#mutuals i make in one singular day my beloveds

[mithomite]

*holding @cnnamonrolls and @4m-p by the legs like a toddler holds a baby doll* new frens :)

[salingers]

october's end.

dbf!joel miller x f!reader summary: a filthy halloween night with your dad's best friend, joel miller. [you get him to briefly wear a ghostface mask]. [enjoy that! i did]. warnings: 18+ mdni. age gap. alcohol. au. begging. cream pie. dirty talk. dom!joel. fingering. jealous!joel. language. masked!joel. no outbreak. no use of 'y/n'. praising. smut. use of 'good girl'. use of 'slut'. unprotected piv. word count: [about] 3,800. a/n: hi! debut, written for @mermaidgirl30's halloween writing challenge. cover by me, divider by @saradika. @saradika-graphics.

Everything’s bigger in Texas, including Halloween. Your childhood neighborhood is locally televised each October’s end, due to every home’s enthusiastic participation. There’s an annual stoppage of traffic for the singular evening’s festivities, permitting only costumed bodies to roam the gated community’s residential roads. 

Branches draped in gauzy webs. Yards engulfed in artificial fog. A beloved holiday tradition, predating the tailend of the seventies, when Dad and Joel were elementary aged and wielding pillowcases of candies. Now, they’re fifty-somethings, bemoaning mutual back pain and cursing pesky lawn decorations.

“Here,” Joel gruffs, while individually sliding Dad two Reese’s pumpkins, from across the kitchen’s counter. “Protein break. ‘S four grams.”

Dad swipes them both up, before confirming that statement by thumbing one’s wrapper, “That ain’t bad.”

You’re quietly laughing at their supposed refueling, while stooping behind the fridge’s door and scanning the moistened shelves. There. A seasonal beer, from your favorite brewery in Austin. It’s comfortably predictable, returning home for Halloween; From Dad purchasing your favorite autumnal ales, to Joel Miller’s ruggedness.

You properly right yourself. Then, using your waist, nudge the appliance’s door shut, “Dad, where’s your bottle opener?”

Dad’s phone abruptly drones, reverberating against granite and interrupting your question; He grimaces at the caller’s illuminated identity.

You guess, “Ghostface?”

Dad laughs, before emphasizing, “Worse. My neediest client.” He abandons his barstool, continuing, “Actin’ like buildin’ up in Waco makes ‘er Joanna Gaines.” Dad apologetically nods toward you, “Joel. Will ‘ya?”

Joel’s scruffy chin tips upwards, directing you, “C’mere.”

Something’s brewing, once Dad vacates the vicinity. Your forced proximity to Joel is newly palpable; Tonight’s different. You’re obedient, in approaching him. Joel doesn’t stop staring. The bottle’s neck is being strangled, under your dominant hand. You can’t completely ward off an image of taking him into your palm.

Your minimal passage to his barstool seemed slow-motioned, almost. You’re not sure. Time’s just apparently lengthier, under Joel’s browned gaze.

 Joel grunts, fingering his carabiner of keys, attempting to sift out his bottle opener keychain, “You playin’ Michael Meyers, ‘gain? ‘Round one night, only?”

You amusedly scoff, “Keepin’ track?”

Joel shrugs, “Eight days, in eight years.”

You’re genuinely surprised that Joel’s noted your absence. Maybe, Dad revealed that specific number, correlating to your sparse appearances in Austin; Well, it could’ve been that Dad mentioned to Joel about how since your high school’s graduation, you’ve only managed to visit home yearly. That’s just basic math. Right?

You stammer, “Uh huh. ‘S my favorite holiday.”

Joel hums, before abruptly wrapping his calloused palm around the entirety of your hand and the beer bottle’s width, “Hm. ‘N that your favorite beer?”

You’re momentarily silent, muted by Joel’s warmth. A sizable hand, roughened from decades of hard labor. The tips of his delectably thick fingers begin tightening at your wrist, securing his hold as he’s standing himself up.

Even fully seated, Joel’s intimidating in size. Him standing toe-to-toe with you? That’s another story. His construction boots are weathered and worn; They would be comically large, in comparison to your measly-sized sneakers, but nothing’s funny about Joel Miller’s body mere inches from yours.

You reply by mustering an eager nod; And, whether that’s in response to Joel’s prior question pertaining your liking of the beer, or merely an approval of his nearness to you? You haven’t decided.

Joel rasps, “Anythin’ else?” He’s pulling your combined hands downward, to his waist. The carabiner’s remained attached to his belt’s loop, “That ‘ya favor?”

You’re struggling to think of something witty to retort. Because, the frayed seam of Joel’s zipper is right there. He’s deftly notching the bottle’s cap inside of the opener’s teeth; The beer crisply hisses, releasing any contained pressure.

Joel whispers, “What, darlin’? Bat got your tongue?”

You defeatedly laugh, “Somethin’ like that.”

He grins, carefully releasing you, “Taste it.”

You harshly gulp, “S–Sorry? Oh, right. T–The beer.” 

Joel agrees, “That’s right.” Then, darkly teases, “Y’know, that pretty mind ‘a yours is boundin’ for the gutter.”

He crosses his arms against his broad chest, the canvas fabric of his Carhartt jacket drawing taut. Joel’s now cocking his head, sending his gaze along the pathway from the glass vessel that you’re feebly holding, to the lower lip that you’re inadvertently biting; Daring you.

You’re feignedly bold, “Meet ‘ya there.”

You drink, even if it’s primarily to keep yourself from further stuttering. At first, it’s an adequate enough distraction; The alcohol’s frigid in temperature, soothing to the high-strung tendons of your throat, from the inside-out. Then, you’re curiously drawn to Joel’s own gulping throat, and that transient composure of yours is gone.

Joel’s devotedly watching you, his glare heady and sensual. His Adam’s apple jerks, moving atop the clenched muscles and corded veins of his neck. You’re somewhat tipping back, gathering your final mouthful, for now; You’ve drained three-fourths of it, by the time that you’ve halted your sipping.

Then, Joel’s thumb darts out, before smoothing against your glistening mouth. He drawls, “Got it lookin’ real good. Let’s see.”

You’re only narrowly audible, “Oh? Joel.” 

Joel’s tongue, deliciously large and scrubbed pink, strokes his finger. He groans, “Mm. Ain’t sure. Need ‘t sample it from the source.”

You inwardly whimper, “Yeah?”

You’re foolishly tempted to extend him the ambered bottle itself, because surely Joel Miller, your dad’s best friend, would identify that as the ‘source’. Not your parted, wanting lips. Like Joel’s read your hesitant mind, he reassuringly pins your hands behind your back, easily dismissing the beer; A singular hand of his own, dwarfing the pair of your wrists.

Joel’s ghosting your lips, “Yeah.”

For good measure, Joel lightly moans, sucking his dampened digit. Humming around the pumpkin spiced suds, lapping up any residual taste from his finger. Arms restrained, spine straightened; Your chest’s rising urgently.

Joel’s own chest, delicately hairy below his threadbare t-shirt, is an odd inch away. A desperate heat’s begun permeating your lower abdomen; Achingly unfurling, taking up residency in your cunt.

Of course, it’s then that Dad’s barrelling over, having withdrawn from his nearby office, “Sorry ‘bout that, kid. Get ‘er open?”

You’re coughing out, “Y–Yep.” Then, “Thanks, Joel.”

Dropping your wrists, Joel winks, “Oh. ‘M pleasure.”

Your incriminating closeness to Joel goes unrecognized by Dad; Seeing as, Joel’s wide shoulders completely obscure you from view.

Dad sighs, “Gee, there ain’t no escapin’ this shiplap.”

Joel immediately laughs, casually reclaiming his prior barstool. The jarring segue from Joel’s flirting with you, to his joking with Dad, is absolutely disorientating. You’re fidgeting, repeatedly and silently tapping your foot. You can’t do Joel here; You’ll settle for doing last-minute Halloween preparations.

You blurt, “Goin’ to start organizin’ the candy. ‘S all in the garage, Dad?”

Dad assuredly nods, “Sure is. ‘Cept these.” He chuckles, gathering the forgotten wrappers from his earlier ‘protein break’ with Joel.

You remind him, “Don’t forget to refill the fog tanks.”

Dad, who seemingly had forgotten, regretfully snaps his fingers, “What would I do without ‘ya?” He’s bragging to Joel, “Look at ‘er.”

Joel agreeably nods. Eyeing you, “Good girl.”

Because, Dad and Joel are career contractors, who are simultaneously life-long friends and next-door neighbors, it’s only right that they’ve done an elaborate, joint Halloween for three decades; Locally dubbed the ‘Construction Fright’.

A (questionably) age-appropriate spread of horror, featuring thrifted tools that bludgeon and dismember an assortment of plastic skeletons. Hard hats, faux-bloodied and stabbed with rusted nails. Construction tape, riddled in spiderwebs.

A half-dozen, battered wheelbarrows, brimming with chocolate candies; Three brown ones, carrying Hershey’s, Rolo, and Tootsie Roll. Three orange ones, containing every imaginable variant of Reese’s. 

 You’ve already been working for nearly an hour; Arranging the color-coordinated barrows of candy. You’re jamming the recycling bin’s lid shut, overtop the cardboard and plastic wrappings of king-sized bars, when the entry door’s opened.

Dad’s entering the garage, “Sun’s settin’ soon, kid. ‘Oughta get dressed.” He lazily squeezes you in an impromptu side-hug, “Thanks, for helpin’.”

You breathily sigh, “Mhm. Oh, I need ‘t light the Jack-O-Lanterns.”

Joel appears, insisting,  “Go on, darlin’. I’ll get ‘em sweatin’ for ‘ya.”

You’re thinking, ‘That’s ridiculously slutty of him to say’, when Joel continues, this time addressing Dad, “Hey. Phone’s ringin’ over ‘gain.”

Dad sighs, “Got ‘t be kiddin’ me.” Then, grumbles, “Sure hopin’ it’s Ghostface.” He grins, lightly pinching your elbow.

You giggle, “C’mon. She can’t be that bad.”

Dad shrugs, smiling before swiftly jogging up the garage’s concrete steps; When Dad’s fully retreated inside, and the door’s naturally swung shut, Joel doesn’t waste any time pinning your body against it.

Joel whispers, “Bet ‘ya find that this pussy’s wet ‘f me, when you’re undressin’ it.” His jeaned, muscular thigh’s nudging your legs ajar.

You airily groan, “P–Please. Fuckin’ kiss me.”

Joel grins, wedging his ample thigh’s sturdy surface against your beating cunt. He kisses you; Joel Miller fuckin’ kisses you. He’s grabbing your face, thumbing your cheekbones. His lengthy fingers, scraping your skull.

His tongue’s deeply delving, eagerly exploring your mouth’s every crevasse. You can’t breathe efficiently or think coherently. Everything’s Joel. His graying beard, raking your chin; A woodsy scent, like that of the hardware store’s lumber aisles, exuding from his clothing.

You’re moaning, “Ngh.” Then, ripping at the silvery hair that’s curling against the nape of his sun-freckled neck, “More.”

Joel’s grunting, “Fuck. Need ‘t stop.” He can’t stop, and sucks your bottom lip, once more. Then, “H–Hear ‘im? He’s gainin’ on us.”

Sure enough, Dad’s approaching. It’s damn-near impossible to quit rutting along Joel’s denimed, upper leg. You’re whining, “Need ‘ya.”

Joel’s panting, “T–Tonight, darlin’.” He arousingly whispers, “All night. When the porch light’s out, sneak over.” Then, darker and deeper, “Repeat it.”

You repeat, “Tonight. When the porch light’s out, sneak over.”

You’re admittedly distracted, during the evening’s trick-or-treating segment. You understand that nothing’s allowed to appear awry around Dad, but Joel’s playing casual too well. You shouldn’t overthink, but it’s torturous; That he’s apparently unaffected. Drinking with Dad and Tommy. Never really staring at you.

Joel’s (conveniently) costumed as himself every Halloween, but himself during working hours; A leathered tool belt, cinching his tender waist. A backwards Filson hat, tamping his unkempt curls. His dirtiest ‘white’ t-shirt; The neckline’s absurdly tattered and torn, an array of holes displaying his body’s coarse hair.

Midland’s country cover of ‘Wicked Game’ is emitting from neighboring speakers. You can’t resist likening the song’s drumming pattern to your own heart’s pulsating rhythm; Yearning for Joel’s attention. Then, Dad’s whistling for your attention.

Dad’s pointing, “Look, kid. Your ‘ol boyfriend, Nick. He’s fuckin’ Ghostface.” Dad humorously roars, standing, “See ‘im? H–Hold on.”

