#how many skin metaphors can I make in one hour

[ye-olde-trojan-horse]

if someone said “you’re doing so good” you would unzip your skin and run away

- @berrylou 2k23

[luveline]

i was thinking about roommate!spencer going home after a week off working on a case and finding reader sleeping on the couch waiting for him to get home

Spencer cringes as his nails scratch the paint around the doorknob. He’s a tepid mixture of tired and sad, demotivated from another bad case, the subway home, the too many steps to the apartment. He hopes the BAU has better pay after his probation is over. He’d get a new apartment, fix up his shitty old car, maybe even get a haircut. 

For now, it’s just him, his tired feet, the threadbare couch, and you. 

You’re snoring with your face crushed to the armrest, hand tucked under your chest. You’ve started sitting and ended twisted to one side. Your back will ache when you wake up, but you’re blissfully unaware of it while you sleep. Spencer has half a mind to let you sleep undisturbed. 

He steps over your book of crosswords on the floor and the pencil waiting beside it, bending over to pat your arm. When that doesn’t rouse you, he grabs your shoulder, about to shake you awake when you sigh in your sleep, a simple, sugary sound that sends heat to his cheeks instantaneously. You’re often innocuously lovely, at least in his eyes. 

Spencer frowns and goes to make you a glass of sweet tea to wake up to. He’s secretly hoping you’ll wake up before he returns, but you’re still snoring, your face crushed, pressure on your neck. 

He wonders if you sleep on the couch often. He’s never caught you sleeping in the living room when he’s home, but this is the third time now he’s texted you that he’s coming back and walked in to find you waiting…

Are you waiting for him? 

Spencer can profile you. It doesn’t feel right, he tries not to be invasive, but he can work this out. It’s his job. 

First, the text you sent that read, Can’t wait for you to come home, I’m making chicken noodle soup for us 

Neither indicative nor exclusionary of his theory. You could mean can’t wait as the metaphor it tends to be. 

Your crossword book. Upon further inspection, he realises the pages are bent on one side, and the tent of it has landed where your hand curls toward your chest. Alright, it fell. You stayed up until you were so tired you dropped your book. 

But… you could’ve been watching TV. He turns to analyse the TV set. The standby light turns orange when it’s been left on for eight hours at a time, and you and Spencer are kind of broke, so you don’t leave anything running on purpose. You’ve never fallen asleep watching TV while he was home— 

All these reasons. 

He could just ask. He turns back to you with lips already parted, prepared to try again to wake you and slip it in casually, Shit, you weren’t waiting for me, were you? 

You’re already awake. 

Tired, you smile at him like you’re not surprised he’s kneeling at the foot of your seat. Like you’re glad he’s home. “Spencer,” you say, voice etched with the last dregs of sleep as you turn onto your side completely, giving a little wince at the stretch. 

“Hey, you okay? Why are you sleeping on the couch again?” 

You roll your eyes for what he’s not sure and reach down blindly for the crossword book by his knee, your fingertips brushing his thigh and leaving lightness in their wake. “I'm glad you’re home. Need your help, m’stuck on my puzzle.” 

“That’s what you’re sleeping here for?” 

“What?” Your eyes slip closed and then flutter open. “Mm, no, was just waiting for you to get home. How was Santa Monica?” 

Spencer has to force himself to answer around the pretzel of nerves tied in his throat, because it’s what he’d wanted, but he wasn’t ready. “It was great! I mean– I mean, it was awful, and three people died and–” He breathes in wrong. “It was fine.” 

You curl your book on the right page, blinking heavily at an unsolved row. “Oh, good. Um. Okay, ‘to carry a torch for someone’. Eight letters, not obsessed. Doesn’t fit.” 

Spencer traces the soft shudder of your lashes where they’re desperate to kiss the skin below your eye. “Besotted,” he says quietly. 

You gasp happily. “Besotted. Perfect! I missed you, genius, you always know the answer.”

He hands you your fallen pencil. “I missed you, too.” 

[yuellii]

a heart drawn around your name.

𝐁𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐓-𝐃𝐎𝐔𝐗 ;; from the one that loves you, forever, and how they write such love letters

feat. kaveh, neuvillette, ei, ayato, lisa ( separately )

notes. gn reader, repost from an acct i never used iykyk

KAVEH.

Splattered strokes, always so, so dramatic.

He loops his letters like a simultaneous calligrapher and perfectionist, and you almost wonder if he does this for every piece of parchment he writes on. He once insisted that he doesn’t—and that fact alone makes you giddy at the thought. He admitted to writing so perfectly for you, and you alone.

His desk is a mess, but only on the side he keeps letters for and from you. As an artist at heart, he goes through many trials. not that he lets you see it, of course, but on nights he’s writing to you, his desk is scattered with scratch paper. And such loose sheets are filled to the brim with trials of poetry he comes up with in his head, or certain words and loops.

It has to be perfect, and he will ensure that. You’d find crossed out lines on those sheets, full of testing. you’d find the cheesiest of pick-up lines, the most dramatic ways to write a single word, and multiple practices of his own signature.

Because he needs you to be impressed. What good is he, if he cannot write you a new poem every letter he sends you? What good is he, if his handwriting does not look like pure art to you? He could easily stay up for hours on syntax alone.

And if you looked at the cuffs of his sleeves, or the skin of his wrists, you’d find black smudges. Little pen scribbles reminiscent of the very same phrases you’d find in your letters, for he writes them throughout the day. Whenever he thinks of you, it’s always a new line to add.

NEUVILLETTE.

His letters are like a storybook, developed in the passing time.

He begins with his letters so stiff, so formal in a way that is not uptight, but rather inexperienced. It’s something he initially curses himself for—so uptight and unable to express his emotions. And that’s when he develops the obsession with reading storybooks and poetry, for he becomes desperate to learn the ways of romantic speech.

Because of this, his letters become a certain type of endearing. They’re filled with metaphors and analogies galore; some are wrong, some don’t make sense, but the best part of it all were that they were completely original and they came from his heart. Transparency were not difficult either, not when he poured his entire soul out onto paper.

His fears, his emotions, his love—he tells it all. He write how his love for you hurts like a swallowing ocean sometimes, and how being away from you almost becomes too much to bear. He spills of secrets any other man would be too embarrassed to admit; but no, not him. His heart is laid out for you in the tear-stained parchments scratched with ink.

Once he sends one letter, he becomes a bit obsessed. He sends another one, and then suddenly another—until he’s writing almost every day just to speak to you.

After all, how could he help it? When he finds new ways—new words and new phrases to describe his love for you, how could help but write you another letter? You were his passion, his flame that made him human, and if he express such emotion through pen and paper instead of his face, then he’d take it.

RAIDEN EI.

She’s random with her letters, you never know what to expect.

The feeling is akin to passing notes in a classroom. Sometimes, within the passing, she’ll quickly jut out her hand, expecting you to take that piece of paper as fast as possible before she leaves. She's on official business, yet she still looks a bit shy.

Such notes are always so childish. you can tell they were written so quickly on an uneven surface—and they were always so thoughtful in a way that made you giggle. A lot of these messages were just letting you know she catered sweets tonight at Tenshukaku, implying she wanted you to come for the sugar. Other notes were simpler, some of which just noted that she thought your hair looked particularly pretty that day.

And other times, her messages are completely different. On some days, they come delivered to your door as a fully sealed letter, one that has the official shogun seal securing it closed. These are ones she actually has time to write—ones where her handwriting is more eligible.

But she has such a difficult time with words, she gets so frustrated. From embarrassment or from dissatisfaction, her trash bin is filled to the brim with crumpled pieces of papers—all of which were prior attempts of writing you a letter. It is times like these she wished she spent more time in humanity, for even writing you a simple letter made her nervous.

But she wanted to do this, no matter what. It’s worth it when she’s finally able to voice her love for you in writing.

KAMISATO AYATO.

His letters come in pure white envelopes with a red wax seal… so formal and pristine.

It's a bit weird. Something akin to an invitation or letter from the shogun herself. But the Kamisato crest stamped right on the seal tells you otherwise; and really, it was the only form of indication it was from your lover.

His letters are always folded so nicely inside of the envelope. you wouldn’t notice it—and he doesn’t expect you to—but the creases of the paper are exactly the same every time. He puts time into it; way more than a busy man should. If you scouted through his desk, you’d find a drawer with gold-lined parchment to the side, as well as expensive imported ink from Liyue, and a feathered pen imported from Mondstadt. There's also a creaser made of bone marrow from Sumeru and a metal architect ruler from Fontaine, both of which he uses to perfectly fold each letter every time.

He's an enigma; so machine-like, that he knows you don’t pay attention to all those little details. For all he knows, you probably think these letters were factory-made or processed as a batch, not handcrafted specifically by his fingertips. You probably thought this was something secondary to his time, unbeknownst to the delicacy he has adapted just to send you the most perfect of letters every time.

But, that was okay with him. As long as you were reading his words—and as long as he still felt sparks every time he drafted a new letter, it was alright. Plus, he always has more fun when he knows something that others don’t.

LISA MINCI.

There’s always a state of serenity when you cut open her letters. She sprays it with her perfume every time before she seals it; so that when you open it, you’re reminded of her. Very thoughtful, isn’t it?

It makes you smile every time, she just knows it. She's so confident in your love for her ( or, perhaps, she was so comfortable in her swelling adoration for you ), that she pays nothing to worry when she’s writing letters. They’re always so mindless with no coins to perfection or even prestige—one could even call it lazy-looking if they had no idea.

But if anything, she was comfortable. Her handwriting has always been fancy with a pinch of delicateness as her strokes were so thin, though they contained the pretties of loops in her letters that you could not take your eyes off of. Even when she was scribbling so fast, her handwriting was still so pretty. And she does this so, so often—for it’s hard for her pen to keep up when her unspoken thoughts about you raced miles in a minute.

Her parchments are simple; old, even, like pages you’d find in an old book at Mondstadt’s library. Which she likes to quote, in fact. Sometimes, she’ll open her letters with a quote from a romance book she was just reading, or one she randomly remembered. She’ll talk about it in the following sentences; and then at the end, she’ll always somehow tie it back to you.

So simple, yet so endearing. She doesn’t care if you find it that way or not. It’s because she trusts you, more than you’d think.

[sugar-crash]

🏎️Turbo (Wreck-It Ralph) x (gn) Reader🏁

(Sleep Edition!)

(Request here! Honestly, I’m surprised it took me so long to use an ICP song for Turbo, something about him just screams Juggalo, probably the paper white skin or the innate violent impulsivity🔑, I dunno lol)

- Alright so, even unconscious Turbo is selfish, an absolute blanket hog, and you’d think with how small the guy is he wouldn’t take as much of bed space but he does, spreading his limbs out like he’s a fat cat who just ate a good portion of some cat kibble earlier.

- I think he’d be a snorer, but like, usually when he’s on his back and it isn’t obnoxious, no loud sleep apnea snoring here.

- Much like everything else, it takes a while for him to get used to sleeping with you whenever you guys can without necessities of working or doing some other things after hours.

- In my opinion I think the need for sleep for the game characters of Wreck-It Ralph is far less important seeing how after hours they display little to no sleep deprivation all throughout the movie even though it spans roughly 2 nights filled with action and 2 work days.

- So this may be a rare occurrence, but it’s certainly not impossible, considering with the existence of Tapper’s in which we see these game characters drinking, meaning they may have ways to both gain and lose energy.

- Despite this, Turbo I think would be less inclined to exercise a healthy sleeping routine, just having so much to do and wanting to have every moment awake to prove to him and others around him that he is worthy of the title of the beloved game protagonist of Mr. Litwak’s arcade.

- Those eye bags and more unhealthy disposition in comparison to the art on the side of his arcade cabinet says all that needs to be known.

- Which adds to his easily agitated demeanor, so, possibly, maybe, I dunno, getting him to finally fucking sleep after who knows how long makes him chill the fuck out for once.

- Afterwards, he doesn’t verbally thank you for it, typical, too stubborn to admit he was the wrong one in this situation but shows his thanks the next time you disregard your health, calling you stupid among other things while either metaphorically or literally dragging you away from what’s making you unhealthy.

- Inevitably, much like many of the aspects of your relationship he comes to like having sleeping sessions with you, having you beside him while he’s in one of his vulnerable states.

- He doesn’t like being seen as weak and it shows consciously and unconsciously, so having someone whose opinion and perspective of him matters to him seeing him like that displays something he probably never thought would ever do— To be truly trusting of someone beyond himself.

- To be with him alone is something he doesn’t expect from anyone, let alone you— A part of him knows he’s not exactly the best when it comes to another person’s emotions, whether intentional or not.

- So someone like you who shows genuine interest in and keeps showing that rocks him to the very core at times, a kind pang of emotion he doesn’t know how to comprehend just yet.

- Again he hides this with hostility at times, threatening you a bit so you don’t tell anyone of this self-perceived weakness.

- Paralleling him to a cat once more when I say, you can’t force this— He doesn’t hang on your every word or action, he needs to be eased into this new normal and be given consistent reassurance that you are what you portray, ironic isn’t it?

- I think he slowly comes to be truly comfortable with you sleeping with him, but I don’t see him cozying up to you easily, he’s just a naturally rigid guy.

- However I don’t think he’s a block of ice completely, he does have the capacity and does hold onto you whenever you’re in bed with him after some gentle coaxing.

- Talking him to sleep is a common thing during these moments, something about being softly spoken to lulling the racer to sleep eventually.

- He’s a crippling insomniac and no one can tell me otherwise, just look at him.

- This is a very interesting way you guys bond, it isn’t over the top or over-complicated, it’s you and him sharing a sweet moment.

(Y ntyeb yd mlpfdyev fqljcx inniptlu rynt ntyk ptijipnlj ys ntin yken fmqyfok icjliux.)

[angelsdean]

I need people to understand how S&P (standards and practices) works in television and how much influence they have over what gets to stay IN an episode of a show and how the big time network execs are the ones holding the purse strings and making final decisions on a show's content, not the writers / showrunners / creatives involved.

So many creators have shared S&P notes over the years of the wild and nonsensical things networks wanted them to omit / change / forbid. Most famously on tumblr, I've seen it so many times, is the notes from Gravity Falls. But here's a post compiling a bunch of particularly bad ones from various networks too. Do you see the things they're asking to be changed / cut ?

Now imagine, anything you want to get into your show and actually air has to get through S&P and the network execs. A lot of creators have had to resort to underhanded methods. A lot of creators have had to relegate things to subtext and innuendo and scenes that are "open to interpretation" instead of explicit in meaning. Things have had to be coded and symbolized. And they're relying on their audience to be good readers, good at media literacy, to notice and get it. This stuff isn't the ramblings of conspiracy theorists, it's the true practices creatives have had to use to be able to tell diverse stories for ages. The Hays Code is pretty well known, it exists because of censorship. It was a way to symbolize certain things and get past censors.

Queercoding, in particular, has been used for ages in both visual media and literature do signal to queer audiences that yes, this character is one of us, but no, we can't be explicit about it because TPTB won't allow it. It's a wink-wink, nudge-nudge to those in the know. It's the deliberate use of certain queer imagery / clothing / mannerisms / phrases / references to other queer media / subtle glances and lingering touches. Things that offer plausible deniability and can be explained away or go unnoticed by straight audiences to get past those network censors. But that queer viewers WILL (hopefully) pick up on.

