and metal decor as its doors are, but in place of true walls and a roof are many towering, fluted columns holding aloft a dome with an open skylight in the center. Though the sun has not yet risen enough to bring about the full effect, Lyric follows the imaginary line from the hole down to the tiled floor that is inlaid with chips of lapis lazuli in the shapes of constellations. A star chart, surrounded by an outer ring which shows the phases of the moon, the blank spot for a new moon furthest from the door. They feel the great rumble and scrape of the doors closing slowly behind them vibrating painfully through their feet.

The half-circle interior of rising seats is filled with representatives Lyric has only heard of in myths, clustered in groups of their peers. Faeries dressed in the colors of their seasons, at least one for each court; Seraphim and Cherubim with their many wings folded tightly to their backs; Devas and Yashkas adorned in gold and colored silks seated beside a sharp-eyed man dressed in red robes, his hair cascading into patterns of feathers like a golden pheasant—the Vermillion Bird. From divine beasts to homely fae, all who represent their kind seem to have come to the spectacle, right down to the first half ring of seating closest to Lyric.

"The audacity of you to refuse my call and to injure my escorts is unprecedented." Ao Guang speaks in the quiet, the echo of his voice ringing with the authority of one who has always been listened to by his lessers. He raises one pale eyebrow as he stares down at them from his raised position in the stands, "You bit them?"

"You expected me not to?" Lyric replies, bending their arms at the elbows to rest their restraints only to be pulled straight again. "Do you usually expect people you kidnap to go without a fight?"

The elder dragon straightens his posture and raises his head to look down his nose at them; his presence gives weight to what they already suspected, eyes creeping from one first-row occupant to the next, all of them bearing a variety of colored and textured scales—they were in the presence of the Dragon Archons, a position they thought had grown obsolete in the modern age. It made sense if they thought about it: the suffocating aura each of them possessed, the pervasive feeling of being stared down by an apex predator, how their skin goosebumps and hair stands on end when Lyric raises their eyes to meet Ao Guang's gaze. Their pride as a fellow dragon won't let them back away, but their instinct bids them to sink lower, be more meek. They are in the presence of someone far more powerful than they could ever hope to be.

"I expect you to come when you are called, hatchling."

The diminutive grates on their clenched teeth. He raises a slender hand.

"Release them. They can do nothing here." Ao Guang lowers his hand as Lyric's jaw tightens, their stare narrowing. Where spans of his skin are not protected by his long, layered blue hanfu, Lyric can see azure scales winking in the open air. Even several meters away they can tell the clear color of his eyes, light like blue lace agates. "I assume you are beyond the age where you feel a need to throw tantrums?"

"That depends." they say, hands coming to rub their wrists as the guards each remove one thick metal cuff with a key and back away towards the closed doors, "Am I going to have a reason to throw one?"

Again he glares down at them, displeased with their flagrant pushback against his questions as titters arise behind him. Lyric watches a muscle in his jaw bulge outward before relaxing as he produces a fan of yellow and green feathers from his sleeve and hides his mouth behind it, now interested in the decorum of keeping his composure. Lyric’s free arms fall to their sides, sore from bindings while their fingers tapping anxiously against their legs as they try to keep their facial expression in check; no sneering teeth or curled lips or outward anger. There is a clearing of someone’s throat.

“You have not been summoned before us without reason. A matter of grave importance requires both our attention and yours—I assume you know what the title of Dragon Archon means?” Ao Guang gives space for their answer, but Lyric fumbles to find one. They knew of the Archons in the same way people might know of a popular urban myth, but they knew nothing of detail or how they came to be. The Dragon King of the East Sea had not become such because he was an Archon, and likewise an Archon would not be crowned a king solely based upon the former title, but that was where their knowledge ended.

Their eye contact falters and drops to the floor. Before the azure dragon can continue, he is interrupted by a sharp guffaw to his right, which was Lyric’s left, and both of their heads turn to see a large, dark scaled man in layers of wool coats leaning his weight forward onto one elbow against the wall of the seating area. He stares down Lyric with six yellow eyes crowding out his face and sharp incisors that flash when he grins.

”You can’t be serious. Look at them! No more than a babe as it is!” He gestures to them with a calloused palm that ends in thick nails like hooked claws, his boisterous voice only worsened by how his Slavic accent smears some consonants into each other. It must be the Black Dragon Archon, if his scales were anything to go by. “They could not fight for their life! How would they defend such a title!”

His tone is uninhibited by Lyric’s souring expression or the side-eye he receives from Ao Guang, who Lyric assumes has been the de facto head of all dragons for some time. Why else would he be so irritated? Lyric takes a moment to account the many dragons in the front row one by one with a careful eye, all of different silhouettes and impressions, no two outfits similar; three dragons to the left of the circle and one to the right—in the middle is Ao Guang, who they would have to be blind to think is anyone but the long-reigning Blue Dragon Archon. They knew dragons and their shapes extended the world over, but that individuality was easily missed if you never left the region you worked in.

“That isn't your choice, Chernobog," the green dragon speaks in a voice that is even but not soft, keeps his hands in his lap out of sight in a manner that makes Lyric suspicious and does not seem to regard them at all despite standing in front of him. He is wrapped in a checkered gho with folded back cuffs up to his elbows, scales so thick they can scarcely see his skin beneath and whose horns are wobbled and long like willow branches. "Or your place to speak."

"This isn't a school. We don't need to raise our hands and take turns." Chernobog rumbles, wearing a heavy wool coat over ruby-dyed, embroidered linen, whose pattern they could not clearly see at this angle or distance. He jabs a clawed finger in Lyrics direction, two of his eyes squinting. "You. Have you ever fought for a title in your life? Can you even control that magic in you?"

"I…" their tongue feels heavy as a hand clasps over one wrist and their thumb pushes against the joint as a sickening wave of anxiety rises up over them. Could they see it? Could they all see it? They were fine right now, but if their emotions escalated—if they got even the slightest bit too upset it would tear through them and their surroundings like tissue paper. Their skin was already covered in the pink scars of one-too-many ice spikes speared through, how could they hold their own in any kind of combat that didn't end up with their body run through like a pincushion with only themselves to blame? They had barely lived through their nigh-explosive outburst at the guild tourney and still lost their match. Who were they to be standing here before dragons of myth and curling their lips at being called weak "I’m trying.”

“Does it matter if they’re strong or not?” Gold, with two sets of curving horns decorated in rings that matched those on his fingers, dressed in a loose draped sleeve and fitted vest, leaned against his palm with his elbow on his knee. His accent is the only one they recognize, like their grandparents on their mother’s side from Lamia, and they are reminded of both legend and name in quick succession: Cadmus, prince of Phoenicia, dragon slayer turned serpent for slaying the Ismenian Dragon sacred to Ares. How old did that make him? 3,000 years? 4,000? How old were the rest of them? How vast the gap of power and age, and yet still having brought them here for a purpose they barely knew. “Not a single other white-scale has come to claim their seat in all this time. They may as well succeed it; they’re the only child Zargincerinth ever claimed, as damning a fate as that is.”