You’re avidly protesting, but Dad’s already approaching Nick, who’s not wearing, but holding his hooded mask; Fingers cupping the elongated, rubbery chin. There’s nothing inherently wrong about him; He (morally) should be your holiday hook-up, not your dad’s best friend. It’s too bad.

Joel snipes, “Dick?”

You tut, “It’s Nick.”

Joel’s feigning understanding, “Oh, Prick.”

You’re unsure what’s initiated this potent sexual tension, but it’s consumed your every thought this Halloween; While, Joel’s every word is loaded. His irritated sarcasm’s gunned your way. Any bickering’s uncommon, for the pair of you. You’re hoping that Tommy’s too busy proffering candy to notice.

Dad’s returned, towing Nick, “Weren’t we just talkin’ ‘bout him, kid? So funny.” Dad, and his dorky penchant for inside-jokes.

Nick cluelessly smiles, “Hi, you.”

You politely reply, “Hi, yourself.”

Nick’s extending his hand, summoning you from your designated seat, “Got ‘t see this costume.” Then, he’s declaring you, “Stunning.”

You’re incredulously laughing, “They’re bloodied overalls.”

Nick grins, persisting, “Love ‘em. Also, this apron’s awesome.” He’s thumbing your accessory’s front, tracing the logo, “Carhartt girl, huh?”

You’re aiming to get under Joel’s skin with, “Scream girl, too.” You inspect Nick’s black robe, feeling his arm’s draping sleeve.

Oh, Joel Miller’s jealous. He’s rolling his earthy-toned eyes; Aggressively peeling his beer’s damp label, while instigating Dad, “Hearin’ this?”

Dad’s indifferent, shrugging. He’s always approved of Nick for you; He’s Texan, and plays Minor League Baseball. That’ll do it.

Nick’s pleading, “Let’s please walk ‘round, sweep the neighborhood?”

Joel snarks, “Hell. Reckon he’s recruitin’ for Neighborhood Watch?”

Nick’s nervously smiling, having not heard Joel’s dig, but surely hearing Dad and Tommy’s abrupt snickering.

You kindly respond, “Let’s. Love seein’ the decorations.”

It’s nine-thirty. Your street’s grown habitually sparse; Toddlers, having resigned to stringent bedtimes. Teens, having retreated to erupting parties.

You decipher Joel’s looming silhouette; His rocking chair’s creaking, upon the dimmed porch’s planks. A gleaming tumbler of (presumably) whiskey is resting against his crossed leg, the glass winking at you.

Joel’s dragging his index finger’s edge against his groomed mustache, thumbing his angrily tightened jaw. He rasps, “Ain’t walk ‘ya home?” 

You’re ascending his porch’s tread, “Didn’t need that. Told ‘im so.” Then, untying your apron’s chaotic knot, “Uncross your leg, Joel.”

Joel’s pleasingly pliant; He warns, “That’s the only order that I’m takin’ tonight.” His lap’s deliciously spreading, “Get ‘t drawin’ the blinds.”

The anticipation’s wetting you. You’re immediately scampering along the porch’s perimeter, rolling down every privacy blind; Joel’s patiently swigging his auburn liquor. You whimper, “A–Anythin’ else?”

Joel’s rolling the wick of his adjacent kerosene lantern; Thrusting his opened lap, scrounging his Zippo lighter from an anterior pant pocket. His hand’s arousingly veined, while flicking the lighter’s flint wheel.

He belatedly replies, “Drop your apron. Undo your overalls.”

You’ve dropped the apron, and something’s spilling out from the largest pocket; Joel’s deeply exhaling, “Explain that.”

The lamp’s emitting faint light, fire illuminating his hardening expression. He’s so scarily sexy. You’re inching nearer, but Joel hoists his palm, stopping you.

You embarrassedly gulp, “N–Nick’s mask. Asked me ‘t hold it. He never wore it.”

Joel’s impatient, waving, “And?”

You’re tentatively unhooking your denimed straps, gently uttering, “W–Would ‘ya? Wear it?”

Joel’s mildly surprised, “Oh?” Deciding, “Bring it here. On your knees.”

You instantly kneel, before gathering up the discarded disguise using your teeth. You’re crawling to Joel, crossing the porch’s dully-lit surface. The bib upon your overalls undone; The garment’s buckling loops clinking.

Joel involuntarily moans, “Ngh. Dirty fuckin’ girl.” His index finger’s pumping from his balled up fist, signaling you.

Your pussy’s thumping, because of his commanding, curling digit. You’re itching to suck it. You need anything of Joel’s inside of you.

You’ve gradually reached Joel; You’re being caged in-between his lengthy legs. Joel forcibly pinches your face, removing the mask from your bite’s grasp. The item’s resultantly spat, against his abutted groin.

He’s astonished at the filthy sight, rustling, “How ‘bout that.” You’re resting on your haunches, while Joel praises, “Good girl.”

Joel’s abruptly leaning downward, before hungrily lifting your body’s entirety along his own. He’s immediately kissing you, sinking against the rocking chair’s curved spine; The porch’s cedar ground sighs, creakily duetting with Joel’s groans.

You’re practically siphoning the remnant whiskey from his tongue’s cushioned pad; Your mouth’s rabidly sucking, while your waist’s desperately grinding.

Joel’s bypassing your denimed, disoriented trousers; His palm’s greedily grasping your back’s arched column. His remaining arm, ladling your ass. Then, Joel’s effortlessly hauling your goosebumped figure upward; The rocking chair’s momentum being an assistant. The mask’s wedged in-between your upright bodies.

Joel breathes, “T–The lamp. Hang tight.” You’re licking Joel’s partially bearded throat; He’s briefly hunching, responsibly lowering the wick, consequently extinguishing the flame. Your quartet of limbs, wrapping his flexing torso.

You’re whispering, “You’re so big and strong, Joel.”

He amusedly sighs, “Yeah?” Promising, “Ain’t seen nothin’.”

Then, Joel’s roughly stamping your body against the front door’s exterior; His bulge swelling, pinning your pussy. The entry knob’s blindly twisted. Joel’s heavy-footed steps are reverberated, crunching his home’s metallic threshold.

First, Joel carelessly clears his entry way’s waist-heighted table. Juggling you, while his tanned arm’s sweeping everything off; A ceramic, coffee-stained mug of loose change’s completely shattered. Second, Joel harshly kicks his anterior door shut; There’s an impressive boot print, left behind.

Joel’s panting, “Tell me ‘t stop?”

You’re begging, “K–Keep goin’.”

He hums, “Hm. Need it, darlin’?” Joel’s hurriedly planting you upon the table’s cleared crest, kissing your nodding throat. Agreeing, “Yeah. You do.”

It’s dizzyingly hot; Joel gruffly ripping off your mussed overalls, easily tugging off your slip-on sneakers. He’s lobbing them across the room, away from the mess of coins and shards. You’re noticing the Ghostface mask, under his unmoving bicep.

Joel’s noticing you, “This what ‘ya want?” He’s hesitantly thumbing the mask’s gaping jaw. “Ain’t scared?”

You quietly say, “Like ‘t be scared.” You’re reaching upward, prying off his hat; His hair’s deliciously gray and tousled. “Here.”

Joel’s flinging his accessory away. Then, handing you the hooded, horror mask, “Go ‘head.” He warns, “Wearin’ it ‘till you’re comin’. Understand?”

You’re stroking his untidy hair, readying him, “Won’t be long.” You murmur, “S–Soppin’ for ‘ya.”

Joel’s grunting, “Fuck’s sake.” Kissing you, in-between threatening, “Filthy. ‘Oughta edge ‘ya. Talkin’ like that.”

He impatiently rings your wrists; You’re positioning the mask properly overhead. The draping fabric’s hitting Joel’s colossal shoulders. 

Your pulse’s hammering, “Oh.”

The mask’s milky-colored expression, surveying you. Stark, against the setting of Joel’s unlighted home. His index finger’s impulsively traveling your body; Dragging over your bottom lip’s dampened flesh. Then, carnally downard, riding your throat. Fingering your jugular’s delicate divet. Hooking your undershirt’s airy collar.

Joel’s taunting, “Heart’s racin’.”

You’re anguishly rutting against his console table’s lacquered top. You need to be touched. You beg, “J–Joel. Oh, Joel.”

Joel’s eerily tilting his head, “Pussy’s racin’ like that, too?” Whispering, “Ain’t it?”

You’re deliriously horny, “Yes.”

He’s humming, “Hm. Shirt’s got ‘t go, first.” His unoccupied hand’s rummaging his hind pocket, while, “Reckon that my knife’ll work?”

You’re pleading, “C–Cut it off.”

Then, Joel’s brandishing his utility knife. The blade’s expertly flicked outward. He urges, “Try ‘t hold still.”

Joel Miller’s carving your fucking shirt; His blade’s blunt edge skimming your sternum. He’s effortlessly halved it, forging an impromptu vest. He’s instantaneously shoving the garment overtop your rigid shoulders.

The knife’s frigid handle brushes your tapered nipple; Joel’s awaiting permission, hovering your underwear’s waistline. You’re nodding, kneading his large shoulders. His finger’s hitching the material, before his blade’s cutting it.

Snipping the remaining side, Joel grunts, “Cunt need stuffin’?” He’s pocketing your saturated underwear and his retracted knife, “I know it’s wet ‘nough to take two fingers.”

You’ve been fantasizing about Joel entering you all Halloween. And, finally; He does. He’s groaning, “S–Swallowin’ both of ‘em. ‘Jus like that?”

Your angling head’s hitting the paneled wall. You’re obscenely squelching around his battering digits. You belatedly respond, “JoelJoelJoelJoel.”

Joel’s roughened wrist’s repeatedly rubbing your beating clit. You’re clenching speechlessly around him, innately meeting every re-entry. Your spine’s warming; Your stomach’s taut.

Your arousal’s watering his driving hand; His palm’s pooling. Joel’s incessantly steady. Praising, “Comin’ up. Doin’ good.”

You’re gasping, “There. Oh, right there.”

The instant that you’re coming, Joel’s yanking off his hindering mask. His beard’s patchy and sweaty. He grins, “Man ‘a my word.”

Then, Joel’s amused mouth’s pounding upon your own; He’s desperately inhaling your breaking moans. Licking your teeth’s underside. 

You’re abundantly squirting, as Joel’s uncorking your cunt. Your spotting vision’s correcting leisurely. You’re languidly sighing; Breathing deeply.

He’s genuinely insane for drinking you from his cupped palm. Then, Joel’s mouthing his soggy fingers; Hitting knuckle. You’re blurting, “Need ‘t fuck.”

Joel’s arching his aging brow; Rasping, “Ask nicely.” Then, he’s towing your body overtop his broad shoulder. Spanking you, “Greedy fuckin’ girl.”

You’re nakedly suspended, Joel’s bicep rippling below your ass. He’s entering his living room; Carefully placing you across his cognac-colored sectional. You’re propping upon the chaise’s leathered cushions. You whine, “Please, Joel.”

Joel’s tutting, “Better’n that.” 

You supply, “Pretty please?”

He’s gradually moving nearer; His denim-clad shins, butting the couch’s edge. Joel’s unhurriedly thumbing his belt’s loop, painfully prolonging his removing it. You’re wetting and writhing against his furniture’s fabric.

Joel’s unimpressed, “C’mon.”

Shedding his accessory; Working his zipper. His acting arm’s so freckled, tanned, veined. Joel’s yanking his t-shirt overhead, before subsequently revealing an appetizing, softened tummy. His happy trail’s graying and wiry.

You’re begging, “Joel. Please.”

He’s winking, “Good ‘nough.”

Every sound’s tantalizing; Joel’s boots and pants, thumping across the carpet. His bare, bulky thigh’s abruptly rubbing against your naked pussy; Then, Joel’s mirroring your body’s horizontal position. Mounting you.

Your arousal’s drenching his underwear’s front; His length’s largely tenting the humid material, “Beggin’ like that. Fuckin’ slut.”

You’re involuntarily panting, when Joel’s finally and fully undressed. His cock’s deliciously girthy. The tip’s engorged, reddened and seeping; Erecting far beyond his belly’s button.

You’re whimpering, “PleasePleasePlease.”

Joel grins, “Cunt’s quiverin’. Feelin’ that?”

You desperately nod, “Need you ‘t feel it.”

Joel’s immediately pistoning his fleshy waist; His cock’s knocking your cervix’s wall. His rough thrusting’s fastly inching your bodies upward, until your head’s rearing the sofa’s supple tailend.

He whispers, “Warm ‘nough?”

You gasp, “C–Cock’s perfect.”

Joel’s inaudibly responding; Ramming your hand, palming your pelvis. You’re feeling his cock, below your abdomen’s exterior. He’s interlocking your fingers; His own swallowing yours; Pressing. You’re practically tracing his bulbous, twitching tip.

He’s praising, “Takin’ me well.”