Because, unfortunately, still to this day, a lot of antiquated network execs don't think queer narratives are profitable. They don't think they'll appeal to general audiences, because that's what matters, whatever appeals to most of the audience demographic so they can keep watching and keep making the network more money. The networks don't care about telling good stories! Most of them are old white cishet business men, not creatives. They don't care about character arcs and what will make fans happy. They don't care about storytelling. What they care about is profit and they're basing their ideas of what's profitable on what they believe is the predominate target demographic, usually white cis heterosexual audiences.

So, imagine a show that started airing in the early 2000s. Imagine a show where the two main characters are based on two characters from a famous Beat Generation novel, where one of the characters is queer! based on a real like bisexual man! The creator is aware of this, most definitely. And sure, it's 2005, there's no way they were thinking of making that explicit about Dean in the text because it just wouldn't fly back then to have a main character be queer. But! it's made subtext. And there are nods to that queerness placed in the text. Things that are open to interpretation. Things that are drenched in metaphor (looking at you 1x06 Skin "I know I'm a freak" "maybe this thing was born human but was different...hated. Until he learned to become someone else.") Things that are blink-and-you-miss-it and left to plausible deniability (things like seemingly spending an hour in the men's bathroom, or always reacting a little vulnerable and awkward when you're clocked instead of laughing it off and making a homophobic joke abt it)

And then, years later there's a ship! It's popular and at first the writers aren't really seriously thinking about it but they'll throw the fans a bone here and there. Then, some writers do get on the destiel train and start actively writing scenes for them that are suggestive. And only a fraction of what they write actually makes it into the text. So many lines left on the cutting room floor: i love past you. i forgive you i love you. i lost cas and it damn near broke me. spread cas's ashes alone. of course i wanted you to stay. if cas were here. -- etc. Everything cut was not cut by the writers! Why would a writer write something to then sabotage their own story and cut it? No, these are things that didn't make it past the network. Somewhere a note was made maybe "too gay" or "don't feed the shippers" or simply "no destiel."

So, "no destiel." That's pretty clearly the message we got from the CW for years. "No destiel. Destiel will alienate our general audience. Two of our main characters being queer? And in a relationship? No way." So what can the pro-destiel creatives involved do, if the network is saying no? What can the writers do if most of their explicit destiel (or queer dean) lines / moments are getting cut? Relegate things to subtext. Make jokes that straight people can wave off but queer people can read into. Make costuming and set design choices that the hardcore fans who are already looking will notice while the general audience and the out-of-touch network execs won't blink and eye at (I'm looking at you Jerry and your lamps and disappearing second nightstands and your gay flamingo bar!)

And then, when the audience asks, "is destiel real? is this proof of destiel?" what can the creatives do but deny? Yes, it hurts, to be told "No no I don't know what you're talking about. There's no destiel in supernatural" a la "there is no war in Ba Sing Se" but! if the network said "no destiel!" and you and your creative team have been working to keep putting destiel in the subtext of the narrative in a way that will get past censors, you can't just go "Yes, actually, all that subtext and symbolism you're picking up, yea it's because destiel is actually in the narrative."

But, there's a BIG difference between actively putting queer themes and subtext into the narrative and then saying it's not there (but it is! and the audience sees it!) versus NOT putting any queer content into the text but SAYING it is there to entice queer fans to continue watching. The latter, is textbook queerbaiting. The former? Is not. The former is the tactics so many creatives have had to use for years, decades, centuries, to get past censorship and signal to those in the know that yea, characters like you are here, they exist in this story.

Were the spn writers perfect? No, absolutely not. And I don't think every instance of queer content was a secret signal. Some stuff, depending on the writer, might've been a period-typical gay joke. These writers are flawed. But it's no secret that there were pro-destiel writers in the writing room throughout the years, and that efforts were made to make it explicitly canon (the market research!)

So no, the writers weren't ever perfect or a homogeneous entity. But they definitely were fighting an uphill battle constantly for 15 yrs against S&P and network execs with antiquated ideas of what's profitable / appealing.

Spn even called out the networks before, on the show, using a silly example of complaints abt the lighting of the show and how dark the early seasons were. Brightening the later seasons wasn't a creative choice, but a network choice. And if the networks can complain abt and change something as trivial as the lighting of a show, they definitely are having a hand in influencing the content of the show, especially queer content.

Even in s15, (seasons fifteen!!!) Misha has said he worried Castiel's confession would not air. In 2020!!! And Jensen recorded that scene on his personal phone! Why? Sure, for the memories. But also, I do not doubt for a second that part of it was for insurance, should the scene mysteriously disappear completely. We've seen the finale script. We've seen the omitted omitted omitted scenes. We all saw how they hacked the confession scene to bits. The weird cuts and close-ups. That's not the writers doing. That's likely not even the editors (willingly). That's orders from on high. All of the fuckery we saw in s15 reeks of network interference. Writers are not trying to sabotage their own stories, believe me.

Anyways, TLDR: Networks have a lot more power than many think and they get final say in what makes it to air. And for years creative teams have had to find ways to get past network censorship if they want "banned" or "unapproved" "unprofitable" "unwanted" content to make it into the show. That means relying on techniques like symbolism, subtext, and queercoding, and then shutting up about it. Denying its there, saying it's all "open to interpretation" all while they continue to put that open to interpretation content into the show. And that's not queerbaiting, as frustrating as it might be for queer audiences to be told that what they're seeing isn't there, it's still not queerbaiting. Queerbaiting is a marketing technique to draw in queer fans by baiting them with the promise of queer content and then having no queer content in said media. But if you are picking up on queer themes / subtext / symbolism / coding that is in front of your face IN the text, that's not queerbaiting. It's there, covertly, for you, because someone higher up didn't want it to be there explicitly or at all.

[threepandas]

Bad End: Traps

"Darling~!" A rich voice greeted me, as I stepped through the final doors leading to an opulent office. "You're looking better! Are you finally adjusting to the anti-poisons? I know they made you feel quite sick."

THAT was an understatement. Try worst cramps and fever of my life, with a dose of puking for days. They put me on IVs. Buuuut? I wasn't gonna say THAT. Not a chance in hell. We, team Earth that is, were supposed to be here for DIPLOMACY. So? Fucking LIE~☆

Yep! "Bit" sick. Just a touch. Hardly noticed, really. Took a nap.

Veneni laughed, rising from the elegant sprawl she'd been resting on one of her "not called couches but totally are" things. To be honest, her voice reminds me of those old "radio stars" from the clips at the museums. All smooth yet husky, curling around you, like they're going to invite you somewhere dark to learn a naughty little secret if you're very VERY good.

Kind of voice you could listen too for HOURS, reading the most boring shit imaginable, and it be the best time you'd had in years.

I am... SO gay, for Veneni.

Like? You DO NOT UNDERSTAND. She SASHAYS. Not walks. Not strolls. Sashays! Like life is a catwalk and she is the alpha bitch here to show these other models how it's DONE. But also? Like she doesn't even NOTICE! It's just... effortless. How she moves. All delicate hand motions and rolling hips and curves.

That I Can Not Touch because she is SUUUUPER poisonous.

Which is? Frankly? Homophobic and a crime against me, specifically. Yeah, her whole species is like that. And it's why all of us are suffering through the Anti-poison adjusters. But STILL! I can't even "accidentally" brush her hand? No potential kissing of hot hot hot alien gf? Illegal. Blocked. Everyone here is a bastard and I want to complain.

.....not, mind you, that I have the metaphorical lady balls to actually CONFESS anything.

But you know... maybe.... maybe if I pine hard enough?

Good ol' stand awkwardly nearby and mentally project "NOTICE ME SEMPAI!" At her? I put on my nice outfit! Makes the girls look-! Wait, does her species even give a shit about boobs? FUCK. Okay, see this? THIS is why I was a flight assist. Just inventory and handing stuff to people who knew what they were doing.

MASTER of the fine arts of "I Can Understand The Instruction Manuel, In Case Of Emergency"!

Pretty good at coffee, too. Not to brag.

But, like? Jokes aside? Things had been... Bad.

Everything had gone to shit. Then somehow found a shovel in the manure pile and started digging. Started OUT okay! Really, it had! Travel was unexpectedly a bit rough. Some sort of space storm that went RIGHT over my head, but we dodged every major catastrophe. Got here in one piece.

There was a fancy meeting party. Whiiiich? In hindsight? Terrible idea. WAY too many people with hella poisonous skin, standing WAY too close. Only reason we didn't IMMEDIATELY lose the head diplomate? Was the regulation "new planet, unknown pathogens" full body biosuit. He? Got a HUG. Like... right out the ship.

Oof. That would have been IT, for him. Unfortunately, he didn't make it past that much longer. Someone's pet bit him. And? Yep. Completely fucking venomous. Lethally so. A tragedy, right? Outlier, surely?

Ha!

No. No this planet was trying to fucking kill us. It was a toxin coated hellpit and had so far? Murdered just over half the diplomatic crew. Those that were still alive? Over half of THEM were in emergency care. With just over a forth of the OTHER survivors being the only ones who could safely care for them.

Rest of us were either in isolation or sick as FUCK.

Isolation for those who needed to get rescued, because the Anti-poison adjusters would fucking kill them. Or sick as hell, for those few who remain that finally, FINALLY had found a way to Not DIE.

ALL WHILE PEACE TALKS WERE TRYING TO HAPPEN.

It was a shit show~☆

I? Went from basically a nobody? To "congrats! By merit of NOT being dead or dying, you're the head diplomat by proxy!" Which? Fucking WHAT? You could physically SEE the stress radiating off the poor guys back home, as they tried to speed run me through "how to not Accidentally A War 101".

I was pretty sure his cup, did in fact, NOT contain coffee. But I wasn't telling.

Instead, I got the honor of carrying the video call. Literally. Since our tech was incompatible. I got to carry the whole set up. Portable battery included. So the ACTUAL Really, Actually, Trained In Diplomacy, Diplomat could call in. And then I could look pretty and nod seriously at the appropriate times.

Mmmmhmmm. Yes. I agree. I both understand what is being said, AND support Earth's position on these matters! I have definitely studied the materials. Am supposed to be here. We have DEFINITELY suffered no catastrophic loses, pay no attention to the chaos behind the curtains! Diploooomacyyyyy....

God, she is pretty.

Watching her smile, her sensors gently shift around her like flowing water, the way her hand delicately gestured as she spoke? I... I wanted to build her, like, a cabin or something. Bring her breakfast in bed. Maybe adopt an alien dog together. And like? I don't even KNOW how to build shit. But, fuck it. I'd learn.

Cause I mean... you KNOW you got it bad, when you look at Toxic Super Hell the planet, look at pretty lady, look BACK at the planet that in no uncertain terms ACTIVELY thirsts for your blood... and go?

"So when do I move? Feeling REAL patriotic for my new home! Wooo, New Home!"

Yes I have a problem. Shut up, I'm aware.

A quite click signaled the end of their talks. Finally done for the day. I definitely, in now way shape or form, perk up like an excited puppy hearing the word "walkies". Because that? THAT would suggest I had WAY more dignity. I am a thirsty, thirsty bitch, okay? SO PRETTY. Nice laugh! Calls me Darling!! I have a LIST!!!

"Mmmm, what an unpleasant man that was. Did something happen to Mr. Ho?" She asked, stretching in the slow rolling way of hers. It looked boneless and decadent. REALLY distracting. "I hope nothing Serious~. We were nearly on the cusp of getting you home! I do hope he gets well soon. But, ah~, where ARE my manner today, Darling? You must be starving!"

Veneni sweeps forward to tuck my arm in hers, pulling me against her side. Even through my biosuit and her modest dress... I... I can FEEL her body heat. How soft and warm she feels pressed close against me. She smells tingly and spiced, kinda like citrus and mulled cider. NOT! That I'm smelling her! WHICH I'M NOT!! Because that would be so, SO creepy! It's just-!? You know-?! AaaaaaAAA???

She guides me to our little table. Probably set up for guests in general. But... you know... kinda like to THINK of it? As ours?

I REALLY need to stop while I am ahead. Good fucking gods. Ignore me.

Mmm, yes, distraction cake! Let's talk about THAT instead! Wonder what she-? I then choked on my drink. Because... because after bringing out the usual traditional deserts of she was teaching me about? And dishes I could try? Veneni... c.. casually as you please rests her chin, propped up on one hand, then reaches out with the other... to place it on my hand, which rests on the table between us.

Hear that? That's my soul screaming at a pitch only dolphins can make.

OH MY GOD.

I'd like to say? I don't immediately embarrass myself? But that's a lie. I make a wheeze reminiscent of something dying horribly. Against all odds. She is NOT immediately disgusted and done with me. Dear lord, my parents may actually have a chance at seeing me married! Holy FUCK.

Wait. No. Slow your roll.

SMILE first. We GOT this! Seduce her!

I open my mouth... and stupid fell out. FUCK.

"Calm yourself, Darling!" She laughs, the bemused fondness lighting up her face. "You hardly need to impress ME! Believe me. I knew you were mine the second I saw you. Nothing could possibly change that~"

Her cute fangs catch the light, deadly sharp. Her's is a predatory species. I wonder if they like social touch? Cause I REALLY want to cuddle. Hold hands. Touch. Ooooother stuff~ But! Mostly the Hold Cute Alien GF! Assuming that's where this is headed. Please GOD let that be where this is headed!

"I was thinking... and I don't want to be too forward, of course," oh god please do "and I hope I'm not interpreting things incorrectly!" You are not. Take me you magnificent, purple, high femme queen amongst the masses. "But... I would VERY much like to... get to know you, Darling. On a more... personal level...?"

I kept my lips pressed desperately together to keep from literally shouting the word "Yes" in her face. Be cool. BE COOL! We are both cool and Very Normal About This! Scream in incoherent joy later!

Y..Yeah! Sounds great!

This is the best day of my-!

An explosion shook the biodome. While the whole planet WAS toxic as fuck? There were levels to it's toxicity. Some places too much for even native life forms to handle. And, of course, no place that non-natives could safely survive. Thus the capital's biodome. Highly filtered air, earth, and resources. Built for diplomacy and several critical care hospitals.

Now under attack. Another bomb exploded. Cracks in the dome.

I could only stare in mute horror at the pillar of smoke. Because... Because that was the isolation area. Our evac's. Someone just blew up... Then my brain seemed to comeback online all at once, as adrenaline flooded my system. I looked between the still unpacked call system and Veneni.

A piece of tech or a high ranking, probably high interest target. My maybe hopefully girlfriend. Not really much of a choice.

Fucking LEAVE IT.

We had to go. I pulled Veneni up, told her as much. She looked so startled.

"Of... Of course, Darling. Yes. You're right. I AM probably a target, aren't I?" The thought didn't seem to have occurred to her. God, I felt like a monster having to bring such ugliness to her attention. Scaring her like this. But ignorance wouldn't keep either of us safe.