“An Archon has never passed down their position! It has always been fought for! That bastard dragged the dead body of the White before him into the assembly hall before he got his seat!” Chernobog brings a heavy fist down against the stone that cracks the wall on impact, quiet surprise rippling through the rest of the hall. There are many more eyes on them than just those of dragons, some delightedly watching the squabble over a single, human-born child, some sneering that they are even allowed to be here. “An insult to the legacy of the Assembly! It’d be foolish to even suggest it!”

“This is not a matter of strength, Chernobog. Don’t be so single-minded.” Further down the semi-circle to their right sits a dark skinned woman with brilliant red scales, hair braided tightly to her head in rows and decorated with beads. Her clothes are vibrant patterns of greens, golds, blues and whites, embellished with beads and braided threads; they start from her neck and extend outward like a large necklace, but sit separate from a skirt and belt in the same style. She rests her chin on her interlaced fingers and contemplates the little one before her. Of all the looks they have received, only the Red Dragon’s has been anything close to kind, but when they look up to meet her stare they find only pyrope depths with no answers for them. “This is about the Beasts’ Seal.”

Another ripple of murmuring runs through the amphitheater. The seal… they whisper. Oh yes, the seal! The summer court exclaims. Is this it? Will they finally undo it? Lyric feels a cold sweat breaking out on the back of their neck, left wringing their own wrists in the center of gossiping. It will be quite the ruckus. We’ll all have to prepare.

“Thákane is right. This is not because we feel you should suddenly rise to take this seat,” Ao Guang addresses them directly now, having lowered his open fan now that his irritation has ebbed, “It is because it is only the White Dragon Archon who can release the Leviathan and Behemoth from their slumber.”

“I don’t know anything about a seal.” Lyric professes, their voice subdued. They barely speak and yet it seems to echo in the domed space against their will; goosebumps run up their arms. “I don’t—I’m not special. If there’s someone you’re looking for it isn’t me.”

“It is.” the green dragon speaks, his arms crossed tight over his chest, “You reek of that same magic. If that is not enough, you look just the same as your predecessor from more than a millenia ago.” A pause. His pinning stare softens. “—you struggle as they did, too. The magic of a primordial dragon is too much for a human body to bear.”

Lyric looks down at their calloused hands where scar tissue has given way to rising clusters of scales and curls their fingers into their palms. Their nails are sharper than they remember, longer and faintly curved, they nick themselves sometimes when they scratch as the soft skin of their cheeks. Their teeth, too, felt as though they did not fit properly in their mouth anymore; really, nothing had felt right since the tourney. Every irritable inch of them ached, their skin seemed to split open new wounds all the time, some days it felt as though their bones were going to grow right out of their skin and they could do nothing to stop it. Was that why? Some old dragon’s blood they never asked for; some pact they never agreed to? And what did that speak of them? What did they exist for? (to go to war in someone else’s stead. to become an enemy of themselves.)

“Druk is right. The timeliness of this matter is imperative to both you and the Assembly; you must assume responsibility for the White Dragon Archon’s title, and for the unsealing of the beasts.” Ao Guang says. Lyric’s shoulders raise as their body hunches just enough to tuck their arms protectively around their ribcage, a frown deeply creasing their face.

“What happens when they’re unsealed?”

“Order.” Cadmus says, bearing a bored expression, “The natural randomness of the world returns; floods, droughts, rising winds, the expanding of forests. How things should be.”

Lyric’s mouth curls up at the edges, their teeth showing in their grimace as they feel a low-burning anger in them. “That’s not order, that’s chaos! You’re describing natural disasters! People will die!”

“Humans will die.” a kijin interjects from the back of the auditorium, its massive size barely fitting over several rows of seats as it uses its sword as an armrest, “That is no great loss. Humans die alllll the time”

“You only fear this because you are young.” Chernobog says, an elbow on his knee as the other gestures towards them. He seems to be the type to talk with his hands. “Your life will extend long past theirs. You must think of what is best for the future of the world, not the present.”

“But that doesn’t mean you can just let people get hurt! And there are more than just humans at stake—what about all the species and lives that exist codependently? What about the cities, or crops, or the colonies that will be harmed?” They can see their breath unfurling when they speak and feel the cold creeping over their hands, leaving a fine layer of frost on the skin as their emotions rise, “What about my friends?”

“Do you really have time to be worrying about such trivial matters as that?” Ao Guang’s stare drifts downwards towards their hidden hands, “If you do nothing, this problem will continue to fester.”

“The “normality” of your world is little better than an illusion.” Druk says in his perfectly even tone, “What is normal for the spider is chaos for the fly.”

“They’re not flies.” Lyric hisses. Beneath their eyes they can feel the pinpricks of accumulating ice, little snowflakes overlapping on their skin. “They’re alive, like me. Like you.”

Ao Guang sighs, lifting his fan to hide his irritation behind feathers again. “How disobedient children are these days…I wish I could say you weren’t always like this, but your type is so incorrigible as it is…”

“---I’m not a kid, you know.” It seems petty to pick at now, but they have little other ground to stand on. They’re clawing for any kind of leverage to raise their pride on and be listened to. “I’m 19.”

And he scoffs. A hard huff that cuts off a laugh at their incredulity, his eyes hardening until the scrutiny of his look makes them feel like an insect, held in place by pushpins on a corkboard. He wears a humanoid facade now, but they’re sure in his true form he could swallow them whole in one bite.

“You will take your place as the White Dragon Archon, and Zarcingerinth’s successor. We will manage your condition and prepare you to release the seal properly, so that the natural order may be restored.”

Lyric, despite how their palms tremble, stares back. “And if I refuse?”

The Blue Dragon Archon snaps his fan shut in a snap motion. When he opens his mouth, they can see the long fangs of an apex predator.

“Then your magic will overwhelm you, and you will die.”

[kirstenonic05]

WAIT YOU HAVE A MER JOSEPH AU LOL

Have you written any of it yet?

Yeah! I have! I'll put what I have so far under the cut, but beware! It's unedited and terribly put together! And I also don't know much about lifeguards and am using google so bear with me! (The ~ means I skipped and haven't finished writing that section, I'll finish writing this someday! Maybe! Hopefully...)

It was a normal day for Caesar. A chill one, at that. Since it was winter, there were not many families out on the beach during Caesar's lifeguard shift. Suzi was next to him, keeping a look out on the waves. Seagulls cawed in the sky, their normal bickering as they swept up seafood with their bills.

