#that frisson of the otherworldly

[s1ithers]

picked planescape torment out of the pool of post-bg3 recs. ~10 hrs in and i love this interplanar city, i am chewing on it, i am turning it around between my fingers. the way it nails the strange-familiar....miévillesque

[wordsinhaled]

word search game ✨

thanks for the tag @queerofthedagger <3 <3

my words are: hello, warm(th), laugh, hand, night, light

hello (somehow, in the "Hello, Hob" fandom i don't have a single "hello" in any of my WIPS lmao)

warm(th) surprisingly, also no warmth mentioned anywhere

laugh — from a 90s/early 00s grunge!hob fic in which modern hob still has nipple piercings and dream notices and is Very Much About It so he makes a dream about it, natch

They end up with Hob pressed to the wall of his building—Dream insistent in his arms, sucking kisses down Hob’s neck—Hob laughing and breathless and a little giddy, because hadn’t he fantasized about this too?

hand — from a little ficlet i never really finished, in which hob meets the moon! based on something @softest-punk wrote a while back

“My lady Selene,” Hob says. It ought to feel archaic, but time blurs more easily here, and he finds that the sweeping bow he offers her—one he has not given in several waking centuries���feels instead instinctual, and practiced; right somehow, befitting her quiet stateliness. “It is an honor to meet you.” Dream’s mouth curves up at the corners, the way it does when Hob has inadvertently succeeded at winning over one or another otherworldly emissary. Evidently, he has chosen the proper thing to do when one meets the moon, to bow and to kiss her lovely ethereal hand.

night — from... some sort of AU? i can't actually remember where i was going with this one because this is all i have of it. i think maybe it was supposed to be dreamling courtier-with-benefits!hob with D/s? no idea?

When the royal guards come to his chamber door in the middle of the night, Hob should by rights, he thinks, feel only fear. He tells himself that the frisson of something else is merely misplaced unease. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" he asks the guards. "You are summoned," they say, "to an audience with the king." Hob raises his eyebrows. "At this hour?" Matthew is normally an alright fellow—for a guard. He has been known to sneak Hob flagons of wine from the royal cellars, and he'd even put in a good word for Hob, back when... well, Hob doesn't like to think on it. But tonight Matthew is grim and quiet. "Make haste," he says. Then, as if relenting, he adds, "Be careful. The king is in a foul mood."

light — from the hand-kissing/fealty fic which is in forever-WIP mode, i'm sorry mona, i am the worst D:

He's still holding the ruby ring. Hob looks at it for a moment, admiring how the stone gleams and pulls the flickering light from the braziers into itself so that it almost glows from inside; how the milgrain and the curls and angles of the engraving stand out in sharp relief. It will look nice on him, Hob thinks. He crosses the room, one footfall at a time, until he reaches the bottom of a great winding staircase. It rises and rises, spiraling up and up. Hob can't make out what lies waiting for him at the top of it, so thick are the shadows and the fog—and yet he can—a feat of dream physics, or of Dream's intent, that Hob can crane his neck to find him even from where he stands, so far below, and Dream can look down upon Hob from whatever distance he wishes.

randomly tagging @pellaaearien @dsudis @tj-dragonblade @arialerendeair @dancinbutterfly and uh whoever else wants to do this (and also no obligation to do this at all <3)

your words (randomly off the top of my head) are: breath, rest, head, once, far, only (bonus word: hello - because now i wanna see if other people use it, lol)

[denimbex1986]

'Space and time are rendered deliberately unstable in Andrew Haigh’s All of Us Strangers. The film is anchored in a new, near-empty London high-rise where Adam (Andrew Scott), a middle-aged screenwriter, lives an apparently solitary existence. But its second crucial location is his childhood home in South London, which he takes periodic train rides to over the course of the film. In the former, he meets a gay man named Harry (Paul Mescal), one of the building’s only other inhabitants, whom he starts a relationship with. In the latter, he sees his parents. This latter encounter is as might be expected, of course — except that the pair are played by Jamie Bell and Claire Foy, who in their thirties are much younger than Scott’s Adam is. Later, we learn that Adam’s parents died in a car crash when he was 11.

Loosely adapted from Japanese writer Taichi Yamada’s 1987 novel Strangers, previously put to screen by Nobuhiko Obayashi under the title The Discarnates (1988), All of Us Strangers is a ghost story of sorts. Haunted by his past, Adam repeatedly returns to his childhood home to interact with his parents and hold imaginary, would-be conversations about where he is now, what he is doing with his life, and so forth. Haigh’s twist on this basic formula is that while Adam’s parents are the same age they were when they died in the ’80s, he is interacting with them as an adult gay man. This temporal and cultural gap allows for Haigh’s script to address all manner of issues about the changes in gay life, such as pivots in cultural acceptance of gay men and shifting attitudes toward AIDS. It also allows for the film to press the issue of how Adam’s loneliness is related to the wider social world. For if people like him are no longer outcasts, then who is to blame for his sadness and solitude? As he tells his mother, without quite seeming to believe it himself: “If I am [lonely], it’s not because I’m gay. Not really.”

The ambivalence of this “not really” also hangs over Adam’s relationship with Harry, whose own loneliness is plainly evident from the jump. Just as his scenes with his parents unfold like a chamber drama, Adam’s burgeoning relationship with Harry is depicted as a theatrical two-hander. No sense of the wider world ever intrudes on their interactions, and even when they go out for a night on the town and into a club, the environment is drained of any sort of social specificity. It later turns out that this sense of enclosure is deliberate. But what it means, dramatically, is that the central tension mainly comes from how Adam hovers between the film’s two central locations: a past home that is no longer and a present home that does not feel quite there.

The trouble is that the very conception of All of Us Strangers, with its supernatural hook, is somewhat at odds with Haigh’s general approach to psychological and behavioral credibility, as one finds in Weekend (2011) and 45 Years (2015). When Adam brings Harry to see his parents, Haigh can only see the incongruities resolving in psychological terms: the viewer must eventually be able to sharply separate the real from the imaginary. And by the end, this is precisely what the film, with its turgid twist ending, accomplishes. While such a commitment to a sharp real–imaginary split is not in itself a failing — indeed it is quite common — in this particular context, it creates an odd sort of circularity. The film’s story concept requires that there be no stable social world. The absence of a social world means that there is no behavioral interest to enliven the story concept. By suspending the viewer between liminal locales, All of Us Strangers clearly aims at a kind of otherworldly frisson, a sense of the unknowable. Mostly, though, it is just sad, somber, and a touch strained.'

[dustedmagazine]

Kilynn Lunsford — Custodians of Human Succession (ever/never)

Custodians Of Human Succession by Kilynn Lunsford

“Sewerland” rises like a swamp monster, its rupturing, rapturous bassline nosing from the murk as eerie ululations twitter around it. Amid the mist and heat, Kilynn Lunsford presides with cool disdain, chanting in hip hop, skip-rope rhythms over the roil and surge of it. Imagine Lydia Lunch spewing decadence over XTRMNTR-era Primal Scream, and you’re about three-quarters of the way there.

We last caught Kilynn Lunsford riding the firestorm known as Taiwan Housing Project, a Philly-based duo she shared with Harry Pussy’s Mark Feehan. Before that she sang and played a variety of instruments in Little Claw, an aughts noise punk band out of Detroit. Her solo project lowers the temperature from the levels achieved in these bands, but not the intensity. She may not get much over a murmur most of the time, but it is one focused, crazily off-kilter murmur. 

Consider, for instance, the opening track “Reality Testing,” in which an abrasive, twanging detuned guitar riff slings bent notes scattershot over the thump of a kickdrum. Lunsford chants in a deadpan, sardonic tone. She cracks wise in the most alienated way, itemizing a long list of methods for self-destruction, each bracketed by the phrase “reality testing.” Lots of unpleasantness ensues — “Take an acid bath, reality testing/Chew more glass, reality testing/Tightrope overpass, reality testing/Drink strychnine, reality testing/Smell nerve gas, reality testing” etc. — but it’s telling that the last phrase on the list is “Call yourself middle class.” And sure, obviously, that’s another way to go. 

Desolate dance rhythms run through cuts like “Sewerland” and “North Sea Shrimps,” and even the distended, surreal, funhouse-mirrored “Three Babies Make Ten,” but in some ways the most disturbing cuts are the soft ones. “Public Private Dream World” slouches into view on percolating drum machine rhythms and a languid piano, a loose-strung bass growling in the background. Here Lunsford breaks from a chant into something like a torch song, though the subject matter is utterly bleak. (For instance, she observes, “You’re throwing cocktail parties for the quislings that you serve.”)  You might get a frisson of Mica Levi’s otherworldly art punk in this song and in other loosely constructed ones like “Terminator Baby.”