"I...I think there was a safe room?" She faltered, arms crossing almost artfully, looking so uncertain I couldn't help but want to comfort her. "But, Darling, I'll admit.. I'm.. I think I'm rather scared. Will you protect me? Stay with me? ...please?"

I couldn't help it. She looked so scared. So delicately small. I stepped forward, arms going around her. Pulling her close like I could shield her from the world. I wouldn't let anything happen to her. I promised myself. Felt her arms, a few of her sensors, desperately curl around me.

I didn't see the smile, pressed against my front. That quickly vanished as she pulled back. Nor did I notice the calm technician, hidden in the shadows of a side hall, who nodded at Veneni as I herded her to "safety". Would think nothing of how, tragically, my rooms were hit in the follow up blasts. How very lucky, that Veneni has rooms to spare. But oh~ she would not want to over step!

I don't notice a lot of things. But hey, things are great! I got a girlfriend! Or, as she likes to joke,

She Got Me.

[toppamplemousse]

ok no one requested this but it's been in my brain for a while so. bottle ep max pov, end of summer 1. warnings for angst.

if u haven't read bottle episode then this won't make sense. linked here :)

summer 1 bottle episode | max pov, 1198 words, rated e

Charles had wriggled his way into Max’s life in a similar fashion to how he wriggles into Max’s space on the sofa. There’s plenty of space for the both of them, really, and there’s even an ottoman to stretch their legs out, but Charles isn’t doing that. Instead, Charles is squirming his toes under Max’s thighs, trying to distract Max from playing chess on his phone, even if Charles claims he is focused on reading his book. His toes worm their way under Max’s leg, and Max can feel how incomprehensibly cold they are, despite the humid summer thunderstorm outside.

Max doesn’t turn away from the game of chess at hand – he is shaping up for a nice move to capture his opponent’s knight – but rests his left hand on Charles’ ankle. That placates Charles, obviously, as if asking to be touched was too much, but wriggling his freezing cold feet under Max is sufficient. He mindlessly brushed his thumb over Charles’ ankle, mapping the bone and skin and softness of it all. 

He has to leave for work soon, and the familiar ache settles in his chest. Max doesn’t quite know when it started, the pang of emptiness when he had to leave Charles and go to work, the way he wished every minute could stretch on for hours and he could just spend more time like this, in comfortable silence, just existing with Charles. 

He doesn’t know when he became so used to seeing Charles in everything, everywhere he went.

The coffee grounds in the sink that never quite make it down the drain. The rogue contact lens case that missed the trash can. The socks in his laundry that definitely do not belong to Max because they are Armani for Christ’s sake. There’s bits of Charles everywhere, in every crevice of Max’s being, and it’s ridiculous. He wants more. He wants Charles’ clothes in his wardrobe and he wants a new place that isn’t a studio with a proper bedroom to give them space and a sink with two toothbrushes and two sets of shoes by the door, two sets of keys hanging up.

It just feels – Max can’t ever quite place it. They’ve never discussed anything, obviously, just accepted hanging out with each other more and more frequently until they started discussing times when they wouldn’t hang out with each other. It’s been one summer, one, and now–

Max doesn’t have the metaphors he would like to in order to describe it. There’s a Charles-shaped mould into which Max fits. There’s a crevice in his heart where a certain Monegasque now sits. There’s a thunderstorm outside and Max would stand outside in it and get drenched to the bone if Charles asked him to. 

He won’t say it to himself, he couldn’t, but he sees it in Charles’ eyes and he feels it in Charles’ touch and it’s written between all the words they do and do not say in the sheets in the morning when they’re too sleepy to have a proper conversation. He won’t say it, but it feels like–

“Anyone you know interested in a bar cart?” 

Max looks up at Charles, who has put the book down on his chest, then looks over to the bar cart that sits awkwardly against the wall of Charles’ kitchen. He looks back at Charles. 

“No, I mean, I can ask.” Max is puzzled at this sudden question. Charles’ bar cart has far too many odd bottles of wine and liquor on it that won’t fit anywhere else. “Why?”

Charles’ gaze is flitting across the room, looking at his furniture. Max isn’t even sure if Charles has registered his confusion yet. His toes tap in their limited space under Max’s leg. 

“Oh, you know, just need to get this apartment back to the way it was soon. Obviously the bar cart cannot make it in my suitcase.” Charles lets out a chuckle. Max doesn’t see what is very funny. He looks back at the bar cart, and back at Charles. There’s something settling beneath the green eyes now. Max is afraid he knows what it is. 

“Might need your big arms to help me put the couch back where it was, too.” Charles pokes at Max’s skin, a smile on his face. Max sits up, pulls back, darting his eyes around Charles’ face.

Max’s lungs collapse and his chest sinks and it feels like all the blood running through his veins evaporates and leaves behind a bag of bones with nothing else.

Charles is leaving.

Max always knew he was going to go back to school at some point, but–

He was delusional enough to think that maybe Max would be a part of it.

Max had tried so hard not to think about the future from the moment he knew about Charles’ plans, his temporary summer in New York. But he couldn’t help but wonder, daydream about it. Max had thought maybe he would ask Charles if he wanted to keep dating, and Max could visit him in California in the fall, and Charles could come by again at Christmas, and maybe they could go to Monaco together over the New Year. Maybe Max could visit again in the spring, two times if Charles wasn't too busy, and then they could discuss which coast to live on or pick somewhere completely new to start. 

And, and, and. 

What a fucking idiot.

The conversation goes very poorly. Max is outraged– he bites back tears and he rips the inside of his cheek with his teeth. Charles looks like a kicked puppy, big glassy eyes and pouty lips and helpless words that tear into Max piece by piece.

Charles had been insatiable from the moment Max met him, and he was foolish enough to have started believing it was because Charles wanted him for more than just a good fuck. Charles was always climbing in between Max’s legs and getting his lips on any part of skin and whispering filthy things into his ear. It’s not like Max didnt’ want that – Max loved being inside Charles, loved fucking him until he begged, loved watching him come undone on his cock. But he thought there was… more. That the way Charles intertwined their hands at night or the way he bought things because they reminded him of Max or the way his eyes lit up when he laughed meant something. 

Meant anything.

Max slams the door shut behind him. He’s so mad, so upset, he wants to tear the whole building down. And he wants to be mad at Charles, wants to hate him and hate him and hate him, but Max is the only one to blame.

Max, who foolishly believed there was something more. Max, who thought Charles wanted him. Max, who let himself get swept up by a pair of green eyes and a smile that blinded him and dimples that deceived him. 

Max cries the whole walk home, but New York City streets have seen much stranger sights. Sniffling, sobbing, wiping his nose against his sleeve. 

The thunderstorm rages on. He gets drenched to the bone. Charles did not ask him to. 

[disassociation-daydreams]

Secret Admirer Part II - Dave York x F!Reader

A/N: So, it's been over a year since I wrote the first part, and yet, this only took me a few hours. Probably because I've written it so many times in my head. I just felt like I finally needed to get it down or else I'm not sure I ever would. If you've read Part I, I hope this gives you the ending you were waiting for. I’m posting this before passing out from exhaustion and am honestly terrified because I don’t know how I feel about it now that it’s actually typed out, especially the dialogue. Regardless, thank you to everyone who supported Part I. @murder-wife, your reblog today is really what gave me the final push to make this happen. 🤍

If you haven't read Part I yet, you can do so here: Secret Admirer Part I

Text Divider by @bunnysrph

Summary: Dave can't watch you through the window anymore, so he watches you elsewhere. It's only a matter of time before you catch him. Will it all come burning down?

Pairing: Dave York x F!Reader

Rating: 18+ (mdni)

Word Count: 2,267

Tags and Warnings: allusion to murder, possessiveness, stalking, obsession, age gap, pervy Dave, pining Dave, allusion to drug addiction, angst, too many Icarus references, probably more things so let me know if I need to add any!

You start to feel it again… that paranoia that you’re being watched. It’s different this time. Not in the way it feels, but that it’s happening everywhere outside your apartment now.

You closed the curtains peering into your apartment a week ago, and if you’re being poetic, you metaphorically closed the curtains to your heart along with them. The feeling has been back for a day: you first felt it while making your way to the subway, then again when you exited the station near your work, and when you went down the block to the coffee shop on the corner for your lunch break. You felt it when you walked back into your office building, when you walked to the subway after work, and when you made your way home from the station.

Of course, you couldn’t be certain it was the same person watching—no, admiring you—and maybe you should have been more concerned, seeing as they seemed to know every little detail about your routine and where to find you. But if we’re being honest, your self-preservation skills have never been a strength, and you may have some slightly worrisome quirks that make this whole thing set your skin on fire in the best way. And, well, you just knew that whoever this was, wasn’t a threat to you. At the end of each day, the only thing you were left wondering was if you’d ever get to meet the eyes of your secret admirer.

He knows you can feel him watching again. He could tell the second you became aware of his presence this time. He’s a selfish man, maybe a little deranged, though he thinks you could be too. He should have taken the closed curtains as a sign. Should have rid his mind of this obsession and gone back to focusing on his missions.

He tried to justify it. He just wanted to make sure you were okay, that you hadn’t closed the curtains for any other reason. It was only supposed to be one time—following you to the station on a workday when it was easiest for him to blend in, just to see that you were alive, and then he’d move on with his life and stop worrying about some random girl. But he also wanted to make sure you got to work safely, that there wasn’t some freak subway accident that would stop you from getting to your destination. He learned through a quick search where you worked and which station you’d be getting off at, so he met you there… kind of. He watched you exit the station, followed you around the corner and down the block to your busy office building, then took a seat in the bustling lobby while you waited for the elevator. It was easy enough for him to blend in with everyone else, especially since you always seemed to be lost in your own little world, oblivious to the people and everything else around you.

When he followed you home that day, he told himself that would be the end of it. He’d finally get to see the other parts of your routine he’d missed before—he could fill in the gaps, memorize these pieces of you that he had only previously imagined. But you were like an addiction, and if he was honest with himself, one he didn’t want to kick. So, he was there the next day, and the next, and almost every day after that for a month, excluding the weekends.

Why hadn’t you really tried to figure out who he was? Maybe he should be more worried about you if you didn’t seem to care that you were being stalked—even though he knew he would never hurt you. He could see you looking around sometimes, attempts at being subtle, but you made no real effort. You kept going through your monotonous routine each day: subway, work, lunch, work, subway, home. Subway, work, lunch, work, subway, home. Subway, work, lunch, work, subway, home. Subway, work... You got off at your usual station—but you didn’t head to your office building. You still turned the same corner and walked down a block, but then you kept going. You ended up at the same coffee shop you frequented at lunch. Maybe you needed an extra jolt this morning because you slept terribly? Maybe you ran out of coffee at home and needed some to survive the day?

But then, why were you sitting at a table now, staring directly at him, with your usual order placed in front of you and a plain black coffee set down in front of the seat across from yours?

You wonder if he thinks you’re truly oblivious. Yes, you wear earphones almost everywhere, and you tend to stay focused on yourself instead of the strangers around you. But that’s a force of habit—if you leave them alone, they’ll leave you alone.

You couldn’t figure out who it was right away, to be fair, and there was no way to be completely sure. It took you about two weeks into this game you seemed to be playing to really narrow it down. You’d look around subtly, study your surroundings with your peripheral vision, sometimes use the reflection on your phone to see the people behind you.

There were a few choices as to who it could be. You knew some of the people in your office building lobby each morning since they worked on the same floor as you. Some of the others you had seen around for much longer than you’d had this feeling of being watched. There was a younger man, probably mid to late 20s, close to your age. You hadn’t really seen him around before, and he always seemed to be leaving the building for lunch around the same time as you. But you soon found out that he was a new hire on another floor, and you saw him walk the opposite way of your subway station one evening as you were leaving the office when you still felt the eyes on you. So, no, definitely not him.

Another option was a middle-aged woman. You had caught her eyes on you a few times, even making eye contact once or twice, only for her to quickly look away. You guess you hadn’t completely ruled her out, but you didn’t get that certain feeling when your eyes met hers. Maybe you were delusional to hope for some kind of connection and dismiss someone based on something you couldn’t even describe.

There was a revolving door of possible people, but there was one you were really holding out hope for. He was older than you—maybe even 20 years your senior. He dressed like a businessman—nice dress slacks, black loafers, freshly ironed shirts. He had hair the color of freshly brewed coffee, broad shoulders that you could easily imagine wrapping your arms around. You couldn’t tell the exact color of his eyes, but from a distance, they looked dark—in color and meaning.

You’re pretty sure he was at least a semi-new addition to the dull routine of your day-to-day environment. You’d have to be blind not to notice someone as striking as him. You could be wrong, of course. You never saw him during your lunch break, even when you felt the eyes on you, and he wasn’t there, or at least not in your line of vision, when you left work each day. Now that you think about it, there seems to be more evidence pointing to him not being the owner of the burning-hot stare you feel tracing your body throughout the day. And yet, you just have this feeling.

You think it might be easy to know for sure. Maybe you’re naive, considering what you suspect he might have done to your neighbor without getting caught, but you still have the feeling that you’re the one weakness that might make him slip up.

It’s simple enough—they follow you every day, they know your routine. All it will take is for you to change it up a little bit, knowing they’d be curious about where you’re going, needing to know your every move. You couldn’t make it too obvious, though, so you picked a place you frequent—the coffee shop down the block from your work. It makes sense to go there in the morning too. Maybe they’ll think you ran out of coffee at home or didn’t have time to make some before heading to the office.

You place the order on your phone ahead of time—your usual, plus one more: a plain black coffee. You took a guess, inspired by the color of the person’s hair you’re hoping to finally meet.

As soon as you reach the shop, your orders are already at the end of the counter for pick-up. You grab them quickly, knowing you have a little time before they'll arrive as they must follow you from a safe distance. You sit at the table directly next to the door, the one everyone inevitably looks at when they enter.

The bell above the door chimes. Your drink is placed in front of you, the black coffee set down in front of the seat nearest to the door. Your eyes are already looking up, ready to make contact, and that’s when you see him.

His eyes are the color of espresso beans before they’re ground and lose some of their depth. They’re the color of pure, dark chocolate—rich, indulgent. You can see the bewilderment in them—the shock that he’s so easily been caught—but also awe, because what kind of mind would one need to best his?

He doesn’t run. He walks steadily to your table, his eyes never leaving yours, not for a moment. He pulls out the chair across from you and takes a seat.

“Hi,” you say simply as you reach across the table, hand outstretched in greeting. His much larger, warmer hand engulfs yours, and before he has a chance to utter a word, you speak again.

“I would introduce myself, but I have a feeling you know everything about me by now.” You say it with a smirk, a teasing lilt to your voice, bemusement in your eyes.

He chuckles because what else is he supposed to do at this point? Your small hand is still clasped in his, the feeling of your touch unlike anything he ever dreamed of, but everything he ever imagined.

“Dave York,” he introduces briefly. “And no, not everything.”

“Maybe we could change that,” you reply, smirk still in place, even as you stand. “I have to get to work, though I don’t need to tell you that. You know where I live. Pick me up at 7?”

