#nocturne paradox

[broodingnightgoddess]

I don't like how Pokemon Violet decided to make all of their Paradox Pokemon into robots. I understand the theme but not everything future-themed should be purely robotic. It ends up with Pokemon having very similar types and looks and being very samey.

The Paradoxes from Scarlet feel more intricate and thought out however. We have an idea about how these Pokemon of the past would evolve to be their current forms and shapes, and their designs feel more intricate than just "make it metallic"

Scarlet isn't free of bad choices however. Miraidon is so cool with its body ACTUALLY functioning like a bike, instead of what Koraidon is doing. I prefer Miraidon so much over Koraidon that I actually can't decide which game to buy. I'm not willing to spend 100 bucks on the dual version just yet but still. I'll probably buy Scarlet anyways but I do not like how lame Koraidon bike moves. (Please no spoilers I haven't played these games yet)

I feel that Violet's paradoxes would have benefited from evolutionary-based designs instead of all just being robots. We can keep some robots like Iron Valiant but some variety would be nice.

[aetherose]

TAG DUMP 1

[encre-diaphane]

Lightness of being is a paradoxal expression...to be is to weigh... and sometimes it's overly heavy... Perhaps the point of putting a light soul into a heavy clay body is to strike the right balance reaching the ultimum weight... A perfect way to be

Encre Diaphane

[medievalcellphone]

“The history of modern democracy is, at bottom, a history with two faces, and even two bodies—the solar body, on the one hand, and the nocturnal body, on the other. The major emblems of this nocturnal body are the colonial empire and the pro-slavery state-and more precisely the plantation and the penal colony... The colonial world, as an offspring of democracy, was not the antithesis of the democratic order. It has always been its double or, again, its nocturnal face.... As Frantz Fanon indicated, this nocturnal face in effect hides a primordial and founding void—the law that originates in nonlaw and that is instituted as law outside the law. Added to this founding void is a second void—this time one of preservation. These two voids are closely imbricated in one another. Paradoxically, the metropolitan democratic order needs this twofold void, first, to give credence to the existence of an irreducible contrast between it and its apparent opposite; second, to nourish its mythological resources and better hide its underneath on the inside as well as on the outside. In other terms, the cost of the mythological logics required for modern democracies to function and survive is the exteriorization of their originary violence to third places, to nonplaces, of which the plantation, the colony, or, today, the camp and the prison, are emblematic figures.”

– Achille Mbembe, Necropolitics

[dulcibella-dreams]

Butterfly Nocturne.

⊹ ࣪ ˖༊·˚ Makoto Yuki/ Minato Arisato x GN reader

All you knew, is that you could stand no longer.

In the heights of Tartarus, your inner voice screamed in defiance. One enemy, but terribly imposing. The very air seemed to thicken around you, laden with ancient malevolence.

Your body became a paradox—heavy yet weightless, burning yet freezing. You teetered on the precipice of collapse, too weary, too pained to carry out a coherent thought. Your eyes glazed over, akin to a black veil enshrouding your vision. The cacophony of battle faded, replaced by the ringing of your ears. Sweat clung to your skin, cold and slick, as the shadow’s dark hand bore down upon you. Inescapable.

And then, a flash of pain seized you. You crumbled to the ground, your weapon clattering loudly before darkness stole you away.

Amidst the chaos, your name echoed—a chorus of fear. All but one voice. Makoto remained silent, dread pooling within him like ink. A quiet panic gripped his chest, unfamiliar and unwelcome.

His palms slick with sweat, grip on his sword unyielding, Makoto delivered a swift, decisive strike, obliterating the shadow. The blade sang through the air, severing the malevolence that threatened to consume you once and for all.

Discarding his sword, he rushed to your side, kneeling. The others quickly stepped aside, their gazes filled with shock and concern. To witness Makoto—usually stoic, detached and with a tendency for apathy—act with such fervor was rare. His fingers found your pulse, and the relief that washed over him was almost blinding. Your vitality thrummed against his skin, a fragile lifeline.

His voice, steady and commanding, ordered healing for you. Cradling you in his arms, he held one of your icy hands. His racing heartbeat slowed as he felt the faint tremors of your breath normalize. His fingers brushed your forehead tenderly, whispering your name. He hadn’t lost you, after all. Around you, a collective sigh of relief echoed. They all cared, but none as deeply as Makoto.

That night’s exploration came to an abrupt end.

When your eyes finally fluttered open, your mind was a tempest—a whirlwind of half-formed thoughts and fragmented memories. It felt surreal, like a dream mistaken for reality. As the fog lifted, details emerged—a rhythmic swaying, gravel crunching underfoot, distant voices. You were no longer in Tartarus. In fact, the dark hour itself seems to have ended. All there was to see was your typical moon, in its dark canvas. No neon green cast to be seen.

Despite the healing, your body still bore the marks of battle: a throbbing shoulder, a swollen lip, bruises like morbid freckles. You felt icy, your head crafted from lead. Painfully, your head shifted slightly. Blue eyes. Long, blue hair. Makoto. His footsteps rocked you, cradling you against his chest as if you were a fragile secret. He was....carrying you.

“Makoto,” you murmured, and his gaze met yours. “I’ve got you,” he promised, his voice unwavering as usual.

The journey back to the dorm unfolded in silence. The others walked ahead, granting Makoto a solitary moment with you. The comfort of his arms—the sheer luxury of it—was something you might never experience again. So you nestled closer, inhaling the sweet, warm scent clinging to his clothes. Everything from his silk hair, his soft-spoken tone and his honeyed scent had you folding.

Your mind wandered further—the warmth of his hands cupping your face, his lips gently claiming yours. When you were this close, how could you not allow such thoughts?

Your gaze lifted, fingers brushing back his unruly bangs. The soft sound that escaped him sent a flutter through your heart. “Makoto…?” His eyes met yours, and your affectionate gesture painted your cheeks with a delicate blush. “Mh?” His voice was a low murmur, and you took a deep breath.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “For looking out for me. I really do appreciate it.” The words hung in the air, vulnerable and raw.

“It’s nothing,” Makoto replied, his tone matter-of-fact. He wasn’t unkind—just blunt, with a disinclination to flower his words. But there was something in his eyes, a vulnerability he couldn’t mask. You smiled to yourself.

Driven by an unknown force, your fingertips traced his jawline. You cupped half of his face, your touch gentle yet insistent. You held it there for a second, and his eyes once more wandered to yours. And then, before you could overthink, you pressed your lips to his cheek—the kiss tender and fleeting.

His expression remained mostly unchanged, save for slightly parted lips, and the pink blush staining his face. You became timid as the impulse faded, a mix of regret and anticipation taking hold.

Needless to say…

You weren't disappointed when you received a soft kiss on your lips in return.

[rosewaterandivy]

ii. bisclavret

Summary: and here he thought he’d hit the bricks when it came to library visits.

Pairing: s.h. x werewolf!reader

W.C.: 5.8k

Warnings: supernatural elements, super sleuth steve, exhausted eddie, poor mother-daughter relationship, general werewolf nonsense, graduation shenanigans

A/N: well, three months later TO THE DAY and here we are. everyone go thank ash (@big-ope-vibes) for gently nudging me to continue this. apologies for the delay & I hope you enjoy! 💜

m.list | playlist

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There’s a howl from outside his window. Low pitched and haunting as it soars over the other din of nocturnal noises in Loch Nora’s suburban sprawl.

Unmistakable.

Desperate and mournful with just a whisper of familiarity in it.

And his feet hit the floor before he’s rightly awake, drawn to the moonlight as it cascades through the trees just outside his house. His knee knocks against something hard, but he feels no pain.

But in its place, he does feel something. Anxiety, panic? At any rate, some sort of emotional discomfort. The overwhelming sensation that something isn’t quite right.

The howl trails off plaintitively, and there’s something ineffable about it because—

Steve could swear he hears a voice in it.

_

Sometimes, you felt the only time you could truly be yourself was on a run. And though you despised organized sports, cross-country had some distinct advantages. Namely, that it was almost a solitary activity.

So when you weren’t dropping by Hellfire meetings or loping around due to a paradoxical relationship with the moon, most afternoons saw you toeing on some sneakers and running for a few hours.

And while trail-running wasn’t exactly a medaling event, it was your forte and Coach Reynolds didn’t seem to mind. Other than asking you once to bring Munson aboard because he’d seen Eddie outrun the SRO in a wild sprint at the Homecoming game, the coach generally left you to your own devices.

Breezing by the picnic table that Eddie affectionately calls his office, you stride through the woods back behind the school at an easy pace. Your mind empties and allows you to focus on the breath in your lungs, the myriad of scents carried on the air. The forest smells as it always does, that damp earthy quality of decaying underbrush cut through with fresh saplings taking root.

Further into the woods and at the mid-way point in your run, you’re about to turn back when you hear a dry snapping sound from somewhere ahead of you. Lightning quick, you narrow your gaze only to find a shirtless and sweaty Steve Harrington.

His chest is heaving like he’s been running for some time and he’s wearing a ridiculous bandana as a headband to keep his hair from falling in his face. There’s a healthy rosy hue dusting his cheeks and nose, and you know if you don’t leave now then you might do something worth regretting.

“Hey,” He exhales, stopping a few feet from you and setting his hands on his hips.

Steve leans over to catch his breath as you, meanwhile, stare at him dumbfounded.

And it isn’t like you haven’t seen shirtless men before; Eddie, in fact, is vehemently opposed to wearing any clothing that isn’t strictly necessary, particularly in the summer when the a/c tends to crap out in the trailer.

But to compare the two is a moot point. Because Steve is bronzed with hair on his chest, not the pallor of some sickly Victorian child. He’s sturdy, feet planted firmly in the ground even as his sucks in breaths as if his life depends on it.

He just smells so damn good.

It is precisely at this moment, that you know you’re fucked.

Because several things happen in quick succession.

Kicking it all off, a breeze passes through and you’re, of course, downwind of Steve so you get smacked with a sensorial wall of Harrington’s sweat, musk, and what can only be described as how you believe a raging inferno would smell— sweet and smoky. Enough to make your mouth water.

Then, he takes a step toward you with a concerned look on his face.

“You alright?”

Unfortunately, no, you are very much not alright.

“I, uh,” You say, recognizing all too well the rough rasp your voice has taken on. “I gotta go.”

It’s all you say as you jog past him, shoulders colliding as you run away, a familiar pull in your belly like the coaxing of an ember into a flame.

Fucking coward.

It wallops Steve in face one lazy Saturday, nearly out of the blue.

The kids have descended to watch movies and eat him out of house and home.

They’d made it through Teen Wolf and they’re maybe half-way through An American Werewolf in London when Steve visibly pales.

“Too gory for ya?” Max asks with a laugh, tossing popcorn in her mouth only to miss.

He shakes his head, eyes trained on the screen.

Robin pokes him with a socked foot eliciting no reaction.

Steve thinks back to the bonfire, his moonlit romp through the woods and the ineffeble feeling of being watched, how fucking weird you were the other day on your run.

And then he lets out a low whistle, scrubbing his hand through his hair.

“Shit.”

How he convinces Robin to waste the remnants of her weekend at the library, he’ll never know. When he first pitched it, she looked at him as if he’d suddenly sprouted another head.