In all honesty, Caesar could fall asleep right there. It wasn't like there was anyone at the beach.

The caws of the gulls suddenly turned into violent screeches. It was then followed by the shouts of angry men, approaching from far away. That was enough to get Caesar to jump off of the pole he was leaning on. He turned to Suzi, who turned to him. That wasn't good.

Hastily, the duo dashed down towards the water's edge. There, they saw the shapes of boats on the horizon. Huge, menacing shapes, like sharks across the sea.

And they were chasing something. Something with a tail, a shining, green tail. Possibly of a huge fish, or even dolphin. A rare one, at that. It wasn't everybody you saw a green tail of dolphin size.

"Poachers," Caesar stated coldly. They had to be. This wasn't the first time they chased a whale all the way to shore.

"After them!" Suzi shouted, running on ahead. Caesar nodded, following close behind.

The shouting from the poachers turned to screams of warning. Caesar braced himself. "Go away! My friend's already on the phone with the police, so you better run!"

Caesar would love to engage in combat, an attempt to finally get those poachers in jail once and for all, but they had a sea creature to look after. A beached whale only had minutes to live.

Suzi, having held her paddle board all the way to the beach, raised it above her head, ready to throw it.

Whether the threats of being caught by the police or Suzi's paddleboard scared the poachers off, Caesar didn't know. What he did know was that the poachers, after a minute of stalling, gave up. Hopefully they were unable to catch whatever they were going for.

"Good riddance," Caesar said, before turning to the last place he saw that green tail. "Now we have to see whatever they were hunting."

"I'll get the stretcher!" Suzi saluted. Caesar didn't even get a chance to respond before she ran off towards the land.

Instead, he followed the coast, weaving between the rocks he knew so well. Soon, a type of whining could be heard, along with small squeaks. One that sounded like a dolphin out of water, except... different. Deeper, but only slightly. Too slow to be a dolphins. More like whines than squeaks.

Finally, something came into view. From behind a rock Caesar could see that brilliant, green tail. Well, it was no wonder the poachers were after this creature.

Carefully, Caesar stepped around the rock. His eyes followed the tail upwards. Wait, that was...

The tail continued up before speckling into tan skin. Human skin. With two, muscly arms. And a further look at its head revealed brown, spiky hair. That was no fish.

That was a mermaid.

Caesar took a second to process this information. Mermaids didn't exist, right?! Yet, what was this in front of him?!

Not knowing what to say, Caesar approached carefully. "Are you ok?"

The mermaid turned to him. Its eyes were a mix between green and blue, shimmering like a paua shell.

The mermaid gasped, before its whines shifted into aggressive growls. It scraped at the sand around it with its hands before thrashing its tail wildly. It was distressed, Caesar realised.

Caesar spread his hands out and crouched in an attempt to make himself less threatening. "Calm down! We're here to help you."

Despite the peaceful notions, the mermaid simply stared at him with wide, almost fearful eyes. It looked as if it was trying to swim away, just that it was on land. Its glistening eyes started to grow frustrated.

Carefully, Caesar crept closer to the mythical beast. However, the moment he took a step forward, the mermaid seemed to hiss at him. Maybe that wasn't the best idea.

To his luck, Suzi came running down from the rocks. "I got the stretcher-!"

Her voice cut out. Caesar looked up, only to catch her ocean blue eyes wide as they watched the mermaid.

"Suzi-"

"THE POOR THING!" She exclaimed, hurrying down the rocks.

~

From that day on, Caesar always had the feeling he was being watched. Gazes out to the sea were met with spiky brown hair and seafoam green eyes. In a second they would disappear in a splash of white foam.

Caesar always kept an eye out for these encounters. And it turned out Suzi did, too. Whenever she saw hints of the mermaid, or merman, as Suzi, she would instantly report back to Caesar. He found it odd that it was just the one merman (Wait, what if he was the only one of his kind?), who showed up everyday without fail.

Caesar looked out towards the sea again. His shift was almost over, as the sun started to sink under the horizon. Since Summer was ending in a few days, less and less visitors went to the beach. Caesar felt a cold chill rush past his body. Well, at least it meant less people to watch.

"Hey! Over here!"

An unknown, male voice. Caesar whipped his head towards the sound. That was coming from the water! Without even waiting for Suzi, he bolted towards the seaside. Without pause he hefted up his throw bag and rescue tube from the side of his station. He kicked up sand as he went, and as soon as he reached the water he flung his jandals across the shore.

"Woah, wait, chill!"

Right as he was about to jump into the water, Caesar stilled. The voice didn't sound panicked or anything. Just... calm. Ok, he could hear a brashness, but otherwise, calm.

Upon putting the rescue tube and throwbag down, Caesar took a good look at who was in the water. Aquamarine eyes and brown hair...

"Hey, heeeey, you good?" They, well, he, spoke. A tail of emerald green flicked out from the water.

Caesar's mouth hung agape. "You're... the merman. From the other day."

"The one and only!" A huge smile was on his face, a contrast to the frustrated look Caesar saw on his face the first time they met. He looked... quite human, actually. "The name's Joseph Joestar, by the way! But you can call me JoJo!"

"You can talk?"

"Rude! Of course I can!" Joseph laughed, a colourful laugh, one that was sounded so human that Caesar almost forgot he was talking to a brunette with a fishtail for legs. "And, I, got a mage in my village to place a spell on me, but! I understood you before that too!"

Looking back on their first meeting, there wasn't much indication of the merman understanding. "Did you really?"

"Ok, maybe I didn't understand you then either- hey, you haven't told me your name!"

Oh, right. Caesar had been quite rude. "I apologise. Let me start again. My name is Caesar. It's nice to meet you, JoJo."

[silentanomaly]

When you dress up in a purely original costume, despite it not being Halloween (that day did not pan out all that well), and you ask your friends (now roommates) if you could borrow them for 1 minute to take a picture because your costume requires the use of both hands, and you don't want to spook the resident dog (named Bandit, while you're ironically serving up Bandit harder than he). But, they keep insisting you take the mask off to not spook the dog which was defeating the purpose of said request and dismissing the reasoning behind borrowing them (meaning stepping into another room)...all because they're too brain rotted from watching The Boys and Invincible, I swear. That's what they're doing right now. They just started Invincible. More media about assholes in costumes doing catastrophic things 'cause drama, and they couldn't be bothered to pay attention to their friend in a costume doing no harm for a minute. Couldn't be bothered to pause it. Couldn't be bothered to turn it down. Couldn't be bothered to listen 'cause I swear it's *like* they didn't hear me (even though they did), and I just said "ah, fuck it, never mind" and hobbled back upstairs to my room. Positive I heard one ask "what was that about?" as I ascended away from the dumbfuckery, like some silly fucking one-liner sitcom, lmao. Hate to sound pretentious. But, damn, I get let down on even the smallest things, and yet those things, be they small, actually mean something to me.