He nods, his eyes never leaving yours, as if they’ve found something they never want to lose. He was worried before that meeting you might be like the story of Icarus—get too close to the sun, and everything would burn. But instead, he feels like the ocean, absorbing your light and reflecting it back to you. It’s the least you deserve. “See you at seven, sweetheart.”

He’d been here before. In the apartment next door, finishing a job. He’d even hand-delivered flowers to your doorstep prior to that, though that seems like a lifetime ago now.

He lifts his hand to knock, but the door swings open before his knuckles can make contact. Your eyes meet his for the second time, but nowhere near the last. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything shine as brightly as you. You’re not just radiant, you’re celestial, a vision that demands reverence, a being who should have wonders and monuments built in your name. Maybe he is Icarus, drawn to you by an irresistible force, but if this is what it feels like to burn, he never wants to know what it’s like to be cold again.

His gaze shifts, sweeping across your apartment, landing on the floor-to-ceiling window. The curtains are pulled back again, and the fading evening light spills across the room, painting everything in soft gold.

You speak, your voice soft but steady, and he turns his attention back to you. “I thought you might like to see what the view looks like from this side—after dinner, of course.”

“Shall we?” His arm slips around your waist, pulling you close as he presses a tender kiss to your hair. You close the door behind you with a soft click, locking it with the same sense of finality you felt when your eyes met his for the first time this morning.

When you meet his gaze again, it’s heavy with an intensity that doesn’t waver. There’s no mystery left between you now—only a raw, unspoken understanding. It's his job, his life to know everything about everyone, and to use this knowledge to his advantage. Yet, he knows he’ll never truly know you completely and it doesn't scare him. In fact, the unknown no longer seems like something to fear. It’s the very thing that draws him to you. His obsession has evolved into something more—something deeper, maybe even predestined. But he is only one side of the coin.

As your eyes hold his, the coin flips. This isn't just his game—it’s yours as well, and you’ve already decided where it goes next. You won’t let him drown in his own darkness; you’ll give him the light he's been searching for.

And when the time comes, when you both get too close to the sun and can’t help but burn, at least you'll burn together.

[tennessoui]

I'm begging on my hands and knees for more Twilight au, and those are words I never thought I'd say! Anakin being able to resist compulsion, and Obi-Wan seeming instantly obsessed, and poor Shmi! Pretty please 🥺🙏

hey!! sure! here's some more!

(2.5k)

Having a sheriff for a mom sucked a lot when he was a kid growing up in a small town. There was probably nothing Anakin was rebelling against more at eleven, at thirteen, at seventeen than the rule of law his mother represented. 

All things considered, she was pretty good at separating her home life from her worklife. It was Anakin who was bad at respecting the separation, Anakin who couldn’t keep son out of delinquent.  There’s only so many times he could be pulled out of wreckage and bars and buildings with Keep Out No Trespassing signs on them before he got The Sheriff at home and out in public.

He’d hated it growing up and had come to grudgingly respect it later and in fits and starts. His dad dying had, terribly and ironically, helped a lot. His mother had had a stroke just before and then Anakin had been faced with the possibility of being an orphan, and the terror of that had mellowed him out.

Sorta.

He still hates a lot of things about his mother’s job. Especially the fact that she’s the sheriff of a very small town.

And when people talk, she listens.

The thing about small towns is that everyone’s always fucking talking. And other people are always fucking lsitening so they can talk later. One big fucking community, which means when Anakin comes home from his weird doctor’s appointment with Dr. Kenobi, a few hours later because he took a detour biking along the edge of the seaside cliffs just to spit in the good doctor’s metaphorical face, Shmi Skywalker already knows more than Anakin ever planned to tell her.

Like, for instance, “Sheila says that Dr. Kenobi thought it would behoove you to spend some time at the local library volunteering.”

Anakin pauses, backpack half-slung off his shoulders. He hangs his stuff up slowly, careful to keep his tone very light. “Did Sheila say what I told him after he said that?” 

His mom’s silence is very loud.

“I don’t want to do i—”

“I asked the new librarian about it on my way home from the station. She thinks it’s a wonderful idea. Apparently we used to have a program like that in the forties but it died out during the war.”

“Mom, come on—”

“It’ll look good on resumes, saying you created and supported a local reading program.”

“Yeah, but I’m a bit too old to be applying for babysitting positio—”

“It’ll look good for me as well,” Shmi says in her sheriff voice. “Elections are coming up soon. It’ll be good, if my kid was involved in the community.”

Anakin’s glad that his back is still turned to the living room, where his mom is sitting. “Are you gonna run again?” he asks, paying special attention to his tone this time.

“Why wouldn’t I?” his mom replies. “I’ve been sheriff for a decade and a half.”

Anakin lets his eyes fall closed for a second, knowing that his face can’t be seen. This is how they end up half the time: Shmi’s ardent belief that she is invincible, going up against Anakin’s desperate desire for her to be so.

And they just don’t talk about it. As if they’re actually in agreement.

He knows how this is going to shake out.

“Do you have any plans tomorrow?” His mother asks.

Anakin’s eyes remain closed. “I guess so,” he says.

—--------

Mrs. Kenobi—call me Satine—is sort of scary up close. She’s tall. She glides between bookshelves. Anakin’s never met someone who glides before. And she’s so intensely, incredibly, blindingly perfect that Anakin would rather be anywhere but in her vicinity. There’s something incredibly unnerving about the symmetry of her face, the sharpness of her cheekbones. She’s obviously an absolute knock-out, just drop-dead gorgeous, but it makes Anakin’s skin crawl and his heart beat fast, but not in a good way or a normal teenage boy way.

Anakin tries to keep the unease off his face as Satine leads him through a tour of the library, a gentle hand on his forearm. That’s another thing Anakin doesn’t really like. She’s wearing satin gloves. He doesn’t know anyone who wears gloves anymore.

It’s just all a bit…unsettling.

“I put in a few words around the school yesterday afternoon,” Satine tells him. They pass by the mystery section, the fantasy section, and take a hard right into the young adult section. The shelves are smaller here, and Anakin feels rather stupidly gigantic as he and Satine walk through them. “To some parents picking their children up after school. They agreed it would be good exposure to bring them to the library for an hour or so of reading before supper.”

Anakin highly doubts it will be, but Satine hasn’t really asked him.

She sweeps past his figure and pushes open a pair of double doors with a flourish better suited for a Russian tsarina hosting an elaborate ball than a small town librarian showing off a small, cramped, and dusty room filled with padded seats and threadbare rugs.

And then, as if she has been waiting to put the last nail in the proverbial coffin, Satine adds, “A few students from the local high school will be here as well.”

“Sorry,” Anakin says, “are you saying I’m going to be reading to high school students? Can’t they do that themselves?”

After all, Anakin went to high school here. Academics hadn’t been too rigorously challenging, but they’d taught the fucking basics.

Satine raises one perfectly plucked eyebrow in his direction. “They’ll be volunteering as well.”

Oh. Right.

“It looks good on their college applications,” Satine waves a hand through the air and the words linger there. Anakin looks out the rather dirty window, jaw clenching. “I’ve already chosen a handful of books I think the young ones will enjoy.”

Anakin, committed to his fate, pads over to the titles placed carefully ontop of a short, stout side table. 

“Peter the Rabbit,” he reads off the top. “Peter Pan. Alice in Wonderland. Treasure Island. The Prince and the Pauper—look, you’re the librarian here, but don’t you have anything written this century maybe? Harry Potter, even.”

“These are classics,” Satine tells him, her nose raised into the air as if she has encountered something particularly foul-smelling. She turns away, presumably to return to the front desk so she can welcome half the fucking town inside the library so Anakin can read them fucking Anne of Green Gables and become a better person.

“These are fucking boring,” he mutters to himself, flicking the cover of the first book, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz open. Publication date: 1900. “I’d rather be in Kenobi’s office getting lectured at.”

There’s a sharp noise of disapproval from the doorway, and Anakin’s head snaps up to see the tail end of a very heated look from the librarian before the door closes behind her.

He shivers, alone in the emply room, and it takes several long minutes for his heart to settle back into its normal pace. 

—----------

After the fourth kid sneezes, Anakin closes his book with a snap and stands from the very small chair they’ve got him sitting on. “Come on,” he tells the cluster of children he’s been assigned to. “We’re getting out of here.”

“Are you kidnapping us?” One of them, a snot-nosed kid who’d started the sneezing says, rubbing at her cheek beneath her glasses. “Cause mommy says that’s not allowed.”

“I’m not kidnapping you,” Anakin snaps back, barely holding in his natural follow-up to the sentence which is of course, I don’t want to be around any of you in the first place. “Also, just for future reference, you shouldn’t ask if someone’s kidnapping you after you already start following them.”

The girl scowls and reaches up her hand to hold onto Anakin’s. 

For the love of Christ.

“We’re just going to go into the main part of the library,” Anakin tells his children, all six of them. “They have windows out there.”

They have windows out there and they also have parents. Parents who absolutely should be doing other things with their lives and precious hour of extra freetime.

Parents who are clustered instead around the library’s front desk as the town’s newest librarian holds court.

“Is reading time over?” one of the kids asks him, turning his head to look up at Anakin.

Anakin thinks about it. “Do you want reading time to be over?”

The kid thinks about it back. “Yeah,” he decides. “You don’t do the voices good.”

“It’s a boring book,” Anakin tells the kid. “Voices aren’t going to make it better.”

“Voices always make it better,” another kid says. “They make everything better.”

“Oh look,” Anakin says. “Is that your father?”

He gestures vaguely towards the cluster of drooling middle-aged somethings focused on Satine.

The kid peeks around his thigh and then shakes his head. “No,” he says. “That’s Dr. Obi.”

“Dr. Obi!” The kid holding Anakin’s hand says, and she lets go.

Anakin gets a bad feeling about this, a feeling that only doubles when he turns around to see Dr. Kenobi sauntering towards him, hands tucked into the pockets of a long dark jacket that makes him look even more pale than he already is.

He scowls automatically as the man gets closer. “Dr. Obi.”

Dr. Kenobi spares him a look that’s far too amused for Anakin’s pleasure before he crouches down to the level of the kids. “Hello there, young ones,” he says, opening his arms to accept a hug from the traitor of a girl Anakin’s just spent thirty minutes reading to. “Are you eating all your vegetables? Even the brussel sprouts?”

“I like brussel sprouts,” one of the kids reports sounding proud, and that starts a cacophony of opinions about brussel sprouts from all around Anakin.

“Wow! One of mine just absolutely hates them,” Dr. Kenobi says. “She refuses to eat them, so you’re very brave, Michele.” He lets go of the girl and turns his golden-brown gaze up to Anakin. “And what does Mr. Skywalker think?” he asks, raising a hand for Anakin to take. It’s very obvious he’s asking for a hand up and Anakin is obeying before he thinks about it. He snatches his hand free almost too soon, but Dr. Kenobi doesn’t even have the grace to lose his balance and fall over. 

His hand is like ice in Anakin’s, and Anakin stuffs his fingers into the pocket of his jacket automatically a second later.

“Do brussel sprouts help with circulation?” he’s biting out before he can stop himself. “Cause you may need some then.”

Kenobi’s head tilts very slightly to the side as his eyes catch and hold onto Anakin’s. “Oh?” he asks lightly. 

���You’re cold,” is all Anakin mutters in return. He swipes his other hand against the back of his neck. “”S poor circlutation, isn’t it? Something in your diet maybe?” Dr. Kenobi blinks at him and then breaks into a wide smile. “I can assure my diet is very…circulation-mindful,” he says. “Blood health positive.”

Anakin’s mouth thins into a line. He guesses that’s what he gets for trying to give health advice to a doctor, especially a doctor like Kenobi who just so happens to be devastatingly attractive and also smart.

And also an asshole. And also married.

Speaking of which. “Are you here to fend off your wife’s admirers with a scalpel?” Kenobi’s eyebrows raise. “Young ones,” he turns his head away from Anakin, down to the children.

The strangest feeling breaks of Anakin the second Kenobi looks away, almost as if a strange pressure he hadn’t even realized had been building was suddenly dissolved.

The very small beginnings of a headache begin to thrum in his temples.

“Young ones, it’s time to find your parents, isn’t it?” Kenobi says, and like fucking magic, the crowd of six children around Anakin disperse, children swarming away from him towards the group of adults surrounding the front desk.

“Can you teach me how to do that?” Anakin blurts out, even though he’d meant to ignore Kenobi now that he doesn’t have to make nice in front of small kids. Not that he was really making nice in the first place. But now he definitely doesn’t have to.

Kenobi gives him a half-smile, eyes heavy-lidded. “It’s a special sort of skill that takes, above all else, much practice.”

Anakin scowls. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Does Kenobi think he can’t commit himself to something even as mundane as a fucking commanding persona? Does he think he doesn’t have it in him to be–-

Kenobi’s eyebrows go up again. “Has anyone ever told you that you are exceedingly defensive?” 

“You’re extremely nosey,” Anakin snaps back, crossing his arms over his chest. “Don’t you have better things to focus on right now anyway?”

He gestures loosely towards Satine, who has started playing with one of the mother’s bracelets as the other woman stands and looks at her rather dumbfounded.

Kenobi follows his gaze and then lets out a huff of laughter. “Satine can take care of herself,” he says, even though it hadn’t really been Satine that Anakin was worried about.

He’s about to open his mouth to say so when Kenobi turns back to him. His eyes are piercing, a dark, captivating sort of gold. 

“Do you find my wife beautiful, Anakin?” he asks.

Anakin blinks. His headache is getting worse, which is probably down to what can only be a trick-question fashioned to look like a grenade lobbed at his feet. “I don’t think there’s a good answer to that,” he mutters, rubbing absently at his forehead. “What the fuck.”

“An honest answer is a good one,” Kenobi says lightly. “Tell me honestly.”

The words feel pulled from Anakin’s stomach, and he’s opening his mouth before he realizes it. “No,” he says. 

Kenobi’s eyebrows crinkle together. “No?”

Anakin curses his stupid impulse control. “She’s beautiful,” he adds quickly. “Really. But…it makes me uncomfortable.”

Kenobi’s lips purse, and then there’s something like disappointment in his eyes as he examines Anakin. “Ah yes,” he murmurs. “I’ve been told my wife can make countless young men feel rather uncomfortable. It’s normal in men your age, Anakin. Sexual ar—”

“Uncanny,” Anakin blurts out. He doesn’t mean to, but he also doesn’t want to listen to  Kenobi trying to lecture him on fucking arousal in the public library. When it’s not even relevant. “She’s so beautiful, it’s uncanny.”

“Uncanny.”

“Yeah, like. Monstrous.”

Kenobi’s mouth falls open, pink lips parted in what looks like honest surprise.

Anakin’s own eyes widen as it hits him that he’s just called Kenobi’s wife a monster to Kenobi’s face.

“Shit,” he says. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that. I’m going to go.” 

He throws a look at Kenobi, whose eyes are lit with something a lot like interest and then across the library to where Satine’s head is turned, cocked, and eyebrows up high on her forehead, as if she’s just heard everything he’s said.

He decides rather immediately that he’s going to take the backdoor exit.