“Do you even know where the library is, dingus?”

“Hey,” He says, only slightly perturbed. “I dated Nance, I sure as shit know where the library is.”

Robin cracks a smile, “Sure, big guy.”

And now, they’re rifling through the folklore section of the the Hawkins library after a fruitless search in nonfiction.

“Remind me of what we’re looking for?”

“Uh, like legends about wolves, I guess.”

“Why the sudden interest in our oft misunderstood four-legged friends?”

He stops, puzzled, “What the hell kinda sentence is that, Rob?”

She shrugs and continues perusing. “I dunno, I just think people don’t understand the wolf. They’ve been hunted and poached to near extinction in the U.S. y’know.”

The hairs prickle up on the back of Steve’s neck. He hadn’t considered that, and frankly, it’s a terrifying thought. Because if on the off-chance he’s right—

“I blame recreational hunters, personally.” Robin continues to prattle on, “Because wolves actually provide a natural cull to the ecosystem. I mean, why else do we have such a rampant deer population?”

Steve let’s her continue in this same vein for a while, knowing she’ll run out of steam eventually. He tosses a few books on the table they’ve claimed, mostly Germanic fairytales. And when he’s pulled all he could from the shelves, he hauls them over to the circulation desk.

The elderly librarian, Gladys, gives him a warm smile and opens the cover of each book to stamp the due date.

“Research project?” She asks with a friendly smile. “We’ve had a lot of kids come through for that recently.”

“Uh, kind of.” Steve allows, and thankfully he doesn’t have to painstakingly continue this conversation because Robin slaps a book down on the counter at that precise moment.

“This one too.”

Her eyes glint like she’s found something good, and Steve glances at the cover briefly.

Les Lais de Marie de Fance.

“Really, French?”

“Hey man,” Robin says, jockeying an elbow to his side, “I’m not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, okay?”

Gladys passes back the stack of books to them and Robin opens the tome to pointedly tap her finger underneath one word: Bisclavret.

_

The next few days pass by peaceably enough.

You lie low, go to school and cross-country practice, hang out with Eddie, and studiously avoid Harrington’s haunts.

Eddie is the one to return the video tapes, as a precaution.

He swings into Family Video that day with the intent to come away with a copy of Evil Dead and an even distribution of sweet and sour candy.

What he does not expect is to find Harrington at the counter with a stack of books and furiously scribbling in a battered notebook. It’s such a shock to see, that Eddie stops short in the doorway.

There’s a grunt and the sound of glass hitting metal that causes Steve to glance up.

Just Munson lurking in the doorway.

He rolls his eyes and says, “In or out?”

Eddie shuffles into the store and drops the tapes into the return slot. He eyes the stack of books warily, and can’t recall the last time he’d seen Harrington carry a book, much less crack one. Recognizing a few titles, his blood runs cold.

Goddamnit.

He beelines for the horror aisle, swipes some candy from the shelf by the counter, and tries to get outta there as fast as he can.

But, of course, Harrington takes his time rigning up the sale.

Eddie taps his fingers against the counter, leg bouncing as he stands there trying not to sweat bullets. Because it’s one thing to warn Harrington off of moonlight strolls, that’s just being like, neighborly? He wouldn’t really know.

The point is this: Steve seems very close to figuring something out.

Something that he should have no business doing in the first place. And not because you’d nearly bitten Eddie’s head off at his less than helpful suggestions.

“Over my dead body,” is what you had said.

And it was a very near thing, at the time, because you had stumbled into Hop’s old hunting cabin without a stitch of clothing on, limping, with your hands and jaw covered in dried blood.

There was also the matter of the bullet that grazed your leg, but that’s what the first aid kit was for.

“Y’know,” He had pointed out, cleaning the wound as you hissed and thrashed on the floor. His t-shirt barley long enough to be considered modest on your frame. “This could all be avoided it you’d just—”

“What,” You bit out, “Tell him about this clusterfuck of a situation?”

Eddie takes that opportunity to put pressure on the wound and pack it with gauze. You nearly kick him in the face, and maybe he deserves it.

Later, after a few hours as he was changing your bandages, he broached the subject again. A different tactic, but the same intent. He kept his voice soft, barely audible under the laughtrack from the TV.

“It’s only going to get worse.”

A grunt.

“He could help, is all I’m sayin’.” Eddie turned to you on the sofa, mindful of your leg as it rested on his lap. The wound healing up quite nicely already. “The shifts wouldn’t be as bad, you’d have some—”

A snort.

“Something to live for?”

“Well, someone, technically. But yeah.”

You wave him over with a lazy smile, only to cuff him on the back of the head.

“You idiot,” You say around a laugh, “I’ve got you to live for. Why drag another sorry sucker into this mess, huh?”

Eddie shakes himself loose, comes back to find Harrington staring at him over the counter. He pays and scoops up his purchases in both arms.

He’s almost out of there, scot-free, but when he’s turning toward the door, a knowing voice says:

“Gladys said to return those overdue books you’ve got, Munson.”

And in that brief moment, Eddie and Steve understood each other perfectly.

He high tails it outta there accompanied by a litany of: fuckfuckfuckFUCK.

_

Robin is regaling Steve with her painstaking translation of that French story she found.

“So like, the earl of whogivesafuck marries this chick and she notices that for a few nights every month, her new husband isn’t in bed.”

Steve continues typing in the receipts for the day.

“She confronts him about it, and he says that once a month he turns into a wolf and loafs around the forest. He trusts her, obviously, and says that he can only turn back if he finds his clothes, so he usually stashes them in the woods somewhere.”

He hums, trying his best to show the bare minimum of interest.

“But the thing is,” Robin says, chomping down on a piece of licorice. “His wife has this lover, a knight, and she’d much rather be with him than some earl who’s a part-time wolf. So, she waits until his next turn and then steals his clothes from the forest.”

“So, he’s a wolf forever?”

“I mean, for a while, yeah.” Robin chews audibly. “But the earl was close with the king, and in his wolf form endears himself to the court. Some time goes by, and he’s living large as a glorified pet, but then his wife comes to court with her new husband.”

“Sounds bad.”

“Well, if getting your nose bit off is bad, then yeah.” She barks a laugh and tosses the candy wrapper into the trash. “And the king is floored because this wolf has never said so much as ‘boo’ to anyone all the time he’s been at court. So suspicion falls on the now noseless wife.”

She wraps up the tale; the king gives the wolf clothes on the advice of the wife. Lo and behold, what was once a wolf is now his long lost earl. All’s well that ends well.

“Huh,” Steve says. “Weird.”

“Not that you should just randomly hand out clothing to every wolf you come across,” Robin teases with a gleam in her eye. “Just thought it would be helpful for your lil’ project.”

“Sure, sure.” Steve nods and shoves the receipts in the night deposit bag. “And this earl, did he have a name?”

“Bisclavret.” Robin supplies, “It’s like, old ass French, but I think it translates to something like…” She pauses and seems to dissect the word in real time. “Bleiz is , uh, Breton for wolf and claffet means rabid? Ill, maybe? So, my best bet is wolf-sick.”

Curious and curiouser.

Steve files it away to think about later.

Besides, he has a spare bit of clothing lying around somewhere. It would be nothing to just toss them in bag and throw it in his car. Just in case, of course.

_

Steve thinks there’s sort of a innate brilliance to it all.

It’s subtle, it has to be if you’re to avoid detection, and probable— it really works a charm.

His notebook is full of scribbled lines lifted from library books, loopy curls of a more feminine hand when Robin included her summaries of the French story, haphazard drawings of the moon, teeth, and glowing eyes.

The eyes he’s comes back to more often than he’d like. Shards of moonstone that catch the light, milky white with a flashy vein of blue.

He didn’t know that’s what it was until ambling around Robin’s room one day. She was half-assedly studying for finals, plopped on her bed and surrounded by books and sheets of notebook paper.

Steve, for lack of anything to do, investigates the collection of bric-a-brac on her dresser.

A small square of milky white cut through with specks of gray, blue, and green catches his notice. “What’s this?” He asks, feeling its dull edges in his hand. Turning it slightly, it flashes an icy blue vein.

Robin looks up from where she’s sprawled on her bed, nose in a book. “Oh, that’s moonstone.”

He hums in response, turning the rock this way and that. Phosperescent eyes coming to the fore of his mind, there in an instant and gone in the next. The golden light of the streetlamp cutting across your cheekbone, incisors gleaming and white.

Carefully, he sets the moonstone down amongst Robin’s other treasures, and files it away for later.

Things are becoming clearer as the moon creeps closer to waxing full in the sky.

Steve is a patient guy, he can wait a little longer.

The aconite no longer works.

Eddie has gone through more chains and tow rope than any twenty year-old has a right to. He’s trying to keep it together, but it’s getting pretty fucking dire.

He can see how each day, each new failure, is wearing you down.

To a casual observer, you hide it pretty well. Oh, just cramming for finals, you know how it is! Something to explain away the rings under your eyes, the ‘I just rolled out of bed’ look instead of the more accurate ‘I woke up in the woods again and these were the first clothes I could find.’

You had never, to Eddie’s recollection, willingly worn a Hawkins Tigers anything. Much less a shirt to school, of all places. It’s a slow motion disaster as you pour yourself out of the van and get your bearings on the pavement, because that’s when he sees it.

‘HARRINGTON’ emblazoned on the back of the gray tee, there for the entirety of Hawkins high to gawk at.

And yeah, you might be slow on the uptake today, but Eddie’s tongue is so tied he can’t possibly work his way out of it in a subtle fashion.

Instead, he throws an arm over your shoulders and does his best to cover the name as you walk into the building.

But the damage is done by the end of homeroom that morning. A class you share with Robin Buckley and elected to sleep through that day. Head on the desk, hair fanned around you, Harrington’s name is clear for everyone to see against your shoulderblades.

The whispers start then and Robin makes it a point to hang back as the bell rings.

She watches as you jolt awake, blinking a few times before grabbing your stuff and making toward the door.

Robin catches up to you easily, the students giving you a wide bearth in the halls. Too happy to fall into their cliques, peer at you, and whisper amongst themselves.

You’re so out of it that you don’t even realize she’s tailing you until she pulls you into the girls bathroom at the end of the corridor.

Her scent gives her away— light and airy like fresh laundry hanging on the line, but there’s a sharp sour note of fear, nervousness maybe. And she smells a bit like wood smoke— Steve.

“Woah, um, hi?” You say as the door swings shut behind you.

The few students in the bathroom rush out, leaving the two of you alone.

Robin looks at you incredulous, because she’s maybe figured something out that her best fucking friend in the world was keeping from her.

And she can’t begin to guess why he would do such a thing.

“You’re wearing his shirt.”

“What? Who’s?” You turn to look before realizing that’s a moot point and situate yourself in front of the bathroom mirror instead.

You can feel the blood draining from your face as you read the letters on your back.

Fuck.

This cannot be happening. Not today, not now, not ever.

“I, uh,” You stammer, failing to explain this away.

Robin studies your reflection in the mirror. The near bruises under your eyes, how sloppily you’re put together today, that you’re sleeping every spare moment you can get.

She clears her throat, “Did something happen between you two?”