Mutuals, I am a hedge wizard of the far future, beyond the apocalypse, who, other than knowing skills related to healing and poultices, has also acquired the power of gun. My outfit is slightly androgynous. But, that's because gender conformity/non-conformity should be fucking irrelevant at that point, and you just wear what you find and what works. Wizards be pretty flashy with the fashy(ion) anyway.

Rough description:

- Neutral patchwork Indian poncho/scarf garb (I genuinely forget what it was called, only heard it once when I met a man from India who informed me of my apparel's origins, but, it's kept me warm, as was it's purpose for the immigrant students coming to Canada and I am forever grateful for the information) adorned with pins from travels (my travels have been limited but they mean a lot to me)

- said "poncho" layered over top of baggish longsleeved branch laden garb speckled with rhine stones that draped down to my knees and poofy collar with eccentric pointless zipper stitched in (copper pellet USP in one of two side pockets) popping out from underneath "poncho"

- black vertical contour Zara catsuit from neck to wrist to ankle featuring silver ring zipper from sternum to neck as base layer beneath baggish garb

- on head was black elastic headband pushing back my beyond shoulder length brown hair coming out beneath a bronze cat eared mask from mid-cranium/frontal cortex to cheekbones/upper nose bridge wrapped in barbed wire

- lime green paisley bandana as nose and mouth covering, obscuring neck where catsuit zipper would otherwise be visible

- black fingerless mitts pulled over ends of patterned sleeves from baggish branch laden garb

- brown leather braided belt fastened around waist pulling "poncho" together around baggish garb to better frame the torso like a tabbard over a tunic/gambeson

- red and blue velvet pouches one containing aventurine (a gift from my best friend) the other a Blarney stone (a gift brought back from Ireland from my best friend's sister who is also my friend) both bringing good luck and fortune for an adventurous spirit fixed to belt off to my left side

- slightly used tomahawk (not bloodied, it's okay, no violence) tucked behind same belt off to my right side

- brown leather Fergie knee high boots (zippers on each side of each boot, single strap and buckle on each down near the ankle) upper cuff flaring upwards at front and dipped down at back (originally used for Overwatch Mercy costume, too many men told me I was a trap and reluctantly attempted to flirt with me, it was hysterical, I am straight, I just like to wear cool stuff, doesn't help that I have a good frame either, toot toot my horn I will)

- did I mention the not-a-real-but-real-looking-gun (but real for the sake of the setting this could derive from) that would be a fun surprise for would-be underestimaters seeking to take advantage of what might be an unassuming healer of sorts?

- and to tie the wizard aesthetic together I have a shoulder high staff that's been in my family for a while now shaped like a monkey foot (not literally, but, we call it that, good for stamping unwanted bugs) that I would hold in my left hand while g.u.n. (gross underestimer neutralizer, still working on the name) or u.s.p. (unseen sneaky pistol, lines up with acronym, try harder guy) would be in my right hand (staff planted in ground, staff arm supporting gun hand for maybe seemingly weary but dangerous gunslinger, it's for character, yo)

I wanted to explain it all to them. Not literally all of the aforementioned details though because they'd just get to see it and there would be a degree of it speaking for itself, also they can barely pay attention longer than a minute. I wanted to show them all the bits of my costume, the same way they did with their costumes around Halloween. I was so enthused and ecstatic to see and hear about them. One was Gandalf, the other Gollum, both terrific DIY. I assisted with Gandalf through providing monkey foot staff, literal Glamdring replica I bought a while back when Green Earth closed at the mall, and a green glass wizard pipe I got from a friend at a secret Santa (fuck, that could also be part of my hedge wizard costume, kept in my other pocket). I wanted to share my late/latest costume with them, and tell them about the sentimental parts of my costume that played roles in holding it all together, shit that's slightly personal to me, lol. I wanted to have just one picture, like how they got pictures in their costumes from a bunch of people they saw at a party consisting of my friends of which I wasn't invited to. The absolute tone deafness of it all.

This shit feels a bit like a lackluster Tim Robinson skit right here, especially with the way I'm responding to this. I've been having a pretty hard time of late, and everywhere I go the people who matter to me just hurt through and through (dramatic, but, my life really is one jab to the heart after the next and the next and the next, not much respite between them most the time, at least not enough for me to not only heal but also get somewhere in life). I came home to heal from recent events, and they really couldn't indulge me for a moment. Still luv 'em tho.

Shit. I created art. Just wanted it to get out there somehow. Most fun I had creating something in a while, and I mean..I normally just have fun playing video games or whatever. Creating ideas and concepts and then flexecuting them feels way better. I didn't mean to type "flexecuting," but, I'm keeping that there. It means showing off your well thought out aesthetic. Flexecution, if you will. Anyone who says this better give credit or else eat copper..'cause I'll get you with my uspinger, ya dinger.

Why do I have friends and feel like the pure raw stuff I attempt to dish out to them is for whatever reason rank to everyone? It's hard to notice people caring if and when they do. Do people care about me, or do they just say they do? What do people like about me other than that I am nice and helpful and make them feel good? This line of questioning angers me.

Again, I've been having a hard time of late. Sorry for the existential dread over not being acknowledged in a costume. It's like childhood when your parents basically tell you to fuck off after you sought acknowledgement for something you felt proud of like a picture you might hope would go on the fridge or something.

HoW tRaGiC

[unbelievable-ecological-articles]

VARIOUS BUTTERFLIES

In an earlier post I wrote about the European peacock butterfly, and mentioned that butterflies were one of my favourite animal groups. I’m always on the lookout for sightings of rare species, but unfortunately I never have time to spend looking. However, just walking through campus and around the lake at the right time of year its not uncommon to see several species including orange-tips, brimstones, meadow browns, speckled woods, red admirals, peacocks, and large whites. What is much harder to do is take a good enough picture to include in a blog post! However here is one of a female speckled wood (Pararge aegeria) that I saw in the summer of 2022 down by the lake:

And here is a very useful chart of the lifecycle of the speckled wood, from https://butterfly-conservation.org/butterflies/speckled-wood. This website is a great resource for reliable knowledge on British butterflies and moths, as well as ways to help they conservation!:

Unlike some species of butterflies, such as the common blue, male and female specked woods look very similar. One easy way to differentiate is how much hair is growing on the wings; female  tend to be much more hairy than males. Like the peacock butterfly, both sexes have eyespots on their wings as a form of defence. Their name is also an allusion to the camouflage of the wings, which mimics the dark and light browns of bark and dead leaves. They are also a great example that not all butterflies have bright colours and all moths have drab brown colours. In fact, one of my favourite British moths, the elephant hawk-moth (Deilephila elpenor), is known for the tropical contrast of pink and green that colour its wings, body and even antennae! Unfortunately this is the only elephant hawk moth I have ever seen, spotted a couple weeks ago just outside UEA:

Its not a beautiful pink green adult, but even in the larval phase its still a very distinctive species. When it is fully grown like this one the huge size of the caterpillar, compared to other species, has been compared to the trunk of an elephant, which gives this moth the first word of its name. At this stage its colour is much more instructed by camouflaging into the surrounding, rather than the flashy colours of the adult which can be used for other types of signalling such as advertising themselves to potential mates. It also had the eyespots that some Lepidoptera have as an adult. These have a very useful purpose when being threatened by a predator as, combined with the large size of the caterpillar, allows it to mimic a snake by puffing up the anterior part of its body. 