It sounds like Lunsford had a particularly rough pandemic. She’s a health care workers’ organizer for one thing, and for another she’s immune compromised. That strange, frightening, unhealthy, early-COVID vibe runs all through this unsettling disc, where the air might be killing you and you might be dead in a week even though you feel fine right now. It’s a woozy, ominous world that Lunsford bumps and bops and chants through, but one well worth visiting. 

Jennifer Kelly

[petitsdieu]

What they have feels symbiotic ⸺ He could get that sea-lapping calm off the shores of her mind. Her body is water and she'd offer it. In the first way a mind could think and then some more abstract second way. He gives her a sense of safety in some mythical, otherworldly praxis. It's interesting to get to know herself without the underbelly of dread.

Feeling safe is not dull. It's the frisson tickle her from the inner belly out. She squirms in his hands. Then folds in easy. Her legs wrapped around the middle of him without hesitation. She's all limb-loose and tan lines. You don't need to read between them. She's entirely trusting of Him. He's got quite a mouth on him. She looks to it first. Replacing the images of his body before he split the sea and joined her. All picture-pretty. It's good enough just to feel him. She intakes every twitch and tell in his expression. Reading him beyond the words he spills. The language of body is her first.

❛ I get more than one? ❜

She didn't know she got a first wish.

Her arm halo-hooks around his shoulders. Pressing them into a cozy-click-in as salt cradles the both of them. She wishes she could stay like this, here, with him forever, too. But she's feeling too heavy-lidded, balmy to let the idea of him leaving seep into her mind or the moment. Instead, she thinks of other things she wants. Easy, sunny, could be given now things.

❛ Kiss me. A girl could die without it. ❜

his boots sit, next to his shield, not far from him as they both sit on the side of the pier. bare feet,  with suit pants rolled up,  sway back and forth in the water. sometimes he forgets to just take a breath,  take a moment⸻other times he’s so busy with what vought has him doing:  traveling to help rebuild europe,  their propaganda,   his movies,   he hardly has time those times to really take in the beauty that is the planet,  that is life.  she halts him,   holds him here and he wants to live like this forever.  toes curl and uncurl as he feels bits of salt water grit between them. the sunshine felt amazing cascading across his face,   its why he had insisted on herogasm be in the tropics. there is nothing more calming to him that the sea,  the sound of waves crashing on the shoreline,  lapping at the dock.  They aren’t there,  on that island paradise,  but he can pretend they are.

it's even easier to pretend they are,  when she rises from the edge of the dock and begins stripping.  he’s actually speechless for once in his life more so that he can take in her naked form as it’s revealed to him. she tosses her clothes at him,  top first then mini skirt.  his fingerless gloved hands come up to hold them to his chest piece.  she takes her running start and jumps off the end of the pier.  he stands shoving her clothes onto the dock, removing his feet from the water,  he’s already unhooked his chest piece with a thud of it hitting the wood.  leon unzips his suit shirt,   his skin sings its praise as the sunlight strikes it.  when she breaks the surface of the water,  his suit shirt has already hit the pier.   she doesn’t need to ask him twice, when he shoves his suit pants down to reveal now all of his bare skin to her. he takes a few steps back from the end of the pier,  giving her a smile before it’s his turn to sprint.  save for he dives into the water,  palm over back of hand.  with broad strokes he swims under the water to grab at her legs before he now breaks the surface of the water. what is personal space.   “well,   I’m fucking here⸻”  he murmurs, wrapping his arms around her center with a hum,   “what were your other two wishes?”

[airyairyaucontraire]

I wasn't expecting the Willie Jack-focused episode of Reservation Dogs to be so melancholy and heartfelt, because she's been easily the funniest character in the previous episodes, but she really pulled it off. It was almost entirely a two-hander about a girl and her dad in the woods (in parallel to the Cheese and Big two-hander the week before), but I never felt it dragged; it struck a really deft balance between the poignant stretches of Willie Jack and her dad talking about Daniel and their regrets and unknowns, and the light touches like the trail cam shots of them goofing around (and the Texas ranchers' topics of conversation).

Curious about the implication that Tall Man and Daniel are linked - they both appear to Willie Jack's dad Leon alone in the darkness, and the first words he says to each are a cautious "Can I help you?" - but I don't know enough about the mythology to speculate whether Tall Man is a lost soul kind of thing. Willie Jack does suggest that what her father saw may have been Daniel's spirit come to say goodbye to him (thus perhaps not the spirit called Tall Man?) and I'm not certain of the chronology, but my impression was that the scene of Leon encountering Daniel while loading deer corn into his truck happened the night before the early morning when he saw Tall Man, which taken with Willie Jack's suggestion could mean that was the last time Leon saw Daniel and he died sometime in the night.

And that was another really poignant part, how Leon gives Daniel a jacket to keep him warm and asks if he's okay, and Daniel says he is but so plainly is not; he's very fragile. Just before that Daniel asked Leon if he needed any help and Leon said he was pretty much done; I wondered and I'm sure he later wondered if giving Daniel something to do so he felt helpful might have made the difference he needed, at least for that night. It still seems open whether Daniel's death was an accident, a suicide or perhaps foul play, but his distress and signs of instability in the flashback portions of this episode are tilting me towards thinking it was suicide.

I also wouldn't have expected an episode of Reservation Dogs to feel haunting (the Deer Lady episode felt more darkly comic, while retaining a frisson of having brushed up against something otherworldly) but with the combination of the shot of Tall Man (?) watching from between the trees as Willie Jack and Leon leave, and the choir in the cemetery, it really was.

[sloshed-cinema]

The Tempest (2010)

Russell Brand has the singularly most insane Shakespeare line delivery in cinematic history, and there have been some doozies.  It’s wild that Julie Taymor should assemble such a formidable cast of both old hands and promising newcomers, and take such a swing and a miss with Trinculo.  To be clear, the Caliban subplot inhabits an entirely different world from the rest of the film.  Part of this is the Bard’s fault, whose final work has moments of pure literary frisson, but perhaps just as many head-scratching decisions. ��Djimon Hounsou, Russell Brand, and Alfred Molina romp and cross-dress their way through a Baz Luhrmann sketch while the rest of the cast serve up melodrama.  It’s certainly hard to go wrong with the likes of Helen Mirren or David Strathairn, who both bring dignity and anxiety as the elder statesmen of the film, equally anxious about protecting their children, even if it means overstepping bounds.  Tom Conti, Chris Cooper, and Taymor regular Alan Cumming flesh out the establishment, prickly and scheming.  The newer acquisitions certainly attained some degree or other of success, Felicity Jones making the jump from a TV-centric career and later propelling towards Star Wars fame, the here rather vacant Reeve Carney working more with Taymor on Spider-Man: Turn Off the Dark, and the eminently undeniable Ben Whishaw delivering one of the more memorable performances of the film, if for partially the wrong reasons.

Speaking of the wrong reasons, the production design of this here thing.  What in the hell did they do to Ariel?  I get the intent, to create this sort of otherworldly, mutable sprite.  But what I did not need was Ben Whishaw as a perpetual terrible After Effects CGI plugin, rendered as wind or water or bees or a fuckin frog.  In the more intriguing renderings of this, Ariel as handled as not only androgynous but hermaphroditic, appearing as a harpy or siren to lure or punish the men according to Prospera’s bidding.  This is a sort of photonegative of Prospera’s gender swap, the woman cast out of a position of power due to conspiracy and false accusations of witchcraft turning the patriarchy against itself through mythological female archetypes.  That said, we’re heavily grading on a curve here execution wise.  Not the bees, not the bees!  The rest of the production has plenty of flourishes to spare.  Much of the cast have Elizabethan-evoking garb, but all of the accents are made of zippers and studs you might elsewhere see on leather jackets.  Caliban has a sort of earthy vitiligo, and the motley of Trinculo and Stephano becomes ever more preposterous as the film wears on.  It’s certainly a lot.

THE RULES

SIP

Trippy greenscreen bullshit.

An actor you recognize shows up for the first time.

Prospera be peepin’!

Ariel’s freedom is brought up.

Someone says a famous line or starts a noted speech.

BIG DRINK

Flashback stuff.

Prospera waves her staff.

Enchanted sleep.

[zmediaoutlet]

in support of Texas relief, @cestlestial-beings donated $50, and requested hurt/comfort wincestiel after 9.03. Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post.