Narrowing your gaze at her, you turn from the mirror, posture drastically changed.

Where once she believed to have the upper hand, Robin now realizes her grave miscalculation. Shoulders back and standing tall you cooly assess her as you take calming breaths.

There is a razor-fine edge that you are on the precipice of, one false move and it all falls apart.

“Wouldn’t he tell you if it did?”

If you can keep her talking, you can diffuse the situation.

Robin isn’t a threat, she’s Steve’s best friend. She carries his scent on the periphery of her own, it calms you somewhat.

“Then how did you—”

Before she can finish the thought, the door slams open and Eddie waltzes through.

You let your shoulders fall, relieved at his arrival; safe and familiar.

“Ladies,” He greets casually, as if he struts into the girls bathroom on a regular basis. “Guess my invite was lost in the mail, huh?”

Eddie tosses his bag near the door alongside yours and throws the lock.

Robin’s eyes flit between the pair of you, curious and wary.

The bell trills out and the din in the hall dissipates.

You can’t afford to linger here much longer, finals to take and all.

“Something’s up.” Buckley says shouldering past Eddie to unlock the door, “And you’re gonna tell me what it is.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

Eddie’s voice is low and warning, his eyes cut to you fleetingly before settling on the growing problem that is Robin Buckley.

Her hand grips the metal handle, knuckles nearly blanching white, and barely turns her head to softly say,

“Then he will.”

The door opens and she’s gone.

“Well,” Eddie sighs as he grabs your bags. “If this isn’t a goddamn bitch of an unstatisfactory situation.”

“Yeah,” You agree, “Got it in one, Ed.”

-

Steve doesn’t see Robin that much over the week. Busy with finals and graduation, she cut down her shifts at Family Video leaving Steve with Kieth more often than not.

It wasn’t the worst but it certainly wasn’t the best; his manager elected to play the Star Wars movies on a loop for two days straight and Steve was fine with that, if not a little distracted.

He’d requested off for Robin’s graduation and was closing on his own for once. He played Fast Times just because he could and gnoshed on the half-open box of Milk Duds Robin had been working her way through.

But he couldn’t escape the feeling that something wasn’t quite right.

It itched at the back of his mind all through his shift lingering as he killed the lights and locked the front door.

His skin feels too tight again and he’s exhausted despite not doing much to warrant it.

Steve grabs his keys and leaves through the back door walking toward his car.

There’s a sound like someone stepping on gravel behind him.

He pauses midstride.

And then, there’s that voice again, the one he hasn’t heard since the bonfire.

A low rumble that feels like a caress:

Go.

Steve does as he’s told, mindful of the controlled steps behind him.

He slides into the car and locks the doors.

As the engine turns over, he glances at the rearview mirror only to find the bluest eyes he’s ever seen staring back at him from the shadows.

Blueblue, definitely not moonstone.

The BMW peels out of the lot and onto the main drag, leaving whatever was lurking there to the dark.

A cloying scent of gardenia assaults your senses as you walk through the door.

Your mother is perched on the arm of the sofa, beer already in hand.

“Hi hon,” She greets with a smile that has far too much teeth. “Happy graduation!”

The best thing about your mother, if you were pressed to find one, was the simple fact that she was never around.

“Uh, thanks.”

Your bag drops near the door as you cross your arms and lean against it.

She goes on to say how proud she is of you, that she couldn’t possibly miss her only child’s graduation, that it would—

She pauses mid-sentence, her grip on the can crushing it slightly. She scents the air, her once too-perfect smile falling into a snarl.

“What is that smell?”

Throwing the can aside, she marches up to you and lifts your hair from your shoulders, turns you this way and that, eyes searching for something that isn’t there.

But now that she’s uncomfortably close, the scent is heightened.

The scent that isn’t entirely yours and is subtly laced with wood smoke.

“No,” She says, eyes catching the name on the back of your shirt, “Absolutely not.”

Your back is nearly to the wall as she clenches your arms in an attempt to force you into submission.

“Mom,” You try, voice calm, “Nothing has happened, nothing will happen—”

“After all I’ve done for you,” She sneers, eyes bright and furious, “After all the work I’ve done to raise you, ensure your safety, this is how you repay me?”

She’s always been a stong woman, your mother, forced to by circumstance and the harsh reality that honed her. Her shirt shifts as she manuevers you to the wall, revealing the faded scar of a bite to her jugular.

A souvenir from your father, that she never failed to remind you of. One of two, including you.

You swallow thickly, hating every point of contact you share with her.

The precipice is coming closer and you’re falling headfirst into it.

With a shuddery breath you close your eyes, and try to think of better things.

Summer, freedom, warm nights, cool water, that glint Eddie gets in his eyes when he laughs, running with no destination in mind, bonfires under a starry sky, the sweet scent of smoke—

Threat.

A low growl crawls its way up your throat.

A demand.

“Let go.”

Hands come up and grasp her wrists, shoving her away from you. She stumbles back, balance precarious as you purposefully step forward. Her eyes dim as she glances up at you, feaful and almost cowering.

Because while your mother was a strong woman, you were stronger. Something she always knew and lived in fear of. Let the entire pack fall to ruin under the guise of protecting you from their judgment. Refused to have you be used like a weapon.

But in doing so, she also denied your rightful place there.

Your birthright.

And sure, you mother always claimed it was because people wouldn’t respect a woman in charge. Said you were better off as she packed her bags once again, leaving you with Wayne or Hopper.

“A woman’s place isn’t at the head of the table,” She’d say as a parting blow.

Gravel would spray out from under her tires as she drove out of Forest Hills, and Wayne’s hand would fall to your shoulder in a comforting squeeze as tears leaked down your cheeks.

“Don’t pay her any mind darlin’,” He’d say ushering you inside. “She wouldn’t know the first thing about about leading a pack if it bit her in the ass.”

She looks scared now, terrified to see what you’ve become in her absence.

Strong, loved, and unafraid.

In the chaos of memories, you hadn’t felt your fangs descend. You tongue one briefly before opening your mouth to say:

“Leave and don’t ever come back.”

It is not a request.

She balks at the order, tries to fight it.

Another step closer has her lowly whining and ducking her head.

Your voice is foreign to you, a lower register and stronger somehow, self-assured. It rips through you like wildfire this new feeling, runs like magma through your veins.

Power.

She grabs her meager things and turns to leave, pausing at the door she says, “Don’t bring that boy into this.”

A parting warning as the door swings shut.

This charade goes on for weeks.

But without the excuse of school— Robin, Eddie, and you have graduated— Steve has difficulty keeping a handle on his curiosity.

Curiosity killed the cat…

How does the end of that saying go?

Right, so. Being cool, calm, and somewhat collected, Steve only tails you on certain days of the week. Generally on those evening runs you’re partial to, it’s easy enough to brush aside as a coincidence; you’re a runner, he’s a former jock besides, he doesn’t do much other than observe.

He studies where you go, the places you frequent and with whom. And more often than not, you’re alone, secluded in the woods somewhere. Steve wonders if he’s getting himself into a can’t see the forest for the trees situation, it feels like he’s getting nowhere.

Or less than nowhere, going backwards maybe.

He’s curious why Eddie isn’t glued to your side.

He has to remind himself that he’s looking for a change in behavior. On his calendar, Steve tracks the lunar phases, noting that you grow more impulsive the more it waxes, eyes beckoning like the most precious of stones. Your stride shifts to something corded with tension, you run faster as if you could outrun the skin you’re in. Your hair grows wild and unkempt, snapping hair ties in its ferocity.

Steve watches and makes note of this for reasons he cannot possibly explain. All the while, he tries to convince himself that he’s not being obsessive and weird. Though Robin would cite his notebook as evidence to the contrary.

He’s careful to remain undetected. Quick to duck behind a tree as you loop back on the running trail, and he’s convinced you’re about to glance in his direction.

But there’s something you didn’t account for, on this particular run. It’s the late afternoon the day before the full moon— the Strawberry moon— lying in wait, hot and pregnant in the sky. Steve’s tailing you at what he’s sure is a reasonable distance on your run that day, he’s got you in his sights and goes to wipe away the sweat gathered at his brow.

In that instant, you are gone.

He blinks to clear his vision, glances left and right. And, deeming that you are nowhere to be found, he drops a spare pair of shorts and an old tee shirt at the trunk of an ancient oak tree.

A twig snaps somewhere to his right.

“Harrington,” You greet with a tense smile, voice frustrated and gruff. “Funny seeing you here.”

“Uh, yeah,” Steve replies around the lump in his throat, voice strained. “Great minds and all that.”

You take a measured step toward him, filling the space between you. He notes the slight flare of your nostrils.

“That’s interesting, I could’ve sworn you were a morning run kinda guy.”

“Oh, um,” Steve stammers in response, suddenly overwhelmed by your proximity and the musky tang radiating from your sweat drenched skin. “Well, it gets hot so early now—”

“Don’t play dumb, it doesn’t suit you,” You warn with a low growl, and shift your stance so he’s forced back against the trunk of the tree. “You know exactly what I’m getting at.”

“Honestly, I don’t—”

You take a deep breath in, brows furrowing as if in great pain.

“I can smell you.”

And that shuts Steve right up.

It seems rather obvious to him now, of fucking course you can smell him. He feels like an idiot for not considering it earlier. God, how embarrassing.

You stare each other down in the subdued quiet of the forest, your eyes boring into his with a harsh intensity. Steve is kind of thrilled and terrified to be able to study them up close, despite the precarious situation at present.

Your irises are blown, from what he can see, like ink splattered across a page and crowding out their natural color. There’s the faintest hint of milky white rimming the edges, fluctuating slightly as if battling for dominance. Your pupils are enormous, so big and…

My, my, what big eyes you have.

All the better to see you with, my dear.

Steve shudders and books it out of there, faster than a knife fight in a phone booth and twice as choatic. And he doesn’t stop until his lungs are fit to burst at the intersection of Pine Bow. He doubles over, hands on knees, gulping in snatches of air.

He shakes his head, unable to get your flickering eyes from his mind. The viciousness in your gaze should serve as a warning.

Well, Steve had never been one to take heed of those.

He wakes in a cold sweat tangled in his sheets.

Struggles to piece together the images from his dream.

Damp earth. Wet leaves. Something wild and free.

He falls back against the pillow and drags a hand across his face. The illuminated numbers of the clock state that it is seven in the morning.

Robin is still dozing in one of the guest rooms, she’d stayed over after graduation and they’d torn into the liquor cabinet while dancing along to Top 40 on the radio.

He’s thirsty but nowhere near hungover as he swings his legs to meet the plush carpet underfoot. Robin will doze off and on until late morning if he lets her, so there’s enough time for a quick morning run.

Steve throws on a shirt that’s seen better days and the blade of Rob’s scissors, the hem barley grazing past his pecs, some shorts, and laces his sneakers. He swings the door open and is about to step outside only to stop short at the sight of a fairly large gray dog at his door.

It cocks its head curiously, mouth falling open in a soft pant as they assess one another.