I was tempted to pick up and move the caterpillar, for fear it would be stepped on as it was on the pavement, but instead I opted to wait beside it until it had reached the grass so as not to harm it. Usually its best not to try and pick caterpillars up as their bodies can be quite fragile and sensitive, but if they was in the road I would have found a stick and tried my best to coax them on before transporting them to the nearest suitable area.

Lastly, I know I’ve spoken before about the European peacock butterfly, but here is a much better photo I managed to snap!:

[spiderslvts]

something about hearing the creature utter the words  I  DON’T  KNOW   shakes her to her core. a silent admittance - almost a CONFESSION  OF  SIN.  I  DON’T  KNOW  implied that the lives that were taken were not enough to satiate whatever bloodlust burned under alastor’s skin.  THERE  WOULD’VE  BEEN  MORE.  had a bullet not put and end to his reign, it would have  continued.  she would have eventually found  out  had he lived any longer, and the idea of such things made her feel sick enough to clench her jaw in front of the creature, cupping her blackened hand to her chest.

(  YOU  WOULD’VE  FOUND OUT.  you’d live in blissful ignorance until the day the sherrif came knocking at your door to tell you otherwise. you’d hear the number of his victims and you would feel your legs give out in the same horrible way they did finding out he was dead. and perhaps it would be worse. perhaps you’d feel it when they led you to the courthouse to say goodbye. perhaps he would look at you before they led him to the chair.  WHAT THEN ?   )

his second question forced her head up. the palid - blue feathers in her wings ruffled. her face isn’t readable. who  else  would  have  done  it  .  .  .  ?   she could nearly taste the unholy bitterness of each word spoken. slowly, and with her hand still cupped to her chest, abigail rose.

❝    who  else  ?     ❞       she asks back. she had not raised her voice in decades.        ❝   alastor adriuex  -  it wasn’t your job  !  i -    ❞

(  you’re too far gone.  abigail’s shaking voice dies from a furied wrath to a bitter, desperate cry.  wasn’t it her mother who had once told her that the anger of a woman scorned is biblical in its nature  ?  how wretchedly ironic ⸺   )

❝   i  would  have  never  come  here  if not for the purpose of seeing my son, do you know that  ?    ❞   the angel’s wings fluttered in a heap behind her. she’s looking right through him.       ❝   that night i found out about what happened to you, i swore on my own life that i’d find you again. if heaven and hell might exist, i’d find my way back to you. even if it meant walking through FIRE to do so - i just needed to see your face again.    ❞

she is pleading. she is begging. deep eyes are speckled with tears.

❝   this  face  is  not  yours,  alastor.    that  … smile is not yours. you’ve become something so  hateful  -  it’s all i see,  that  …  HORRIBLE LOOK IN YOUR EYES.   ❞           (    she remembers brown eyes and deep - umber curls and a smile  -   YOU’RE  NEVER  FULLY  DRESSED  WITHOUT  ONE,  DARLING.   )        ❝    that  hatred  is  claude’s.  that  anger.  and it  …  cannot be hidden so easliy under a SMILE.    ❞

she is standing over him.  HE  IS  KNEELING  /   AND  SHE  ,  THE  GOD  HE  BEGS  FORGIVENESS  TO.  her eyes gleam gold and it is something DIVINE.

❝   listen  to  me,  alastor.    ❞    she yearns to reach for him but doesn’t dare move.     ❝   that hated will tear you apart the same way it did him.     ❞

her words are cut by the sound of frantic footsteps, and such a sound is enough for her to grab her mask and take flight out of the radio tower again, wings extending into the inferno sky. the exterminator angels fly into a flock of birds, LEAVING   CARNAGE  IN  THEIR   DIVINE  WAKE.  and only then did a familiar, white - furred sinner find his way into the radio tower to witness abigail leave. angel dust, his breathing heavy, turned his shoulder to witness the  WICKED  FALL  of a god ; the  CRUMBLING  of the radio demon himself, and he swears he’s swallowed his own guilt. 

❝   shit,   ALASTOR  -    ❞    angel stumbled forward when he saw alastor’s hands, sticky and stained with blood.

nothing he could say - even if he tried - could justify the countless slaughters he'd done in his time alive , and he knew that . alastor's words meant nothing against the truth he was forced to face at this moment . it was almost as if the angel in front of him was the judge of a puissant celestial council , and he was the convicted sinner , waiting for his second eternal punishment .

" I . . . don't know . " and it's true . his answer is full of honesty . the demon sincerely does not know how many people would have satisfied that pure , hot rage caused by years of torment . perhaps it wasn't only because of claude's actions towards him and his mother , but some kind of congenital trait that was passed down to him . was he born to become the monster he is now ? was he meant to become a clone of the one person he feared for more than half his life?

his head tilts down , not wanting to look at her anymore . he was too ashamed , too disheartened . he realized that it would take a miracle to fix everything , but then again , he doesn't think anything righteous would want to step closer to him . the fact confirms itself when his mother flinches away , shielding herself with soft blue wings with a strange expression on her face . sadness ? disgust ? shame for even bearing a son of his nature ?

" who else would have done it ? " alastor's usually confident voice cracks , symbolizing the wall he's built for himself - the wall to keep all emotions contained - has started to leak . it only takes time for something to degrade , turn into a decrepit thing that can easily crumble and fall . a century is more than enough time for that to happen .

[scribble-dribble-writes]

Stuck with you

---

I wrote this and it has become an instant favorite of mine 😩

Pairing: Obi wan x reader

Contents: Forbidden romance but you’re hiding away from droids in a hidden compartment with Obi wan, who’s secretly pining away.