[wanderingpages]

‧͙⁺˚･༓☾Gentle Sins AU☽༓･˚⁺‧͙

“Are you going to help me take my clothes off too?” I meant it to sound teasing – I wanted to show him I could play his game too – but I was breathless, I was buzzing with anticipation.

“You know it wouldn’t end there, Jude,” he gave me a wry look. “It's a shame,” he rose and ruffled my hair, “It's a shame you’re my sister,” he murmured, needlessly reminding me. “Because that was some damn fine pussy, baby.”

TFOTA // All Human // AU : Jude and Cardan do things step-siblings shouldn't do.

Trigger Warnings: Crude language, Allusions to Drugs/Alcohol, Debauching Catholicism/Religious Metaphors, Taboo Sex.

Only God and @headcannonxgalore knows how many times I rewrote this one.

Jude's POV

I stand on my tiptoes, both feet perched on the back of my armchair, strategically positioned against the wall closest to the doorway. Holding my breath, I delicately place the wire right above the door frame. "Uh huh," I mumble in response to Fand's voice emanating from the speakerphone, feeling beads of sweat forming at the back of my neck. A sigh of relief escapes when the fairy lights finally find their place on the nail I had carefully tacked there earlier. Stepping down, I survey the room, content with the new decor I've added today. Admittedly, it was done as a way to create an excuse to stay in my room and avoid the rest of my family, but as  I take in the rest of the scene, I can't help but feel pretty accomplished. 

Suddenly, there’s a tap on my window. My brows furrow when I turn and spot Cardan standing on the roof, waiting patiently for me. He breathes against the glass before writing “Hi” and drawing a little smiley face in the fog. I let out a snort, despite myself, forgetting about my cell still running a call on my dresser. 

“Jude?” Fand questions.

“Um, Fand, I’ll call you back in a bit, okay?” I hardly hear her answer as I end the call, tossing the phone on the bed. I walk over to the window and pull it up. I rest my elbows on the sill, watching amused as Cardan squats down to be leveled with me.

He tugs the end of my braid, grinning, “Can I come in?”

I pretend to think, “What’s in it for me?”

“Anything you want, princess.” His eyes glimmer in the moonlight. He leans in closer and I can smell cinnamon gum on his breath. “Please,” he pleads, “It’s cold out here, Jude.” My mouth tingles at the barely there brush of his against mine. My tongue darts out, wetting my lips and I take a tentative step back for him to maneuver in. The chilled air also seems to follow him in, making goosebumps prick at my skin. I resist the urge to cover myself and take a few steps back until the back of my knees hit my bed. I take a seat, finding the koala I had thrown from my chair and bring it onto my lap, digging my fingers into its fur. 

He sits on the ledge, obscuring most of the cool air from directly hitting me. He nods his head to my phone, curiously, “Who was that?”

I shrug, following his line of sight in time to see a message come through from Fand. I swipe it away, glancing at the time reading well after midnight. “A friend.”

“Oh, I’ve heard that song before,” Cardan teases. He brings his tongue to the back of his teeth, and to my annoyance, begins a series of ‘la-la-la’s’ in tune with the chorus of Biz Markie’s “Just a Friend.”

“She is,” I insist. Contrary to what my stepmother may think of me being this lonesome child, I did have a few friends in high school and Fand was by far the closest. We kept in touch throughout our first semester, and met up a handful of times since I’ve been back. But, despite that, despite the hour long conversation I just ended with her, I’ve been feeling like a stranger. 

I give my stepbrother an inquiring look, wondering why he’s so far away and why we’re both acting so coy. I run the nail of my forefinger over my thumb, jolting when I snag a scabbed over bruise. Absently, I bring the scored finger to my mouth as I take him in. He looks flushed, undoing the scarf around his neck before running his fingers through his dark, windblown tresses. A silver pendant glints against his black shirt –  a small double cross pendant on a roll chain. I rub my hand over my cheek and raise my brow in question. He grins when he catches my eyes and asks, “How was your run this morning?”

“My run?” I repeat, miffed. I’m partially dazed, entranced by how stark he looks against the backdrop of my very bright room; donned with a dark pair of jeans, laced up boots and what looks like a dark sherpa lined coat only enhanced by the crème colored walls and fairy lights strewn up – along with fake greenery and miscellaneous photos hooked in between – at the far corner of my room.

He turns, taking in the new decor and taps a photo closest to him, musing lightly, “When did you put this up?”

 “A few hours ago,” I admit. “Have you always been partial to the color black?”

“I’m more of a gold guy,” he says, scrunching his nose in a way I can’t help but find almost cute. His nose ring shines when he tilts his head just right, and for the first time since I’ve known Cardan Greenbriar, I feel quite shabby in comparison. My pajama pants are fuzzy and juvenile with its cow printed pattern,  and the large gray shirt I have on does nothing to help accentuate my body. “You didn’t even kiss me goodbye,” he brings back the conversation, almost pouting at me.

“Kiss you goodbye,” I repeat dryly. I grip the koala a little tighter. “Sorry?” I offer, a moment later and he shrugs absently. “Where’d you go? Today, I mean. You were gone when I came back,” I point out, aware of how suddenly I'm the one with the accusatory tone.

He looks at me carefully when he answers, “A friend asked for some help. She’s moving furniture around.”

“She?” It comes out before I can stop myself. Him asking about Fand felt so light compared to the dread I feel asking about his friend.

He rests his head back against the window and watches me, slightly amused. “Mmhmm,” he hums and assures me, “no one to be worried about though, little sister.” His lips tilt up and I throw the teddy at him. He catches it in one hand, then brings it close to him for a cuddle. I'm all too aware of how empty and exposed I feel without it as armor. 

“That’s not what I was getting at,” I mumble. My stomach churns, feeling a rush of complicated emotions twisting deep within me. Jealousy, I can admit to myself, and a pitiful type of envy as I watch the beady eyes of my stuffed animal he holds so tenderly. I play with the tips of my hair, fiddling with the elastic that holds the tight braid together. It’s a little too tight, and maybe that’s why my skull is pounding right now. “Why did you come through the window, by the way? I’m sure our parents don’t care about a curfew for you.” If I sound bitter about that, he decidedly ignores it.  

"Have you considered that maybe, I just like the thrill of things," he says playfully, his eyes holding something daring and challenging within them. A wicked grin curls onto his lips and I let out a huff of air, trying not to think back on all his thrilling ideas before. A tingle crawls up my spine, unpleasantly. This time I don’t ignore the shiver and I cross my arms over my chest.

I roll my eyes, “Okay, you adrenaline junkie, can you close the window now? Pneumonia isn’t very thrilling, so to speak.” 

He instead places the koala on the bookshelf and moves to come closer to me, though he pauses when I give his boots a pointed look. He retracts, settling back against the window, instead of undoing his laces like I thought he would. “Come here, first,” he barters. I blink in hesitation, and while I try to remain seated, my feet lead me to him anyway. I roll my eyes, annoyed with myself, wondering if I’d bark, too, if he told me to get on all fours for him. 

I toe at his boot when we’re close together, staring down at the chipped polish on my nails against his scuffed leather. I’m avoiding his gaze because it’s so damn bright in my room that I know if I meet his eyes, I’ll find that his dark irises are not black as midnight, but a deep brown with tiny, lighter flecks of amber around the edges. I’ll get lost in them like I shouldn’t, fall just a little deeper, maybe, forget that this is a game and fold. He tilts my chin up and my heart’s nearly steady rhythm skyrockets as soon as my gaze falls on his lips. “Hi,” I say, quietly.

“Jude,” Cardan says just as breathlessly, and it catches me off guard at first. My name sounds like sin…like desire, when he says it, and as I place my fingers over his chest, I wonder if the devil has ever called out a saint’s name so enticingly. ‘Eve,’ the snake whispered, ‘bite the apple’ must be tantamount to ‘Jude, ride my fingers.’ His lips twitch, a lone finger tracing pink in my cheek, and he asks, “What are you thinking?”

I don't answer. I reach for the cross dangling from his neck, testing the weight on the tip of my finger. It’s heavier than most pendants its size, and when I flip it over, I’m not surprised to see the letters ‘c’ and ‘h’ embossed on it. I want to twist the chain around my fingers until it purples my skin, until it embeds in his flesh, until he struggles for breath – maybe then he’ll feel an ounce of what I feel when I'm this close to him. I trace up the chain, following it to where his skin is flushed from the weather. I find a bruising mark along the juncture of his neck. I bite my tongue, embarrassed to know that I was the one who left it there. I finger it lightly and he shudders, to my surprise. His lashes flutter and his lips part. 

Astounded, I trace the mark again and watch, enthralled as he sucks in a breath. His heated hand grasps my iced one, removing it from his skin. He squeezes it lightly, thawing my fingers before letting them go. My hands then move to his hips, creeping towards his back, sneaking into the warmth of his jacket. Cardan’s hand against my face splays, fingers reaching to my neck, his other hand goes to my hair, curling it like a rope around his wrist and bending my head back. He leans closer, cinnamon wafting over my cheeks. I want to kiss him, I realize. Not in the throws of passion or under the guise of secrecy, I just want to kiss him soft and sweet; press our lips together for just a second. Perhaps, I had done myself a disservice, not kissing him goodbye this morning. Lost a chance of daylight reaching our sins. 

His eyes search mine, he’s annoyed, I think drably, but he holds me in place with no malice touching his features. His thumb traces the darkness under my eye, indication of my lack of sleep. “Is it me?” His question confuses me for a moment, and I grip his shirt just a bit tighter. “Something else? Daddy?” I frown at that when I follow his thought process. Dad, guilt, Asha… I try to turn my face but he doesn’t let me cower. His eyes search mine, then he offers, “Do you want to get out of here?”

I hesitate to answer, only because I’m not quite sure of how grand of a scope his question entails. Get out of my room, or get out of this life? “It’s past my curfew,” I finally murmur stupidly, my breath hitching when our lips meet briefly.

His lips stretch against mine. “Go find a jacket,” He turns me to face my closet and I stumble towards it, colder the further I move away from him.

“Should I change?” I ask, looking down at my sleepwear.

“What’s the point, if I'm going to get you out of them, anyways?” I scowl and turn my head to him. His smile is boyish as he surrenders, “Joking – I would dare not corrupt my darling little sister, of course.”

“You’re sick,” I tell him, now deciding on remaining in my frumpy attire out of spite. He laughs out a stupid childish phrase, implying I was the sick one, not him. I fight the urge to stick my tongue out at him and head to my closet, finding the only coat not currently hanging downstairs in the foyer. I grab a pair of thick socks from a drawer and then proceed to slip on sneakers that have seen better days. They’re no pristine, white high tops like Vivienne's but they do the trick all the same. “How do I look?”

I give him a turn, not really expecting a response as I walk up to him – I’m sure I resemble a clown school drop out – but I let out a startled noise when he pulls the scarf from his neck and wraps it around my own. “It’s cold,” he explains. It’s a soft cashmere and smells just like him. He climbs out the window first, not giving me a chance to respond, then holds out a hand to help me out. I keep my mouth closed, nuzzling deeper into his scarf as he explains how to get down. I’m only half hearing his words as the thrill of sneaking out starts to surface by the tremble of my body. He navigates his way down first, making sure I'm closely following behind. I feel a little giddy, and perhaps it shows on my face when Cardan glances at me. His soft smile seems responsive to my mood. He throws an arm over my shoulder and quietly leads us past his car and towards the sidewalk, then a little ways down.

He finally pauses far enough away, under the shelter of trees at the dead end of the cul-de-sac where not even the neighboring houses’ security lights can touch us. We’re in front of a pick-up truck, old and rusted and not at all something I’d ever picture Cardan driving; seemingly out of place even in my neighborhood. My eyebrows shoot up when he opens the door and gestures me in. “This is humbling,” I finally manage, laughing at the absurdity of it all. He holds a hand out to me and I take it, letting him help me into the cab. It’s a little shabby, but I feel more comfortable than I did in his car. Maybe it’s because the truck holds no awkward memories I constantly have to face in it.

He jogs over to the other side, quickly turning dials to blast the heat. He keeps the windows down only a crack to diminish any fog on the glass, then pulls on to the road. My fingers wiggle in front of the vents, warming them up, humming to the low music his radio plays. His lips tilt in a small smile, “I told you, I was helping a friend.”

My eyebrows shoot up, “So you rented this?

“Baby, I own this,” he says almost proudly. “None of Daddy’s money and all.” He shrugs and turns the music up, “Have you ever seen Insmire during the holidays? We missed the Halloween decorations, but Christmas is something else.”

“No,” I shake my head and lean back, tucking my chin to snuggle into his scarf. I wonder idly when the warm musky scent of him has turned into something comforting for me. “I never really had a reason to go to Insmire.”

He glances at me then nods to the canvas bag by my feet, “You cold? There’s a blanket in there.” I reach down and pull out a thick beige knitted throw with gold sequins scattered here and there. Before I can mention anything Cardan says, “Nicasia didn’t want it, said you’d probably like it.”

I tuck it back into the bag, “Nicasia?” it takes me a minute to realize that she’s the friend he’d been helping. Something sours knots in my stomach and I try to ignore it. Had he driven that far to see her, or did she also live much closer than I knew? “From the party? She… knows about us?” It’s stupid to ask, I know before he answers. I think about Ghost and what he asked me that night, if I wanted them to watch – wanted my stepbrother to watch. He knew, so of course she knew, too. 

“Jude,” Cardan laughs, “She got her rocks off watching me watch you; I’m sure she might have an inkling of how constantly I think about fucking my stepsister.” 

“Oh,” I mumble, wryly, “Is that how her rocks got off?”

“I might have helped some,” He laughs, turning the radio up. “I think she likes you,” he offers and I squirm.

“Yeah, well, I don’t like you.”

“Little liar. I think you like me a lot. And it’s more than just the dirty shit I do to you; you like me as a person and all that.” In another world, I’d agree and we’d call this our third date.

I grind my molars, staring out the window, watching the lights pass us by. “I don't even think I know you as a person, really. Like, what do you even major in?”

“Psychology,” he says, not missing a beat.

“Really?” I ask, surprised. “Why that?”

“Wish I had a better therapist when I was 7,” he drops on me. “What better way to fix the system than from within?”

I look at him with high brows, “Really? I mean- I… I’m so sorry, Cardan -”

“I am pretty exceptional at coloring within the lines, though,” he smiles almost indifferently. “I think that's really all I did in her office - color worksheets she’d give me.” I part my lips, but he changes the subject, “You ever been ice skating?”

“No…” I say, slowly, accepting the new information and trying not to pry where he doesn't want me to. “I’m not really into sports - I never even learned how to ride a bike.”

“You run,” he points out, to which I shrug as this was something new to me too. “Wait, you don't know how to ride a bike?” I let out a startled laugh because yeah, that does seem incredulous. 

“He may not seem like it, but Dad worries a lot. He’s never let me experience scraped knees. I don’t even have my ears pierced.” I give him a grin but he doesn't reciprocate. His eyes are trained in front of him, glancing up at street signs so my eyebrows furrow when Cardan reaches blindly, fingers touching my ear, thumbing where a first piercing would be. “Oh,” I say, “I guess it’s weird that I took your earrings then - do you want them back?”