Now, Steve had always wanted a dog; had begged every birthday and Christmas until it was clear that the Harringtons would not tolerate dog hair and dander polluting their home. Undeterred, Steve wrote to Santa dutifully each year until he was eleven. Then, it was all too obvious that Santa thought Steve was far too old for such things— Christmas presents turned into cash and checks left on the counter, wire transfers from the Cayman Islands.

So it’s really not his fault that he tiredly assumed what was actually a wolf was just a very large and well-behaved dog. And he maintains that fact to this very day, he’ll have you know.

“Oh, uh, hi there.”

The dog, or so Steve assumed, sat politely on his porch, its large paws barley grazing the edge of the welcome mat.

He saw no collar nor leash, and ruminated on what to do as the animal studied him in return with a keen intelligence in its eyes.

Eyes that were oddly familiar to Steve.

But before he could decide on what to do, Eddie Munson’s van careened into his driveway and screeched to a halt.

“Harrington!” Eddie yelled in the bright summer morning, “Don’t do anything stupid.”

He fell out of the vehicle and tripped several times in quick succession striding across Steve’s well-manicured lawn.

The animal cocks its head to the side in interest, light eyes trained on Steve but ears cognizant of Eddie’s approach.

And before Eddie can intervene, Steve grabs something from behind the door and tosses it at the dog’s feet. A wet nose scents the air, dips to investigate the cotton, and deems it satisfactory.

It takes the shirt between its teeth— which strike him as unnaturally sharp— and trots inside the house. The act shocks Steve into silence.

“Well fuck, Harrington,” Eddie curses, running a hand through his unkempt hair. “You’ve really done it now.” He shoulder checks Steve as he enters, grumbling to himself all the while.

So, curiosity may have killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.

He shuts the door and hears his mother’s voice ringing in his ears—

“No, you know better, Steve,” she sputtered at the puppy on their patio, worrying a dish towel between her manicured fingers. “Don’t feed it, it’ll just come back!”

He shakes the thought loose and follows Eddie down the hall to the living room.

And, well, he’d always wanted a dog, a companion of some kind. Steve figures it’s better in than howling outside his door.

[sp00kygoddessxx]

➳Scaredy Cat➳

Unbeknownst to you, Alucard observed your movements with a keen awareness. His crimson eyes, a window to a soul steeped in darkness, followed your every step. Tonight, however, the vampire harbored no nefarious intentions. Instead, a playful curiosity flickered in the depths of his gaze—a curiosity that would soon unfold into an unexpected encounter.

As you turned a corner, the sudden appearance of Alucard emerged from the shadows, his figure materializing like a phantom. The abruptness of his presence caught you off guard, and a startled gasp escaped your lips.

"Alucard!" you exclaimed, hand pressed to your chest as you sought to steady your racing heart. "You have a way of making an entrance."

The vampire regarded you with a bemused expression, a hint of mischief glinting in his crimson eyes. "My dear, in the realm of shadows, surprises are inevitable. Did I startle you?"

You offered a sheepish smile, the remnants of adrenaline still coursing through your veins. "Just a bit. You have this uncanny ability to appear out of nowhere."

Alucard chuckled, the sound echoing through the corridor like the haunting melody of an ancient ballad. "Forgive me, my dear. I did not mean to disturb your serenity."

Despite the initial shock, a sense of calm settled over you as you met Alucard's gaze. The vampire, usually a harbinger of darkness, seemed almost human in that moment—a playful companion rather than an otherworldly entity.

"No harm done, Alucard," you reassured, your earlier fright fading into amusement. "I suppose navigating these halls comes with its own set of surprises."

The vampire inclined his head, a gesture that conveyed both acknowledgment and a silent promise. "Perhaps, my dear. But in the shadows, there is a certain beauty. Would you care to continue this nocturnal journey with me?"

With a nod, you fell into step beside Alucard, the two of you traversing the winding corridors of the Hellsing estate. As you walked, the conversation flowed seamlessly, punctuated by Alucard's enigmatic insights and your own musings on the mysteries that surrounded the organization.

Alucard turned to you, his crimson eyes softened by the gentle glow of the moon. "My dear, I owe you an apology for the unintentional scare earlier. Allow me to make amends."

Before you could respond, the vampire closed the distance between you, his gloved hands framing your face with a surprising tenderness. The air crackled with an unexpected intimacy as Alucard lowered his head, his lips brushing against your forehead in a gentle kiss.

The gesture, so uncharacteristic of the No-Life King, left you momentarily breathless. Alucard, usually a master of darkness, seemed to unravel a softer, more human side—a side that craved connection and understanding.

"I apologize, my dear, for disrupting the tranquility of your night," he murmured, his voice a velvety whisper against your skin.

A warmth spread through you, a paradoxical sensation considering the source. "Apology accepted, Alucard. It's not every day one gets kissed by the No-Life King."

A glint of amusement danced in the vampire's eyes as he pulled away, the moonlight casting a soft glow on his features. "Consider it a testament to the unpredictability of our journey through the night."

[demigoddessqueens]

Masterlist 11

Writing Drabbles

Intimacy

avert your eyes

SFW writings

Match up pairings - Valkyrie // Trevor Belmont // Alucard // multi-fandom pairing //

Song 🎶 fics - Vax fic // Percy fic // Grog // Caleb // Cadeuces // Grog - fic 2 //

Song fic: multi-party - Pike/Jester/Laudna //

Pretty Little Liars 💋/Original Sin 🔪- being mouse’s sibling //

Genshin Impact - Neuvillette flirting //

Game of Thrones/House of the Dragon 🐉- aegon + writing prompt // aemond headcanons // incorrect quotes // jock 💪 aemond //

Ewan Mitchell - Martin (in the modern world) //

The Decameron - Dr Dioneo fluff // Dioneo and the artist //

Hades - making out with Moros //

Marvel

MCUniverse - Namor + female general // Paradox ⚡️ headcanons // incorrect quotes // incorrect quotes 2 // incorrect quotes 3 // incorrect quotes 4 // incorrect quotes 5 //

Werewolf by Night - Jack Russell fluff //

X-Men - relationship headcanons //

Bridgerton - Benedict SFW (+ NSFW) //

Fallout - found family + Lucy //

Dune - Chani + sister!figure //

Ultraman Rising - kenji x male!reader //

A Quiet Place: Day One - dating Eric //

Monkey Man - writing prompt ask //

Blood of Zeus ⚡️- ares x Hindu!god!reader // Dionysus with pregnant!reader + twins // hard to get Ares // can’t carry a tune 🎶 // Hermes and Apollo twins // sneaking with Poseidon // childhood friend // rise of Venus 💕 // friends of monsters // plus size reader //

Critical Role 🎲

Vox Machina - thicc thighs // (my darling) yandere // grog + sorcerer!reader // Percy + harpy kiss // yandere Vax and Percy // bard oc + scanlan // kidnapped?! // wild witch 🧙// domestic + affectionate //

Mighty Nein - hold my ale // you get separated // flirting as a bard 🎵//

Bell’s Hells - constellation Druid //

Other -

Dungeon Meshi - toshiro headcanons //

Castlevania/Nocturne 🌙 - once upon a December // Fae healer lover // fall asleep on their shoulder // Trio + modern au // lover’s voice kink // divine paladin, cleric // roasts and insults // richter + elf!reader // sugar 🍬 rush //

Assassins Creed - Kenway friend // drunk Haytham // Connor and author s/o // the cuddling type // gyaru reader // altair and day off // Altair and eagles // Malik headcanons // markings of Eden // supportive Altair //

Codexmonthly prompts

July “magic”

August “rooftop”

September “leap”

Baldurs Gate - linking pinkies // peck 💋 on lips // practicing “I love you” // Gale + insecure!body reader // blue dragon in the rain // too close to call //

Batstarion 🦇 Week 2024 - day 6 // day 7

Star Wars - Rey skywalker + reader with anxiety //

NSFW writings

Twisters 🌪️ - sweet darlin //

Critical Role 🎲

Multiparty - match freak //

Vox Machina - lover & giver // ride of your life //

Mighty Nein - your reward + round 2 //

Bell’s Hells - braius fic //

Castlevania - you taste good (ft C.R.) //

[about-faces]

I'm still loving Gotham Nocturne and I wish it was getting the love/respect/attention is deserves. I've spoken several people who haven't been reading the current Detective Comics run because they're Batmanned Out (good lord, do I get it) and they see it as just another attempt at some kind of "ultimate Batman story with Batman fighting the ultimate evil," which I strongly disagree with.

THAT SAID... as time has gone on, and the story seems to be reaching its finale, there are a few things that stand out of me as problems with this epic storyline.

1.) It's one of the most egregious examples of "writing for the trade paperback." This simply isn't a story that's meant to be read month-to-month. It's too slow, with too little "happening," at least on the superficial level. Paradoxically, it's NOT a story that should be binged! The best comparison that comes to mind is Better Call Saul, since that's the only other example of serialized media that's meticulously slow-paced yet INCREDIBLY RICH for those willing to engage with it on its level rather than expecting it to be Breaking Bad (or in Nocturne's case, a typical Batman story.) Ram V is capable of writing super-engaging monthly issues, as the fantastic Rare Flavours proves, but that brings us to...

2.) The story is sprawling. Maybe even TOO sprawling. When it comes to people who are sick of Batman, I try to sell them on the fact that this story is about GOTHAM AS A WHOLE, right down to the villains who call it home, and how everyone there is as intrinsically a part of Gotham as Batman is. But ensemble stories like that are tricky, and it makes the focus feel all over the place at times, with alternately too much and too little attention being paid to the main players, Batman included. It's a balance that was handled beautifully with Batman: The Audio Adventures, but it seems a bit more awkward here. Again, it's hard to pull off!

Like, we have characters pop up and then vanishing without explanation. We got Azrael back in the AzBats armor for the first time in decades, like, holy shit! That should be a HUGE development! And then, poof, he vanished! There's simply no time to explore Jean-Paul's character because there's so many other things the narrative needs to explore.

This feels like it would have really benefited from a companion series, something to focus on the characters the way the backup stories have done, but just more so. I think about how Peter Tomasi would write companion books to the main big storylines written by Geoff Johns, Grant Morrison, and Scott Snyder, and how he'd focus on character, which always enriched the greater "big important storyline." Which, in turn, also brings me to...

3.) The backup stories have really lost a lot of their punch since they stopped being written by Si Spurrier and were taken over by Dan Watters. Watters is incredibly capable, make no mistake, and his Cheshire/Lian Harper story is one of my favorite parts of this entire saga. But by and large, his tales focus more on the spooky and weird sides of what's happening with Nocturne, whereas Spurrier's stories were more focused on characters navigating the weirdness of the events. As a result, Spurrier gave us what I consider to be some of the very best stories about Jim Gordon, Harvey Dent, and Victor Fries ever written. I really miss those, and how they enriched Ram V's (possibly overly-ambitious) narrative.

Ultimately, Gotham Nocturne feels like the Batman equivalent to an arthouse film, which means it's going to be appreciated by a handful of nerds while leaving most other fans cold, and I can't really blame them. If anything makes me sad about all this, it's how all this incredible character work with Bruce, Harvey, Victor, Talia, and others is going to be ignored. Hell, it already is, given the complete lack of acknowledgement we've seen in other Bat-books for what's going on in Nocturne.