Joel’s bottoming-out, pounding steadily; His bloated, weighty balls welting your taint. Your clit’s puffing, from his pubic bone’s rhythmic route. Dementedly fucking you. You’re moaning, “Ah. F–Fuck.”

He murmurs, “Cunt’s gulpin’ me.” Joel’s hooking your knee’s underside, before lugging it overtop his broad shoulder’s slope, “Needy fuckin’ hole.”

You’re stammering, “Ngh. M–Mm. RightThereRightThere.”

Then, Joel’s angling deeper, differently; Laying his body’s robust weight against your languid, vertical leg. Your foot’s achingly surpassing your head. His chest hair’s graying and saturated; Scraping you.

Your pussy’s overwhelmingly spasming. Joel’s messily tonguing your nipple’s peak; His mustache’s prickling the sensitive skin. You’re tugging at his hair’s curling strands, “J–Joel. Close.”

Joel’s echoing your prior words, “Meet ‘ya there.”

You’re shockingly surprised, that Joel’s remembered the momentary retort; Your faux-bold response and pumpkin spiced alcohol. That’s it. You’re blindly coming. His cock’s densely brimming your contracting hole; Hammering you.

Your pussy’s pornographically sloshing. Joel whimpers, “A–’Atta girl. Drenchin’ it.” Then, “Comin’ inside. ‘M snipped. Yeah?”

You’re immediately kissing him. Palming his beard’s rugged stubble. Sucking his tongue’s pink pores; Tasting your arousal’s heady flavoring.

His climaxing moan’s roaring down your throat; Cum rapidly spurting, coating your cunt. You’re rubbing his rolling eye’s crinkled grooves. His forehead’s tanned and wrinkled. Joel’s especially gorgeous, while cumming hard.

You’re pouring, when Joel’s unplugging you. He’s breathlessly cursing, “Fuckin’ hot.” Standing, “Gettin’ towels. Need anythin’ else? Water?”

You’re beginning to respond, when Joel’s unexpectedly bending; Kissing you. You smile, tapping your bottom lip, “What’s that for?”

Joel’s embarrassedly pointing, toward the nearby microwave’s blinking clock. He explains, “Ten thirty-one on October thirty-first. ‘Dunno. Good luck? Make ‘a wish or somethin’.”

You’re actually dumbfounded, “Oh? You’re absurdly cute.”

Joel frowns, “Ain’t allowed ‘t call me that. ‘Specially while leakin’ my seed.” He’s nakedly turning, preparing to walk, “Water?”

You’re pulling Joel’s hand, “Wait. Want ‘t hear your wish.”

He gulps, “That… You’ll be visitin’ home on Thanksgivin’.”

[farewellsickle]

a guy will make a self insert specifically to make sure his favorite guy gets the love and care he needs . anyhow

this is Death Sickle, preferably known as Sickle! a ratman human who has been surviving in the Greater Canadian woods for... must have been over a decade by now. don't cringe too hard at his name, he was named by a literal eight year old. nonetheless.

by a stroke of luck and coincidence, he stumbles upon Robert the day after he escaped the Ivory household, and has been his caretaker since. he didnt always have a bandaged up hand; Robert bit him so hard he had to stitch himself up and apply bandages. hopefully this injury doesn't give him issues later...

post-Lucid21, Robert suffers from cognitive issues (memory loss, motor function, thought cloudiness, etc) as a result of losing his connection to the ratmen, and must rely on Sickle to help with communication, healing injuries, food and water. he's slowly gaining lucidity back, but the trauma of Lucid21 still affects him greatly - difficult sleep, fear of the dark and wide / open spaces.

he initially takes an existentialist / nihilist mindset - why bother do anything if there's no point - but quickly changes it when in the presence of another person who isn't a part of him. he isn't sure how to deal with his new life situation. went from fighting for his life just to die - to being waited on and cared for by a stranger. new philosophy: figure out what to do with his newly singular life.

Sickle as a person is very pessimistic and cynical, he can't see optimism or positives. additionally he tends to get frustrated very easily and lash out, but always feels extreme guilt afterwards, usually overcompensating to feel like things are "okay" again. he hasn't seen another conscious / lucid person in years, so mind him if he seems loud crass and overbearing. he can't lose the one friend he's allowed to have.

at first he is annoyed with having to care for Robert. having only ever known a master/pet dynamic, he thinks of Robert as a "pet" he must care for. but he ultimately values Robert's presence, however meager, more than he values his resources. he would put his life on the line to make sure someone knew he existed and died. theme: a loneliness is a fate greater than death.

attached below will just be more art of them :3 i also have a "whiteboard bible" where im writing down everything to do with them because. im obsessed. TW for self harm past the bible area (i allowed my beloved mutuals to draw freely in the same whiteboard)

thank u for reading about my goobers

Robert is NAWT a smoker so it takes him a few to get used to it. despite running low on cigarettes, Sickle insists on teaching him to smoke, if not for the associated "skills" (holding breath, igniting a lighter). Robert still prefers to drink.

i actually think Robert can hold his alcohol moderately well, he only got so drunk in canon because he was on an empty stomach

for a good few weeks, Sickle lacks the appropriate first aid materials to treat Robert's eye injury, having used the last of his bandages to patch up his hand. he uses scraps to place over Robert's eye. he has a small scrap bandage that he tears up for Robert's clean bandages.

after scavenging some clean and sterile medical supplies, Sickle changes Robert's bandages, ensures he finally has somewhat proper clean medical treatment and changes his bandages. "these are supposed to be changed out every day, or you risk infection." Robert's attention is drawn to Sickle's bandaged hand. he never saw them get changed even once.

[auniverseforgotten]

(in reference to the priest post) OK OK OK BUt imagine Mozart, 'beloved by God', tricking priest!Salieri to listen to his confession. Salieri just thinking that oh, if Mozart is God's specialist little boy, that definitely means that it'll be tame sins, right? Oh boy no. Wrong.

IT TOOK ME FIVE MILLION YEARS TO GET MY LAPTOP OUT I SORRYYYYYY

BUT YES YES EXACTLY YOU'RE SO RIGHT SDXCG

So for those who maybe missed it was this post here and I kinda see this set up in a couple ways like.

First: randomized setting, vague historic time so I don't have to look up religion for hours [not a hardship I simply do not have the time atm], priest!Salieri is in the confessional and it's a small town given the time period so he tends to recognize voices. Never breathes a word, ofc, that's not the point of confession; but then he hears the God's Most Favorite Annoying Fucker's voice and like wow okay alright why are you here Amadeus that's weird in and of itself. But he figures it'll be something simple, lusting over someone, envious of something. And well. Kinda. It is about lust but the longer he talks the more Salieri realizes it is about him specifically and I think it's funny if somehow Mozart doesn't realize it's Salieri and thinks it's a different priest? Which doesn't make sense, I know, I'm sure he would recognize Salieri's voice, BUT. Anyway it would end with mutual masturbation in the confessional and then neither of them can look at the other next church service <3

Another way to swing that specific one would be Mozart starts detailing, clocks Salieri's voice a little later, dying inside but decides y'know if Salieri tells anyone he's prob gonna die anyway sooooooo might as well make it count?? And the same thing happens. Mozart is technically married [lavender marriage], Salieri technically taken a vow of celibacy, but if it continued Past the one time in the confessional there would be a lot of secret midnight trysts.

Second: historical setting, in their correct time period; this one plays a lot more with the incorrect popular opinion of Salieri in the modern day about how he's so envious and scheming etc etc we've aLL SEEN THE BIAS AND LIES anyway. A Salieri who is confronted with those emotions and deeply disturbed by them, he has a strong religious background and it's possible I'm just saying. So! He resigns as kapellmeister and leaves to find the cure for his sinful emotions in religion. Now, nowadays priests tend to minimum need about 8-10 years [degree and then practice] to officially become a priest. I'm typing this fast as I devour a sandwich so I'm going on a LOOSE basis of that though in older times it will have been different. In the case of this AU I'm gonna say he didn't marry Therese if only bcus. He would be totally abandoning her and their children. He clocks these emotions early on after Mozart comes to court, and resigns maybe a full year after Mozart being there. It's a bit of a fight because he was well loved by Joseph, but eventually it happens. Now Mozart is still faced with the contempt of the court but he is an absolute shoe-in for the position. Time passes, Salieri is going from monk to priest, Mozart is in a good position moneywise so even with his suspected spending habits he would likely outlive historical Mozart. But he can't get over the old Kapellmeister who he met barely at all, who seemed to love his music, and then just...left. ANYWAY don't ask me why Mozart would end up in a confessional here, maybe feeling like he needs to repent for the longing for Salieri? And woooooooow they sure do recognize each other's voices.

In this one it's a LOT of repressed desire so prob no actual anything in the booth; yes Mozart gets deranged but Salieri has an even tighter hold of his emotions now. They both leave unsatisfied and wondering what life could've been <3

AND THIRD: singularity time, servants dispersed throughout in various roles for power or stealth based reasons. Salieri is a priest because they need an eye on the church, Mozart is the beloved tutor of the queen's children. They were either together beforehand or like. REALLY getting there. They can't be seen together otherwise their ruse would be broken [Salieri being very new to the country, speaking only Italian, Mozart being a well-established face that. Somehow no one saw before this month haha how weird] ANYWAY WHAT I'M SAYING is Mozart has zero patience zero control, figures out Salieri's typical confessional schedule and just starts showing up and going into extreme detail about everything he wants to do to Salieri/everything he wants Salieri to do to him <3 So much pining SO MUCH REPRESSED DESIRE and then at the final fight everyone's like "huh, are we missing anybody?" yes you are and they're off fucking in the confessional they heard the "cover's blown"call and got to getting don't worry about it.

ANYWAY I DON'T KNOW THAT YOU WANTED ANY OF THAT DZSXFCGVHB SO I'M SORRY FOR THE RAMBLE. BUT I AM SO GLAD WE ARE HANDSHAKE!!!!! I AGREE Salieri is 100% not expecting that LMAOOOOO what do you MEAN God's Specialest Little Boy has a mind dredged out of the gutters of hell WHAT DO YOU MEAN

THANK U FOR THE ASK YAHOOOOOOOOOO LOVE CHATTING POSTS AND BLORBOS

[mihai-florescu]

Honestly, reading your posts at times makes me wonder how the hell were they written by a tumblr mutual from another country, it literally feels like I wrote them myself. Anyways we should just form a singular entity aka the most dysfunctional being to ever exist (and even then, the 'exist' part could be put into question) Though I'm pretty sure the world would explode if did meet, that or we'd just lie there sopping wet and pathetic, not moving an inch from the bed, until something happened in Enstars and then we'd have a stimulating conversation before collapsing into deep slumber/existential dread yet again

anyways hang in there, Cobalt, at least the Eichi nui exists........ rember Him................ (I don't have anything encouraging to say, just wanted to let you know that I feel you on some level and I can't express that like a normal human being I guess)

Sandyyy thank you for this ask... i feel reassured when people feel seen by my posts... even if i wish we werent living like this :)) :((

Im glad for the people ive met through tumblr, id love to take a nap with you one day, it would be my honor. My family is going on a trip to a few cities in poland this week and im so jealous...thats where my beloved mutual lives... OH ALSO the girl i was talking about today, the self proclaimed yapper that went silent hearing about my issues with life, she too was from poland. So while im on the other side of the continent, you felt the eastern european aura of our conversation...

Speaking of eichi tho, let me share some of my journaling attempts from the past few days. This is inbetween wishing an asteroid would hit earth, lamenting my brain's faulty wiring, and complaining about some frat boys

Ignore the fs1 wataru pfp i dont know if it makes it better or worse

[i-did-not-mean-to]

J - Jewellery

Written for @maglor-my-beloved <3

Words: 900

Pairing: Celebrimbor x Maeglin, Bilbo & Yavanna

Warnings: Sadness & Trauma

Yavanna sat on a tree and hummed to herself.

“Lady,” Bilbo Baggins called up conversationally, “do you think that it was wise to let your husband participate in the healing efforts? Lady Estë seems out of sorts; she’s very worried about this.”

“Ah, dear Bilbo,” the lady of all things growing and flourishing replied in a voice as soft as rustling leaves, “you—of all people—must know best that Aulë and his creatures wither and die when they have nothing to do. Their heart is in the right spot, and they truly want to help, even if their way of going about it seems unconventional at first. Care to join me?”

She winked conspiratorially for—even though she evidently did support her spouse’s involvement—she intended to survey it from a safe distance to be able to intervene if necessary.

“So,” Aulë started grandiloquently, “I have opened my forge for you to…process some of the trauma you have sustained before your…demise.”

This was not going very well, judging by the unconvinced faces in front of him; he wondered how Manwë always managed to find the right words to sway people and move their hearts. Worse, he even pondered Melkor’s singular talents in that domain for a second.