Warnings: none

Word Count: 600

---

You shove him into a hidden closet, through the slits in the metal door, you could see the droids that walked past. You breath a sigh of relief but it was here that you were more exposed to danger. You heard the sound of his soft breathing and you turn to look at him to notice the gradient in his hair. The brown that turned gold in the ends, completely mesmerized you lean closer and feel his breath skimming over the skin of your lips. This had caught his attention and you could sense his blue eyes slide over to fixate on your features. Unknowingly, he had his arm around your waist in a manner in which that made you feel safe, that even though you were stuck on a separatist ship, your world was only you and him.

His eyes could only see you. Always. Now, in this proximity, his mind was begging him to do one thing. The brown of your eyes looked dark with speckled pieces of gold while wisps of hair spread out around your face. The faint light from the outside highlighted the rise and fall of your cheek. The sweet smell of your shampoo and the fragrance of cocoa bean butter on your skin was intoxicating, pulling him in, making him want the one thing. No. He tried to stop but he was so close and when you whispered his name like you knew what you wanted, only wanted him to lean in all the way.

You slipped both your hands behind his neck and felt his muscles tighten. He whispered your name, like it was an error message that displayed in his mind that was about to make him malfunction. But you let your body fall against his as your hands make their way to the sides of his face. His fingers dig into your robe, “We shouldn’t.”, he said softly. You touch the tip of his nose with yours.

“It’s just that now is – well he would deal with repercussions later but right now, there was no time like the present. His gaze fell to your lips and his want crawled open from within soul. He leaned in and caught your lips with his. The urgency was mixed with a passion that hiding from droids seemed to amplify. It was the feeling, of having you in his arms and no prying eyes. He feels your smile as he kissed the edge of your mouth, “Liar.”, you call him out and he pushed you back onto the opposite side of the compartment. It wasn’t fair that you saw through him clearly.

You see the depth of the sea in his eyes as he softly shifted the hold of your neck, tilting you to kiss the underside of your jaw. “I thought you weren’t interested in sneaking around.”, you tell him and he kissed your cheek, turning your face he kissed the other side. “Clearly I’m failing at keeping my own word.”, he spoke and you felt his grin on your lips. “Then fail more often.”, you tell him and he grunted like that was exactly what he had planned on doing.

“I love that you read my mind.”, he whispered and found your lips again.

[rotworld]

The Whole World Stopping, Just For You

you meet a werewolf at a craft fair. a distant prologue to goretober day 3: "ountumbered."

->contains feral and vaguely sinister behavior.

.

.

.

The box is what grabs your attention. It glints, catches the sun just right, as you’re walking by.

The vendor stands stiff and straight-backed in the shade of his tent and there are dozens of beautiful pieces all around him—rustic end tables, decorative hanging shelves, a table full of adorable, handmade birdhouses with more craftsmanship and creativity than most suburbs—but your eyes are on the box. The wood is unpainted, a warm, reddish-brown with an antique clasp, but the most remarkable part is the lid. You mistake it for a slice of geode at first because it has the same luster, brilliant blues and ingidos with a glassy shine. A speckled arch of silver makes you think of clouds or mountains against the night sky.

By now, most vendors would have started chatting you up, but this one’s completely silent. He hasn’t moved at all since you walked over or made a single sound. His hair is short but wild with his bangs hanging in his face, his eyes a striking shade caught between green and amber. He’s wearing a tank top that shows off thick, defined biceps and jagged lines of scar tissue. You have to break eye contact because his stare is just a little too intense and your gaze meanders just slightly past him, a banner stretched along the back of the stall bearing the words “Shelter Mountain Pack.” 

A small sound of surprise slips out before you can stop it, something not quite a word. You’ve only met city wolves before, never a wild one. Rumors paint a dramatic picture of feral marauders who run through the woods naked with leaves and twigs stuck in their hair, but you always figured people who said that were full of shit. He looks like anybody else save the yellowed hazel of his eyes, but his complete silence and stillness unnerves you more now that you recognize it for what it is—a predatory animal spotting something of interest and watching, waiting, with bated breath.

“This is beautiful,” you tell him, your hand still on the box. You’ve been stroking the lid absently, your thumb rubbing over curves of silver. 

He grunts. The sound is deep, feral and sends a shiver down your spine. You must be giving off some sign that you’re wary—could be your heartbeat, your posture, even your scent—because he covers it by clearing his throat. “That’s cherry wood,” he says. “Got that color with a coat of shellac. Lid inlay’s epoxy resin. Don’t usually work with pigments or paint, but I thought I’d try something new.” 

You drift further into the tent and he turns, following you with his eyes, as you admire meticulously carved animal figurines, sturdy planters, and even more ornate boxes with intricate patterns carved into their lids and sides. You pick one up for a closer look, smoothing your fingers across patterned carvings, the leaves of a tree rendered in precise detail. “Everything in here is incredible. You make all of these yourself?” you ask. 

You hear a brisk exhale. “It’s all me. Can’t get anyone else in the pack interested in woodworking.” His gaze burns into your back as you set the box down. You pick up another and your fingers brush against a circular indent in the bottom. Flipping it over, you find a stamped signature, a stylized outline of a mountain with the words “LANCE - SHELTER MOUNTAIN” inside. No last name. Is that normal? Do wild wolves not use surnames? You’re curious but you don’t want to be insensitive. Gently, you set the box back down.

There’s a sharp huff, the kind of sound a dog makes. You look back just in time to catch a slight twitch at the corner of his lips, an almost-smile. “Don’t have to be so dainty with my stuff,” he says, jamming his hands in the pockets of his ragged jeans. “You scared of getting your scent on it? It’s not a big deal, seriously. Wouldn’t be here selling to humans if I couldn’t stand the smell.” 

“Oh,” you say, a little embarrassed. Lance doesn’t seem bothered, though. He gets a bit more talkative the longer you poke around his tent, more than happy to tell you about his pieces, how long they took to make, his personal favorites. Everything has a story—a whim one sunny afternoon, a bit of inspiration from a bird he saw. He shows you a paperweight shaped like a napping cat and there’s a craftsman’s warm pride in his eyes as he tells you how he carved it and sanded it down and added just a bit of darkening finish to the ears and tail. He favors nature patterns, you notice, lots of plants and animals depicted in his more decorative work. 

In the end, though, you go back to the box. That starry, winter sky pattern across the top pulls you in again. You cradle it in both hands, your thumb smoothing across the resin. “Do you take card?” you ask him. 

It’s like flipping a switch. All of his casual, carefree body language vanishes and he’s guarded again, frowning tightly. “No,” he says. He follows your gaze down to the card reader sitting on the table in front of him, a white touchpad cradled in a beautiful wooden dock, and lets out a long sigh. “Are you in a hurry?” he asks. “One of my packmates is around here somewhere. He knows how to work that thing.” 