At this point, I just hope it sticks the landing in the finale, because I want to be able to have a complete, satisfying epic to recommend to people who want something a bit richer than the typical "guy in Bat costume punches clown" stories we usually get.

[halfakitsune-nordiluskitsunaly]

Godling siblings

ok an au that ties in to my kocat au aka the kitsuniks of ceresia. The idea is that pariah dark, nocturne, and clockwork were quite close before pariah became a tyrant, and when I say close I mean close enough it have kids. Three of them at the time: the first born who's name was lost to time, kur the king of the criptics, and the third born who was never named. For some Insane and senseless reason the observents decided that the first and third born children(the children of time and dreams, and time and war/the ghost king respectively) of the royal family should no longer exist while kur(the child of dreams and war/ghost king) should take the throne. When the obsevents shattered the core of the first born child, pariah and the ancients lashed out in grief, out of desperation clockwork and nocturne hid kur and the unborn core of the third child away effectively ensuring their safety. Pariah goes tyrant and well you know what goes from their. Then centuries later some how the shattered core of the first born child of dreams and time is mended and reborn as nora kitsunaly-kuga, kur ends up as zak saturday like Canon, and ironically enough the unborn core of time and war/ghost king is the one and only danny Fenton. Because of Nora's existence yuma Nora's twin brother ends up as a halfa with nora on their 14th birthday with danny and zak, pariah eventuality woken up but is sainish and the news is dropped on nora, yuma, zak, and danny in some undecided way, and they are then told that whoever the considere siblings will be adopted by the royal family all the while clockwork up and decides that ben tension is now his son(no paradox you do not get a say in the matter all is as it should be) boom godling siblings yall can add on to this post as you see fit

[aetherose]

Cosmos Persona

Tagged By: Nabbed from @dnangelicTagging: Whoever wants to do this!

[warden-melli]

I find your headcannons really interesting and wanted to know if you had any other headcannons you haven't shared before

Thank you ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ Honestly I have more headcanons that I haven’t shared than ones that I have lol (I assume you mean pokemon/pla/Melli hcs)

I’d be happy to share some right now, but let me know if there’s any particular character/topic that you’d be interested in hearing about? Sorry if I’ve shared some of these before, but I can’t remember 100% what I have/haven’t shared before lol

PLA HEADCANONS

• While Adaman is several years older than Irida, their birthdays fall on the same day of the month, exactly 6 moths apart

• If Irida hadn’t become leader of her clan she would have pursued a career as a healer, specifically focused on traditional Hisuian herbal medicine

• Melli spends a lot of time on Mt Coronet practicing his singing. As all of his pokemon are nocturnal he often heads up there at night where he can sing undisturbed. Sometimes he sings songs with words, but often he’ll just vocalise, practicing his highs notes to no one in particular. His voice is beautiful, but can be quite eerie without context, especially to frightened travellers trying to cross the mountain range at night. He is unknowingly (yet directly) responsible for many a ghost story told across the Hisui region. Melli rejects these tales of so called spirits and disembodied voices that echo across the highlands, insisting that he’s up there all the time and has never seen or heard a thing!

• In addition to his role as Warden Iscan is also the Diamond clans head fisherman and is essential to keeping his clan fed, especially over the harsh winters. He writes journals full of poetry and stories while out on the shoreline, often inspired by traditional tales, as well as his observations of the land and the adventures he witnesses across it. Many of his works will one day end up on display in the Canalave library in modern Sinnoh

• Gaeric is actually quite a bit older than he looks. In addition to his position as warden he is also in charge of gathering wood and timber for the Pearl clan, and has an eye for finding the most high quality trees. He was taught all he knows by his mother, who previously held the position before retiring from logging. She is now in charge of replanting the trees that are cut down so that the balance of nature in Hisui is preserved

• While Irida had Palina as a rival when they were both competing for the title of leader, Adaman’s bid for the position went completely unchallenged, with no one else from his clan putting their name up for consideration. He took over the title directly from his grandfather, who was the previous leader of the Diamond Clan

• Sabi is a orphan, and her pokemon partners were directly inherited from her parents. Instead of having a sibling relationship with her pokemon (which is typical for people of the Hisuian clans) they watch over her in more of a parental way, protecting her fiercely as if she were their own

• Ingo refuses to part with his hat and coat, no matter how damaged and tattered they become after enduring years of sneasel claws. While he can’t remember his past at all, bits and pieces subconsciously come through. It’s these subconscious memories of the battling rules and formats from his previous life which leads to Ingo accidentally “inventing” the modern battling systems/rules that would later become adopted across most regions in the future. Classic bootstrap paradox. Ingo learned to battle in the future > falls to the past and “invents” the modern battle system using memories from the present > then one day many years in the future Ingo learns the modern battle system > falls to the past and…. You get the idea lol

I have a ton more to share, so let me know if you’d like to hear more ˙ᵕ˙

[piggyinthesea]

To All The Boys I’ve Hurt | 002

part two of this fic

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ᴄᴀʀʟᴏs sᴀɪɴᴢ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

sᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: “ᴡʜᴏ ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴs ᴡɪᴛʜ ɪs ɴᴏɴᴇ ᴏғ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴄᴏɴᴄᴇʀɴ. ᴡʜᴇᴛʜᴇʀ ᴏʀ ɴᴏᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ʜᴇʀ ɪs ɪʀʀᴇʟᴀᴠᴇɴᴛ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜsᴇ sʜᴇ’s ɴᴏᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀs. ʀᴇsᴘᴇᴄᴛғᴜʟʟʏ, ᴍᴀᴛᴇ.”

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 2k+

Finally, you replied, breaking the anticipation. Swiftly, he reciprocated, and our text chat turned into an extended conversation. Every day leading up to the Japan Grand Prix felt like a chapter in a thrilling saga. Meanwhile, your cousin covertly envied you in the background. On race day, your cousin was buzzing with excitement, and you was just happy to spend the day with her. The irony of wearing Red Bull gear in the Ferrari Paddock wasn’t something that worried you. In a white shirt with a bright-red bow in your hair, you unintentionally created a fashion paradox, blending in to the fans of Ferrari.

“I’m going to get stares from Ferrari fans. Who cares, though? Still repping Red Bull,” your cousin declared, putting the finishing touches on her makeup. Amidst your confusion, she groaned, “Dude, pulling Formula One guys without knowing the first thing about Formula One? Carlos is Ferrari’s second driver. Remember the picture I showed you yesterday?”

“Oh! That picture. Damn. I thought he was a mechanic or something. So, that’s why you were worried about them finding out about each other.” The pieces of the puzzle clicked into place, revealing a mosaic of logos on his shirt that should’ve been a dead giveaway. Maybe you weren’t the sharpest tool, but you sure dazzled.

She laughs at your cluelessness. “You ready?”

“Yeah. Let me just text Carl- Carlos, I mean.” You swore that was unintentional.

Carlos

heyy!! good luck today :)

thanks, you ;). hopefully I can see you after the race. i miss you already.

Carlos’s stomach did a delightful somersault as he smiled at your text. With his phone locked away, he transformed into his racing alter ego. He lifted his shirt, the marks from your recent escapade played peek-a-boo, hinting at the nocturnal secrets you shared.

Charles entered, strolling into the locker room with a teasing whistle. “Someone had a fun night!” Charles whistles as he dominants his space. Carlos’s skin flushes, he shamelessly smiles and looks away. It had been a while since the two of you slept together, but because the marks you left on him were dark and large, it took a while for them to fade. It had only been about a week, but the marks were still visible. Just slightly faded. Carlos blushed, skillfully deflecting the banter. With his back turned, Charles couldn’t help but notice the cryptic scratches on Carlos’s neck – an inadvertent trail of evidence.

“Cállate.” Carlos playfully deflects the subject. With Carlos’s back facing Charles, Charles begins to overly examine the familiar scratches by his neck.

Charles squints, his stomach nearly dropping at the sight. They looked too familiar.

“Fuck, Charles. Oh god.” Those scratches painted a vivid picture, and Charles unwittingly stumbled upon a clandestine affair.

Face buried in the crook of your neck, Carlos whispered, “I will forever love you, ma belle.” A whispered promise that added a thrilling layer to your entanglement.

You pull his face and lock eyes with him, “You shouldn’t, my love.”

Charles grapples with a sense of betrayal, but deep down, he understands he shouldn’t. Rationalizing that there’s no conceivable way Carlos could have known about his history with her, he questions whether Carlos would have pursued a romantic connection if he had known. The uncertainty lingers – would Carlos have slept with her if he was aware of their shared past? The internal conflict churns within Charles as he navigates the intricate web of emotions.

Carlos turns around, fully dressed, and catches the peculiar expression on Charles’s face. “What?” he inquires lightly, prompting Charles to articulate the unspoken tension hanging between them.

Charles remains silent, contemplating his words. Finally, he breaks the silence, asking, “If I tell you, will you care enough about our friendship to stop?” The gravity of his question hangs in the air, a plea for understanding and preservation of their bond.

Carlos’s stomach takes a sudden plunge as he discerns that Charles is aware of the truth. Despite this, he maintains his composure, standing firm. “What are you talking about?” Carlos asks, a mix of reluctance and fear evident in his voice. He initiated the question, yet a part of him dreads the revelation, afraid of what it might entail for their relationship.

“Devil-spawn girl, you met her. Right? Look, man, stop while you can. I’m not just speaking from jealousy; I’m speaking to you as a friend. She’s not good for you,” Charles adds, a tinge of envy coloring his cautionary words. The undertone of jealousy reveals the emotional struggle within Charles, accentuating the complexity of their friendship in the face of intertwined romantic entanglements.

“Who I have relations with is none of your concern. Whether or not you know her is irrelevant because she’s not yours. Respectfully, mate,” Carlos retorts, the tension in his voice echoing the strain on their friendship. His words hang heavily in the air, emphasizing the palpable rift that has formed between them due to the complexities of their intertwined relationships.

Charles stands frozen, his emotions a volatile mix of pity, envy, and bitterness towards his friend. The air thickens with tension as Charles grapples with the stark contrast between his evening plans and Carlos’s company with you. Unbeknownst of the unconscious glares he shoots at Carlos, the unspoken tension heightens, setting the stage for a complex unraveling of their intertwined relationships.

The prevailing tension hangs like a heavy cloud, noticeable to all, and the fleeting glimpses caught by a select few cameras reveal the glares Charles casts towards Carlos, laden with an unmistakable sorrow. The mere mention of you induces a poignant melancholy in Charles, inviting him to delve into the depths of retrospection. As he ruminates on the past, a profound sadness settles in his eyes. Charles, once confident in his efforts, now carries the weight of unfulfilled expectations and the somber realization that, despite his attentive listening and genuine regard, something essential slipped away. The undertones of sadness paint a poignant portrait of Charles wrestling with the echoes of a relationship that eluded his grasp.

Seated in the Ferrari paddock, you and your cousin become aware of the conspicuous glances from Ferrari fans due to her Red Bull attire. Undeterred, she dismisses the judgmental looks and immerses herself in the exclusive privileges offered within the paddock during the races, reveling in the unique experience despite the disapproving gazes.