He rolls his eyes, making a turn as his fingers glide down to my shoulder, then lower to my hand, encasing it in his. “Don’t be stupid, Jude.”

We talk casually, asking and answering more asinine questions – whatever we must have missed on our road-trip home. I give his fingers a squeeze when I get more comfortable, giggling a bit as Cardan sings off-key to the Christmas song playing on the radio. I turn my head to the window, watching as gradually, bare houses with some fairy lights slowly transcend into houses adorned with strings of multicolored lights blinking in harmony. Every single tree we pass by has an array of lights shining brightly. Inflatable Santas and reindeers sway in the winter breeze. It’s almost whimsical. I lean closer to the window, aware of Cardan slowing down for me to see. Sure, Insmoor had their fair share of décor, but Insmire felt like being inside a snow globe.

“This doesn't feel real,” I whisper in wonder. I roll down the window halfway, sticking my head out the car to get a better look. Cardan’s hand holds mine a bit tighter, as if he’s scared I'd fall out. The decorations become more intricate, with some houses featuring life-sized nutcrackers and snowmen. Strings of lights with snowflakes and baubles at the end hang from bare trees, looking like giant ornaments floating in the air. Even the towering Christmas trees are visible through the windows. One house even has a Grinch placed by their chimney. They all look like different scenes from different Christmas movies.“Cardan - look!” The air carries the familiar scent of winter pine, and for a moment, the festive atmosphere transports me back in time.

The memories flood, foggy, but still there, and suddenly, the smile on my face feels like it’s worth too much effort. I recall silver thistle wrapped around a small tree, baubles with our names on it. Jude, Eva, Madoc. “It’s so pretty, Mommy!” I said as dad lifted me on his shoulders, letting me place an angel on the top of the tree, followed by a distant response of,“Just like you my baby.” A scene so warm makes me feel so cold now. When did I stop believing in Santa? It had to have been after Mom left - but had Dad ever attempted to keep up pretenses after that year? I can't remember a happy holiday with just my father and I. Even with Asha's added presence, we never went for usual Christmas traditions, though it was probably the only time I ever received a wrapped gift or Christmas cookies - albeit store bought, it still embraced the holiday that in a way, my dad had halted.

“Jude?” Cardan's voice breaks through my reverie, calling my name with concern. I don't answer immediately; the emotions threaten to overwhelm me. I wipe my eyes, taking a moment to center myself. My hand feels cold in his. 

“Even your house is decorated,” I point out, trying to mask the sudden croak in my voice. The truck rolls to a stop in front of someone’s lawn. His front lawn might be the most tame, though still painting a picture of a snow-family opening presents by a large Christmas tree.

I see Cardan run a hand through his hair from my window’s reflection. The cheery glow seems to turn into an uncomfortable spotlight. He looks torn on whether to answer me or offer me comfort. “Yeah, we…pay people to do that for us.” He’s concerned when he asks, “Jude, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I wipe at my nose and turn to give him a smile. It wavers and feels forced, not fooling either of us. “I just remembered… I just… I haven’t had homemade hot chocolate until your mom showed up.” I feel like I’m somehow betraying him by telling him this. “I didn’t even know what Elf on a Shelf was until she started living with us.”

His eyes flash; he looks almost… defeated. “Yeah?” he tugs my hand, and I let him pull me closer, let him turn me and guide me on to his lap. He shifts us down to the center, making sure the steering wheel wouldn’t dig into me. I place my palms on his chest as he undoes the scarf, letting it hang around my neck, then works on my zipper, smoothly sliding it down and unhooking it.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper as I lower my head to his. Sorry I fell for Asha - wish I fell for you, first.

He seems to hesitate, his gaze lingering not exactly on me, but at me. "She’s not my favorite person, but if she’s yours, then..." he shrugs, and pulls me closer, his hands coming to my hips, sliding beneath my shirt to the small of my back. “It's a little funny,” he smirks with no mirth, “She never even knew how to make hot chocolate when I used to visit. She burned chocolate in the microwave once. Unrelated, but I never went back after that year.” 

I frown, tracing the curve of his lips with my thumbs. “What did she do?” I ask, before I can stop myself. My eyes grow wide, “Don’t answer that, sorry -”

He cuts me off, giving me a dry smile, “It’s all water under the bridge, don’t worry your pretty little head over it.”

“Cardan…”

As if it explains anything, he says, “My mother is a devout catholic now, repenting and all that,” his droll is sardonic. “Maybe she’d be proud of how biblically I want you.”  his fingers creep higher, thumbs maneuvering over my breasts making me suck in breath when he caresses my peaked nipples. I bite down on my lip; I think I know him well enough to know he’s deflecting, but I don't mind. His hands are so, so, so warm. “I wouldn't be here if I didn't think I could handle it. Don't worry, little sister.” He trails off quietly, a far off look on his face. His thumbs are absently rubbing over me in small circles. My knees twitch and I feel the shake in my thighs as I grind down on his lap, reaching for some type of friction. He sucks in a breath, fingers digging into my skin. His lips twitch, eyes gleaming when he meets mine, “Anyways, you can tell Daddy that I think you ride just fine, baby sister.” 

I grit my teeth, sliding my hands to cup the back of his neck. I grip at the hair at his nape, moving my hips a little harder. “Fuck you,” I manage, and he just smiles, so awfully, holding on to me as I continue to take what I can from him, like a damned hypocrite. My nails dig into his scalp and my head falls back. I feel warm and flushed and lightheaded. His nail scrapes against my nerves, and I bite down hard on my bottom lip. Heat pools between my legs the more he circles my nipples. They get so sensitive so fast that it starts to feel like torment. “Ah,” I whisper, my nails on the brink of breaking his skin.

There’s a rush in my ears and it takes me some time to realize Cardan is speaking to me, whispering to me, praising me, taking nonsense,“...good… you look so fucking good…so pretty…riding this dick…” I let out a moan when he shifts his hips and we align perfectly. “I wonder,” he breathes, “how often you hump your pillows… like this… ride your stuffed toys… wishing it was me….” I’m too gone to be embarrassed. I want to undo his pants but I don't want to let go of him, I don't want him to let go of me, either. He reaches down, biting me over my shirt and I let out a cry when he tugs at the peaked tips of my breasts, one after the other.

Cardan’s fingers are bruising into my skin and when I glance down, he’s already looking up at me. The lights flicker against his necklace, taunting me, and for a moment, I imagine it dangling off his bare neck, teasing my skin as he hovers over me. I lean down until my lips are by his ear and bite down on his earlobe. He pinches me under my shirt, in retaliation, before rubbing his fingers over the soreness. I suck in a breath, feeling hot and heady, rubbing harder on him until the ache in my clit is satiated. 

“Which one was it,” he whispers. “The snake?”

“No,” I manage.

“Koala? Cat…?” His grunts are labored, I shake my head against him, and I lift my hips just a bit to bounce on him. “A pillow?”

I whimper and his hands slide down to my hips, kneading at my flesh guiding me roughly. My eyes screw tight, as heat erupts inside of me. I pull his chain from the back, letting the cross dagger into his skin, press into the hollow of his neck, while I ride the last of the euphoric wave. My lips move against his skin, “no… I have a different toy. One that vibrates. I’ll let you watch one day.”

His eyes are lidded, when I pull away to look at him. His breaths come out shallow as I slow to a stop. He brings a hand to my hair, winding my braid until my neck pulls back. He bites down right under my chin, pulling away with a harsh suck of skin. “I’ll hold you to it.”

He slowly unravels my hair and my fingers shake as I hold on to him, trying to catch my breath. “Do you…” I can't find my words, falling forward to place my head against his. My hands slowly lets go of him, falling from his neck and down to his chest. I go lower, reaching the button on his jeans, “You didn’t…”

He closes his eyes, taking in a breath, “Just stay still for a moment.” He gives me a dry laugh, “It’s not so easy to clean up come in my current position, as it is for you to hide how wet your panties are.” I roll my eyes, but heed his request. Finally, he opens his eyes and searches mine. “You look tired.”

I snort, “no kidding.”

He grins, “I should get you back home now. You’re due for a run in a few hours then I'm sure you’ll follow Asha to mass later, right?” I grimace at that but nod anyway, feeling a little more than anxious about Sunday service.

“I feel another sleepless night coming,” I admit. He slowly moves his other hand from under my shirt to hold my face, and I tell him, “It’s not you, by the way.” He gives me a questioning look and I smile as much as I can for him. “The longest I’ve slept since we’ve been back was last night, in your arms.” I lean in to give him the kiss we’d missed out on before. He grabs my chin, not letting me fully pull away, and presses his lips to mine again, turning the soft peck into something more, parting my lips with his own, coating my tongue with cinnamon. 

←Prev Part ∞ Next Part →

Masterlist

Gentle Sins Masterlist

[pbs-theundeadmaggot]

Stay

Steve Harrington x fem!reader

[a/n] sorry for the lack of posts for valen-cries I’m still working on my requests but I thought I’d finish this wip. Also if it wasn't obvious this is a songfic based on stay by Colorblind

[warnings!] self deprecation, metaphorical abuse? Implication of drugs but not actually taking any cause it’s also metaphorical. Its just angsty and ambiguous, feel free to interpret the ending how you wish.

Valen-cries masterlist available here!

Abuse me, I like the punishment

You keep me focused, I don't need no Ritalin

I like when you keep me guessing, its alright

Its alright

It was only supposed to be one night but one night turned into two., two to three until there were too many to count. It had started with just some light flirting and the odd touch yet it quickly became so much more, so much so that you weren’t sure where you stood anymore. 

Steve was so persuasive with his sweet whispers and cheeky looks, how could you refuse? It didn’t help that you had a major crush on him back in high school and the moment he’d so much as looked your way, you’d fallen again. 

How pathetic, here you were fighting off your feelings for a guy who only ever saw you as a fuck buddy. Just another toy to warm his bed like numerous others before you, as if you even stood a chance. However, saying that you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Can we turn our feelings off?

I need you baby, just for one night,

One night

He’d call at the same time every night you spent apart, his gravely voice sending chills down your spine in the silence of your bedroom, where the boundaries of friendship and romance blurred across the distance. Some nights you’d talk for hours and hours, others simply bask in each others silence finding the need for words overrated.

In the darkness of the night you’d find yourself tracing over the freckles and faint scars that kissed his skin, trying to memorise every inch of him as if he would disappear at any second. If you could contain this memory forever you would, alas that would only make the pain harder when you inevitably parted.

I know what you’re looking for,

You make it feel like its the first time, every time

Every time

Coming down from the high was always difficult, doubt crippling you as you lay cold and empty. You tell yourself it will be the last time and it never is, the unhealthy hold he has over you enticing you back again and again. Unsure of wether you could do this anymore and chest tightening with every breath, what other choice was there but to run?

I don't really wanna fight right now,

I don't really see the point right now,

And if the love wasn’t real enough what the hell we gonna do when the truth comes out?

Steve wasn’t really one for commitment, you both knew that, so why did it hurt so much watching you leave each time? Would you stay if he asked? Or were you only in it for the sex? He had no right to ask, his reputation made sure of that but that didn’t stop the conflicting feelings threatening to spill with your presence. 

I’d rather start it on a blank page,

I think I like it with a new face

You dont wanna wait for me, its safe to be

Stuck inside this place where we keep faking things,

Running in circles looking for an end that didn’t exist seemed pointless but anything was easier than confronting your feelings, even uncertainty felt more stable than the mess you were floating in, head barley above water and still refusing to swim. You hadn’t realised that in the ocean of your mind Steve had been searching for you, begging you to stay afloat with him. 

I think you’re finally breaking me,

The way it seems you’re making me,

Stay 

[ilexdiapason]

plz i beg of thee, more mushtyn & property police 🥺👉

(the original mushtyn post)

It doesn't come to a head until Limited Life begins.

Because there was always going to be another game, wasn't there - fate is one of those funny things that you can never truly shake, something Jimmy knows better than anyone. There’s a reason he’s got fledgling canary wings still growing on his back, wings that he still has to clip under his elytra for them to be of any use, wings that move a little too stiffly as Martyn’s membranes creep across his shoulder blades and up towards his pinions with every death-respawn. Fate cannot be stopped, no matter how hard you push, no matter which way you shake it.

The hermits cross over; the emperors follow. There’s Christmas celebrations, but it altogether feels like a bit of a feeble attempt at reciprocity. And then the portal starts to close, and all Jimmy can do is squeeze himself through the one-block gap that’s all that’s left before he’s trapped in a world where he doesn’t belong, before he can truly go home.

There was always going to be another game, and so when Jimmy - when Martyn - when Jimmy-and-Martyn finds himself standing in a circle of familiar faces, informed abruptly that he now has twenty-four hours to live, he’s honestly not surprised.

The Canary Curse is not so much something that Jimmy finds himself crying over as it is an inevitability that he’s resigned to by now. If there is a game, if there are lives to be lost permanently, Jimmy will lose them, and he’ll lose the final one before anybody else. He’s a harbinger, albeit a reluctant one; the only way he’s found to escape that fate is to be the admin in charge of the lives himself, an experiment for which poor Eloise suffered instead.

Martyn, though, has no such ideas about resignation. He is Jimmy’s Listener, now; he is Jimmy, in a way, after so much painstaking entwinement, after weeks and months of protection, of listening out for the threats that Jimmy can’t catch on his own, isn’t sharp enough to notice without Martyn’s supernatural expertise.

Martyn, fresh off the starting plate, when everybody else has run off to punch trees and collect resources, declares that Jimmy’s going to win. Martyn will make sure that Jimmy wins.

Jimmy laughs, nervous, the electric signals of Martyn’s determination sparking down his spine. He can’t just say that, right? Can’t just up and decide to not just evade the Canary Curse, but totally upend it. Can’t just elect to outrun fate like it’s no skin off their back.

Martyn, something fierce and set in Jimmy’s shoulders, doesn’t care what fate has to say.

They see Joel on the shore, muttering some insult about using non-bio, and sail right by. They see Scott, settling in the ocean, and they mull it over. He tries to hand Jimmy a pufferfish, falling back on old emotions; Jimmy takes the free weapon, turns down the offer to team.

Jimmy-and-Martyn strikes out on his own.

(He’ll hear, in the hours that follow, how the teams hashed out. There’s Team TIES in the west, and the Clockers established on Entertainment Mountain, right in the thick of spawn. Scott has built a little Coral Isle, but it’s a lonely one without that alliance he’d been angling for. Grian, Pearl and BigB have become the Nosy Neighbours, pledging to always Watch the goings-on of other teams; Martyn turns up his metaphorical nose at that one, asserts that there’s much more satisfaction to be found in Listening instead. Joel is alone. Joel is usually alone, though - it’d taken him a literal soulbond to not be alone last season.)

Two boogeymen roll through without incident. Grian, ever one to make sure their games are an appropriate spectacle, calls for a third.

Something glitches. Something sticks.

Martyn, threaded into Jimmy’s skin, begins to burn.