(read on AO3)

Cas is different. It's not just the clothes, although that was such a surprise that Sam almost didn't recognize him when they finally found him, knocked out in that reaper's apartment. That was a surprise, too—when Sam had thought Castiel was dead—and Dean all panicked, clutching at his face, when Sam woke up (from being knocked out? it must have been a bad fight)—but there was Cas, blinking and groaning and sore and saying, "I thought—I didn't think you'd—"

Uncertain, unbalanced. Weak. Sam thinks it and hates himself for thinking it, but it's true. The Cas they've known was a powerhouse, not just in his grace but in his certitude. No matter what insane plan, no matter how dangerous or frightening, Cas just stepped into it. It was like bravery except that Sam wasn't sure that Cas knew what fear really was. Dean hugs him close and Cas clutches at Dean's sides, at his jacket; when Sam tugs him in Cas's fingers dig into his shirt and they feel… soft. Human. Human—well, that's the problem.

"Man, you've gotta listen to me," Dean says, close. His hand on Cas's shoulder, his face this tangle. Sam's been on the other side of it before and he wonders if Cas is feeling the same heart-crumpling slam of guilt. "What were you thinking?" Cas's head ducks and Sam thinks, again, wrong. It feels so strange. Dean glances at Sam and his voice gets lighter. "And what are you doing, huh? Going home with strange girls. Me and Sam are chopped liver now, or something?"

"You're not chopped liver," Cas says, quiet. Sorry. "I was just—cold. And very hungry. April seemed kind."

"They always do," Dean says, and Sam huffs but gets his hand around the back of Cas's neck, reassuring. Cas looks up at him and seems wrecked. Like before, when Heaven had cut him off and his grace was thinning, spooling away—except, Sam thinks, that's how it's going to be, now. Castiel, their angel, not an angel anymore. Something snakes through his stomach, thinking it, but he can't quite pin it down. Dean's grabbing Cas back, though, hugging him close and putting a hand in his hair and looking so relieved Sam almost looks away, and the snaking feeling disappears, in favor of getting Cas close and warm, and safe, and theirs. Theirs, again. Maybe for the first time.

He sleeps in the backseat, on the drive home. Dean keeps checking the rearview. "He's fine," Sam says, and Dean says, fast, "I know," and then, slower, "I know, I just…"

Sam twists around. Cas is tucked in behind Dean's seat, Sam's jacket pulled up over his chest, passed out hard despite the thin morning light. Sam's seen him sleep only once before and it keeps pinging him, strange. "It feels wrong," he says, quiet. "Like it's not him."

Dean looks at him sideways and then turns back to the road. "It's him," he says, firm. "Has to be. Who else would be dumb enough to trust a reaper?" Sam snorts, flicks Dean's arm. Gets a half-smile that appears and disappears so fast Sam might've imagined it, and then Dean rubs his mouth with the back of two knuckles, glancing up in the rearview again. "I know what you mean. Like—what is he, if he's not…"

Sam shakes his head. Hard to say. What would they be, if they weren't hunters? Not much, Sam thinks, but they'd have each other at least. They always have. "We'll figure it out," he says, finally, and Dean nods, and keeps his eyes on the road, and Sam settles in to his side of the seat and wonders how.

Night again, by the time they hit Kansas. Castiel wakes up an hour from the bunker and croaks out, small, "I need food," and Dean immediately signals for the nearest exit and they hit a drive-through and then Sam watches Cas eat, in the backseat: messy, ravenous. Like when he was cursed by Famine except, of course, it's not anything more supernatural than that particular kind of all-day gnawing hunger. He sucks his fingers eating the fries, eyes closing in relief at grease, salt, protein. Meaty, human. Sort of disgusting but Sam offers him more fries over the backseat and Cas is so grateful that it's sort of endearing, too.

Home. Cas's legs are wobbly, getting out of the backseat. "Whoa," Dean says, steadying his arm. "Too much excitement after being in a coma all day?"

"My body is unreliable," Cas says, looking down, and he sounds uncertain enough about it that Dean's face changes, soft where Cas can't see. "I'm not used to this."

"Of course not, Cas," Sam says. He smiles when Cas looks at him, trying to be encouraging. "It's a lot. I can't really say we understand but—you're just going to need some time. Everything's going to feel weird for a while."

Cas's mouth tilts. "I must say, it's amazing how much time humans waste with urination," he says, and Dean laughs, says, "Okay, partner, let's go," and Sam follows them out of the garage, smiling too, ignoring the sensation in his stomach that keeps saying no. It'll go away. It's time for them to be here for their friend.

Cas asks to shower, before anything else. "I didn't realize people could get so itchy," he says, and Sam rolls his eyes and sets him up with soap, a towel, points out the shampoo and conditioner. He finds Dean going through the drawers in a bedroom they haven't used, frowning. His eyes look more tired than they should, even after two long days of driving. Sam says, "Hey," and isn't expecting Dean to jump like Sam's someone he doesn't expect to see.

"Ought to put a bell on you," Dean says, dragging a hand over his face. He's got a pile—boxers, socks, thin white undershirt. He leans his palms on the dresser and blows out air, slow. "God. I thought he was—"

Sam remembers. Castiel's still face, the blood. He thought he'd seen the knife go in but—well, that was wrong, obviously. Thank god. "He's okay," Sam says. "Or, I don't know. He'll be okay. He's human, right? We're resilient."

Dean lets out a low, fake hah. "Right," he says, and Sam can't hold back anymore—he steps closer, and slides his hand along the low of Dean's back. Dean's head dips, his eyes falling shut. "Sammy," he says, almost like warning, but Sam doesn't want to wait—doesn't know why they've been waiting.

"We're going to be okay, too," Sam says. He pulls at Dean's hip and there's resistance, for a second, but Dean stands up, turns, slides an arm around Sam's waist. His head's turned down until Sam tips his chin up and then there's his brother: tired worry around his eyes, his mouth an unsure slant. Sam drags knuckles along his jaw and smiles at him, trying to make it easy. "We're okay now," he says, and Dean's eyes close, and Sam takes the opportunity and leans down, and kisses him.

Jolt in his stomach. That mouth, familiar after all these years, even if the last year was hard. Even if they haven't touched like this, not really, since the hospital. Dean's soft, unsure for some reason, but Sam's not. After the promise Dean made to him, back at the church, he's not going to be unsure ever again. He frames Dean's jaw in one hand and kisses him deeper and Dean responds slowly, the worry or anxiety or whatever it is uncurling, his hand sliding warm under Sam's shirts, his mouth opening, his breath a sigh. "Sammy," he murmurs, against Sam's lips, and Sam smiles, holds his head, thinks yes.

Dean's eyes are heavy, when Sam pulls back, searching Sam's. He looks exactly like Sam could always want him to look—red mouth, cheeks flushed. Ready. It's not just them, though. "Let's see how Cas is doing, huh?" Sam says, generous, and Dean's eyelashes sweep in a slow blink and even that, god, is enough to send a rush down to Sam's dick. "Yeah," Dean says, raw, and has to clear his throat, and Sam grins at him and picks up the half-assed load of clothes and doesn't think they'll be worn, not for a while.

Cas is drying off when they get back to the shower room, scrubbing his face, standing naked among the ivory tile. He picks his head up from the towel when he hears them and blinks, pink-faced and damp, his body whole, tanned and compact and long-legged. Lovely, Sam thinks, anticipation building in his belly. Cas lets the towel fall to one side, unselfconscious, and Sam blinks. "Holy crap, dude," Dean says, "like three weeks as a human and you're already joining a biker gang?"

A frown before Cas looks down, and touches the tattoos on his ribs like he forgot them. "Oh, right," he says, like this is nothing. "This was—protection. My brothers were chasing me and it seemed prudent to go dark before I had to kill more of them." Dean glances at Sam and Sam bites his lip, shakes his head. Cas is still frowning when he looks up. "I don't know what a gang has to do with it."

"I know you don't," Dean says, quiet, and then, "C'mere."

Soft, easy. Dean holds his hand out and Sam gets a weird frisson in his spine—the times they've done this before. Castiel, angel, in his trenchcoat like armor, with his otherworldly eyes and his strength and his sense always of a universe inside—stepping close, drawn in to Sam's brother like a wasp to a raging fire. Human, now, naked and frail, and he doesn't have a chance. He takes Dean's hand and gets reeled in close, Dean's affection easy even if it's not simple, and Dean says, "God, we were worried about you, man," and Cas blinks and looks down and says, sort of rough, "I—was worried, about me, too," and Dean shakes his head and tips up Cas's chin and kisses him, the gentleness in it clear from across the room, and Sam's stomach flips over and he breathes out and thinks, okay. They'll play it this way.