Immersed in the race, you find joy in the shared experience with your cousin. Her occasional muttering of random facts about specific teams and cars adds an endearing layer to the moment, and you can’t help but appreciate her cute enthusiasm for the intricacies of the Formula One world. The blend of excitement and shared knowledge enhances the overall enjoyment of the race day.

The proximity to the racing cars unveils a revelation – the sheer speed is beyond comprehension until you witness it up close. They fly by in a blur, leaving an ephemeral imprint. The experience is awe-inspiring, highlighting the marvels achievable through engineering and mechanics. As two red cars streak by in rapid succession, the spectacle becomes a testament to the thrilling capabilities of modern racing technology.

“You fucked one of those drivers and are about to fuck the other, you know?” Your cousin delivers the statement with unabashed candor, injecting a provocative and cheeky vibe into the conversation. The bold remark intensifies the atmosphere, creating a moment of shared amusement amidst the high-speed drama of the racing event.

A sharp nudge to her waist accompanies your response, “You’re annoying, you know.” The physical gesture punctuates your playful reproach, capturing the mix of irritation and camaraderie that defines your dynamic with your cousin during this candid exchange.

The mischievous thought crosses your mind: “Should I blow her mind?” You contemplate, “I hooked up with Carlos. Yesterday. While you were away…” The revelation hangs in the air, adding an unexpected twist to the conversation and leaving room for your cousin’s stunned reaction.

Her wide-eyed stare lingers for a moment before she exclaims, "You can't keep getting away with this! You can't keep getting away with this. You have to share your Formula One connections with me, get me a date with Max Verstappen, please!" The volume of her voice fluctuates, creating a crescendo of excitement that culminates in a more subdued plea for a connection with the renowned driver. The mix of astonishment and her final, almost whispered, request adds a layer of humor to the exchange.

Amused by her request, you laugh and respond, “I don’t know who that is. I’m assuming a race car driver. How would I even bring that up with Carlos?” Your lighthearted tone underscores the irony of the situation, emphasizing your lack of familiarity with the Formula One world despite the amusing connection you’ve formed.

Her plea tugs at your empathy as she begs, “Please. I really admire him. At least try, for me?” The earnestness in her request adds a touch of sincerity, prompting you to consider fulfilling her wish despite your limited knowledge of the racing world.

Charmed by her puppy-dog eyes, you find yourself relenting, and with a smile, you say, "OK." The exchange captures a moment of playful acquiescence, highlighting the good-natured rapport between you and your cousin in the midst of the Formula One excitement.

As the race concludes, Max Verstappen secures pole position, triggering an exuberant outburst from your cousin that resonates across the paddock, much to the dismay of nearby Ferrari drivers. Charles Leclerc claims second place, and you stand in awkward silence. However, when Carlos Sainz secures third place, your natural inclination takes over, and you can’t help but cheer for him, adding a touch of personal investment to the racing outcome.

A sudden realization strikes you – back when you first met Carlos, you mentioned having a connection with "one" of the Ferrari drivers. It becomes evident that Carlos understood it was Charles. This revelation carries a subtle sense of a lie, as the shared history between you and Charles unveils itself, introducing a nuanced layer to your interactions.

Carlos was aware all along. Initially uncertain if you knew he was the other Ferrari driver, he strategically used this ambiguity to his advantage. Concealing this knowledge, he anticipated the moment you would eventually find out, a revelation he calculated to unfold today. The intricate dance of secrets and revelations adds a complex dimension to the dynamics between you and Carlos.

Contemplating the situation, you question whether you should be mad. Despite realizing Carlos wasn’t overtly hiding anything, you find yourself not feeling angry. It’s clear that he’s aware you know, and you decide it’s better to take the initiative and text first, acknowledging the unspoken understanding between you two. The choice reflects a measured and composed approach to the unfolding revelation.

Carlos

hey, great race. we need to talk.

sent 5:44

In the wake of your text, Carlos doesn’t respond immediately. However, considering the circumstances, it wouldn’t be unusual, given that you witnessed him getting interviewed right after stepping off the platform. The anticipation builds as you await his response amidst the post-race interview.

As Carlos grappled with nerves, he remained oblivious to the fact that you had texted him, plunging further into the depths of overthinking and the looming uncertainty. The weight of nervousness settled on Carlos as he pondered: Were you contemplating ending things with him? Would this mark the conclusive end of what you both shared?

Carlos’s worries were momentarily eclipsed by the barrage of questions from reporters. As they interviewed the top three drivers, Carlos paid little attention, offering pre-scripted responses to the usual inquiries about the race. The mundane discussions about cars after a race failed to captivate him. All he craved was rest. Despite his job involving a significant amount of sitting, the act of driving, fueled by a constant surge of adrenaline, drained most of his energy.

The seemingly endless interview finally concluded, and Carlos, yearning for relief, made his way back to the locker room. Once there, the first order of business was checking his phone. The anticipation lingered as he sought a moment of reprieve from the relentless scrutiny of post-race interviews.

her

hey, great race. we need to talk.

I’m sorry. Does this change anything?

sent 6:04

A surge of anxiety fills Carlos’s stomach as he gazes at his phone, the weight of your response pressing down on him.

Charles, breaking the post-race silence, and speculates, “She knows, doesn’t she? I remember she wasn’t much of a Formula One fan – if it wasn’t for her cousin, she probably wouldn’t know about it at all.” As he speaks, he nonchalantly unzips his suit and steps out, introducing an air of uncertainty into the atmosphere.

Carlos bristled with heat at Charles's mention of you, irritated by the presumptuous familiarity. The unfolding drama in the room intensified as Charles spoke, assuming a connection that didn't truly exist. The clash between perception and reality heightened the tension, setting the stage for an unspoken confrontation. Despite the escalating drama, Carlos chose to maintain civility, concealing the internal turmoil beneath the surface.

“I guess. Mate, can I just please ask you to be happy for me, though?” Carlos’s voice carried a vulnerability, adding a poignant layer to the conversation. The plea for understanding and support injected a subtle emotional complexity into their interaction.

“I don’t know if I pity or envy you, Carlos. I respect you enough to let you make your own decisions, just don’t wear your heart on your sleeve.” Charles’s words, tinged with a mix of conflicting emotions, reflect the intricate dynamics of their relationship. The subtle blend of pity, envy, and respect adds a layer of complexity, emphasizing the challenge Carlos faces in navigating his personal life within the scrutiny of their shared world.

The remainder of the time in the locker room unfolded in silence. Carlos pondered Charles’s words, dissecting them for any hidden meanings. Before he knew it, solitude enveloped him, leaving him alone with his thoughts as Charles had long departed. The hushed aftermath resonated with the weight of unspoken tensions and internal reflections.

her

I like you Carlos. But, if you knew this entire time I had an old fling with Charles, why’d you continue talking to me?

I like you. A lot. That’s why I didn’t stop. I know it was selfish. I’m sorry.

It’s okay, you don’t have to apologize, not to me at least. This won’t change anything between us <3.

🩷🩷

Carlos swiftly transitions from his racing attire to regular clothes, and with a lingering tension in the air, he texts his sister, seeking a favor. Her inevitable questions follow, but Carlos remains tight-lipped, adding an air of mystery to the unfolding narrative. The unspoken urgency and secrecy intensify the atmosphere surrounding Carlos’s actions.

Shortly after the race concluded, you made a quick exit. Your cousin, eager for a Starbucks fix, pleaded for a post-race treat, and you gladly accepted. Amidst sips of your usual refresher and bites of a croissant, family topics took center stage. Engaged in a light-hearted banter, you and your cousin delved into gossip about each other’s aunts, playfully arguing over whose aunt held the title of the worst. It was evident that your mom, despite her protective nature, wasn’t the contender for the unfavorable title. Laughter filled the air as you shared embarrassing memories, creating a moment of connection and amusement in the aftermath of the race.

An hour post-race, you and your cousin returned to the hotel after the Starbucks run. Walking side by side through the hotel corridors, you reached your door and were greeted by an elegant black circular box. A shared look of confusion passed between you and your cousin as you brought the mysterious box inside and closed the door. In a moment of playful speculation, you humorously considered the potential plot twist of a Russian spy story, teasing the idea of the box possibly ending in an explosive surprise.

Relief washed over you as the box revealed its true nature – not a secret bomb, but a thoughtful gift. Opening it, you were greeted by the sight of delicate light pink roses gracefully arranged within, accompanied by a simple white note. The contrast between the initial intrigue and the subsequent tender gesture added a touch of sweetness to the unfolding narrative.

“Huh? Roses… poor guy couldn’t do better,” your cousin muttered, eyeing the box with a hint of playful teasing. Her comment added a lighthearted touch, injecting humor into the moment as you both assessed the unexpected floral gift.

You read the note out loud, “For my Devil-Spawn girl. -C.S.” The term “Devil-Spawn girl” echoed in the room, leaving a hint of uncertainty and perhaps an unappreciated tone in the air. The unexpected endearment carried an unconventional touch that stirred a mix of emotions.

“How cute. Carlos sent this. Why’d he call you devil-spawn girl? Is there some sort of secret meaning between the two of you?” Your cousin inquired, her gaze fixed on the brand as she meticulously counted each individual rose. Immersed in her curiosity, she simultaneously typed into her phone, adding a layer of intrigue to the unfolding mystery.

“Huh… not that I know of.” Your curiosity piqued, you leaned in, dipping your nose into the box. The lovingly strong scent of fresh roses enveloped you, carrying with it a unique aroma akin to rainwater – something that might not conventionally be considered pleasant but held a distinct charm that you vouched for. The sensory experience added an intimate and personal touch to the unfolding scene.

Your cousin, visibly astonished and perhaps a tad envious, expressed her disbelief as she learned about the actual price, which hovered around fifteen hundred dollars. “Woah! The price for these flowers. I completely retract my statement from before; this guy definitely went all out.” Her mix of emotions added a dynamic layer to the unfolding narrative, blending surprise, envy, and a revised perspective on Carlos’s gesture.

You scoot over to her, curiosity getting the better of you, and peer at her phone, eager to catch a glimpse of what she’s discovering or typing.

The Million Roses. 

The brand on the box matched what appeared on her phone, and the resemblance was strikingly identical. While acknowledging the undeniable beauty of the roses, you couldn't help but find them excessively expensive. A tinge of practicality crept in, contemplating that regular flowers from a vendor would have sufficed just as nicely. Carlos, however, chose the most extravagant bouquet. The realization sparked a mix of admiration and practical consideration – the amount spent on these roses could have bought him double the flowers at a street vendor, simultaneously making a positive impact on their lives.

You sent Carlos a quick thank-you text, and after a brief delay, he responded, apologizing for the wait. The conversation shifted as he inquired about your day. While you shared that it was good for the most part, you couldn’t help but admit that by the end of the day, your social battery had completely drained from being around so many people.

+1 838-738-7272

Hi.

The anonymous message perked your curiosity and though the alarms in your head rang stranger danger, you couldn’t help but reply.

who’s this?

Sorry, I was unaware you had deleted my number, I guess it’s been a while. It’s Charles.

[talonabraxas]

The significance of this day

Day Acatl (Reed, known as Ben in Maya) is governed by Tezcatlipoca as its provider of tonalli (Shadow Soul) life energy. Acatl is the scepter of authority which is, paradoxically, hollow. It is a day when the arrows of fate fall from the sky like lightningbolts. A good day to seek justice, a bad day to act against others.