It’s not hard, after that, to secure their victory. The heat of the curse doesn’t fade, no matter how many kills they get, and no matter how many times Grian tries to reroll it or reset it. Anybody coming close to his hideaway in one of the deeper caverns of the world (central, because getting too close to the border makes Jimmy-and-Martyn start to vibrate just the wrong side of comfortable) is quickly shown back to spawn the quickest way he knows how, with a rejuvenating sixty minutes hewn back into his timer every time. In time, the people learn to leave Jimmy-and-Martyn alone.

Their communicator buzzes, eventually, to tell them that Skizzleman was slain by Etho, and that he is the first one out of the game.

Jimmy’s blood might have run cold, if he could feel his nerve endings any more. If the curse wasn’t quite so constant of a simmer.

And more people die, and more, and more, and more, and Jimmy is not dying, and Jimmy is not dead, and phantom wings would strain against his back if they weren’t bound from flying in this life, and Jimmy is still not dead, and Martyn listens to the world as it goes quieter and quieter and quieter until they’re close to being the only people left.

When Jimmy-and-Martyn resurfaces, there are two people left. He can hear Scott and Impulse laying out the parameters for their final fight, an honourable thing.

He hefts a sword and a lava bucket, and he seeks them out through sound alone.

The screams are delicious. The time is delicious.

(Scott wondered, over his 24 hours, what brought Jimmy to this point; why he’d given up on making the game the game. He’d decided in the end that it must have been the grief of losing Martyn that drove him to depression, to isolation and self-destruction. Then again, Scott never actually tried approaching Jimmy in his exile. If he had, he might have believed the rumours that it took off twice your time to meet his blade.)

(Impulse wondered, in the last few seconds before he was slashed to gory pieces, what on earth had happened to Jimmy’s skin; why it seemed jaundiced and hollow, like a thin film of something else stretched over muscle and bone. He wondered about the woodenness of Jimmy’s step, and the little yellow particles that coated Jimmy’s sword. But, most importantly, he wondered why it looked like such an unfamiliar fighting style for the Jimmy that he’d known not so many games ago, and so much more like Martyn’s hack-and-slashing.)

The Watchers are not pleased. Martyn does not care. His champion - his host - has beat them at their own damn game, has lain silent in the coalmine and awaited his redemption, and it has worked.

And Jimmy?

Well, he doesn’t think much of anything any more. He just Listens to Martyn.

[azalea-romanoff]

HAPPY AUTISM AWARENESS DAY!

First: happy autism awareness day to all my mun/mods with autism or who have characters with autism. (in my case, it's both!)

So in honour of Autism Awareness Day and month, I'd like to tell you all about my levels of autism <3

Tics and Fidgets: I'm on the spectrum such that I have a lot of tics and fidgets. Usually it's the repititions which feel nice, and it can often annoy others. I have a tendency to: click my tongue, snap my fingers, flap my hands, rock back and forth, and i make popping sounds. the more subtle tics are pulling my hair, picking my fingernails.

Poor Eye contact: Poor eye contact with me is only with people i don't know or during stressful situations. like if i'm in a meeting with Nick Fury, i'll be fine. but if i'm greeting new agents? hell no. (//ooc: i can talk to my class teacher just fine, but with maybe the delivery man, a cashier, i can't look them in the eyes.).

Abnormal Posture: ...as an agent, this is a huge no-no. the only reason i got the job is because my abnormal posture is literally me just keeping my fists clenched at all times, and keeping my left foot a bit more in front of the other. a tense fighting stance if you will. Convenient!

Anxiety: Shockingly, it's low! I only get anxious in places which are too loud or too far from home. loud places make me really anxious because it means i have too many thoughts in my head and too many things to process at a time. and being deaf, too, with hearing aids, it makes it 100x tougher. Sorry, but Azalea Romanoff-Maximoff isn't the girl you take to a party or a club.

Social Difficulty: I have moderately high social difficulty. as in, i have trouble communicating my thoughts when in big groups, and making friends is a bit...daunting as a task. And sometimes i miss on non-verbal cues like sarcasm, subtle joking, even a few metaphors here and there. So iF YOU NEED A SPECIFIC BIRTHDAY GIFT, TELL ME TO MY FACE. DON'T HINT IT-? I WILL LITERALLY NOT GET YOUR POINT.

Noise Sensitivity: ...have you met me? i am VERY sensitive to noise. Vacuum cleaners, power drills, gunshot sounds (//ooc: movies, especially), someone typing loudly on their laptop, so many of these day-to-day sounds drive me to a meltdown sometimes because it's just so annoying.

Abnormal/Flat Speech: Nope. Most people can tell how i'm feeling by my voice, except in situations where i'm confused on how to react. like if someone says they're pregnant, i'll just say 'oh, nice.' like, are you happy or sad or like-? eH???

Fixations: I have plenty. But my biggest ones? Top Three: Animals, History, Space. iF i get bored, i will literally talk about this for hours, and dare you show even an iota of interest in the same, my friend you're gonna be there a WHILE.

Depression: only on sensory overload days, or on days where i randomly get sad. a result of the anxiety, honestly. i think wayyyyy too many 'what if' scenarios.

Aggression: And finally, I'm not a very aggressive person. Only if i'm very overstimulated, if i'm not being heard, or if i'm just having a bad day in general, i might break a pencil or two. maybe throw a few books down a shelf.

BONUS: soooo i hate the colour yellow or anything that is yellow. like, i haven't ever touched a banana. my favourite colour is red, and my favourite animal is the panda. i hate the feeling of shag carpets and i don't like the feeling of nylon on skin. i don't like the scratchiness of yarn and i don't like the sound of chalk on a chalkboard. i do like the hum of an air conditioner though, and looking outside a window helps calm me down.

SO that's all about my autism! I hope i made you all aware! Reach out to any fellow autistic people you may know, and do find out about their fixations, if they're non-verbal or verbal. accept them for who they are, don't try and fix them.

autism isn't a disease. our minds are just wired differently. if you can figure out how a complex video game works within 24 hours, how hard can a person be?

🤟 love you all!

bellow is my autism spectrum evaluation results (mod's) for people who are close to me, like @moongirlwidow @wandabug @supermilkshakebanana @nevaeh-daughterofvalcarol @capt-carter-mostly-official @esmerxyaugusta and @pietro-maximoff-official <3

[thedragonagelesbian]

“I had an inkling that I might find you here.”

In the hours since reclaiming Drezen, Knight Commander Kyrith’enderax had not rested a wink. Few in the army had— though, most of them were at least relaxing, partaking in the impromptu and alcohol-heavy celebration that had sprung up in the main hall of the citadel. But Sosiel had found Kyrith’enderax in his new quarters. The bodies of the demons had been removed, the floors scrubbed clean, the bed and walls stripped, save for a lone mirror that served only to double the stark emptiness of the room.

As he was scrubbing away a decade’s worth of grime from the stained glass window, Kyrith’enderax said, “I am not given to parties.” His tone was matter-of-fact, his voice hoarse. Dry as frostbite.

Sosiel gave him a warm smile. “Seelah said as much— told me that the celebration after the Grey Garrison was enough to make you green about the gills.” Kyrith’enderax tilted his head to the side every so slightly, and he scrambled to clarify, “It means uneasy, ill. Forgive me the metaphor; a painter should not try to write poetry.”

“No, forgive me. Figurative language remains new to me. Like parties.” Kyrith’enderax’s eyes—a burning campfire set into the ice of the dhampir’s skin—swept to Sosiel for a moment before he returned to his task. “Like people.”

Sosiel knew little of Kyrith’enderax’s past. Not because he wouldn’t share—he had made it clear that anyone was allowed to ask him whatever they wanted about his past, so long as it was in private—but because Sosiel did not relish digging through old cemeteries. He knew, at least, what Kyrith’enderax had told all of his companions: that he had spent very little time in the real world, isolated for much of his life in a laboratory outside of Mendev where he had been a research assistant.

And he knew how Kyrith’enderax’s jaw had tightened when they found the vampire in Drezen. When Theruk purred, Your sire is looking for you. Oh, yes, Cynfael has been relentless in his hunt for his wayward spawn.

That little gesture had been the extent of it. Kyrith’enderax had stayed stoic through the rest of it— the fight, their companions turning against them, Seelah striking Camellia down to protect the rest of the party from her. Even the execution had been cold, unblinking as Theruk made one last taunt from his coffin—Cynfael has a message for you—and resolute as he responded— I will not hear it. And then, turning away, fist slick with blood, commanding everyone to stay focused on the task at hand.

But Sosiel had known too many soldiers whose stoicism hid deeper wounds to not be concerned. To not feel obligated, both personally and professionally, to seek out those wounds and treat them.

“Large groups can be overwhelming,” he sympathized, “but there are other ways to celebrate your hard-won victory than doing chores,” Sosiel had come armed with a bottle of wine which he now offered up, “whether alone or, if you would not object, with a small spot of company.”

“I would never object to you.”

There it was again, that blunt sincerity that had first knocked Sosiel between his lungs outside of the Lost Chapel, heart frozen over and brittle enough to break when Kyrith’enderax told him I am glad that I did not lose you.

“But,” Kyrith’enderax continued, a twinge in the otherwise impassive rasp of his voice, “drinking is also new to me.”

“It could be a fine night for trying new things. A gentle buzz could help you to relax— and if the intoxication is more than you feel comfortable with, a simple restoration spell will have you back to yourself in a heartbeat.”

“My heart beats slow.”

Maybe it was the shadow of a black hole eclipsing his face, but it sounded more like a warning than a statement of fact. A reminder of Kyrith’enderax’s proximity to undeath, making something shiver in the juncture between Sosiel’s neck and shoulder.

“I mean only to say that any deleterious effects will be quickly reversible... and that I will keep an eye on you.”

“It would not do for a dhampir to lose control of himself.” Kyrith’enderax paused, and Sosiel wished he knew why, but he could discern nothing from his face save for the wandering of his eyes. To the window, to Sosiel, to the mirror, back to Sosiel again— face, chest, torso, hands, taking him in not with a vampire’s hunger but a scientist’s cold regard, as if he could unravel the mathematical truth of his body with the blankness of his stare. 

Given the cosmic power that now suffused him, maybe he could.

And then it melted away, eyes soft underneath his dark lashes and mouth parted. “But I cannot say that I mind being held in your gaze… Yes.” Kyrith’enderax exhaled, a tight shudder of a noise accompanied by the pulse of one of the stars that circled him. “Yes, I can afford this, though I have nowhere for us to sit save for—”

The bed was large enough to allow a respectful distance, but that did not stop Sosiel’s cheeks from warming as he fussed with the cork at the foot of the bed. Perched by the headboard, Kyrith’enderax sat stiff as always, but they were close enough now that Sosiel could see the slightest bit of give in his spine.

And he could see how those new powers had manifested.

They were exquisite. The veil of the cosmos had wrapped itself around Kyrith’enderax, swaddling him in the shimmering indigo of a clear night sky. A galaxy unto himself, he was orbited by winking starlight and swirling pockets of darkness, and it struck Sosiel that for as much of his life as he had dedicated to finding beauty in the everyday and natural, he had missed something by never before wrenching his head from his subjects long enough to look up and stare in open-mouthed awe at the sublime of the heavens.

The cork popped.

Quickly, Sosiel brought the bottle to his lips and took a nervous gulp. It was a dark red that he had chosen, all cherries and leather, not unlike one of his family’s vintages. 

He had also thought it might be to the dhampir’s liking.

“Is something wrong?”

“No,” Sosiel assured him, “I am only wishing for my sketchbook. You will be harder to draw now, but that is all the more reason to start practicing as soon as possible— so that I can do justice to this beauty.”

Kyrith’enderax rubbed his shoulder. It was a quirk that Sosiel had observed a few times before, but it was only in such close quarters that he realized its connection to the mark that the winter witch’s patron had left upon his body: ice-blue snowflakes stenciled from the nape of his neck, under the strap of his robes, and down his bicep. 

Sosiel wondered if the gesture was anything like touching prayer beads. An offering to something beyond them.

“You are too kind.”

“And you are too modest.” Sosiel felt the shape of something more on his tongue—a brilliant flourish of poetry that would show Kyrith’enderax exactly what Sosiel saw when he looked at him—but he swallowed it and chased it down with more wine. “Here. Perhaps this will help.”

Kyrith’enderax took the bottle by its neck and brought it close, forehead wrinkling slightly as he studied it. The label, the glass, the color, the scent, the beads of Sosiel’s saliva strung across the rim. And because of the promise he had made, Sosiel did not dare look away as Kyrith’enderax’s mouth replaced his, though he felt the warmth in his cheeks creep down to his chest.

For his part, Kyrith’enderax swallowed his first sip of alcohol with nothing more than ease and a few curious blinks.

“I am glad that you are here,” Kyrith’enderax said suddenly, “but surprised. It surprises me that you are here.”

“What’s so surprising about wanting to spend time with a friend?”

“That is another thing that is new to me,” Kyrith’enderax admitted, taking another long drag, “having friends. But I am more surprised that you are also relaxing. You have been restless since the Lost Chapel. I would expect you to still be in the field medic’s tent tending to the wounded, not here. With me.”

With the voice he used for hearing confessionals, Sosiel insisted, “This is a kind of tending too. The soul needs care as much as the body, and you have been through much today.”

“And what of your soul?” Kyrith’enderax looked back at him, and Sosiel flinched— penetrated and laid bare beneath the candlelight of his eyes. An aeon prying apart axioms, a witch divining from his entrails. “Our journey here has not been easy for you either.”

A friend showing concern.

Sosiel looked away.

“You are so sweet to worry, but I am fine.” Quick dismissal and quicker redirection, for how could a healer tend to the wellbeing of others if he was himself unwell? “I am more worried about how this journey has affected you.”

“Then we are equally worried about each other.” 

Kyrith’enderax did not sound worried but adamant, brooking no argument as to the equity of their feelings.

Sosiel did not know which he desired more: to try to argue anyway—insisting that there was no need to waste time fretting over him, like he was washing his hands before beginning his ministrations, and as the blood ran down the drain, praying that his anger and grief and terror would drain with it so that his heart and head could be clean for his holy task—or to curl up as close to Kyrith’enderax as he would permit and cocoon himself in that adamantine, safe. Seen.

Instead, he asked, “May I have the wine?”

Kyrith’enderax stole another sip for himself before handing the bottle over. Bringing it to his mouth, Sosiel noted that the lip had frosted over.

Would Kyrith’enderax’s lips taste the same?

“I do not know what to do with this,” Kyrith’enderax commented, voice soft even as he was gripping his shoulder again. “The worry, or any of the other things that I feel when I am with you, some new and mysterious and good and others…” That black hole was moving again, passing behind his head and lapping up the starlight in its path, constellations disappearing beyond its greedy event horizon. “Very, very old.”

Sosiel grimaced against the glass. “My apologies.”

“For what?”

“For burdening you with these uncomfortable feelings.”

“My discomfort is not your fault, nor your responsibility. The burden here is mine.” Before Sosiel could promise that he was strong enough to share it, Kyrith’enderax continued sharply, “It is in any case antithetical to the purpose of your visit to dwell on this heaviness, and I apologize for bringing it up.”

“The purpose of my visit is whatever you want it to be,” Sosiel assured him, gentle with the other man but not soft enough with himself to cushion the plummeting of his stomach, thinking himself foolish for the whole of this endeavor. “Whether that means talking through the heaviness, or putting it aside and celebrating instead, or…” Sosiel drew away, head low, “or being alone.”