First time they ever slept with Cas it was strange—Sam was uncertain, Dean was angry. Cas had no idea what to do with either of them. He's come in and out of their lives since then and it never got easier, really, although they got used to it. Sam always had the sense that Cas was watching, a little apart. It was obvious that he was in love with Dean and that he had affection for Sam, and Sam was—okay with that, came to love that about him, too. Even an angel couldn't resist Sam's brother. Sam got it more than anyone else ever would. Still—he was always an angel, no matter that he was warm flesh and a soft too-generous mouth and that he'd learned to suck dick almost as well as Dean could, and whenever he rose from a motel bed in moonlight, Dean sleeping warm against Sam's chest, Sam looked at Cas's bare skin and thought, he was never naked with them. Not really.

Now—

In Dean's bedroom it's shocking, how much Cas needs them. Uncalloused, raw, he grips at Dean's face, his shoulders, reaches for Sam's hand when Sam touches his chest and clutches at it hard enough that Sam's bones grind. "I want," he starts, breathless, but doesn't seem to know how to continue, how to say. Sam kisses the back of his knuckles and looks at Dean, undressed now too and climbing up next to Cas on the too-soft mattress. He raises his eyebrows and Dean nods, frowning a little.

Dean drags a hand up Cas's belly, hides the tattoos, kisses his jaw. Moves in, soft, says, "Hey, man. Relax, okay? Me and Sammy are gonna take care of you, right? Like we always do."

"Always," Cas repeats, turning in toward Dean's body, and Sam takes the opportunity to half-strip, to crawl in behind, pressing up against Cas's warmth. He feels—softer. Sam's fingers dig into his hip and he thinks, abruptly, that he might leave a bruise, and Cas has been untouchable for uncountable years and that's so insane-making that Sam buries his mouth against the back of Cas's shoulder, smooth and tanned-brown and the faintest taste of salt, trying not to think about what they could do. How they could hurt him, if they wanted to. How much he could've been hurt, this last little while, and how maybe he was.

A flinchy gasp—"Yeah, there we go," Dean's saying, with his voice that too-familiar almost-porny tilt—and Sam reaches and finds Dean already jerking Cas off, a smooth fondling pump that's clearly already almost more than Cas can handle. Sam scrapes his teeth along Cas's shoulder and reaches down, feels his balls, full and always a little bigger than Sam expects. "Yeah," Dean says, "is that what you need? Cas. C'mon, tell me."

Jesus, Dean's voice. Cas shudders, one knee pulling forward. "Kiss me again," he half-whispers, and Dean groans and does, and it's wet, sloppy. Sam's mouth waters and he kisses the back of Cas's neck, under his ear—grips his thigh and moves him, pushes him forward so he's half-sprawled over Dean's body—and Dean rolls with it, gathering Cas in closer, gripping his ass, pulling him in. "Oh," Cas says, at the full-body contact, and Sam says, "Yeah, Cas—go on, make it feel good," getting up on his knees so he can see.

He reaches between Cas's legs, touches his balls again, traces along the clean light hair in his taint, touches his asshole. Cas groans, surging against Dean, and Dean laughs a little, gripping Cas's hips, spreading his legs wider with his knees. "Yeah, buddy, come on—been a long time, right?" Sam sticks his thumb in his mouth to wet it, brings it back to Cas's hole, hot, snugged tight—trying not to actually listen to Dean, so he doesn't just pull his dick out of his boxers and jerk off over Cas's ass. It's hard to ignore, though: "When's the last time you fucked anything? Was it Purgatory? Remember, by the river?"

"Of course I remember the river," Cas says, shuddery, but lifts up suddenly, his knees spreading around Dean's hips and his ass pushing back against Sam's hand, his shoulders tight and hunched. "Please, I can't—I feel—Sam—"

Sam comes up behind him, wraps his arms around Cas's ribs. "Too much?" he says, and reaches down—god, yeah. Painfully hard, leaking wet already when they've only gone for a few minutes, a smear shining on Dean's belly. Dean pets his thighs, his eyes tight at the corners. Sam squeezes, soft, and Cas's face turns away, his back flinching against Sam's chest. "God. Okay—come on, buddy, it's okay. Just let it go, all right?"

"Yeah, Cas," Dean says, sitting up. He kisses Cas's chest, soft, his belly warm and soft against Sam's knuckles. "Let us see, huh? Damn, you're hot like this—isn't he, Sammy?"

Sam jerks Cas's dick instead of answering, pressing his lips to Cas's throat. He can feel the race of his pulse, there, the hammering anxious need, and Dean whispers something—Sam can't hear it—and then Cas groans low and hurt and he's flexing, in Sam's hand, spilling heat all over Dean's stomach and chest, jerking, giving up more maybe than he's ever given.

"There," Dean says, warm, and Sam's dick flexes in his boxers, full, wanting. "Takes the edge off, right?"

"I think there may only be edge," Cas says, after a second, his voice more normal even if his breath's still heavy, and Sam snorts, squeezes his dick. Still thick, even with Sam's hand smeared and slick. Cas's fingers brush the back of his hand and he turns his head, his mouth a strange tilt. "I didn't know if…"

Dean frowns, not understanding, but Sam gets it instantly. "We want you here," he says. He squeezes around Cas's ribs, soft. "Not just for this. Angel or not. Got it?"

Castiel looks in his eyes, searching, and then smiles, small. Sam's stomach flips. "Okay," he says, and turns to look down at Dean, who's smiling too. "If you'll have me."

"If he'll have us, he says," Dean says, rolling his eyes. "Like I'm not gonna get my mouth on that hot-ass tattoo here in the next five minutes."

Cas tilts his head, and Sam laughs. He puts away the strangeness. Cas is here, and safe, and that can't be anything but good. It'll be good to get to show him how humans actually do things. Any weirdness can wait for another day.

[sasorikigai]

Kazane had always enjoyed playing with Fujin's hair, finding it so silky and beautiful, braiding it was always a fun treat in her opinion. Especially since Raiden kept his covered up and rarely if ever let it free, which was a shame in her opinion, she wanted to play with it too like she does with Fujin's. For now, she'd let that situation be and scheme ways to be able to play with those locks at a later date, concentrating on the locks that were free and accessible to her. It was calming and nice, allowing her content to be heard with a soft melody that began to drift on the air currents around them.

Random Inbox Shenanigans || @swordsxandxshadows || always accepting!

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🌪️ || Just at the edge, where an ancient, eternal sea cuts the darkened horizon, Fujin listens intently as salty waves rush against unguarded shores, tenderly carrying mists through the luscious scent of midnight blossoms. The swell of the full moon becomes the nocturnal solar flare, as his deeply contemplating feature remains at ease, with mirthful smile plastered upon his handsome visage. The invisible, nearly imperceptible stir of whirling wreaths of zephyr stir around them, as echoes of cawing gulls and rhythmical cadence of the nature’s lull combine with Fujin’s gentle hum, akin to shakuhachi flute wafting with its distinct gracefulness, as timbre of his whistling reverberates through his being in a thrilling frisson, running up his spine. He does not have to turn his head to know that the Goddess child in his charge was tending to his luscious white waterfall of his hair. 

There is something familiar about the tender touch, even if he has seldom felt it before. It’s as if it came from his dreams, or some distant past Fujin carries deep inside him. Like a recollection without language, like a memory of having been a weightless nothing in warm fluid, before his divine inception through Raiden’s split being. It reminds the Wind God of his weaving filaments, as an iridescent flow of ichorous string would have perfected his humanoid form; one half of the Storm, with divine wind of kamikaze behind his tailwind, guiding him forth the halcyon magnanimity of his pristine goodness, without vices, but with curiosity of a child and innocence of guileless purity. 

“My dearest Kazane,” the otherworldly, ethereal voice of Fujin’s echo through the shared air currents, as gossamer string of his hair snugly tightens into a looped knot, as his thick, silky hair sways like a pendulous metronome. “Do you recall your own inception into the world? Mine seemingly had been eons ago, but I still feel the same filaments flow through the undertow of my being. However disintegrated and ravaged my corporeality became over the millennia, such primordial portion of my being lives on.”  