“Have fun,” he finished in a much less powerful tone and returned to tend to his own forge in silence; the two who were here today knew their way around a workshop anyway, and they didn’t need his input—healing or otherwise—just yet.

“They work well together,” Bilbo commented in a soft voice as they watched the scene through the wide-open doors of the forge.

Lómion had only been coaxed out of the Halls of Waiting by the promise that there was one who would join in him Aulë’s new reinsertion program who was just as reticent to talk about what had happened to him as he was.

Celebrimbor on the other hand, had been desperate to get out, but—once reembodied—he had struggled considerably to get used to his hale flesh and the omnipresent shadow of guilt and resentment that haunted his family.

They didn’t speak about their parents—too daunting was the idea of unravelling the tight knot of mutual distrust, disappointment, and visceral resentment that had festered and hardened during the time they had spent apart.

One day, they well knew, they would have to face the truth and work their way through the family tree of the perpetually absent Finwë in their quest for forgiveness and healing—but they were not yet at a point where they could even consider this without shrinking back in dismay.

In each other though, they found a quantum of peace—they were kin in more aspects than could be counted and their souls recognised each other in the flickering reflections of the ever-burning fires of the forge.

Doomed by birth, they had rebelled against their parents—maybe even driven them to some of their most reckless and gruesome acts inadvertently—only to die alone, free or robbed of their protection and love. Such self-inflicted isolation and deprivation had marked them in ways few could even begin to understand.

“Beautiful,” Celebrimbor praised as he apprised the gem his kinsman brought over to set in the pendant he was crafting from thousands of metal tendrils, thin and flexible as single hairs and strong and enduring as mountains.

His eyes wandered from the polished stone to the pale, stern face of his collaborator and he repeated his previous assessment in a breathless, awed voice.

Both had found—to their surprise and relief—that they still delighted in the making of intricate jewellery, but they would refuse to devise rings or set stones into coronets and crowns—too deep was the trauma and too fresh the wounds for such designs.

Moreover, the name of that fallen Maia, who had almost ruined Middle-Earth, was never spoken. Each nurtured his grievances with the one who had pretended to be a friend and who had turned out to be a cruel torturer in private.

“In time,” Yavanna whispered, feeling that Bilbo’s own heart clenched in anger and pain at the thought of the one he had only ever known as Sauron. “You’ll learn the whole story. He was charming, you know? At the very beginning and almost until the end, he was an apt liar and a devastating seducer.”

“I guess,” Bilbo muttered, massaging his hands to dispel the phantom pain of a ring he had not worn nor even seen in a long time. “Will they be okay?”

Yavanna nodded at the forge where the ancient magic of skill and ambition was revived by deft hands, made anew by the grace of the Valar, blending techniques and ideas that had come from another world and another time.

Even as they spoke, Celebrimbor had lifted the delicate pendant off the table and presented it to Lómion in the brash, mute manner of a man who no longer trusted his words.

“It’s…a mole?” Bilbo breathed, amazed by the extraordinary skill the elf displayed. “Incredible! The style…reminds me…”

As Yavanna witnessed the choked sob of recognition and gratitude tearing itself from Lómion’s throat—he was a Nolofinwëan, and thus an ugly crier by nature—and hummed under her breath as her soul shivered in compassion.

“Hmmm, it has a dwarven flair indeed. That, my dear Bilbo,” she murmured, “is also a story for another day though.”

@fellowshipofthefics Here's another one :D

Lots of love from me

-> Masterlist

[autocrafted]

Fictober 2023:

Day 1: "It's not too late, let's go." - College AU, studying for finals turns into a race against the clock for food

Fandom: Double Life Relationship: Team Rancher

Rating: G

Warnings: None.

Word Count: 838 ----------------

Tango and Jimmy had been lost in their studies for what felt like an eternity. Their cozy apartment had transformed into a fortress of textbooks, scattered notes, and the too occasional snack wrapper. The rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall was accompanied by the occasional sigh of frustration, as they battled to conquer the looming specter of their final exams.

Amid the sea of books and laptop screens, Jimmy's gaze shifted from his own work to Tango, who was hunched over his desk, brows furrowed in deep concentration. Even in the midst of their academic stress and the occasional error in his code, Tango looked undeniably adorable. His tousled hair and those endearing furrows on his forehead never failed to make Jimmy's heart flutter.

But the rumbling in their stomachs could no longer be ignored.

"Tango," Jimmy sighed, running a hand through his tousled hair, "I think I'm hitting the wall here. My brain can't process anything more."

Tango nodded, rubbing his face in exhaustion, the frustration evident in his voice. "Yeah... my code keeps error-ificating," he exclaimed with a mix of exasperation and a hint of amusement, a playful sparkle in his eyes.

Jimmy couldn't help but chuckle, despite the fatigue weighing on them both. "It seems we've reached our limits. I think it's time for a break." He reached over and gently closed Tango’s laptop, earning a grateful glance from his study partner.

Their eyes met, and they shared a silent but mutual understanding. It was as if their stomachs had declared a truce in the ongoing battle of academia.

Yet, as they checked the time, their eyes widened in simultaneous realization. The clock on the wall revealed a cruel truth – it was well past midnight, and their beloved late-night restaurant, the one that served their ultimate comfort food, was teetering on the edge of closing for the night.

Tango sighed in defeat, leaning back into his chair. "Well, I guess we'll have to settle for making ramen or something-"

But before he could finish his sentence, Jimmy flung a jacket at his face. "It's not too late; let's go," he declared with a determined glint in his eye. Tango's heart skipped a beat as a smile spread across his face, and he hurriedly donned his coat.

With their newfound energy, they leaped from their chairs, threw on their coats, and dashed out the door. Hand in hand, they sprinted through the dimly lit campus, their laughter and the sound of their footsteps echoing in the stillness of the night. The campus, usually teeming with students, was deserted, the silence broken only by the rustling of leaves and the distant hum of a car. But for Tango and Jimmy, the world had narrowed down to a singular purpose – reaching the restaurant before it closed.

Taking the lead, Tango guided Jimmy through the dimly lit campus pathways, his grip firm and reassuring, leading him through the shortcuts they had discovered ages ago. The campus seemed to come alive around them, with the trees rustling in excitement and the stars twinkling overhead in approval.

As they dashed past the iconic university library, their breaths visible in the chilly air, they could see the faint glow of its neon sign in the distance, a beacon of hope in the night.

Their pace quickened, and their hearts pounded in unison. Finally, they arrived at the restaurant's entrance, panting, breathless, and thoroughly disheveled, but filled with a sense of triumph.

The server, a kind and understanding woman, greeted them with a warm smile. "Aren't you two cutting it close tonight?" she teased.

Tango and Jimmy exchanged a desperate yet hopeful look, their breaths still coming in ragged gasps. "Not too late for your favorite couple, right?" Tango reasoned.

The waitress couldn't help but chuckle at their undeniable enthusiasm. With a nod, she signaled the kitchen to prepare their usual order. "More like the couple who keeps us in business," she snickered before locking the door behind them. "You boys want to sit?"

Jimmy smiled as he settled into a chair in the front waiting area. "Not tonight; we have a long night ahead," he explained as Tango joined him, snuggling into his side. The waitress left them be to begin her cleaning duties.

As they waited for their food to arrive, Tango reached for Jimmy's hand, their fingers interlocking in silent celebration. The thrill of making it just in time filled their hearts to the brim.

"I told you we'd make it," Jimmy whispered, his eyes gleaming with relief and affection.

Tango squeezed Jimmy's hand, momentarily forgetting his exhaustion. "Yes, you did. Do you want a prize?" he teased.

"Maybe," Jimmy replied, a fond smirk on his face.

Tango rolled his eyes and leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to Jimmy's lips. "How about now? Is that a good prize?"

Jimmy pretended to contemplate for a moment, earning a gentle nudge from Tango. He giggled, then placed a tender kiss on the top of Tango's head. "Perfect."

[vertiny]

top three eras styling 💖

bec ilysm 🫶 okay so styling is so so fun in some eras so imma... not cheat, but ! break it up into two sections, hope you don't mind ! (one of these might just be purely bc of a hair colour but technically hair is a part of the stylings 👀 (i could do a whole top for hairstyles but that's not what we're here for) + these are gonna be a mix of mv stylings, stage stylings, etc.)

sorry this took so long getting out, i thnk i put Too Much thought into it KSJDGH

under the cut bc pictures are involved and i feel like i talked too much 🥹

SECTION ONE: BY MEMBER

1. yongseung - series ‘o’ [round 3 : whole]. i swear it’s not JUST his hair that puts him here but like . THIS HAIR COLOUR !!!!! wine red / burgundy yongs so dear to my heart, but other than that, the outfit choices made for him were such good ones. we always love a suit look, and there's smth about the copper(?) silk shirt that sits lovely against him, with a pop of a different pattern thanks to the collar, and then the silk shirts in general were just good choices, sarah stickered and seal of approval-ed, the whole works dskjgh, and then ig i just have a thing for yongs being in the orange / brown colour-wheel (especially with this hair) bc it just Suits Him, idk what else to say

2. hwanwoong - pygmalion. a mutual of mine got a real-time view into me, who was a singular leedo bias with a fondness for hwanwoong, who had also already seen the solo concept pics, completely disregard leedo in the group concept pics and zoomed right into hwanwoong with a caption of "HELLOOOO SAILOR 🤩🥰" so he was welcomed into the bias line officially... i think that speaks for itself SKDJGH and if it doesn't, look at the photos. they speak for themselves 🤭 (we also got yongseung & hwanwoong interactions again this era so many pluses in my book ! debut besties (oneus + vrvr debuted same day !) near and dear to me<3)

3. seonghwa - fever: epilogue. look at the material, need i say more? DKDKS no but fr, the pink hair is def a top reason this era of styling lives on in my head. we also got pink-haired vampire!seonghwa so… that’s worth all the hype 😌 also probs has smth to do with pink being my fave colour when i was younger, but either way, it's the colouring of everything together that really makes this era a fave. like, okay, hwa's got pink hair, but they didn't make it a hot pink that ran many possibilities of clashing with everything, and it's not a washed-out distant breath of the colour pink but a nice middle ground, and like i said before, look at the material. the brightness of the pink works with the dark blue and grey jacket, the pink goes up against the blue / green (teal?) of the overcoat and only serves to (imo) heighten the pop the coat brings - the clothes under the coat and the background are all monotone and yet, despite the pink, your eyes are instantly drawn to the coat. the third photo . well. that hwa might just live rent free in my head so i'm incredibly biased on it, and imma sound like a broken record but his pink hair is tied in with the pops of pink on the jacket, and there's spots of different patterns that draw your eye, but none that overwhelm you. and as for the fourth pic... pink (cat) hwa is so beloved to me and that's all i gotta say

(honourable mentions: seonghwa - halazia / seonghwa - crazy form / seonghwa - wonderland (bc sword<3) / yeosang - bouncy (esp this look & special mentions to these two hair stylings) / yeonho - undercover (esp this look) / gyehyeon - undercover (specifically 220508 & 220503) / wooyoung - bouncy (for this hair accessory & this styling alone lol idk i like it a lot) / seonghwa - deja vu / yongseung - crazy like that - and imma stop here bc i could apparently keep adding more :starcry:)

-

SECTION TWO: BY GROUP

1. verivery - tag tag tag. look, you know me, you know what my favourite colour is (red) lol BUT EVEN THEN there’s smth about the styling for this era that just hits so well. idk, it’s a mix of casual, of flowy, of literally “just some dudes” kinda looks that just work so well. i looooove the mix of fabrics and patterns and how cohesive they are while all being strong outfits all in their own. this set of stage outfits (pictured below) are, imo, great, like . giving dongheon (1) and yeonho (5) “red heavy” fits, giving hoyoung (2) and yongseung (6) black jackets to break up the monotonous of the singular colour, having gyehyeon (4) in a complete red look BUT using a deeper red and blue / black plaid overshirt to make him stand out AND THEN putting minchan (3) and kangmin (7) in black and white fits with a red accent belt? (even tho you can't really see the belt on minchan lol) SO GOOD 🤩 and even after all that, they've all got bits of silver jewelry that ties them all together too

2. p1harmony - killin' it. okay, so we aren't even in this era YET!! but like . the stuff i've seen... yeah, she deserves it. keeho (1) looks so good i'm 😭, theo (2) looks dark and edgy, jiung (3) looks - in the best way - like he's about to start a fight (and win) idk how to explain it but its so good, intak (4) i want his shirt rn plsnthx it looks like someone grabbed the stars and made it into a shirt 🤩, soul (5) is a son and batshit insane (affectionate) and i'm like so ?!?!? about his hair this era !! i don't think i could do it but it's so sick and suits him so well and jongseob (6) i lowkey expected a nosebleed in the styling? SDJKGH I KNOW THAT SOUNDS STUPID but i feel like it'd fit for his styling alone? not in the overall styling but if it was just him? piwon generally always has solid stylings !