“No—” The whisper broke as Kyrith’enderax suddenly lunged forward and grabbed Sosiel’s hand, skin cold enough to make him gasp. “I want…”

There was a weight to the word in Kyrith’enderax’s low rasp, gravity as forceful and inevitable as the black hole now dancing down his arm toward the intertwining of their fingers, tugging Sosiel’s heart up against his sternum like it meant to crack him open.

Something did. Crack. The sharp spasm of Kyrith’enderax’s bird-boned body as he tore away again.

“I apologize,” he muttered, once more distant and cold with his hand clawing at his shoulder. “Again. The body is unbecoming where the heart and mind cannot agree.”

Sosiel set the wine aside and moved to close that distance. Kyrith’enderax offered no reaction, even as Sosiel pulled that hand away and frowned at the crescents its nails had left behind. His own desires pulled too, telling him to bring the hand to his mouth and kiss the bleached knuckles until the blood and color returned, but he settled for running his thumb across them, rubbing some small measure of warmth into Kyrith’enderax’s stubbornly frozen frame.

“You have nothing to apologize for. Please, just tell me what it is that you want.”

“I want you to stay… and I want you to decide the rest of it. It should be your choice too.”

Should it?

A cleric did not choose the confessions he heard, nor the wounds he tended. A call for help would always demand an answer… but Kyrith’enderax was right about his restlessness since the gargoyle attack. Hells, since he had led the diversion at Leper’s Smile and felt curdling in his stomach not the slick of their filth but the blasphemous rot of despair. What beauty was there in the world that could outshine the darkness that had feasted on the soldiers that day? He had hunted it ever since, in every prayer and brushstroke and injury and atonement, and still his skin itched like carrion, bones not yet picked clean.

Finally sitting still, he realized how tired it had left him.

“Then let us put aside the worry for tonight.” He leaned forward and touched his forehead to Kyrith’enderax’s, his brow cool like a salve chasing away Sosiel’s feverishness, allowing him to rest. “Let us forget tomorrow and yesterday each.”

And as Kyrith’enderax glanced down at their clasped hands, he smiled. The first Sosiel had ever seen from him, shy as false spring thawing against Sosiel’s skin.

“Savor. Yes. Absolutely every moment that you share with me.”

[chantsdemarins]

🥵"Find Tom" (Part 1)

(Tom Hiddleston X Reader)

Well, I wasn't going to write another Tom fic, but I am weak. This one is honorary for the 14 Days of Valentine's Day Community project from @muddyorbsblr

It’s suggestive in Part 1, things heat up in Part 2

Maybe interested:

@lovelysizzlingbluebird @lokisgoodgirl (I risk tagging you I know lol 😂) @tbhiddlestan83 @peaches1958 @mygfloki @huntress-artemiss @coldnique @simplyholl @mochie85 @fictive-sl0th @goblingirlsarah @carlym @mjsthrillernp @i-stand-with-loki @filthyhiddles @wolfsmom1 @fantasyfan4life @jennyggggrrr @runningawaywithloki @lady-rose-moon @icytrickster17

(New art too!)

Sea Ranch, CA Sometime after the era fondly referred to as "Peak Tom"

The path back to his weekend rental was winding, to say the least.

Coastal sage and nubby coyote bush snagged the transparent black nylons you put on at the last minute when your winter skin looked a little too ashy for an evening event at Sea Ranch amongst the Bay Area’s artsy crowd. Your hand glided down to touch the plants along the escarpment, pulling a sprig off one of the branches with a gentle tug. Holding it to your nose and inhaling the scent, mixed with the salt misting up from the ocean below, it feels like velvet air coursing through your lungs.

You are climbing now, and you imagine by the time you get to the top of the cliff, your breath will be dangerously close to being lost. You were correct.

The view that opens before you, even in the moonless night, is more incredible than anything you could remember seeing of late. He’s way off in front of you, nervously plodding-perhaps to get inside the thick redwood doors and clean up quickly before welcoming you in. You can barely see the outline of his suit, his shoulder blades, noble triangles against the lithe of his tall frame.

He’s left a light on inside, as he nervously opens the door the light hits his face. It’s a relief to see him after what felt like 30 minutes trekking through the California coastline in borrowed Prada flats. From your side of the window, he’s impossibly handsome, untouchable. The window feels like a metaphor.

How you managed to get an interview with him at this hour, after an overly festive San Francisco film festival party, was a mystery, but he agreed when you took the chance. You’d been eyeing him all night, the last person you expected to be there, and the most interesting.

Only hours before, you’d quietly moved to the deck of the main Sea Ranch house, holding your cell phone to the pristine glittery night sky, searching for a signal to rejuvenate your bad cell service. You Googled “Tom Hiddleston” just to be sure it wasn’t Michael Fassbender.

Then when you heard someone say his name, you were clear, it was him.

It was unlike you to invite yourself into the conversation he was already having with a keen-eyed group of Brits across the room, stationed next to a looming Peter Doig painting and a roaring fire, but you did. Making a joke, dropping your cocktail napkin in your nervousness. When he picked it up mid-sentence and handed it back to you, eyes meeting yours, you knew. You waited a few moments but then told him who you were, the beat you were covering for the impossibly small publication you just started writing for. You were way in over your head.

Maybe you should have covered the state fair first, not the San Francisco film festival post-screening events. The roar of crashing waves just outside the sheer wall of glass was unnerving. You flagged down one of the servers and had another caramel-colored Manhattan with one of those big ice cubes that obscure the actual amount of alcohol. Tom did the same, eyes never leaving you.

He made a joke about the event planners saving money with the big ice cubes, “a deliberate act of malice” he said. By midnight you’d managed to find a cozy red, mostly ornamental couch, with cushions seemingly filled with lead, one shift too many caused Tom to say it first. To ask where you were staying.

You weren’t. That was the thing.

You were going to drive back to ennui filled Napa in the wee morning hours, with the marine layer locked in place, a challenge even for the sober. Which you clearly were not.

*Tom would later correct your pronunciation of ‘ennui’ when you used it in conversation, this may or may not have created a small pause in kinetic flow between you.

He offered for you to have some tea (or coffee because you were American, he promised he drank entirely too much coffee and was an honorary American because of it). He offered to be interviewed in his weekend cliff-facing Bill Turnbull masterpiece.

He was effulgent in his offering. So much so that you worried about how he seemed determined to make a good impression on you, a stranger with no obvious pedigree to situate yourself in a status of his interest.

You made your way inside, and you were right-he is nervously cleaning up. He’d been there for less than 24 hours and somehow managed to leave his running clothes, cliff bar wrappers, and socks all over the front room. He mentions jet lag, and delayed flights on the usually reliable British Airways.

You spy at least 25 pretzel packages on the quartz counter, and you ask Tom if those were from his flight. He gives a “ehehehehehheehe” laugh and says the flight staff was worried because he didn’t like the in-flight meal.

Of course, you asked what it was, how could you not.

It turns out it was beef bourgeon with Yukon potatoes. Tom explains the ‘why’ behind his reluctance to eat the meal, but you are simply not listening anymore. You are caught up in your own anxiety. He smells like blood orange and lilac with cedar. He smells like fancy architecture. He explains the house he is staying in with precise detail, he’s giving a dissertation on the Sea Ranch movement of the 70s but you hear approximately every other word. You are caught up in little visual details between the words you hear.

The way he seems different than the man you had watched on the San Diego Comic-Con reels, the impossibly linguistically delightful rhetorician of arcane theses. His mind accosts you, but his energy seems stuck in his head. It’s unnerving.

You wonder if he is even aware of his body, your body-or how you both are sitting now on the hastily cleaned up front room couch, bare feet accidently touching in thoughtless intervals. He is still beautiful but different, something has changed. You admittedly hadn’t kept up with his work, you were essentially a Marvel adjacent fan at best, and your previous amateur journalism beat was not entertainment, or the arts beat, it was tech.

There is an old wooden clock on the wall and the hourly bell strikes pausing you both, it’s 2:00 am. You laugh to yourself when you realize it’s now February 14th. Not one for any commercialized sentimentality or strange Catholic holidays masquerading as innocuous celebrations of love, you wonder to yourself if they even celebrate Valentine’s Day in England.

You want to ask Tom, but you are careful right now, he’s overly generous and his ego seems hidden under his red beard.

He’s giving “wounded” but there’s still his gaze, his cerulean eyes are boring holes through you. His skin is too golden when spring is still a few months away, it contrasts against his button-down shirt which is unbuttoned quite far. His pants aren’t two sizes too small like you remember him wearing to press events before, but they are still tight, they hug his thighs like neoprene, they are too distracting, you can’t ask if they have Valentine’s Day in London. You’ve never even been to the UK. Your blank passport is a spectral vision hanging over your head, you are a ghost covered with a bedsheet.

You debate a few more long, ponderous minutes before you finally ask if they celebrate Valentine’s Day in England. Tom wonders why you are asking. You remind him-today is now Valentine's Day. He laughs and explains America is much more theatrical than England-Brits don’t fall for heart-shaped boxes of chocolate.

You say, “So what do you guys fall for then?”

“Intelligence.”

You die a little. That’s it. You’ll never get your interview questions out of your mouth, and you may want this to end romantically. Any warm-blooded human would-when faced with the charm of Tom Hiddleston-even if it’s slightly redacted. Even if it’s like the big monolith ice cubes from the party earlier, somehow obscuring the ingredients.

You also want to know more about why he seems so different. You pry a little, your intuition is good enough and you can tell something happened.

Maybe it was a love affair, maybe he’s got mental health issues, maybe it’s being too famous, too known. This level of celebrity and privilege is impossible for you to sort out logically. You’ll likely never know what it feels like to have the kind of money to do anything and everything you’d ever dreamed of doing, and the charisma to attract endless people to bed.

He’s not vapid, though. At least his persona isn’t. He should be but he just isn’t Hollywood. You feel accepted by him, although you wonder how true that is, how true it could be-he comes from a world of strict judgments attached to insane amounts of money. People get exactly what they want. He’s part of that beast. He knows it, but he seems so normal right now. He even says he hates LA. He will never live there.

As you keep talking, words are mixing. Which are your thoughts, and which are his? A prelude perhaps to how he is in bed, all-consuming, immersive. He pulls you in, and you feel invigorated and ready to be supine all at once. Your body slinks down the cushions until you both are sitting on the plush rug, backs against the bottom of the couch.

Tom stares at you with the intensity of an SLS rocket launcher (the knowledge of an SLS rocket launcher is the byproduct of your last beat before entertainment and after tech-military weaponry). He stares at you like he owns you. Like there’s a collar around your neck. You check for a second just to be sure, running your chrome-colored nails against your throat.

Maybe that’s what he is struggling with, having too much pleasure and too much happiness. He’s laying low, attending minuscule film festival after parties in Northern California. Talking to a woman like you at 2:30 am, you feel much like the high tide outside the endless glass windows, disoriented by the lack of the moon's influence.

You close your eyes for just a second, and you can hear his voice mixing with the waves, the alcohol you’ve consumed, and his generous pours of the local wines he was gifted from the nebulas of vintners at the party. He can’t take them back to London, so “we better drink up,” he laughs again, emptying the second bottle into your vintage glass.

Are you holding it from the stem or the cup? Your grip is too tight, you notice. You try and hold the glass with less pressure, but your hands are like talons. If you weren’t holding on to a wine glass, surely it would be Tom’s cock.

Which you had spied the last time he got up to grab another bottle of wine, his jacket tossed on the chair to reveal his form with even more clarity. Although you tried not to look, it was difficult to miss. You assumed he wasn’t even hard yet, too lost in conversation.

You pondered if this was his thing, hooking up casually. It wouldn’t be surprising, but he was just so nice and sincere in all his actions it was hard to sift out the carnal jock with rugby stories from college and pick-up games in his London neighborhood to the starry-eyed poet delivering such lines as:

"When I consider how my light is spent, Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one Talent which is death to hide, Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest He returning chide; “Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?”

By the time the last comp wine was consumed and the waves outside drifted back into low tide, you knew it was now or never.

He hadn’t touched you, not even tried; you were just left with the pleasurable burn from his boyfriend experience. You could feel the wheels turning in his mind. Perhaps he was wondering if he should be less caring, should you get too attached to his attention, his cerulean stare. He couldn’t be. Otherwise, it seemed, even if he put his acting skills to work on changing what appeared to be his perpetually endearing substrate.

He grabbed your wine glass from your hand, and you cautiously released it, wondering about your previous thought of what your hand would grab if it wasn’t a wine glass.

He gently placed his head on your shoulder with his eyes closed. Good god he smelled like heaven. Like signed contracts, like large claw foot bathtubs with a view of the Mediterranean Sea. He smelled like ginger and carrots and felt warm and hard simultaneously.

His skin was soft, but his features, like his triangle shoulder blades and his nose, were strong. They felt like swords piercing your skin. You were slayed by his bone structure even before he put his cock inside you.

You hoped it would be comfortably nestled between your legs by the time the sun began to rise over the luxuriant rock wall the house rested upon. Societal norms, class expectations, and personal relationships be damned. The wine and your own ennui fueled your longing for him—

Continue on to-

Part 2

[sabotsen]

Im so. Im so feeling. I'm not quite sure what but its strong. I have had so many thoughts regarding pgr designs I could talk for hours. Like have you ever noticed less humane Roland's hand is the one that's covered with modt straps? Also Bro doesn't have a bit of skin exposed outside of his face. Actually, he has MANY layers to his clothing. like holy hell he has pants then cowboy pants then jacket tied around his waist. and we're here waiting for him to open up (badum-tss)

But at the same time his upper body is kinda... bare? Look at his back, lines are imitating muscle contours. Dude has his life force mapped. It's like "let them see my back without letting them see my back". Now that I think about it, we see his insides (muscles are insides right?) instead of seeing his outside (skin). Considering musculoskeletal system is what keeps us going we can see what keeps him going but not his skin. But nobody notices! Am I even comprehensible?

Also Spine — and back in general — is supposed to be our weak spot, right? His spine even *glows*, it catches attention and it's,,,,, taunting??? Am I strange? Am I strange or is it alluring? -But then you remember he's actually a construct, extremely powerful at that, and his spine is strong. And to even get to his spine you'd have to go extremely long way.

Dude is so two opposite things at the same time. How does he have so much clothing but simultaneously is bare. (I just HAD to dump these thoughts SOMEWHERE I know there probably wasn't so much philosophy implied into his design initially BUT thanks for listening) 🍀

No .... no you're making sense nonny you're making sense and I'm

Hold on o h hold on nonny hang on I need a moment to pull this knife out of my lungs you fucking sniped me hang on I nee d a moement

Also the comment about the spine and his back --- hhhh remember also a stage actor rarely, if ever, shows their back to the audience. The one "vulnerable" spot is the only spot on him that glows brightly... but it's not a true vulnerability, just a metaphorical trap to lure.

Ha ha there's so many layers to this man 🥲 my friend calls him a clownion bc the more layers you peel back of this clown the more you cry 🥲