How Fujin wishes Kazane to carry on his own legacy, even when the world drowns in the tar of oozing darkness, as the prospect of evil will always threaten to cleave through halcyon tranquility of Earthrealm. The Wind God cannot ever predict when he will simply be scattered into nothingness, become the faded wind as he too, will become naught, but stardust and ash. “Remember your responsibilities, my child. For we are meant to paint the skies in entrancing blue, with winds perfumed and free, lovely, soft, blue, hazes at the end of every nook and cranny. Humanity deserves hope, nothing, but hope.” ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🌪️ ||

[mainpopgirldeans]

fic: devotional

‘but still beautiful. still dean winchester’ really snapped something inside me...

title: devotional pairing: dean/cas summary: I’m not here to perch, Castiel had said, once upon a time. Laughable, now. (ambiguously set in season 5. gen, 1k. you can also read at ao3.)

Delight thyself also in the Lord: and he shall give thee the desires of thine heart. Psalm 37:4

It’s snowing when they finally pull into the motel’s half-empty lot, the vacancy sign flickering. Castiel sits wordlessly in the passenger seat and watches, patient, as Dean closes his eyes and takes a deep, steadying breath. Around the steering wheel, his grip tightens and loosens reflexively, rhythmically. There’s blood dried under his fingernails, in his cuticles and the creases of his knuckles, visible even in the darkness of the car.

“Dean,” says Castiel, keeping his hands loose, open on his thighs. Waiting.

It takes a moment. Finally, Dean squints one bleary eye over at the passenger seat and exhales. “Yeah.” Quiet, vacant. “You staying?” Toneless. Couldn’t care either way, or at least careful to keep his preference to himself, even as he watches Castiel sidelong.

Castiel says, “For a while.” If you want, he doesn’t say. Hedging his bet. There’s something about it that settles strangely within him — walking on eggshells around the Michael’s sword. Heaven’s most powerful weapon. This body that he pieced together sinew by sinew, this soul that he writ from dust, entirely anew, that he’d recognize even on the other side of this galaxy and the next. That he knows intimately enough to know what not to say because he — hundreds of millions of years old, a soldier of God — doesn’t want to upset Dean. He wants to give Dean what Dean wants. I’m not here to perch, Castiel had said, once upon a time. Laughable, now.

Dean nods, expressionless. “Okay,” he says. “Good.”

Castiel waits near the front bumper of the Impala, hands in the pockets of his coat, as Dean goes to get a room. A handful of minutes, and then there’s the crunch of Dean’s boots in the snow. He holds the key aloft, giving it a waggle as he says, “117.” Castiel turns and then there’s the pressure of Dean’s hand in the center of his back, propelling him needlessly along. “Here,” Dean says when they come to the door. “Home sweet home.”

The room is small and dark, its shape familiar and unfamiliar in equal measure. Another motel in a line of thousands. There’s the smell of dust hanging in the air, mildewed curtains, two full-sized beds, matching floral comforters. A table, chairs. Through the window, the moonlight is shallow and pale, painting the room in shades of blues and grays.

Dean tosses down his duffel near the wall, toes off his shoes, and then sits heavily at the edge of the bed closest to the door. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, checks its screen. Tosses it toward his pillow with a snort, and then subsides, slump-shouldered, weary-eyed. There’s something wounded, almost childish in his expression. He looks lost, Castiel thinks. Still — despite himself, despite all he’s experienced — shocked at the cruelties of the world. This is Dean with his defenses down. Strings cut. Unable to muster the strength to pretend. And, even still, so beautiful, like a statue, a creature of old. His face, always otherworldly, divine, even in a rictus of exhaustion.

Castiel lingers by the door. He is still unaccustomed to feeling uncertain. He watches as Dean scrubs at his face with his palms, fingers pressing into his eye sockets. This feeling, Castiel thinks — familiar. Remembers Dean in the hospital, after Alastair, ripping apart at the seams. There’s that strange pull of new emotion. Staring at the defeated line of Dean’s shoulders, he wants to do something. Can think of nothing to do. It will be okay, he wants to say, except that would be untruthful, and foolish besides. “Dean,” he starts, over-loud in the silent room. Dean doesn’t move. Another aberrant frisson of  — something, deep inside Castiel. He takes a bracing breath and finally moves.

A few short strides, and he finds himself standing right there, in front of Dean, looking down at his bent head, the sweat-dark strands of hair at the crown of his skull. The toes of his shoes between Dean’s vulnerable, bare feet. There are holes in his socks. Dean keeps his gaze down. Worrying at the charm hanging from his necklace.

“Dean,” Castiel says again. Thinks about touching him, and then — doesn’t think at all. Goes to his knees. It’s nothing to fold himself down to the floor, the carpet gritty and rough through the thin fabric of his pants. Almost surprising to look up and find himself staring into Dean’s wide, uncomprehending eyes, at his parted lips, mouth hanging open like he wants to speak but can’t find the words to say.

His face is — well. Dean is always radiant; has always been radiant. Even knee-deep in the pit, mired in the murk of hell. Every moment of the arduous ascent and every moment after. Up close like this, he’s almost difficult to look at. Castiel has to resist the urge to avert his eyes; to bow his head. He wants to put his hands on Dean. Lifts one before thinking better of it, stops just shy of his denim-clad leg. Feels the heat rising off of Dean’s knee against the palm of his hand.

“Cas — ” Dean stutters, just barely audible. “What — ” Gaping down at him. “What is this? What are you — ” Plaintive. Almost a wail, before he snaps his mouth shut, abortive. Castiel can hear the unvoiced questions anyway: what are you doing? What do you want from me? Dean, who is always needed. Who has always been required to give and give and give. So accustomed to opening himself up and handing pieces over. All bluster even as he shatters.

“Nothing,” Castiel says. Plain. Watches Dean’s expression shift, disbelieving. He forestalls the recrimination burbling up with the lightest touch against the socked toe of Dean’s warm foot. “I just want to help.”

The look on Dean’s face: too startled, too tired, to hide the confusion, the anguish. The relief. Dean doesn’t understand, Castiel knows. But it’s all Castiel wants. Palms open and willing, to take whatever Dean hands him. To — be here, kneeling, at Dean’s feet. Until Dean has no need for him. And even then, Castiel wants to sit at his shoulder, at his hip. He doesn’t know how to say it in a way that Dean will hear or understand or want to accept. He settles for dropping his gaze, letting his fingers close, gently, around Dean’s ankle. Just holding, careful.

Above his head, he hears Dean take a deep, shaky breath, and then another. Feels it rustle the tips of his hair. “Cas,” Dean says. Just a murmur. For a long moment, Castiel expects to be sent away. But Dean doesn’t speak again. There’s a shift, a rustle of the comforter, and then — a featherlight touch settles against the nape of his neck, and, head bowed, Castiel has to squeeze his eyes shut against an unfamiliar rush of a feeling entirely unknown.

[shenweilightning]

Incense Chapter 1

qianyuan - alpha zhongyong - beta kunze - omega

I've never written a ABO fic and I'm terrible at writing smut so here goes!

------------------------------

The firelight flickers and shadows dance on the rough stone walls. There is no time in this sacred place, hallowed and cherished. 

Shen Wei breathes in the scent of mandarins, letting the perfect citrus notes of his bondmate's scent permeate into his very pores. Abundance and good fortune indeed, he thought with a smile.

Kunlun. 

His body was lax, his limbs boneless in his contentment. There were no concerns weighing on his mind, no worries here in this time. The rough fabric of the bedding was a soothing texture, heavy on his bare back and a sweet counterpoint to the silk of Kunlun's skin. Long fingers brushed down his spine and Shen Wei arched lightly into the touch. 

A hoarse laugh sounded near his ear, the thin toned chest of his beloved vibrating with amusement. 

"Like a cat Xiao Wei." A dulcet voice murmured and Shen Wei slid up, sensuously stretching against Kunlun's warm body to lean up on his elbow. Kunlun shivered and he met foxfire eyes, so bright and yet so dark. The newness of his name striking a happy chord deep in his heart. 

Amusement shone in those depths, the cosmos in his smile as the fire cast a bronze hue over his cheek, over the planes and sharp curves of his beautiful face. 

The ages old deeply rooted need to protect, to cherish rose in him, the kunze instincts he was only just beginning to understand, having ignored them for so long. Kunlun insisted that they were weakness, that they were strength, were the very foundation of who he was and yet, he could be without being controlled by them. 

"Part of you," he said "But not all of who you are Xiao Wei. You are a survivor, a strategist. An intellectual. And the most powerful, the most beautiful kunze to ever live. You are Shen Wei."

Far from fearing these responses, Kunlun only smiled and tugged him closer, leaning up to meet him for a drugging kiss, the scent of incense mingling with oranges. Love and a desperate need to have him closer still, had Shen Wei's leg rising straddling Kunlun's thighs possessively. 