3. victon - voice: the future is now. the era has 3 stylings but these two are so 🫶 !!!! to me lol (it's also my first victon era so it's v dear to me) the left side's styling gives off aristocratic vampires and i didn't know i needed this kind of styling in my life until i laid eyes on it ! the shirts all look like they're velvet and soft so that's always a plus in my books. and then the right side's styling !! i'd describe it as "casual royal" lmao it's the mix of them all in a simple pant, and then the jackets / coats are all bedazzled (and all different styles of bedazzlements !!!) making them the true statement pieces, and we both know that means they're sparkly and . well . gimme, i want them 🤲 SKDKD

(honourable mentions: verivery - get away / verivery - trigger / ateez - bouncy / ateez - crazy form / p1harmony - harmony: all in / oneus - pygmalion / oneus - baila conmigo / verivery - tap tap / verivery - undercover)

[marimbles]

if it makes you feel any better i love multifandom blogs. im a ml and tloz fan so i enjoy most of the stuff you post, but even with the toh stuff (that ive never watched before) i think its really fun to see your reactions to it even if i have no clue whats going on (and when theres been too much toh on my dash i just blacklist it) but you rock and i like following a genuine well rounded person with multiple interests rather than just a blog curated to one singular thing and i feel like a lot of people would agree with me

🥺🥺 this is very kind, thank you! it is definitely an irrational concern lol I don’t know why I can’t shake it! It’s always nice to follow blogs who are guaranteed to post about one thing i like but I do also follow many multifandom blogs and I have picked up new interests because of them which is a bonus! Part of the reason I got into tloz was all the beautiful botw fanart I saw on my dash. And I got into toh bc so many of the ml people I followed were into haha. That’s also the reason I watch spy x family! And probably even more. If I’m every annoyed about seeing something I don’t care about on my dash, I just block the tag. nbd. and if it comes to the point that someone I follow no longer has any fandoms in common with me, I might just unfollow. But sometimes if it’s a beloved mutual I just kind of like seeing them play in their sandbox and their blorbos become like blorbos-in-law to me 😂 it feels like enrichment to my enclosure to sometimes see random stuff from fandoms I’m not in lol.

Anyway, thanks for reaching out, that is sweet of you! 💜 I hope u have a nice day:)

[musicrunsthroughmysoul]

Thanks to beloved mutual @buddyhollyscurls, I've briefly (FOR ME, LOL) analyzed part of "A Case of You" as it pertains to Aziraphale and Crowley's relationship! I chose to analyze just the chorus for now to keep it as brief as possible, but one day I may consider the whole song as it compare to them, because I see most of it comparing successfully. We'll see. 😊 I did my best to explain this so that it makes sense to those unfamiliar with Good Omens, so even if you haven't seen the show or read the book (although this mostly relates to the show), you can still hopefully follow along. So, to start:

"Oh, you're in my blood like holy wine/You taste so bitter and so sweet"

Aziraphale has existed on Earth for at least 6,000 years with Crowley being the singular constant being that he's run across, which has created a (to quote the Metatron in Good Omens 2) "de-facto partnership" where Aziraphale has not only come to expect Crowley's presence, but to also rely on him, trust him, and commiserate with him in ways which literally no other being in the universe can because they're the only two beings who have experienced, firsthand, the history of Earth AND other historical events pertaining to the Universe aside from Earth (the history of heaven and hell, in other words, respectively). To Aziraphale, this "partnership" is both a sin (bitter) and a blessing (sweet) because: they're supposed to be "on opposite sides" (to quote Aziraphale), since a demon and an angel are not supposed to associate with each other, according to both hell and heaven; there are historical events that have happened and experiences that Aziraphale has had that would not have worked out 'for the best' had Crowley not been there, even just considering Aziraphale's quote after the Armageddon-that-didn't, "Just imagine how awful it might have been if we'd been at all competent."

"Oh, I could drink a case of you, darling/And I would still be on my feet/Oh, I would still be on my feet"

Ironically, to his chagrin but also to his relief, Aziraphale finds that no matter what shenanigans they get into, he can ultimately (and this goes unspoken) trust Crowley to always be on their side - accepting that they're flawed, self-interested beings who still try, when they can, to do what's best for the world (rather than what is expressly expected of them, as an angel and a demon). Like...Aziraphale knows that associating with Crowley is the literal opposite of what's expected of him, but he still finds, at the end of the day, that nothing and no one really meets his expectations except for Crowley, and as much as he tries to (and wishes he could) deny that, Aziraphale knows that his existence wouldn't be the same (and it would not be better) without Crowley. Furthermore, Crowley's presence has inherently allowed Aziraphale to think independently from and critically about heaven and God's "ineffable plan," meaning that he's less of heaven and God's obedient little warrior and more his own being that strives to do Good as far as his own morals are concerned and, again, what's ultimately good for the Earth and humanity. Crowley has also incidentally rescued Aziraphale from quite a few sticky situations that would've ended up with him discorporated (his soul separated from his human body in the case of his body being destroyed, while his soul remains unharmed). So, again, as ironic as this may sound, without Crowley, he really wouldn't stand on his own two feet.

I am NOT making a playlist for any Good Omens characters (even though I'm tempted) but oh my GOD, "A Case of You" by Joni Mitchell is such a perfect song for Aziraphale, I'M SCREAMING.

[ithefoolofweeds]

A Tribute To A Titan🧡

I woke up this morning, to a community post of Technoblade by molzeysketch. After a quick, curious skim through of the comments, I searched up his name.

I was greeted with a barely 5 hour old video. The last one of them all.

I reeled, and processed and cried and mourned a man I didn't even know, and I have been for the past 8 hours now, while pondering my own last message to him.

I am aware that to him, logistically, I am nothing more than a number amongst more than 10 million others. Sentimental ly, I may have held the value that a dog across the ocean has to someone who says they like all dogs even though they've never met anywhere near even a percent.

And to me, he was not a friend, I didn't know him. I know what he showed. But what he showed is adored. He was a comforting voice when silence was too loud and music too much. He was a good laugh on days where smiling seemed pointless. And he and his friends were a small glimpse of the fact that mutual love and respect does indeed exist in full.

I mourn for his family, and for his friends, having lost their loved one. It'll never be the same, and I hope they can keep eachother safe. Let them grieve for now, everyone. I mourn for the Minecraft community as a whole, for loosing a Greater King. I for mourn our community, for loosing a beloved creator.

Cancer is a retched thing. It's ravaged my family for generations, but it's only as of late that I've pondered how I actually feel about it.

It doesn't hate, it just takes. It has no mind that maliciously tell it to, yet it steals and hurts and kills.

I dont like how its fundamentalized in language. You don't fight it. Fighting implies some form of equal enemies, it implies skills and strategies and leeway to improve. Sure, saying "you survived your battle with cancer" sounds wonderful, but what of the opposite? Do not tarnish the memories by claiming they are a loser in a fight that has no contestant except for maybe your own body for unknowingly, accidentally creating a cancerous cell. If anything, consider it a draw, as the cancer died with them.

But Techno won. He won so, so much. He wrote so himself, he would do it all again even with a hundred offered chances. He won his friends, his community, his success, everything.

A legend, a king, taken far, far too early. All the what ifs that only scortch and burn. The future rushes us like a maddened bull, but in the end, it always flinches first and settles into the present. We can do very little but breathe in, breathe out. There's both agony and catharsis in the knowledge that the world has not stopped turning. But for today, we are millions, scattered all across the world, mourning and crying for one singular person. And how beautiful, to have so many bow their heads in solidarity for your life. Being mourned is human right, and he has so, so many. Mourning is the remembrance of something great. It is the pain of knowing that things won't be the same.

Comfort is the answer to all life's problems. It doesn't solve them, but it makes them more distant for a bit. Keep eachother safe, seek out communities and just talk for a bit. My DMs are open right now if you don't have anyone else

If there is such a place, I know Techno will triumph the kingdom of God, and watch us from his throne, chuckling and calling us crybabies. He got spectator mode while the rest of us nerds remain in survival. Good fighting king, and here's to the absolute rediculous astonishment we may face when we pass on and come face to face with him, laughing at us about how we fell for the 'Dave' thing.

I am not a religious person. I believe that we cannot know if or not there is something greater. I don't have a particular religion, --a particular tale of afterlife to be precise--, that I gravitate my agnostisism around.

But I hope that there is somewhere in the stars or beyond the sunset that he may reunite with family and friends again one day.

'Are we living a life that is safe from harm?'

Of course not. We never are. But that’s not the right question. The question is are we living a life that is worth the harm?

It might feel like your life is unraveling, but your life cannot unravel. Your life is your life. You haven't lost it. It's just different now

Goodbye King

In our hearts, memories and mind, truely;

Technoblade never dies

[sunsoakd]

aaa first tag game back 😪 bestie @maybecomedy tagged me to list 8 albums by 8 artists and my fav track for each :) (a BILLION yrs late i was just going thru my drafts sorryyyyy)

five seconds flat by lizzy mcalpine — doomsday

albums that make you go hnnnnng and a song that makes you go HUH? this is such a silly album bc you’re like ok tiktok girlie and then jacob collier is there. (who to be fair is like. also kind of a tiktok girlie but i digress.) closer track orange show speedway also kills and slays. very big fan.

home video by lucy dacus — first time

it’s been over a year since this album came out and i am still just like. sitting here. again honorable mentions must be made for partner in crime and brando and triple dog dare and.

the baby by samia — limbo bitch

samia is my best friend my confidante my everything. and this album is for long car rides and crying and screaming and also fucking grooving!!!!! endless possibilities and endless good tracks.

saves the world by muna — number one fan

muna has hooks for days. it is hot muna summer. muna girl summer. muna my beloveds. who is doing it like them. who! newer album is also good but it does not have hit after hit like this does

heard it in a past life by maggie rogers — retrograde

something so singular about this album. i do not love her newer stuff but this is like. so perfectly produced. (shoutout to ROSTAM my best friend ROSTAM!!!!!) it truly does hit. this is so old news at this point but like if you haven’t listened to this…

valentine by snail mail — madonna

i promise i am mentally stable and ok in the head<3 this album is good though.

transatlanticism by death cab for cutie — transatlanticism

when i hear this album i turn into the worst music bro ever. there is a reason that people are pretentious about this album and that’s bc it’s so so so good. i heard it for the first time when i was like 14 and didn’t get it and i still don’t but i always knew it fucking rocked.

you signed up for this by maisie peters — love him i don’t

pop girlie of all time imo! the first line of this album is “i am twenty and probably upset right now” and she is right bc i was frequently upset at twenty. (sooo long ago aka like last month lol!) maisie has always gotten it and continues to even though i frequently question her choices in life partners. listen if you want unapologetic britpop bangers !

tagging EVERY MUTUAL including you YES YOU!!!!!!

[thespookyintrovert]

When beauty calls

1,294 words ● Canonical, post S11 ● Just a short little scene ● Notes at the end ● tagging @today-in-fic

I hope this makes you smile and sigh as you read, just as it made me smile and sigh as I was writing it. I don’t pronounce it to be good, but I’m happy I wrote it. 

____

There is an exalted kind of beauty. It’s the beauty of starry nights, whether painted by divine hands or composed of swirling strokes on canvas. It’s the beauty of woodnotes, a natural symphony which exists only for the attentive ear; and the beauty found in a concert hall, made up of haunting notes rolling into a crescendo.

Then there is understated Beauty. It seldom reveals itself, choosing instead to remain enshrouded in banality, brushing only against those who dare call it by name. That diaphanous Beauty belongs only to the commonplace, weaving itself with ease into the everyday movements that make up the course of a lifetime. It is there, if only one knows where to look.

“Mulder, this is ridiculous.”

Ah, if couches were ever rewarded for being the silent witnesses to so many of these domestic disputes. If only the reliability of worn leather was ever a consideration to couples such as this, mindlessly counting on its strength to hold up their bodies and their words. But alas, an ode to furniture was the farthest thing from Dana Scully’s mind this chilly night.

She was focused on one thing with steady intensity, and that was ending a stalemate that had been going on for months. Ever since they had discovered the tiny human currently dancing around her womb was a girl, she hadn’t known a moment’s peace. It should have been simple enough to choose a mutually satisfactory name, but it turned out to be a matter in which they both had strong opinions. Opposing ones. With a sigh, she contemplated how the world kept turning and turning and some things never changed.