“There’s no rush. But if it’s easier, I can just find an ATM—”

“It’s not a big deal. He’s supposed to be back here anyway,” he insists, fishing a cheap flip phone out of his pocket. You keep browsing while he sends a slow, clumsy text, bending to look at a squat storage cabinet. The door panels are carved with simple but elegant flowing designs, floral Art Nouveau whirls and a thin, leafy border. “Are you local?” Lance asks, leaning casually against the nearest display table. “I don't recognize you.”

That would strike you as an odd comment from anyone else. This isn’t a huge city by any means but it’s not a tiny town either. You can’t fool a wolf’s nose, though. He’d know if you’d been by his stall before. “I’m just passing through,” you say. “Saw a sign for the craft fair and thought it’d be a fun detour. I still have a long drive home ahead of me.” 

“Are you headed east? Through the mountains?” 

“Yeah.” 

He makes a softer grunt, glancing at the sky. “Gonna be dark before long,” he says. “Better not take those roads at night. You could stay with us, if you want, head out fresh at dawn. We’re only an hour or two up the mountain.”

The invitation completely blindsides you. Wild wolves don’t do things like this. They don’t tell you, even vaguely, where their packs live, and they certainly don’t invite you to waltz right in. “I’m not sure your alpha would appreciate that,” you say, laughing nervously. 

Lance grins. His teeth are somewhere between yours and a dog’s with prominent canines and everything just a little too sharp. He leans in across the table and speaks in a low rumble. “Well, seeing as I am the alpha, I don’t think you have to worry about it.”

He’s close enough that you notice his scent for the first time, an earthy musk like grass and rain. You’re frozen in place when he reaches for you, holding your breath, waiting for something you can’t name. His fingers smooth across the back of your hand, nails long and a little sharp. He never breaks eye contact as he takes the box back from you and you see his nostrils flare, his pupils dilating. 

“Blake,” he says, and you jump when someone brushes past you to get into the stall. You catch yourself against the table and realize you were leaning in, shifting closer to him without even realizing it. “Need you to run a card.” 

The new guy is slimmer than Lance and looks much softer in comparison, wearing a cardigan sweater and fully intact jeans. His hair is longer and much neater, held in a low ponytail with his bangs combed out of his face. The color is unusual, black with uneven veins of stark white and gray, reminiscent of the streaks in a gray wolf’s fur. Lance moves aside, finding a different table further into the stall to lean against. He still hasn’t put the box down since he took it back from you, and he’s staring intently at the lid. 

“Sorry for the wait,” Blake says, flashing a practiced customer service smile. “Just the keepsake box, then, or are you still browsing? Lance can be a little standoffish, but I promise he doesn’t mind you looking around.”

“I heard that,” Lance mutters.

“Just the box,” you say. Sticking your card into the reader, you add, “He’s not so bad, actually. He told me all about his work. I don’t know much about carpentry and stuff like that, but I can tell he’s really passionate.” 

There’s a pause, and then Blake says, “Really?” The word doesn’t come out in a mild, smalltalk kind of tone, but with legitimate shock and disbelief. You find him staring in the same intense way Lance did when you first walked up. He turns back to Lance and they look at each other for a moment in silence. 

“I invited them,” Lance says, the words slow and deliberate, “to spend the night with us.” 

Blake turns back to you slowly. You get the feeling that he’s really looking at you for the first time, not as a customer but as something else. His gaze is heavy, weighted with expectation. Soft surprise morphs into realization of some kind. You feel uncomfortable beneath his scrutiny. “I don’t have to,” you assure him. “I don’t want to impose or be in the way, and I’m sure I could find somewhere to stay in town—” The card reader beeps and you reach to take your card back. Blake’s hand catches yours, his fingers closing like a snare.

“You’re more than welcome,” Blake says. His smile is broad and warm and irresistibly charming, his thumb stroking the back of your hand in soft, soothing motions. “More than welcome. It’s no trouble, really. There’s plenty of room. We’d love to have you.” 

“If you’re sure,” you say, a little uneasy. Blake lets go of your hand with a sheepish smile. It doesn’t bother you that much. Wolves, no matter where they live, tend to be touchier than most people. 

“Did you tell the pack?” you hear him ask, his voice lowered.

“Texted Max a little bit before you got here,” Lance murmurs. “Word’s spread by now.” He shoulders past Blake, around the tables and out of the stall. You smile, expecting him to hand you your box. He does. And when you take it, he snags your wrist and drags you into a firm embrace, burying his nose in the crook of your neck. He takes a deep breath and lets out a shuddering exhale, hot breath fanning your throat. You’re startled and a little nervous, staying perfectly still while he noses against your skin on one side and then the other. That’s a scenting thing, right? They do that to each other sometimes. Maybe he’s making sure the pack knows he invited you? That makes sense, you think. 

But then he stops and pulls back far enough for you to see his face, and you’re not so sure anymore. His pupils are blown, his eyes half-lidded. His tongue darts out and you see a brief flash of a prominent canine as he licks his lips. “Well,” he says, squeezing your shoulder, “I’ll grab the truck and you can follow me up. Where’re you parked?” You look from Lance to Blake, bewildered. The fair’s still on for a few more hours. You really don’t want him going out of his way like this. 

Blake seems to pick up on your worry, though, waving you off with a smile. “You’re fine,” he says. “Someone else from the pack will be here later. Lance just wants to make sure you get there in one piece on those awful roads. Easier with some daylight left.” 

You take his word for it, partly because he really does seem excited to have company, and partly because Lance starts walking and you have to rush to catch up with his quick, long-legged stride. The crowd thins as you leave the mazelike aisles of craft vendor tents. You pass into the shadows of a parking garage, wrestling with an odd, uncomfortable feeling. The hair on the back of your neck is standing on end. Something feels wrong. You clutch the box to your chest. The wood is warm where Lance handled it.

“You’re really sure this is okay?” you ask him one last time. “I won’t be offended if you change your mind. I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes, especially if your pack isn’t expecting visitors.” 

“It’s fine. Don’t worry so much.” He sounds a little exasperated but he’s smiling very slightly, his hand resting on your back. “I gave them a heads up so they know you’re coming. And trust me,” he says, his voice dipping into nearly a growl, “they can’t wait to meet you.” 

[fangsanddaggers]

The offering of the wrist, the crackling of the voice, the chill washing over him, luring him in from the man. Eyes shimmered, gold spilling into white only for that familiar red to flutter, a shimmer, a mirage of the past.

Warm fingers touch the back of the offered limb, eyes grazing his skin, trailing a vein before he moves. The world tips, wings bursting wide to reveal two were six. Gold trails along his throat, encircling it as Gale's body finds the discarded materials of a life seemingly long since lost, gathered out of some foreign need to remember, to be close. He's laid down gently, despite the rush of movement, light pulsing from previously unseen runes twisting on skin.