He had never paid attention to attraction or arousal before, but now so close to his heat, it simmered in his blood. 

He grinned into the kiss and immediately made space for him, welcoming him between his knees, his hand stroking over his skin. Nails dragged up his back and those long fingers found their way into his long hair, twisting and gently pulling. 

Arousal pooled and its heat caught ablaze. Shen Wei kissed down his neck, breathing in the heady scent of dried oranges and musk, his zhongyong. "Mine." The kunze whispered nipping along his jaw. 

"Mine." His zhongyong answered, a snarl in the words, a demand that Shen Wei not only accepted but wanted. 

He wanted to belong to this brilliant otherworldly man and Shen Wei had never wanted to belong to anyone. Rejected the very idea of being chained to another. He protected as a kunze should, gathering tribe and army to him. He lead and guided, tended to them but never, never belonged to them. 

Now the idea of sharing a life, a future with this untamed hero, sent a frisson of delight through his blood. 

Shen Wei had long been in awe of Kun Lun’s masterful, deft strategies, controlling so easily both the armies and the politics of the Alliance, stepping as one would across river stones, at least ten steps ahead of their enemy. These months had been an eye-opening experience. He had learned about himself, learned what it was to be kunze and learned not how to lead but to run even the most complex of systems. 

Kunlun was his joy and his to worship. Where he went, Shen Wei would follow. 

He ran his hand down Kunlun's flank and smiled at the shiver his touch invoked. Nose down his pectorals, his was his turn to moan softly as one long thigh dragged up his own , latching onto him by his hip. Holding him to Kunlun. 

Wetness pooled, slick and hot, even as the incense scent sharpened in the air. Kunlun's smile turned wolfish even as his zhongyong nose picked up the change in the air. But he didn't move to take. Not like Shen Wei had been taught by a hundred or more uncomfortable tales, told by his men and the Alliance camps. 

Kunlun guided and offered but he never took. No. What he demanded was Shen Wei's attention and that was something he could give eternally. 

"So hot." Kunlun moaned as he felt it drip onto his skin. "Xiao Wei." 

"It will be hotter when my heat comes." He told him softly, his nose brushing Kunlun's bearded chin, sending sparks of want down his spine. 

"You want me there for that?" Kunlun asked sounding strangely surprised, his stroking hands pausing.

Shen Wei lifted his head, his tone so doubtful, dampening the arousal for a moment. "Why wouldn't I?" He asked, "You said that you were mine." 

Kunlun's smile was slow but it was bright when he replied, easing the building tension in Shen Wei's chest, the knowledge that Kunlun wasn't rejecting him, rejecting him as a kunze, "I am. I want to be with you for the rest of time." 

Shen Wei beamed at him, pressing down chest to chest, joy and tentative hope blossoming. "Then, when my heat comes we will bond?"

"Can we?" He asked, "Zhongyong and kunze? I can't give you children." 

Shen Wei had never had a desire for children, an oddity for a kunze but this world was dark and cruel. 'Do you want children?" He asked fearing the answer suddenly, a cold splash from the heat of want. 

Kunloun shrugged, "Never thought about it. Zhongyong can't have children and there's always adoption if we decide we want them." 

That pleased Shen Wei, the idea of giving love and a home to a child in need. That child would be theirs, as cherished and loved as if by blood. It meant they could cherish each other and have a bigger family when they were ready. Away from war. 

"I'm not a qianyuan." Kunlun said doubtfully. 

"Why would we need one?" Shen Wei asked, possessiveness creeping into his voice. "I won't share you." 

Surprisingly Kunlun laughed, but he sounded happy so Shen Wei returned to his neck, sucking a fresh lovely bruise like Kunlun had taught him. "I want your bite. I want your mark. I want everyone to know that you are mine and that I am yours. That you let me near your throat. That I and I alone can sleep beside you, satisfy you."

"Ah Xiao Wei, I could never possibly want anyone else." He promised panting softly. 

"Good." He purred. "No qianyuan could compare to you. None of them have ever interested me. No other kunze shall come close." He added rubbing his own scent into Kunlun's skin. 

As Kunlun chuckled breathlessly, his own hand glided down to Kunlun's hip to his equally hard cock and those dark eyes dilated even more, when he curved his hand around them both, spreading pre-come and some of his own slick. "Whatever you want Xiao Wei." He rasped and his hips lifted in want. 

Kunlun offered his own body and Shen Wei kissed him deeply, marveling at him. This was everything he had ever wanted. 

A sound echoed off the walls but Kunlun's dark eyes never wavered. "Xiao Wei." 

The sound grew louder and Shen Wei turned to the right, glancing over the bare walls and the chest were Kunlun kept his robes. The sound became piercing. 

Shen Wei sat up, his heart pounding as he was wrenched away from Kunlun, the fragments of his dream snatched from his hands, leaving him hollow and wanting. 

Snapping out a hand with tears in his throat, dark energy vaporized his alarm clock still ringing on the night stand and Professor Shen slumped back into the bedding, the thin blanket tangled around his feet. 

His heart felt bruised and there was warm heat, wet and cruel between his legs, his cock hard and wanting. 

Kunlun was but a memory. 

[count-v-dracula]

{ meme } | accepting ;••••; @monsieur-nicolas-de-lenfent​ asked▬

“I don’t think we’ve met yet.”

The final three notes which seemed to spin out from the stringed instruments, soaring above the masked crowd of silk, taffeta and velvet, the fabrics embellished with jewels and other finery. At last the final trichord faded into silence, the dancers stopped perfectly like a dancing couple atop a music box, but only for a moment before scattered applause was given to the forty piece orchestra. 

Time only seemed to release its hold upon this particular assemblage when the music played, at least for the patriarch of all these. Music filled his otherwise silent frame, silent veins with its vibrations, each note pulled from a string, sung upon the body’s own cords filled him with an entirely different form of life. The Master did not dance presently, he kept to the perimeter of the hall, bedecked in black and gold, allowing the pitches to pierce and sound in his dead bones. Truly, he loved to dance and was sought after as a partner by the living and those no longer--no dead soul could move as he. But, music would often receive singular attention from him, as it did presently, where it was not entwined with his bewitching, otherworldly grace of dance.

His reverie with the progression of chords and cadences was broken at the voice near his shoulder draped over by a golden cape. Eyes that were shut to the splendor of costumed undead opened slowly and cast a side glance before his head turned to met the direction of his cerulean attention.

A guest like he, but not quite so, there was no frisson in his veins at the sight of the masked guest: he was not a creation of the Master. However, that was no reason to be impolite, instead he was curious. It wasn’t often he met another of a different fold. 

“No...no we have not,” he returned, fully turning his body to the other. “Count Dracula.”

[winterwyrd]

When you move, I move

A gift for @ultravioletness and @mozalieri who are the most wonderful pals in the world  and deserve every happiness, and also entirely to blame for this mess.

Inspired by this wonderful art by @nuizlaziart

I.

"Do you dance, Monsieur Salieri?"

Antonio stiffened, abruptly stilling his foot which had, quite of its own accord, been shifting from side to side to the rhythm of the aria Mozart was demonstrating with all the capricious charm of a six year old showing off his first finger painting.

He turned an icy gaze on the man in question, who didn't have the mocking smirk he had assumed would be accompanying that question, undoubtedly meant as a snide jab at his inelegance and obvious lack of the confidence or ability needed to partake in the sport in question. Not that this intent could be read in the face of the young composer, who was smiling with seemingly genuine interest and eagerness. Salieri felt the, by now normal, confusion which seemed to stir in his chest whenever he interacted with the frustrating boy. How could someone who seemingly plastered his emotions across his countenance for the world to see be so impossible to understand?

"I do not, as is perfectly obvious."

It must be a trick of the ballroom lighting that the light shining from Mozart's face seemed to dim, and his eyes shutter slightly, at Salieri's curt response.

"I find that sort of frivolity best suited to those with more... extreme temperaments, shall we say."

He avoided Mozart's eyes as he said this, his treacherous brain remarking that the erratic genius standing in front of him was undoubtedly an excellent dancer, even going as far as to supply images of Mozart's body spinning around a dance floor, in perfect harmony with the music flowing around him, as always.

The man in question smiled hesitantly at the blush creeping up Salieri"s cheek, and laid a fleeting hand on his arm.

"Well, Monsieur, I don't believe you in the slightest. I know you'd be an excellent dancer."

II.

Salieri was, predictably, having an utterly terrible time. He had warned de Ponte as much, with increasing volume and increasingly colourful language when it became obvious the man was not listening to his protestations and would not allow him weasel out of the annual ball so easily.