“Nag on me all you want, Scully, I’m not backing down.” Mulder’s smile was impish, his tug on her toe fond. She remained, however, unmoved. The bulging stomach between them, currently obscuring her own feet from view, was but one reminder that they had four weeks left to come to an agreement. Aching back, swollen ankles and perpetual indigestion added to the effect of a generally less than sunny disposition. She was no longer in her thirties, and every year of her 54 was felt this pregnancy.

Still, her fingertips traced adoring circles around her belly button, every kick to the ribs met with a grunt and a smile. Yet she kept it to herself, leveling on Mulder the stern gaze he had claimed from her as his own over twenty years ago. She did not want to let him do away with the argument this time. 

“Do you know why it was so easy last time?” He gave her a mock skeptical glance before turning back to his Sasquatch documentary, but it didn’t deter her in the slightest. “Because I picked the name, and you couldn’t argue with me about it.”

He actually laughed a little. “Scully, I’ll go out on a limb here and say that given our family histories, the chances of William having a different name were slim to none.”

She held back a longing sigh and proceeded to ignore him. “My point stands.”

A quiet snort, followed by the gentle clasp of his fingers on her swollen foot. “No, it doesn’t.”

She felt less inclined to argue as she savored the feeling of his fingers massaging the aches away, but still refused to surrender the attempt. “Don’t think you’ll distract me from this. Mulder, I’ve already proposed a perfectly reasonable solution: I get the first name, you get the second name; everybody’s happy.”

His look was wry. “Or I get the first name and you get the second name. Admit it, Scully, the second name only exists on paper, no one will even know it’s there.”

Her head fell back against the couch, for a moment fancying herself a long-suffering saint singing her frustration to the heavens. If only age had softened Mulder’s stubborn edge as it had softened the angles on his face; it was unfair, wrestling with the spitting image of his thirty-year-old self when she wasn’t even sure she’d recognize herself from twenty years ago. “Sure. Fine,” she said, head still stretched back, “you can tell your daughter whose fault it is that she doesn’t get a name until her 18th birthday. Assuming we both live to see it.” The last part was a dry murmur, meant only for God.

“Mhmm.” She felt his lips on her stomach, then, curving around its roundness with the stretch of a smile. Her gaze didn’t acknowledge him, but one of her hands landed amidst the softness of his hair, sweeping off any residual harshness with gentle strokes. This was their rhythm — the never-ending cycle of verbal spars that was as comfortable as it was challenging. No matter which one came out on top, in the end they knew their places to be side by side; with every smile and every touch the slate was once again wiped clean, no scorecards kept. Beneath the frustration, her whole being still hummed to this tune that was all their own.

And thus came Beauty, summoned by the unwitting siren call of a heart that chose love.

Finally lowering her eyes, the scene before Scully seemed to stretch until it wrapped around her entire world. She saw Mulder, face on her belly, alternating between nuzzling with his nose and sending whispers to the baby in a hushed baritone; they were not meant for her, but she basked in the vibrations of his voice, watching every crinkle on that beloved face as it shifted and pressed words into her skin. She saw her hand in his hair, noticed how it felt the same between her fingers as it did twenty years before. She saw past and future entwined around her finger in gold, glittering as it ran between strands tinged with grey. 

She drank in every detail as if at any moment she might be called upon to paint it from memory. Never before had that corner of the world seen such loving gaze; never before had the night breeze found fingers gentler than its own, or the cackling fire eyes that could match it in warmth. They were all silent witnesses to the most mundane of miracles; they, who had beheld for roughly two thousand years these rippling echoes of another miracle, one even more singular in its lowliness.

She knew they’d be arguing about this again tomorrow. She also knew they’d be lying like this again tomorrow, after all had been said and done, chasing away small everyday annoyances on the leather couch. Mulder raised his head to look at her, hooded eyes smiling, and her own lips melted into a soft curve. At the end of the day, their life together was all the more dear for being made of all these little contradictions, the seams an ever-present reminder that they were two individuals bound together by choice as much as fate.  

Perhaps it had taken them over twenty years to find their place in the world, to craft a life dictated by will instead of circumstance. And perhaps many, upon looking in through any window of the little house, would have concluded that the life they chose didn’t amount to much. But as blue met grey over the belly that protected this second chance they never thought they’d get, they both knew it amounted to everything.

Beauty left a little piece of itself in that unremarkable little house, nestling inside two hearts determined to see it in the little things, to call it by name, to touch it with the hands of love. It swept into the creaky floors and through the drafty rooms, kissed each smiling face on the mantle — each of them precious, so many gone. It blessed the little white crib and the old rag doll lying expectantly upon it.

______

Notes: 

1. I chose not to address the whole William mess because a. CC doesn’t deserve my efforts and b. this was really not supposed to be complicated. 

2. Let me know if you caught the little easter eggs sprinkled in there!

[paneerlajwanti]

Yay I really like the rains cause it means my bday is near Also I just really like the rain there's just something about Mumbai ki baarish it really makes me happy and hopeful and want to fall in love lol

To answer your question I'm gonna chill for a while and start working on my dissertation I have one more year of college then that stupid degree is mine

But no tell me about you I missed you how you been what's your favourite mandala in the past couple of months tell me about your fave song what's you newest hyperfixation

~⭐

hi ⭐, my beloved, i will kiss you on the lips (platonically)

I LOVE THE RAINS!!! well i wouldnt have usually because travelling to college in the rains was messy and hectic and to top that being stuck in a room instead of enjoying the rains?? can you believe the audacity they had?? in a campus like ours??? oh god i wouldve missed it so bad?? it got so green so many trees so fresh so cozy and learning stuff?? oh the experience would have really affected me so positively instead ahahah nevermind

i want to fall in love too lets go i guess

yass baby do the chilling, omg dissertation that stupid degree shall be yours yes manifesting that one for you

i am doing good today morning hi oh my god you asking me questions about myself??????

well sweetheart only in the month of may and june i have made an approximate of 120+ mandalas atleast, so choosing a singular favourite is impossible.

but let me tell you my special ones. recently, a week ago i went on a spree and made random mandalas for 15 mutuals. that was very spontaneous and i just made it randomly coz brain went brr but the appreciation and love i received for those personalized mandalas >>> god boy did me good. i really loved that experience.

then i made a mohe rang do laal mandala you can see it here, that was really special for me, emotional attachment purposes and creative satisfaction

my newest favourite song is a playlist i made a few days ago, its called hasratein. then i think the only music i listen to regularly is the indian classical instrumental playlist i listen to all day, its called bin tere bhi naa holi bhi naa bhaye

i have lots of hyperfixatiosn ask me in new ask i will do badbad there

okay i love ya buddy thank you for this

[mchalowitz]

the woman is the king, part three

summary: a throughline of the matriarchal scullys; be they ethereal, sharp-witted, and ill-omened.

i’m very excited to finally share this! definitely the most difficult part to write so far and i hope everyone enjoys it!

part 1: melissa / part 2: dana

part 3: emily

read on ao3

@today-in-fic

———

Two years on, sometimes Scully believes she will be able to survive without her other. A forgotten voice travels from immortal nirvana to her brother’s residential line. She wonders if what she tells herself is true. 

1994; the lost year that exists between them. On an evening in March, returning from a field assignment with Mulder, Melissa leaves a message on her answering machine that Scully can still easily recite. 

Things are too hard right now, Dana. I’m safe, I’m with friends in California. I’ll call soon. I love you.

Dana would never have been the golden child. No one surpasses a squid, especially not a fed with some shifty assignment. A shifty fed fares better than a filthy sinner. Charlie wears excommunication with unsweetened pride. And Melissa, the silly new ager, well, she could take no more.

No one thrives at the center of a Scully family scandal. Scully tries to create a rational narrative. It is 1994. Melissa is pregnant; she doesn’t want the baby. She knows plenty of people on the west coast. It was believable. 

Her beloved sister, Dana, is abducted, and in the four weeks she is missing, Melissa gives birth, and the baby is adopted. Dana resurfaces in a hospital; left practically for dead. Her sister returns to stand vigil at her bedside. 

It becomes a question of mindset. Maggie believes Melissa would have told her; Dana disagrees. Subversion of expectations was the ultimate sin for a Scully child as it was a denouncement of the parenting of William and Margaret. She can attest to her mother’s softening on certain expectations since the death of her father. She still disagrees. 

No time for sulking, only pushing through. Working the case through Christmas clearly infuriates Bill. He keeps it to hushed whispers and snide remarks out of Tara’s earshot. Scully often wonders how privy Tara is to anything going on in the Scully family. 

Her infertility stings when she looks at her sister-in-law. With her cancer now in remission, the other medicals horrors Scully faced start coming back to the surface. It is another slap; the thought that her sister gave away such a sweet little girl while she will never carry a child. 

Scully is a mother. She struggles to quantify what Emily is. 

Emily, a living and breathing child, with the face of a Scully, is a violation of her body that someone stole from her, and yet must be fiercely protected. Perhaps Emily is the missing piece. 

Scully hurriedly fills out the application for temporary custody. It consists of the normal, straightforward questions found on any application, until her hand is hovering over that box. Single or married. 

The only thing happening in sunny San Diego is a completely mundane family Christmas, as far as Mulder is aware. Her words froze during her singular phone call. It seems like reaching out now is more of a bombardment than a simple debrief.

Scully is not in a position to presuppose the enigmatic thoughts of Fox Mulder. Yes, it was by his own volition to marry her and she can even believe that Mulder does love her. It is a mutual respect and a fond devotion. It is not spousal love; not a man that loves his wife. 

If she checks the box, Mulder would have to be a father figure to Emily, and it is not her place to make that decision for him. Their marriage was playing house because she was destined to die and Emily does not deserve to be a flour-sack baby in their labyrinthian game. 

Her pen swipes across the paper. Single. 

--

Mulder starts with M. Mmm. Emily tells him so.

Emily leaves the crayons and paper to go to the bookshelf. Mulder is sitting in the chair by the window and she gives him the book. She points to the yellow bird on the cover.

“What’s his name?”

“I think that’s Big Bird,” Mulder tells her. 

Her Daddy only reads her one book at a time, Mulder reads her three. She goes to the bookshelf for more when Dana comes up close to her. “Emily, Mulder and I have to leave now, but we’ll come back tomorrow.” 

Emily looks at Mulder, holding the book, and he says, “I bet you can find a good spot to keep it safe.” 

She nods and sets the book against the bed, fixing it when it slides down. Dana and Mulder leave. A lady makes her pick up her crayons before dinner.

“I’m tired,” she insists, holding the lady’s hand on the way to eat. 

“First dinner, then bed, Emily.”

--

A duality develops in relation to another atrocity to her body. It is a swift punch to the throat; knocking the breath so deeply out of her lungs. It is also as mundane as adding milk to the shopping list; it is only another thing. 

Her brother’s phone line carries mysteries from one location to another. Landline abandoned, traveling well above the speed limit, Mulder drives toward the children’s home. 

“I could have handled it,” she asserts simply. 

“I know.”

Mulder, with his complexity of a hero, and innate ability to act so hoggish. Scully wonders if he really believes that. 

--

Her blanket at home is pink sparkles and has Barbie on the pillows. Emily doesn’t like her new blanket nearly as much. It’s just plain pink.

The lady from dinner tucks her in. “I met Mr. Potato Head,” Emily informs her. 

Emily doesn’t like the other kids in the new place, especially the boy that calls, “That’s not true! Mr. Potato Head isn’t real.” 

“Yes, he is!” she argues. She struggles to sit up with the blanket holding her back. “I met him and he looks like this!” She puffs out her cheeks, making the same face. 

“That must have been very exciting, Emily,” the lady adds softly, tucking her in again. 

The lights turn off. Emily closes her eyes. She feels cold. 

--

In the work Mulder does with Scully, it is often based more on speculation than he would ever like to admit to anyone. It disgusts him to know that if Emily were any other file in his cabinet, it would bring him joy to map out theories and spar with his partner over them. With the empty coffin staring back at them, Mulder can easily assume a thought is something neither of them want to enter their minds ever again. No hypothesizing to be done here. 

Following the funeral, the San Diego bureau fares slightly kinder than their city’s court system. Their California contact, while deeply apologetic for the tragedy that has occurred here, informs them the field office won’t be actively pursuing the case. Aside from following up on a few leads pertaining to the deaths of Roberta and Marshall Sim, it will likely be deemed a cold case. 

“I’m very sorry, Agent Scully,” the agent says, padding his final blow. Emily’s case will not be investigated either. Both Mulder and Scully understand the algorithm that goes into the decision of pursuing an investigation. If the case fell into the FBI mainstream, Emily’s chronic health issues, use of experimental treatments, and her parents’ full cognizance to the risks wouldn’t stand a chance against the process. 

And if there was anything to investigate, it has already been destroyed by powers far outside the reach of some dinky field office anyway. Whatever the reasoning may be, another Scully woman is still failed by the United States government. 