Tezcatlipoca Talon Abraxas

Tezcatlipoca is the Smoking Mirror.

He is the god of the nocturnal sky, god of the ancestral memory, god of time and the Lord of the North, the embodiment of change through conflict.

Together with his eternal opposite Quetzalcoatl, he created the world. In this process, Tezcatlipoca lost his foot when he used it as bait for the Earth Monster Cipactli. As a god of creation he is known as Ipalnemoani, "He by whom we live".

Tezcatlipoca has many aspects. As Tezcatlipoca Yaotl ("Enemy") he is the patron of the warrior, as Tezcatlipoca Telpochtli he stands for eternal youth. Other names are Necocyaotl ("Enemy of Both Sides"), Tloque Nahuaque ("Lord of the Near and Far") and Yohualli Ehecatl (Night Wind), Ome acatl ("Two Reed") and Ilhuicahua Tlalticpaque ("Possessor of the Sky and Earth").

[impossiblyholyparadise]

Un souvenir et une anecdote supplémentaire pour vous expliquer mon candaulisme :

Une autre soirée fut aussi tout autant une étape importante dans mon chemin vers le Candaulisme...

Une soirée étudiante ou presque d’Ana ma petite amie de l’époque.

Etudiante brillante et consciencieuse, elle avait voulu participer au fait que je lui avais ouvert mon appartement totalement et spontanément pour l’aider à réaliser ses études dès le premier jour de notre rencontre...

Quelques conflits récurrents avec ses parents lui pesaient.

Elle me les avait confiés le soir même de notre rencontre et je m’en étais aussi ému...

J’étais aussi pleinement amoureux...

Aussi, nous habitions ensemble depuis quelques mois sans que jamais je ne lui demande rien en retour.

Elle en était consciente et voulait-elle aussi participer.

Mener de front études et travail est un défi et un challenge où l’organisation et le rythme imposé sont parfois peu compatibles avec l’amour, les résultats et la fatigue...Elle le savait mais indirectement elle pensait me devoir tant sans pour autant ne lui avoir jamais rien réclamé en retour, ce qu’elle appréciait aussi beaucoup.

Elle avait quelques fois abordé le sujet mais je ne lui répondais toujours que d’un sourire, lui disant de vivre, de profiter, d’aimer, de travailler et d’être la plus heureuse possible...

Je crois, et je sais maintenant, que tout cela est aussi une racine profonde du Candaulisme...

Néanmoins, et c’est assez paradoxal, ce furent ses études qui lui permirent un jour de prétendre à un travail...

Il s’agissait en début d’année étudiante, sa deuxième année, d’être présente à la sortie des amphis et d’inviter et de sensibiliser ses jeunes collègues étudiants de première année à lire et surtout à s’abonner à des magazines divers et variés leur permettant d’élargir leurs connaissances dans des domaines voisins et importants de leurs sujets d’étude...

Aussi, se rendait elle en équipe pendant les quatre ou cinq  premières semaines de la rentrée dans les amphis, de tôt le matin jusqu’à parfois tard le soir, agrémenté de virées nocturnes dans les bars à étudiants de la ville.

Il le fallait selon les recommandations du responsable des ventes pour souder les équipes et faire connaissance de plus de monde encore au travers les premières soirées estudiantines organisées pour la cohésion des futures promotions...

Aussi, après des débuts enjoués et prometteurs sur le plan financier (chaque abonnement certifié faisait l’objet d’une ristourne de l’éditeur et comme il s’agissait d’abonnements annuels, les émoluments pouvaient parfois être réellement intéressants...) une certaine fatigue et quelques désagréments brisant notre agréable routine de jeune couple virent le jour.

Un rythme de travail assez effréné était demandé ainsi qu’une grande disponibilité pour « écumer » les facs de la grande ville où nous habitions...

Nous ne nous voyons plus beaucoup et mon appartement servait surtout de base arrière pour les présentoirs et les exemplaires des magazines et autres quotidiens en vente.

La fatigue se faisait réellement sentir et moi je devenais surtout celui qui l’hébergeait, lui faisait à manger (repas qu’elle prenait en fait rarement car son équipe très dynamique et pour tout dire « fêtarde » allait très souvent « célébrer » les résultats des uns et des autres dans un bar pour encore et toujours souder les équipes commerciales et profiter des contacts étudiants qui pouvaient s’y faire encore plus aisément autour d’un verre...

Aussi, sur le plan sentimental et sexuel, c’était plutôt la disette...

Dur, dur pour moi alors que d’ordinaire, nous étions rarement plusieurs heures sans nous câliner et sûrement pas et encore moins un jour......

Un petit « cérémonial » s’était néanmoins instauré car je crois qu’elle m’aimait sincèrement, pâtissait aussi de cette situation et s’en sentait un peu coupable même si la fierté de ramener de l’argent dans notre couple la motivait et la recompensait.

Ainsi, chaque soir (plutôt en milieu de nuit du coup...) où elle rentrait, juste après s’être douchée et alors que j’étais bien souvent endormi, elle venait me câliner, me prendre en main sexuellement parlant (elle aimait depuis nos premiers jours mon sexe, sa forme, sa douceur...)

Bref elle aimait ma bite, jouer avec pour me faire bander...

Chose qu’elle obtenait très rapidement au vu de sa dextérité et de ses envies manifestes...

En trentenaire ardent et vaillant, qui aurait pu s’en plaindre... ?

Elle me prenait alors rapidement en bouche pour me sucer (elle raffolait des fellations... !) et me taillait une pipe experte, souvent rapide en ces circonstances mais toujours appréciée, appréciable, adroite et victorieuse...

J’en appréciais totalement le bonheur tout en devant souvent rester sur ma faim et sur « la béquille » tandis que, quasiment à chaque fois, elle s’endormait en me gratifiant d’un « Bonne nuit mon amour », la bouche pleine et comblée de l’expression de mes désirs et de mon plaisir...

Elle aimait le gout de ma semence, l’avalait depuis toujours et l’appréciait...

Jamais elle ne m’avait sucé sans déguster le fruit de ses audaces et expertises.

Parfois même, elle me déposait un baiser légèrement gluant et chaud sur les lèvres...

Au début de notre relation j’en avais été surpris mais m’étais habitué et trouvais cela touchant en termes de partages et d’audace...

Ce rituel effectué, elle se tournait rapidement puis s’endormait profondément tout aussitôt...

Profondément était le terme : j’avais une ou deux fois, dans un état érectile indécent et difficile à calmer, n’arrivant réellement pas à m’endormir, voulu la prendre mais devant son corps si tendrement abandonné, j’avais résisté à l’envie de le faire sans son consentement express, même si rien ne pouvait me faire douter de ses désirs une seconde, pour la pénétrer sauvagement...

Elle ne m’en aurait pas voulu...

Non, j’en étais pleinement assuré et je pense même qu’elle aurait pu percevoir cela comme tout à fait légitime, voire même coquin...

Mais pour moi sans conscience et sans consentement il n’en était pas question...

Question de principe, de respect, d’honneur et tout autant de bonheur du partage.

S’en serait-elle même aperçue... ?

Du coup, pour quel plaisir... ?

Si je ne pouvais partager, je trouvais assez absurde de ne satisfaire que moi...

Oui, elle dormait très profondément !

Pour autant, souvent pris par les désirs et la beauté de son corps alangui qu’elle abandonnait parfaitement et naturellement à ma vue, (elle ne dormait que nue et y tenait),  je la caressais tendrement, bandant là encore comme un fou, et la couvrais de baisers ...

Le spectacle de son corps abandonné et offert sans défense enchantait et régalait au plus haut point mes yeux... Et pas que...

Ce n’était rien qu’en cela et déjà un réel bonheur...

Je dois confesser que parfois, il m’arrivait même de me masturber en la regardant, si belle, innocente, ...

 Je m’autorisais aussi de mes lèvres et de ma langue à la humer, la titiller sans la réveiller, la couvrir de baisers et notamment sur son sexe...

Quelques gémissements parfaits attestaient qu’elle ressentait sûrement mes attouchements sans pour autant en être réveillée... C’était réellement délicieux...

Oui, je me satisfaisais et même me régalais de tout cela à défaut de pouvoir lui faire l’amour comme j’en avais envie et l’honorer pleinement comme à nos habitudes...

Cependant, un soir, elle rentra un peu plus tard et vint directement se coucher...

Elle ne manqua pas pour autant à nos nouvelles habitudes et me suça talentueusement, avec même une gourmandise et une ardeur qui me rappelaient les pipes interminables dont elle était experte et adorait me gratifier avant d’incorporer cette équipe commerciale et qui j’en étais sûr ne tarderaient pas à reprendre une fois cette parenthèse économique terminée...

Je fus bien entendu ravi de sa prestation et lorsqu’elle vint m’embrasser à pleine bouche avec délectation et gourmandises, je perçus un goût légèrement différent du mien et de l’ordinaire...

Je n’en fis pas un problème et mis cette différence sur le compte de l’alcool et de la soirée festive qu’elle venait manifestement de passer...

Je la laissais s’endormir et poursuivis seul mon cérémonial...

Non douchée et manifestement très fatiguée, certainement assez ivre, elle ne s’était pas couchée nue comme d’habitude à mon grand étonnement mais avait conservé sa robe légère de soirée ainsi que son string que je pouvais deviner alors qu’elle se lovait sur le côté remontant ses jambes et redressant du coup sa courte robe sur le galbe de ses sublimes fesses...

Comme d’habitude, je ne résistais pas au plaisir de la couvrir de baisers et de caresses me sentant même encore plus entrain de la voir m’être revenue guillerette et heureuse, encore plus que d’ordinaire de sa soirée...J’aimais la voir heureuse et satisfaite...

Poursuivant mes « voyages », je relevais d’avantage sa robe sur son cul...

Je baisais de mes lèvres entreprenantes ses fesses et m’approchais de sa fente...

J’avais pris l’habitude, quoiqu’il arrive d’y déposer tous les soirs un baiser et même parfois d’oser y introduire légèrement la pointe de ma langue afin de gouter aux douces saveurs de sa chatte aux effluves pour moi si envoutantes...Elles berçaient, enchantaient et embaumaient ainsi quoiqu’il arrive mes nuits d’une telle douceur...

J’entrepris alors de mes doigts agiles de déplacer légèrement son string, sans la réveiller, car la ficelle fermait partiellement l’accès à sa délicieuse fente...

Je fis glisser le trait d’étoffe de mes doigts et qu’elle ne fut pas ma surprise de constater qu’il était complétement trempé et même qu’une sorte de méat un peu gluant semblait y être déposé...

Une jouissance... ? Du sperme... ?

L’ire et ma jalousie prirent immédiatement le contrôle de mon cerveau et de mes émotions

J’en restais, mentalement et physiquement sur le cul...Le sang affluant et bouillonnant dans mon esprit et mon corps...

Elle avait baisé... !

Elle avait dû baiser avec un autre... !

Un autre que moi dans cette putain de soirée...Et dans ce con qui était censé n’être qu’à moi... !