And so, here he was, lurking in the corner of the ballroom dressed all in black, with an even blacker scowl on his face as he watched the colourful multitudes whirl past and let the babble of vapid and inane wittering wash over him. As his eyes searched out the nearest waiter who could be prevailed upon for another glass of whatever terrible alcohol it was that he had spent the evening singlemindedly devouring, he heard a  familiar voice rise above the din. Ah, speaking of vapid and inane.

"SALIERI!"

He could barely suppress a wince as the lanky, dishevelled whirlwind - somehow, the most talented composer Antonio had come across - knocked into him, skidding to an abrupt halt. The man was practically vibrating out of his skin, so obviously at ease here amongst the tumultuous colours and cacophony of sounds and the steady thrum of music which permeated everything. Salieri couldn't take his eyes of the young man's vibrant pink jacket with black lace spilling out from the cuffs and neckline, and beautiful silver snowflakes embroidered down it. It billowed around him as he moved and should have looked utterly absurd, but all Salieri could think was how alive Mozart looked, how his dark eyes were extenuated by the gaudy colour, drawing attention to the constant light and laughter which shone out of them.

Abruptly, Salieri felt a flush of embarrassment run through him as he remembered his own drab outfit and he shrunk backwards, willing himself to merge once again with the shadows and allow Mozart to continue on, unimpeded, to carry his breathless brightness to those more deserving of it.

But the composer had been surprising him since the day their eyes first met across that concert hall, and now Mozart moved towards him, with a deliberation unusual for the young man. He glanced up, with what Salrieri would call hesitancy on anyone else - but this was Mozart, so such an idea was absurd. And indeed, a second later his irrepressible nature was back and he flung his arms out in frankly the most over-dramatic bow Salieri had ever witnessed. Several individuals on the outskirts of floor made their consternation known as they narrowly avoided a smack from his flailing hands.

"May I have this dance, sir?"

Salieri could only gape at the unexpected turn his evening had taken, attempting to ignore the curl of anger and something else, harder to identify, which sparked inside him.

"I thought I had made it clear that I don't find jokes at the expense of my dancing ability to be at all amusing."

Those frustratingly expressive eyes blinked at him in surprise.

"I'm not joking, Antonio."

The jolt that went through him when Mozart used his given name just wasn't fair, and he struggled to keep his face expressionless as he tried to fathom the intentions of the boy still bent at the waist in front of him.

"I... cannot dance, it is not something I have ever been interested in learning."

"Ah. So, you don't want to dance with me?"

And god, of all the times for Mozart's face to be veiled, his eyes averted and something in his tone sounding an off note that was impossibly hard to read.

"I..."

If Mozart hadn't added the second half of the question, Salieri would have answered instantly. He had no desire at all to dance with faceless strangers in a mass of overheated bodies, to take part in the sideways looks and giggles and gossip that came part and parcel with that. But, to dance with Mozart? To feel the young man's elegant fingers curled into his sleeve, feel the pressure at his back as he was swept around, as he was made part of the constant, glorious rhythm which this otherworldly boy seemed to live his life by. To look down into his eyes, mere inches from his own.

Salieri was jerked back to reality by a feather light touch in his wrist, Mozart pressing his fingers there as delicately as if he was a newborn kitten who might startle at any minute.

"May I?"

Mozart smiled softly as he asked again, with what Salieri distantly recognised as hope flashing in his eyes. He cleared his throat.

"You may."

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Salieri found himself on the dance floor, Mozart's arm steady around his waist, fingertips resting on his hips. At first all he felt was growing panic as his feet stumbled over the steps, but then Mozart leaned in, holding him more firmly and leading with more pressure.

"Don't look at your feet, Antonio, look at me."

Unwillingly, Salrieri dragged his eyes up, losing his breath for a second at how close the man in front of him was.

"There you go." Mozart's smile was open and delighted and seemed to send frissons of heat through the places their bodies touched as he slowly, reverently, spun Salieri out around, catching him and drawing him closer again.

"See Antonio." Wolfgang's voice was a mere whisper over his cheek as he expertly changed their direction again.

"I knew you'd be an incredible dancer."

((This is the first writing I have ever finished and shared and it was written on the nightbus so I’m sorry for any errors)

[mysticalreadingnerd]

Let Me Warm Your Heart Part 8

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 |

Words: 1964

Summary: Some meetings are strange, they give you odd feelings of nostalgia and are tinged with dreams of a safe future. Can Credence truly start hoping again?

Warnings: mentions of abuse

Disclaimer: I ain’t earning a single dime from this nor do I own anything except my OCs. GIF credits to the owner/creator.

The snow drifted from the heavens in a lazy manner, settling into small piles on the ground and painting the pavement white. On their downward journey, a few of the flakes got caught on his eyelashes and Credence wondered if he looked like an idiot, standing in the cold with bare minimum protection against the December wind and a handful of sheaves nobody bothered looking at. Probably. A peal of laughter rang out in the silence and he raised his eyes to stare at an ongoing snowball fight across the street. The kids were slugging each other wherever they could aim at, slipping and sliding in their haste but still intent on waddling in their thick woollens, bright smiles alit on their rosy cheeks.   

A frisson of jealousy coursed through Credence at all the could have been’s had he grown up with a normal childhood. The ringing laughter felt like a stab in his heart and the cold made the ache in his hands even more apparent. What was the point in mulling over things that would never change though? His eyes, which had been trained on the gamboling children until now, caught a glimpse of Y/H/C locks crossing the road and moving further away from where he stood. For a moment his breath hitched in his throat. Was it perhaps possible…? Following his gut, Credence rushed after the woman who so closely resembled Y/N. After so many sleepless nights spent dreading his nightmares, could fate finally be favouring him?

He nearly lost sight of her twice but his long strides and the fear of losing the woman he loved for a second time made him lurch forward and grab a hold of her sleeve. Tugging at it, he called out, “Y/N? Y/N!” She turned and his heart sank. He had mistaken someone with a similar hair colour and gait to be her. Was he getting so bad in his despair that he had started hallucinating? He was afraid he would soon go insane if this carried on. “I’m.. I’m sorry. I mistook you…for someone else…” he whispered an apology. The woman pulled her hand away, a look of disdain on her face and left while muttering about weirdos filling the streets.

He stood stock still in the bustling street, the groans and curses of passerbys for blocking the road not falling on his ears. Credence wondered how long it would be before he went raving mad because Y/N was no longer in his life. The nightmares of the past week, which had been so vivid they almost seemed like ominous foretellings of the future, came rushing to his mind again. Had something really happened to her, something that kept her away from him for so long? Something life threatening? These thoughts coupled with the frustrations of the past few weeks brought him so close to tears that anyone who bothered to spare him a glance would wonder if something were wrong. 

Someone bumped into him, pulling him out of his depressing thoughts. “Sorry, I didn’t see… Oh Credence!” the glazed look from his eyes cleared on hearing his name and for the first time he seemed to notice his surroundings. The Japanese grandma had somehow materialized in front of him. In a daze he heard her explain about being out on errands and how she had accidentally bumped into him. “But enough about me, what are you doing here?” He stared at her, not comprehending how to respond. He was standing in the middle of the road dumbstruck because he followed a mirage? Because he was a lovestruck idiot who couldn’t distinguish between reality and wishful thinking? He didn’t know anything at this point. Saving him the efforts, the woman glanced at his hands clutching the NSPS pamphlets. “Ah that explains it.” She pointed at them in understanding, a smile gracing her wizened features. “But dear boy, you really should put on some gloves. It’s deathly cold these days.” With these words she took his hands in her’s and immediately frowned when he shrank away from the touch, hissing at the friction caused by her mittens against his lacerated fingers. 

The damage was done. She took in the state of his hands and looked up at him, the frown deepening. He saw the thoughts whirl behind her eyes and the questions arising on the tip of her tongue. He shook his head when she asked what had happened, unable to admit the horrors he faced on a daily basis. “Did someone hurt you, Credence?” His eyes widened at the question and realization dawned upon her when he hesitated to reply. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say it, I understand.” She gave him a sympathetic nod, the frown never leaving her face. 

Gently, she told him to follow her and took him into a secluded alleyway, away from prying eyes. Turning to look at him with a tender look she motioned for his hands, “May I?” He hesitated for a moment before nodding and setting the pamphlets aside, placed his hands in her’s. She waved her palm over his wounded fingers and the pain, along with the lacerations disappeared. He stared unblinkingly at the seeming miracle happening before him, a thousand thoughts flashing across his mind. Was what he had seen just now really happening? Or was he still following a hallucination resulting from his recent dream? “Are you a…witch?” He spoke in a whisper, awed by the spectacle before him.