Astarion is perched over him now, leaning close, yet he keeps their bodies apart. There's no ravenous teeth at skin, now claws tearing into flesh, just a hand in brown locks, oddly warm pale skin pressed to olive as their foreheads meet. More gold trails down his wings, gleaming along his temple and sweeping into his hair as if a circlet or a halo.

Lips part, drawing in a long, deep breath. As he does, threads are pulled, tugged at, like a tressym with a wiggling wayward strand on a sweater. Another breath and they're unwoven from their knots, twisted and circling back, retracing their steps. With each breath, wings seemed to pulse, inching down to embrace them, to cradle them close as birds fill the gaps, settling against Gale as if he were a part of the flock now.

Another breath, and the physical weight of this day two years ago lifts. It's not entirely gone, but one might feel they too could breathe with the man above. Wings shudder with the next breath, closed lids fluttering as hunger begins to fade, along with it, the crushing pain of those words, of seeing red looking back, of pain in those eyes, of fear and acceptance.

Breathe in; it eases, the pain, the agony of moments after, of wanting to scream, of actually screaming.

Breathe out; warmth. Warmth fills the new gaps, fills the new empty space with comfort, like a warm blanket wrapped around an aching body, chasing the chills of the frozen wasteland that is grief and guilt.

Breathe in; the moment of the red fading, of seeing nothing, not even threads of clothing remain, just a cracked staff still held upright, an ominous horror that soon, too, shattered before his eyes. It becomes lighter, less a crippling feeling of loss and more a soft pang of regret.

Breathe out; agony turns to sorrow, rage turns to peace. And loss turns to hope. As if the world itself whispers in memories untouched that it's not finished with them yet. That something grand was yet to come.

Forehead break apart, the living spawn-not-spawn shakes as he finds true breath, shattered and ragged, a faint groan as he shakes his head. When eyes open once more, the gold speckled blue shine once more as the marks fade away. There's a slight pain in the eyes, the man almost confused as to what happened, unaware the world seemed lighter, the mangled knot within ribs just a touch smaller.

"You are right." The voice is strained, like one who'd eaten too much, ready to burst as he looks into brown, familiar brown. "You have plenty of blood." Yet he took none of it, having fallen into a trance to feed he knew not how he had done so.

Though he flushes, a sight unseen on him beyond being so full he could barely move, jerking back to his feet he staggers back as the pigeons scuttle about but don't leave.

"Ah, apologies. I seem to have gotten carried away in my hunger. Are you alright? I didn't take too much did I? I didn't hurt you? Come, let me help you." Hands find warm palms, offering aid to the human when he's ready to sit up, ready to stand. "Thank you, but perhaps next time, stop me before I get carried away? I won't be offended." He chuckles, that familiar note of the final days, the warmth, the loss of walls, of boundaries, of guards;

The raw state of Astarion Ancunin.

He didn't mean to startle him, Gale had only meant to understand, to get an answer. If the other did not know he was indeed a vampire spawn before--- The wizard could only watch as the figure in front of him dealt with these questions. Which apparently was dealing quite badly. "Blood." He repeated. "You-- you were a vampire spawn, don't you remember?" His voice is quiet, not wanting to be too loud. Not that he would be saying these things loud but more so for Astarion. This was a lot and he seemed to have gaps in his memory. This was more worrisome than the return to life. Both were bad. To be honest. The remark causes Gale tense at first. They were friends. In their own way. Talking way too much, choosing their beds together in the inn. Their banter. The way he looked at him at the end. Gale wanted nothing more to scream, he remembered. He wanted to tell him to stop but he was frozen in place. He was frozen. He was cold. Astarion was always so cool wasn't he? The lack of blood circuiting his system. "Easy." Gale scolded softly. "Easy. There you are." Gale frowned at the question. Am I a monster? How many times did he think the same? "You do." He said, a frown on his lips. "But you are not a monster. You--- you're my friend." The wizard inhaled. He sent Tara back into the Tower, now that the threat wasn't a threat anymore. But what was more concerning was this. Astarion needed blood. He was weak. Gale pulled up his sleeve, a breath leaving him. "Here." Offering his wrist to the winged vampire spawn, if that's what he was called. "Take some of mine. I have plenty of it." He chuckled nervously. "You'll get sick if you don't."

[reddpenn]

I came here for the My Roomate is an apparition and now Im in love with your rock stuff!! I collect a few rocks, so im happy to see yours!!🖤 please show more under microscope! (sorry if my English is a bit bad)

Your English sounds just fine to me!  Wanna see my collection of opals under a microscope???

This is Queensland precious opal, known for its blue undertones and multicolored flash.  It is perhaps the most traditional of my opals.  Here’s what it looks like under a microscope!

Those soft colors are really lovely.  It looks kind of like an abstract painting or something, doesn’t it?

This one is also from Australia, and it’s my personal favorite opal in my collection!  This is Australian boulder opal!

A microscope is the best way to view this one!  Each one of those tiny, tiny cracks is filled with flashy, brightly colored opal!

This is Mexican cherry opal.  While this particular piece is a pastel pink, cherry opal can come in really vibrant red, too!

Cherry opal is a “potch” or common opal, meaning it doesn’t have any flash, even under a microscope.  Just a nice, consistent pink color!

Also from Mexico, this is a Mexican fire opal, named for its bright red color!  This one does have a little bit of flash, which becomes super clear under a microscope!

The flash in this one is mostly red and green.  I think those greens look really cool against the red matrix!

Actually, I’ve got a whole jar of Mexican fire opals!  I keep these stored in water because they become pretty fragile if they’re allowed to dry out.  Most of these are common opal, but with a microscope I can find some interesting flashes hidden in there!

There’s a cool one!  They’re hard to photograph through the glass.

Here’s my collection of Ethiopian precious opals!  Most of these are pretty translucent, but the opaque white one in the top right is what’s known as “milk opal,” meaning it’s... well, opaque and white!  The flashes in Ethiopian opal tend to be more isolated, and also very bright!  Like little fireworks!

That one in the bottom middle is my favorite.  His name is Spot.

This is another Ethiopian opal, and it has the brightest flash out of all of my opals!  This is Ethiopian chocolate opal, so called because of its chocolatey brown color.

Under a microscope, it has some really interesting patterns!

And also shows off some blue and greens that weren’t visible to the naked eye!

Last of all is a very cool and unique looking type of opal that you’ve probably never heard of before.  This is Honduran matrix opal!  This stone normally looks boring and grey, and those glittery flashes of color only appear when the rock is wet!

Under a microscope, you can see the tiny, tiny flecks of microscopic opal speckled all through this rock!  I think it’s interesting how they grow in bands of different colors.

Anyway, that’s my whole collection of opals, in macro and micro!  I hope you enjoyed looking at them!