Scully wants the first flight out of San Diego back to Washington and he is more than quick to oblige her. While she very clearly loves the new addition to her family, the sting is just as obvious. 

Two hours down in the air, three more to go, and they have barely said a word to each other since take-off. Scully’s head is turned toward the window when he reaches for her hand. “Scully,” he speaks, very quietly. 

“No,” she responds with a shake of her head, her voice tight. 

Another long stretch of silence and Mulder thinks she maybe falls asleep, which would be a welcome cause for silence, because he isn’t convinced she’s slept more than an hour or two in days. He is about to request a blanket when her forehead presses into his shoulder and the contact reveals her body shaking with the exertion of holding everything inside yet again. 

It’s his fierce need to protect her always that causes him to envelope her body with his. Her arms wind tightly around his neck. Her attempts to muffle her sobs in his jacket is only partially successful. 

A flight attendant taps him on the shoulder and asks him, “Is everything alright?” 

“Everything’s fine,” Mulder blatantly lies. “But maybe we could get a glass of water for my wife.” 

It's a rare euphoria to speak those words; his wife. Dana Scully is his wife. A mostly unmentioned fact that gives him a childishly nervous feeling in his stomach. While it never retreated in his mind, it appears to be returning to the forefront of hers. 

In the winding process of applying for custody, a second application exists. Scully’s final plea to unite her with her own flesh and blood. Another document that states definitively that they are married. Mulder underwent a grilling from the judge; a practical bullying on the semantics of their marriage. 

One’s subconscious works powerfully, in his experience, and when he sat in this same position on Scully’s couch six months ago, the answer came to him so clearly. It wasn’t only for her benefit as a life experience that everyone should have the opportunity to have if they so choose; cancer only sped up the timeline of an inevitably. Mulder has never taken a mightier leap with her and she accepted. A singular score for Fox Mulder. 

It’s treated as though it never even existed; his presence in that way completely reverted. He wishes he had more of a chance to prove himself worthy. He wishes he was a less of pussy to actually do it. He will, he’s going to. If she is ever willing to forgive him for all of his transgressions. 

Mulder carried the knowledge of her ova and of what was likely (and now, very clearly) done with it with a heaviness that rivaled the many other weights he lugs around inside him. Scully’s hope for recovery was dwindling then and it was only another way to hurt her. 

It felt criminal to hijack her happiness when she went into remission and her bliss honestly fed his soul. Now, he only piles onto her pain. And if he was any kind of man, if he was someone deserving of someday being a person she would maybe, eventually, love for real, he would have been a lot fucking better. 

The flight attendant delivers a glass of water and a box of tissues on a plastic tray. He takes both and offers the glass to Scully. She scoots forward to the edge of her seat, her back straightened, and it reminds him of Bellefleur, and of that young agent in her red robe, and the fear of simple bug bites. It was the moment of cosmiticity bursting into existence between them. 

Scully sips water, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand. His eyes never leave her for the rest of the flight. He drives her home under the glow of streetlights. 

“I can keep you company, if you want,” he offers after insisting he carry her suitcase inside for her. “Might even be able to catch a replay of the Rose Bowl if we’re lucky.”

“That won’t be necessary,” she replies. One hand holds the door and the other is braced on the frame; a universal sign to get lost told through her body language. “I’m going to take a few days. I already let Skinner know.” 

“I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Okay,” she agrees. “Goodnight, Mulder.” 

“Goodnight, Scully.” 

Once the door is shut, he hears the lock click into place. It pains him to walk away. 

Mulder calls Scully in the morning as promised. He calls every morning after. It just rings and rings. 

--

No one is expecting her back in the office until Monday, but by Thursday it becomes increasingly clear that a return to normalcy is what she requires. Scully can only stare at California girls immortalized by ages in threes on her mantel for so long. 

She trades in her bathrobe for a beige skirt with matching jacket and she slugs down the last of a cup of coffee while she packs her briefcase. The landline rings in its cradle next to her hand. Her stockinged feet slide against the kitchen tile as she turns to answer.

“Hello?”

An unfamiliar female voice carries cheerily into her ear. “Hi there, this is Amanda over at Liberty Fertility Center. I’m looking for Fox Mulder?” 

"This is...” Scully starts, and then she pauses, staring up at the ceiling before answering with a restrained sigh. “This is his wife.” 

“I’m following up on a call we received from your husband earlier this week about a sample being stored at our facility and possible ova analysis. He left this as the call back number.” 

Scully clicks her tongue against her teeth, nodding slowly. She barely focuses on the conversation and when it ends, she retrieves the phone book, slamming it down on the table in place of her briefcase. She dials the first promising number in the correct category. 

Heat overtakes her melancholy. Scully is so, so tired of Mulder blanketing his wrongdoings under the guise of protecting her. It has always, ultimately, been her choice to walk alongside him; it was his choice to marry her. He still fills their partnership, their marriage, with secrets. He still withholds. 

She can only imagine what is being done to her ova sitting in some facility.  Mulder didn’t even have the decency to tell her any even remained.

Scully arrives at the office on Friday and Mulder is immersed in a sea of paperwork and photographs. It is only eight in the morning and he already has his jacket slung over the back of his chair, his sleeves rolled up over his forearms. 

“Hey, I wasn’t expecting you until Monday,” he grins with surprised delight. 

Mulder follows her with his eyes as she steps up to his desk. She leans down, kissing him soundly on the mouth, and she observes his dreamy stare when they part.

“I need my ova, Mulder,” she states. Scully pulls a business card out of her pocket; the law firm she called the morning before. “And I want a divorce.” 

[ellstersmash]

Three: Sixteen

Fandom: Dragon Age

Pairing: Solas x f!Lavellan (Modern!AU)

Rating: overall E for Explicit | this chapter T for Teen

|Previous Chapter| |Next Chapter| |Read on AO3|

--

Athi moves the rearview mirror a fraction of an inch. Returns it to its original position, then back. Tough to tell if her discomfort is due to a misjudged angle or the fact that it’s been more than a year since she’s driven anything other than her bike. Not as if she could have let him drive, though. Not in his current state.

“Take this to Saelac,” Solas murmurs. 

He has his eyes shut, but his thumb is still softly stroking hers the way it has been since she pulled onto the freeway. She expected him to pass out right away, but then this city’s policy on roadwork seems to be: Not if we can help it. Every street is scarred with what must be two decades’ worth of springtime patches, and if he couldn’t sleep through a little bit of air turbulence, he sure won’t manage it here.

“How was your week?” he asks, words quiet and slurring together. Enunciation is hard work.

So she tells him about the bar. About the missing, well, everything, and the cleaning list, and Tali’s prediction that Seggrit will be getting more involved with the day-to-day operations, and how for all that she gripes about it, his absence is what makes her job mostly tolerable. Solas nods where more or less appropriate, sometimes smiling sleepily at her tale from the passenger seat.

She tells him about the houseplant she bought. Remembers she forgot to water it today. Yesterday, too. Fuck.

And she tells him about Sera. About their argument and Dagna moving in, and how odd that will be. How sudden it all is, and maybe destined to be a disaster but worth a try, right? She gets the sudden urge to retreat. Three steps at least away from this talk of people moving in together, of possible futures that they’re far too brand new to traverse, even in conversation, even unrelated to either of them entirely. And maybe he feels it too, because he perks up only to fixate on the rally. Asks her when and where and what's it for and who's in charge and whether or not they got a permit and has the audacity to frown when she admits she won’t be there.

"How unfortunate," he says.

Athi groans."Not you, too."

"Excuse me?"

"Sera already gave me shit about it, so if that's your angle I don't want to hear it."

"I did not intend to ‘give you shit,’ no. I was hoping to invite myself along."

"Really?"

"Yes, it is a worthy cause. I had no idea Sera was such an advocate for social reform."

“Then you don’t know her very well.”

“Clearly I have misjudged her.”

“Why are you interested?”

“Why would I not be?”

She tries not to twist that into an accusation. "You just don't strike me as that kind of guy."

"The kind who cares, or the kind who takes action?"

Eyes on the road, it’s impossible to tell if he’s as offended as he sounds. She shrugs. "Both? Seems like you'd rather dig up the past than fix the future."

“Perhaps you have misjudged me, for I do not see the two as mutually exclusive. Take this next exit, then left at the light.”

The change in subject is a welcome one, but she needs her hand to downshift. Squeezes his before she lets go. Not an apology, not for that, but a no hard feelings. His house is only a few blocks away from here, but that’s as much as she remembers because the streets in this section are laid out in a grid and the corners are basically identical.

“Third one down, take a right.”

The yellow house with the overgrown garden jogs her memory. The plants are sad and brittle and dying now and the last time she passed it was early spring, so the perennials had not yet bloomed and the rest was only partially planted. But it must be a sight to behold in the throes of summer. The colorful pinwheels and kitschy glass butterflies sticking up from the withering stalks imply a love of whimsy, and there’s a small white bench surrounded by unlit lanterns under a nearby tree. She hopes she gets to sit there one day. Hopes the neighbors are friendly.

He has her park in his driveway, nose to the garage and she wonders if he’s filled it with more piles and boxes of dusty books or if he just doesn’t want to bother with the door.

Solas points out the house key for her, then grabs his luggage. Once she realizes the lock is upside-down and gets it open, she flicks the front hall lights on and it’s jarring. The house has that hush which places sometimes get after a prolonged vacancy—an absence of sound to soak up and spit out, and the jingle of his keys in her hand and the scrape of his suitcase on the doorframe are too loud. Like it forgot it was ever lived in. 

But nothing else has changed. Not the clutter in the office. Not the cobweb high in the corner. Not even the slight skew of the painting hanging in the living room. Maybe if they’d made these plans before he had left, he’d have tidied up . . . or maybe not. She doesn’t know him well enough to guess.

“If you do not mind, I have been looking forward to a shower all day,” he says and leans his bag against the wall. Starts down the hall toward the kitchen, then stops so abruptly she nearly runs into him.

“I haven’t kissed you yet,” he says, half epiphany, half confession.

Athi threads her arms around him, pleased to discover the tension between them is gone. “I’m very aware.”

His gaze rests on her lips and he blinks slow, as if the effort to open them again is monumental. When he lowers his face to kiss her it is terribly gentle and maybe it’s not on purpose. Maybe it’s just because he’s tired, but it makes her melt. 

Without a reason not to, her hands wander. Slide over the row of tiny gray buttons on his shirt, push the boundaries of his collar. They graze along his throat and through the short dark hair on his scalp, barely there but for the way it catches on her fingerprints. She presses closer before they part, her dazed and him borderline delirious.

“Ok, go shower,” she urges him. “And don’t doze off in there. I’ll have to make fun of you.”

“After that? It is unlikely I’ll be able to sleep at all.” But his dopey grin belies the truth. “Though if you are concerned for my well-being, you are more than welcome to join me.”

Gods, she never sees it coming. He slides straight from stumbling and sleep-deprived to smooth insinuation like it’s his default setting and she wants to say yes. But she knows better. 

“See, that sounds sexy right up until you’re trying to get to sleep with my hair dripping cold water all over the both of us. Besides, I have some snooping to do.” Teasing, of course. She doesn’t care where he keeps his linens or what lies hidden under his socks.

“By all means, peek anywhere you like. Except the attic, which is strictly off-limits.”

Her eyes light up. “Why, what’s in the attic?”

But he only laughs and heads up the stairs. Pauses halfway up and calls down, “Do you need anything?”

Right on cue.

“I’m good,” she assures him. “Go.”

A sharp squeak is followed by the rush of water through old pipes as she skims the shit on his refrigerator. A coupon for an oil change and receipt from an art supply store. Nothing interesting in the least. His magnets are a confused but equally unenlightening collection of local restaurants’ takeout info and unused metal clips.

A few books sit on the island. Sundered: The Scientific Renaissance of Post-Veil Thedas; The Fade: Fact or Fiction?; and An Exhaustive Documentation of Suspected Elvhen Artifacts Destroyed in the Divine Age. She lifts the cover of the top one, flips pages until she comes to a black business card serving as a makeshift bookmark, scans a few lines:

After their own dark period, the Qunari appear to have focused their collective efforts toward adjusting to these new laws of nature. Extensive, detailed records show rapid technological advancement through experimentation and invention, much of which laid the foundation for generations’ worth of progress. Indeed, many modern conveniences can be traced back to their early successes.

Not exactly light reading. Though pretty typical for him, she suspects. What unsettles her is not the books or the boring refrigerator door. It’s the fact that in all of these rooms—the entryway, the study, the kitchen, the living room—all these living spaces, there are no pictures. Not of anyone. His home is steeped in history, but not his own. She's good at being alone, but at least when she inevitably uproots she takes the memories with her. He has nothing. No drawer full of snapshots to match hers, like some sort of trail to prove his existence.