Je me sentais dans une telle rage, une telle colère...

Que faire... ?

Assis sur mes genoux, la regardant avec des yeux totalement différents de l’habitude...

Son string encore là...tout souillé du sperme d’un autre...j’en étais sûr...!

Instinctivement j’approchais mon visage et mon nez jusqu’ à y porter mes narines puis ma langue...

Oui, oui, c’était ce même goût que j’avais identifié dans le baiser donné avant qu’elle ne s’endorme...

La salope ! Elle m’avait trompé cette chienne..., c’était sûr...

Cette salope, ma salope... !

Ma chienne alors qu’on s’était toujours promis d’être complice quelque fut notre ou nos envies... !

Néanmoins, je ne parvenais pas à décoller mon regard de son cul et de son sexe encore gonflé et emplit d’un autre...Non je n’y parvenais pas, et même en moi j’arrivais à trouver des ressources et un calme doux qui maintenant m’envahissait…

J’avais bien des « papillons » dans le ventre..., un vertige dans la tête...

Mais étonnamment, pas ou plus de colère... !

A tel point que je me suis de nouveau penché...

De nouveau j’ai humé ce méat que je ne pouvais même plus détester... !

Son string était tellement imprégné de la mouille et de son odeur qu’il en devenait agréable, tant à la vue qu’à l’imaginaire...Oh oui elle avait du réellement jouir...

Je ne pus m’empêcher de retourner le sentir, le toucher, le « tester » même de mes narines...

Plusieurs fois...

Le goûter même...

Puis d’instants en instants jusqu’à la lécher consciencieusement, minutieusement avec, je devais me l’avouer, un plaisir grandissant, subjuguant et effaçant de manière incroyable toute colère ...

J’en profitais abondamment...J’aimais... !

J’en étais stupéfait mais j’aimais... !

J’aimais surtout à m’imaginer la saillie qu’elle avait subi, la saillie de son con et le plaisir qu’elle, qu’ils avaient dû connaitre...Je n’étais même pas jaloux de ne pas y avoir été...

Un peu vexé...j’aurais préféré que pour une première, même si je lui avais déjà confié ce fantasme du mari trompé avec son plein acquiescement mais présent...Elle était allée plus loin...

Plus vite même que je n’avais secrètement jamais imaginé ou désiré...

Pour autant c’est un rêve secret dont je lui avais fait la confidence et que par bravade je l’avais assurée que je ne serais pas jaloux...

En fait, si un peu, mais pas si fortement que cela ...

Assurément déçu qu’on n’ait pas partagé cette première et de ne pas avoir l’histoire de cette incartade ni d’avoir pu y assister...

Lorsqu’on en avait parlé et évoqué elle ne m’avait pas caché la possibilité que cela puisse arriver tant elle aimait le sexe, attirait les hommes et avait conscience de ses désirs et de ses faiblesses...

De plus, en lui ayant fait la confidence de ce Candaulisme naissant que je sentais déjà vivre en moi, je ne pouvais rien lui reprocher...

Elle avait seulement anticipé mes désirs et peut-être plaisirs...

Je ne les avais pas imaginés de la sorte et s’imposer aussi brutalement à moi...

Pour autant, qu’en restait-il pour moi... ?

Je venais de le constater...Je le constatais en direct...

Du plaisir, de la cérébralité, de l’amour pour le sexe, de l’amour pour elle, des envies...

Encore plus d’envies ...

Encore plus de désirs et d’amour pour elle comme je l’avais imaginé et quelque part voulu et demandé...Alors... ?

Plus encore quand je me rendis compte que je bandais comme un taureau et ne débandais pas alors que de longues minutes s’étaient déjà passées a regarder, que dis-je, admiré et fantasmé sur sa chatte épanouie, belle et manifestement comblée et heureuse...

 Je n’avais ainsi, à cet instant, que l’irrésistible envie de la baiser comme la chienne qu’elle était, celle que j’avais souhaité qu’elle soit...

Oui, je bandais comme un fou et contrairement à ma réserve et mes principes des soirs auparavant, je l’ai prise sauvagement, bestialement, jusqu’à la faire jouir comme peut-être jamais, ni elle ni moi-même n’avions jouis comme cela depuis longtemps et sommes partis dans un orgasme fulgurant et absolu qui me faisait de nouveau encore plus encore bander, devenir fou d’elle, fou de son corps, fou de son con, fou de ses jus...

Elle s’était réveillée...Jouissait ...hurlait...m’en demandait encore et encore... !

C’était incroyable... ! Irréel... !

Nous avons fait cinq ou six fois l’amour cette nuit-là  sans jamais nous lasser et nous nous sommes endormis tendrement l’un dans les bras de l’autre...

Au petit matin, elle est venue sensuellement me réveiller, me remercier de cette folle nuit et de la liberté que j’avais pu lui accorder, me disant qu’elle avait tant rêvé dans ses fantasmes les plus insensés de ce genre de nuit...

Elle me dit que toute cette intensité et ces besoins sexuels lui avaient manqués depuis un certain temps et son incorporation dans cette team de vente...Nous n’avions quasi plus le temps de faire l’amour... !

Que cette nuit un homme plus âgé mais beau lui avait fait du rentre dedans, l’avait fait boire, l’avait séduite et convaincue de passer à l’acte sans même me prévenir (elle était bien consciente de ce manque mais m’ayant informé que cela pouvait arriver et moi lui ayant tant parlé de ce fantasme du mari trompé consciemment... elle s’était dit avant de s’abandonner totalement à lui dans les toilettes du bar que cela ne changerait rien aux choses et que si notre amour était bien réel et celui qu’elle m’avait décrit et toujours imaginé était bien présent, alors cela ne poserai pas de problème...)

Oui elle s’en voulait de ne pas avoir pu le vivre avec moi en direct live...

Oui elle s’en voulait de ne pas me l’avoir dit directement en rentrant...

Elle ne voulait pas m’inquiéter et me priver de notre petit rituel jouissif et s’était endormie si ravie, heureuse et comblée surtout quand elle avait osé ce baiser fou dont elle avait si souvent rêvé, mêlant le sperme de cet amant de passage au mien dont elle appréciait tant la saveur...

Oui, bien évidemment elle l’avait sucé, avant, et surtout après qu’il l’ai prise sur un lavabo des toilettes communes du bar et alors qu’il s’essuyait le dard encore gorgé de semence sur son string qu’il avait adroitement écarté pour la pénétrer sauvagement, elle l’avait de nouveau sucé ... !

Accompagnés d’un autre couple se livrant aux mêmes exploits sexuels qu’eux, elle avait indirectement fait une compétition avec l’autre fille qui était par ailleurs sa chalengeuse pour obtenir une prime supplémentaire en raison du nombre de magazines vendus tout au long de leur journée de labeur...

La compétition faisait rage et n’avait pas de limite...

La fille s’était tournée vers la glace surmontant le lavabo pour se refaire une discrète beauté...

Ana avait ressaisi le sexe de son partenaire et l’avait embouché pour le nettoyer scrupuleusement...

Oui ; elle craquerait sûrement sur d’autres, en d’autres lieux, en d’autres soirées, avec moi, sans moi, Elle aimait trop ça... !

Elle m’aimait à la folie... !

Tout comme elle aimait plus que tout sa liberté.

Elle m’assurait qu’elle saurait me récompenser au-delà de mes attentes si je lui procurais tout à la fois la sécurité et la folie de cette impensable liberté...

Dans les vapeurs de la nuit, j’acquiesçais à tout ce qu’elle disait...

Ses aveux étaient si authentiques, touchants et somme toute correspondant tellement à mes aspirations les plus secrètes que je lui pardonnais instantanément et pour toujours...

Elle parti comme d’ordinaire et nous n’avons plus jamais eut à parler de ces instants.

D’autres similaires se reproduiraient...

Beaucoup d’autres à mon et notre plus grand bonheur... !

Je savais qu’elle pourrait de nouveau me tromper...

Sans moi,...Avec moi...Peu importerait pourvu qu'elle me revienne et me conte ses exploits...

Elle savait qu’elle pourrait me tromper...

Nous savions l’un et l’autre ...mais nous le savions maintenant...

Et surtout nous en jouissions si intensément que nous n’en avons jamais eu à en reparler.

Je savais que j’étais réellement Candauliste...

Elle savait qu’elle était une terrible baiseuse, une amante hors-pair et là, maintenant devenue une Hot-Wife comme les nomment les anglo-saxons...

Pour le plaisir de tout le monde, le sien d’abord, le mien, celui de ses futurs amants celui d’avoir une vie sexuelle, libre, riche, épanouie et épanouissante...

Nous en avons réellement profité toutes ces années de fac...

Un jour elle partit étudier définitivement à l’étranger...

Cela ne changea rien...

Ni pour elle, devenue près d’un de ses professeurs de Fac américaine et beaucoup plus âgé qu’elle, la Hot-Wife respectable et respectée qu’elle avait toujours voulu être, la lady américaine classe et parfaite le jour et aux désirs "naughty" de chaque instant...Un des paradoxes de l'Amérique...

Moi, je lui dois d'être devenu pour toujours Candauliste...

Je me souviens tant et avec tant d’émotions, parfois même érectiles, de ces instants où j’ai découvert son string imbibé de sperme, admiré, vu et goûté sa chatte gonflée de plaisir, partagé tant et tant de fois avec elle ces plaisirs et d’autres ensemble, cette philosophie et ce style de vie...

J’ai parfois eu des nouvelles et surtout j’ai toujours eu depuis ses confidences érotiques écrites par mail sur un site dédié à ces pratiques outre-Atlantique, ses délires et ses escapades sexuelles...

Elle s’en était fait un principe de me les dire, comme un légitime devoir envers moi.

Je ne lui demandais rien mais forte et fière de cette liberté que j’avais su lui donner, elle m’informait toujours, parfois même avant son mari, de ses rencontres et péripéties sexuelles variées et nombreuses...

C’est encore aujourd’hui le cas et c’est si bon et intense...

Elle est même devenue BBC, je n'en fus pas surpris connaissant les descriptions des Blacks qu'elle pouvait parfois rencontrer à la Fac et qui à chaque fois qu'elle m'en faisait la confidence la mettait dans des états torrides dont je profitais allègrement...

Moi, j’étais devenu et serais Candauliste pour la vie...

Merci à elle....Merci Ana...Je t’ai enseigné la liberté...Tu es bonne élève, tu as dépassé et il en est fier et heureux, le « maitre »...

[the-sum-of-many-poets]

mineral slippers

caught in their nocturnal jump

seems the stars

vanitas that they are

poured themselves into a salt lake

its phantom wake

a saucer of milk before dawn

sun

rise you diligent baker

we make animal tracks in its crust

disobedient cubs

etching our own hieroglyphs

soothsayers

the wood swallow

the lace monitor so long it licks the horizon

& me

the greater bilby

we call from the rosetta stone

to the nothingness

as great voids compel us to do

moot on existential absurdities

elevate a flake to the sun

at certain angles

a prism switches on

in tribute to the rain

a cryptic response locked inside

amplifies when it touches the tongue

the famine of colour is a paradox

white holds the quiet like a bell jar

as if a century seized in its own cog

©️david sichler