Maybe they’re just very different people. Maybe he doesn’t feel the need to prove anything. Maybe he isn’t the type to take pictures. Or to keep them. Maybe his memories are painful. Maybe they were lost in some tragic accident that hasn’t come up in conversation yet.

Or maybe she’s reading into stuff she shouldn’t be. Again.

At the top of the stairs are two doors and two doorways. Bathroom’s straight ahead, shower still running. Next to that is a closed door, presumably the attic. The leftmost room is closed as well, but unlocked; there's nothing inside but a few file cabinets. The door to the right hangs open, revealing another bedroom. It is small and tidy with minimal furniture: a dresser and a full-length mirror, and a large bed flush with the corner, the thick crimson comforter slightly rumpled near the pillows on one side as if slept in, then hastily remade. A singular nightstand bears a simple swing-arm lamp.

She hunts through his dresser until she finds his T-shirts. Picks a white one with a logo on it from the middle, between freshly-washed and never-been-used. Not beloved—in case he cares—but not the crisp got-it-for-free-and-couldn’t-throw-it-out kind either. Sheds her clothes that smell like beer and citrus and bitters, all but her underwear and leaves them folded neatly on top of the dresser. Then she pulls on his shirt and knocks on the bathroom door frame.

“It’s open,” he yells, and she rolls her eyes. “Extra toothbrushes are in the lower right drawer, and the toothpaste is behind the mirror.”

“Uh huh,” she answers, but is beginning to regret turning down his offer. The shower curtain is nothing but a clear liner and with no door to keep it in, the steam does blessedly little to conceal his form. There’s still time; for more than a moment she contemplates stripping back down and slipping in, but then he shuts off the water and stretches a dripping arm out for his towel so she goes for the toothbrush instead.

By the time he emerges with that same towel wrapped around his hips, she’s finished and gives his reflection an appreciative glance.

He returns it and tugs on her sleeve. “The Lothering Museum of History will be thrilled to have your endorsement.”

“Why am I not surprised that you don’t have a real shower curtain?”

“This curtain is perfectly sufficient.”

“Hey.” Athi raises her hands and follows him into the bedroom. “Not complaining.”

She also doesn’t complain about the precious seconds between him losing the towel and gaining a pair of pajama pants. He’s fit. Cut, not bulky. Studying old stuff and reading books and attending conferences can’t possibly be a direct line to muscle definition and she wonders what he does to work out. If they could do it together. He doesn’t strike her as a runner, but he might enjoy climbing.

Solas interrupts her plans with a brief kiss, trades the overhead light for the bedside one. Four in the morning is hardly late by her standards, but she can tell as his head hits the pillow that he feels it. He tucks her hair behind her ear and smiles, sleepy and sideways.

“Thank you for coming over.”

Athi turns her head and kisses his fingers and whispers, “Thank you for getting naked.”

She’ll be the funny one forever if it means his nose will always crinkle like that.

“I am sorry that I am not—”

“No.” She presses a thumb to his lips to cut short his apology. “That’s not what I’m here for. Really enjoyed the view, though.”

His face is shadowed by the same light shining in her eyes, but the expression he wears is warm. He hits the switch and the room goes dark. She scoots in closer. Tangles their legs. Wriggles until she’s comfortable. It doesn’t take long, like a sign, or a nod from the universe.

We just fit.

Solas is asleep before she’s even ready to try. There are freckles scattered across his shoulders, constellations to trace while she waits. Tries to match his languid breathing. Thinks about where his pictures went. Almost there, then hits the last and loudest stop on her train of thought’s meandering track, and she’s jolted awake.

The bookmark. The business card. The cleaning and packing up. The answer has been stuffed into the back pocket of her least-favorite jeans for weeks.

Seggrit is selling the fucking bar.

--

She wakes up alone. Sprawled out in sheets that smell like him but without the him they belong to. Adjusting, she stares into the middle distance and listens to a faraway set of sounds—the fridge opens, then shuts, the clink of dishes and creak of the floor.

Seggrit is selling the bar. She has no idea what to do with that news except to tell Tali, have her check the books to confirm. They’ve been behind by at least a month for as long as Athi’s worked there, usually more, and if he’s really going to get rid of the place he’ll have had to catch up.

She rolls out of bed, digs her toes into the carpet. It could be nine or noon or later for all she knows. The sun here is strange, and there’s no clock in this room to tell her so she goes searching for one downstairs.

A mosaic-faced antique by the sliding door claims it’s noon.

“Good morning,” Solas says from the kitchen.

She mumbles something resembling words. Seven more steps and she hugs him from behind and they fit so well and his heart is beating fast and he stops whisking eggs to stand there with her all quiet and it’s not morning anymore and he should have stayed in bed and she needs to text Tali and—

“I want coffee,” she whines. Doesn’t mean to whine, but there it is. What if he doesn’t have any? What if he’s one of those people that doesn’t keep coffee in their house?

She might cry.

“There is a bag in the cupboard at the end there, next to the mugs. I was going to make it for you, but—”

“Say no more.”

Gods, she’s glad he didn’t. No one makes it strong enough, and he’s too cute to disappoint so she would have had to drink it anyway. Pretend that pisswater was fine.

Cupboard on the end, right where he said. She slides it off the shelf and can’t help but flutter as she examines the packaging. It’s the same as the ones she bought—or tried to buy then he bought for her—at the coffee shop last year. Or maybe he just asked for “something strong” at the shop and this happened to be what they gave him, but regardless, he thought of her and that feels good all on its own. Her butterflies settle as she opens the bag, breathes in deep. Pours a generous pile into a fresh filter and fills the reservoir with water.

“Roast date on this is yesterday. Did you really leave me sleeping alone in your house?” she teases and pushes the button to start the brew cycle. “What if I had woken up and you were gone?”

“I did consider that possibility, but weighed against the certainty of the alternative, it seemed the wisest course of action.” He arches an eyebrow. “Was I wrong?”

“No.” Athi revisits the cupboard to shuffle through his assortment of mismatched mugs. “And thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

She selects one of the mugs, a pleasantly rounded stoneware dip-painted in orange and teal and gray. Her unofficial favorite. There is a newspaper, folded twice, laying on the counter between a plate covered in foil and two clean ones. Solas is reading rather than cooking. Maybe he’s fine with rubbery eggs, but she’s not so she leaves her mug to watch the coffee brew, plucks the spatula from his hand, takes over.

“Seggrit’s selling the bar,” she blurts out as she gently stirs, then scoops a heaping golden spoonful onto each plate. “I think.”

To his credit, Solas looks up from the article he’s so engrossed in. “Really?”

She nods.

“How do we feel about that?”

She shrugs.

“Perhaps you should buy it,” he says and moves his plate and his paper to the island. Yanks open the silverware drawer and hands her a fork. “You wanted to put your name on something, right?”

She snorts. “Didn’t mean literally.”

They eat breakfast right there in the kitchen. Hip to hip, or as close as she can get. Sausage from under the foil and rich maple syrup and toast and almost-perfect scrambled eggs and coffee he bought and didn’t make just for her.

Not a bad morning, truth be told.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Solas asks out of nowhere.

“Hmm?”

He is watching her intently and it occurs to her that she’s been grinning at empty space this whole time.

“Oh,” she says, “it’s nothing,” but her face won’t cooperate and Solas doesn’t buy it.

“It must be quite a pleasant piece of nothing to warrant such a smile. Are you sure it’s not something?” His voice drops low and he leans closer. “Perhaps even something you want to share with me?”

“They say 'bits' here, by the way. ‘Two bits for your thoughts.’ Just so you know.”

“Fascinating.” He doesn’t even pretend to sound sincere.

Oh, she wants to be brave. She makes him work a little harder for it. Keeps it locked up tight until he says please, then she scrunches her nose up where the honesty tickles, and spills even though it’s scary.

“I just . . . it’s nice waking up with you, and”—damn her burning cheeks—“I could get used to it. That’s all.”

Meeting his eyes afterward is a rush. Risk and reward all wrapped up in one because he is beaming right back at her.

“Funny. I was thinking the exact same thing.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

Fuck it. Athi polishes off her coffee. Slides her plate away and faces him fully. Fills her chest with air and bravado. “So what do you want?”

He looks at her quizzically.

“Yeah, context. Before we kissed—at my place, like for real—you asked what I wanted. I said I wanted you, which, I mean, I’ve wanted you since . . . ” She wants to say since the beginning but that’s so fucking cheesy. “Gods, since the coffee shop, I think. But when I asked what I meant to you, you deflected.”

Solas pauses. His gaze drifts, then snaps back. “You are right. I apologize.”

“Also not an answer.”

A full minute, or maybe an hour, passes as he percolates. She can almost see him directing his thoughts this way and that, organizing a response that shouldn’t be this complicated while her own mind skitters from one unsavory possibility to the next. 

“Should’ve sent my questions in ahead of time,” she jokes.

A brief, self-deprecating chuckle as he folds his fingers around hers. “In all fairness, your answer to the same question was efficient, but also vague. Is it so wrong of me to consider my own more carefully?”

“Got me there.”

“I was not trying to win. This conversation is an important one, and I feel it must be approached with both candor and subtlety.”

Candor and subtlety? Athi sighs. New tactic. “Listen, did you avoid the question on purpose?” 

She takes a steady breath—

“No.”

—and lets it out. “Well then, to be honest, I was kind of hoping we could make out at some point today so . . . how about we put the heavy conversation on hold, just for now, and I return the favor and make this easy for you?”

Solas’ smile is indulgent, if a bit weary. “That would be fine.”

“Good. Ok.” She leans her chin on one hand. “Do you want to be with me?”

“Yes, very much.”

“Like, not just sleeping over and having breakfast, even though we’re obviously really good at that. The whole deal.”

He smirks. “Yes.”

“Only me?”

“Yes.”

Athi claps her hands together. “Good! Excellent response time,” she says, satisfied. Stacks their dishes while she speaks. “Anything else to add?”

“That’s it? That is all you want to know?” A mixture of relief and disappointment is plain on his face.

“Ha! Cute. No, see, I want to hear that elaborate answer of yours, I do. I want to know absolutely every single thought you’ve had about me since day one. Also why you stopped coming to the bar”—she starts counting off on her fingers—“and how long you’ve felt this way, what you and Bull get up to at your secret little club meetings, about a zillion other things . . . But as I said,” and she shrugs, “I have plans.”

“I stopped coming to the bar because I already felt this way. Not”—he gestures between them—“exactly this way, of course, but the first stirrings of it. I had been alone a long time, and it frightened me. Next question.”

“Hold on. Same question. You’ve liked me that long?”

“Yes, though I find it hard to believe that you, of all people, did not notice. If anything, I have been too demonstrative of my feelings this past year. Given the circumstances, that is.”

“Too demonstra— Seriously?” Athi is at a loss. Frozen mid-bewildered-flailing, mouth agape like he’s just grown another pair of eyes right in front of her. “Maybe I, of all people, didn’t notice because we spent all that time together and you never said shit, and then—and then!— you invited me over to ask for dating advice which kind of cancelled out any prior feelings you may have demonstrated. I mean, what the fuck?”

“Ah, that’s right.” Solas sighs heavily. “I suppose we may as well sort this out now.”

“Yeah,” she hisses. “Let’s.” She props one elbow on the counter, rests her chin on her fist. Waits for an explanation.

“Athi,” and he scratches his jaw. “I do not know exactly how you remember that conversation going, but the subject of my inquiry—the woman I mentioned meeting—was you.”

Three beats to process, then: “What!?”

He winces—fair, it was piercing—and he half-hides his face in his hands before continuing. “I was attempting to casually express my interest and it did not occur to me that you’d misunderstood my meaning until recently. At the time, I assumed that you were simply not as interested as I had allowed myself to believe and therefore left before the situation became uncomfortable.”

“Well, I did do that.”

“Then, while I was away, I became convinced that a misunderstanding was possible if not probable, so I resolved to try again once I returned.”

“Oh no . . . ” she trails off and grimaces, and Solas just nods.

Such a mess, and for no fucking reason. They stand there in a dazed silence for a while, looking at anything but each other. Finally, Athi peeks over and Solas has his head hanging low like a puppy shamed for eating from the garbage. It’s so sad and so stupid and she can’t keep from laughing. First a little, then a lot, then he’s laughing right along with her.

“So you’re telling me,” she wheezes out between giggles. “We could have been banging for no less than six months already?”

“I’m afraid so.”

She’s swept away by another wave of laughter. When it finally subsides, she’s left with aching cheeks and tears in her eyes.

“Come on,” she says and grabs his hand, squeezes it tight, pulls him toward the stairs.

“What? Where are we going?”

“To make up for lost time.”