The woman smiled, “There are things that not everyone is aware of and names which can be too dangerous to invoke”, she gave a furtive glance to their surroundings, “So let’s keep it that way, shall we?” There was a twinkle in her eye as she said it and Credence nodded in response. “Although, we could try something…” she waved both hands in a sweeping motion around them and the air rippled for a moment before settling to its previous state. “What…?” A shiver of fear swept him and he wondered what he had gotten himself in. It was an instinctive reaction, something on a primal level that had come so abruptly that he was left breathless. But the serene expression on the old woman’s face helped ease a bit of his anxiety and the fear dissipated just as suddenly as it had come.

“In these times, it’s necessary to cast some… precautions. So that unwanted eyes don’t see something that is for the privileged few.” Her eyes glinted with those words and Credence couldn’t help but feel wonder at being addressed as such. “You must be cold in those tattered clothes”, she said, picking up on the original conversation and snapped her fingers. A tiny blue flame erupted from them and he stumbled back in surprise. “Don’t be afraid, magic is not something to be fearful of. Here, it’s warm enough to hold but not so much that it will burn.” Sure enough, when he hesitantly approached the now merrily burning ball of light, heat radiated from it. The woman handed it to him and Credence couldn’t help the awe that washed over him as he felt the pulsing blue flame spread it’s magic through his veins. A warmth bloomed in his fingers and traced it’s way up his arm, almost tickling as it touched him. “And it changes form as desired…” the flame transformed in his hand and a dragon comprised entirely of blue flames flew across his palm, circling his head once before nustling his cheek and dissipating into thin air. 

“That’s just a tiny glimpse of its true scope and believe me Credence, I think you have the ability to harness it too.” Before he could deny anything, she continued, “There are people out there who will be more than willing to help you with your… situation” she spared a glance at his fingers and looked back up at him quickly, “And your sisters will not face any harm in the aftermath, I assure you. We will be willing to go to that extra mile, after all, you are one of us.” Credence looked in awe at the elderly woman, brushing his cheek with stunned fingers. The spectacle that he had just witnessed was otherworldly and so were the words she had whispered in a low whisper, as if sharing a centuries old secret. Magic was so ethereal and fascinating and everything beyond what he could ever even dream of. And he had just been told that he could become a part of this world! The possibilities of the grandma’s words were dizzying him with their magnanimity.

“Just think about. If you give me the word I’ll speak with some higher ups…” “Yes!” The word tumbled out of his lips before he could stop himself and his readiness earned a Cheshire grin from the grandma. “Wonderful! I’ll get in touch…” but the thoughts that had been plaguing his mind made their way out. “Will you really be able to protect my sisters if I’m no longer there?” “Credence, you don’t have to worry about them. Are they subjected to the same conditions that you are?” Her sharp gaze turned to his hands and he tucked them under his jacket to avoid the gaze. He shook his head, “None of the kids are hurt. It’s only me…when I’m out of line…” Her gaze turned steely. “Kids? There are more?” “Yes, Ma feeds many children under the Church. In return they just have to hand out some of the flyers like me.” He shrugged. “Okay, I’ll see what I can do. You just have to trust me, yes child?” He nodded in response. Another thought crossed his mind and he opened his mouth to ask the question that trembled on his tongue, unsure whether it would be appropriate or not. 

“You can say anything you want dear, I won’t harm you”, the elderly woman had noticed his hesitation. “Do you know someone by the name Y/N L/N?” An inscrutable expression crossed the woman’s face and she asked him, almost as if she were operating on a different plane altogether. “Why do you ask?” “I don’t know… I just… wondered whether you knew someone like that…” The woman shook her head and quickly dismissed the topic, asking him if he needed to go home soon. Credence got the feeling that he had been subtly lied to, for what purposes he didn’t know. Or at the very least there was more to it that a mere wordless denial. Either way, this woman knew Y/N, that much he was sure of. 

He bid adieu to the grandma once he had taken ahold of half the flyers (she had insisted on taking the others to ‘distribute them among her friends’) and with promises to meet him at the end of the week at the same place. When he turned to look back at her, she had long disappeared into the crowd; as if walking on two alternate planes, here one moment, gone the next. He touched his cheek once again, the ghost of the warm dragon’s breath still lingering on it. He remembered the vivid dream that had him bawling his eyes out just a few days prior and wondered for the umpteenth time whether the old woman was someone Y/N sent because she couldn’t meet him herself. Perhaps, she was helping him from the shadows because it had become too dangerous for them to interact in person. He hoped that were true. Because if that wasn’t the case and something unimaginable had happened, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself even if he found the freedom he was being graciously offered. For no taste of tantalizing joy could be truly appreciated without Y/N by his side, that much Credence was sure of.

A/N: Aye I’m alive and well. Also this has been written. Unedited and shitty imo. A thousand apologies (read that in Ranjeet’s voice) for those who asked whether I had plans to continue this or not. I fully intend to finish what I started. Feedback would save my life and help me attain nirvana. Reblogging ALWAYS helps. Excuse any typos and let me know if you want to be added to the tag list. Some of you couldn’t be tagged, please tweak your settings

Tags: @mysticracoon @multifandom-slytherin @retardedhumanhere @thequeerishere555 @daeshaunex2 @itssophmcintosh @strangebyers @jnecrobutcher @aubri1313 @watson-38 @catchmeupimgettingoutofhere @thesiriustoherremus @bookowlextraordinaire @buzzfeedunwheeze @smashleytaylor @thegoodstrangemindhunter @wine-anon-2 @angstyang @thatcraxygirl15 @bookgenie

~mystical reading nerd

[dustedmagazine]

Damien Jurado — In the Shape of a Storm (Mama Bird)

Photo by Vikesh Kapoor

Damien Jurado has clearly been rethinking things since the death of his long-time collaborator Richard Swift, with whom he had a run of visionary psychedelic albums running from Saint Bartlett in 2010 through Maraqopa in 2012 to Brothers and Sisters of the Eternal Sun in 2013. For In the Shape of a Storm, he pares his music back to barest essentials—a voice, a guitar, a melody—and finds something subtler, but just as transcendent in the quiet.

Not since And Now That I’m in Your Shadow has Jurado let the songs speak for themselves to this extent, and if you can remember the chill of that title song’s title phrase, shivering up the scales into a rarefied ether, here is the same kind of sensation. By grounding his work in the simplest of arrangements, using the shortest and most commonplace of words, Jurado evokes a world that is perfectly ordinary on the surface, but that vibrates with otherworldly resonances.

A childlike simplicity animates these short, unaffected compositions, an innocence that takes things exactly as they are, but also sees through to their spirit. They’re a bit archaic, in imagery and language, evoking a pre-internet age when imagination made do with what was at hand. “Newspaper Gown,” for example, waltzes elliptically around a couple whose love is embodied in a dress made out of paper with scissors. Jurado confides in a murmur, “Our friends think we’re lovers or so I have heard, and they try for confessions and I say not a word/shall we let them keep guessing until they figure us out/our made-up wedding in your newspaper gown.” It is surreal and utterly natural at once.

“South,” another breezy waltz, describes two young men on the brink of adulthood, outside on a hillside, horsing around. One is headed to New York, another about to get married, both headed into the unknown, and you can feel the warmth and casual high spirits in the lilt of the song. And yet, there’s a chill at the periphery, a sense of impending mortality, when Jurado observes, “My body is a passing leaf/dead as it hits the ground.” He hums the insouciant tune, mmmm mmmm mmmm, as if savoring the taste of a memory, then whistles it in a ghostly, disembodied approximation of the sung line.

Mostly this album is just Jurado and his guitar, however, a couple of songs near the end, add a dulcimer and a frisson of the same unearthly vibrations of his Maraqopa series. “Silver Ball” is spookily evocative, mystical, thrown into relief by cavernous echoes. Jurado’s lyrics consistently fit his melodies – the vowel sounds and consonants marking out the rhythms in an exacting way; here, Jurado fits the three syllables of “finally” to a melody that fits like it’s always been attached to the word.  

The Shape of a Storm is the sort of album that nestles right up to your ear and sings to you, personally, without a lot of intermediation. It’s quieter and less showy that Jurado’s psychedelic albums, and it takes a few listens to leave a mark, but that mark is indelible when it comes.

Jennifer Kelly

[flakandforay]

Weekly Fanfic Recommendations: Taehyung’s 23rd Edition

i mean, what a look??? taehyung in bandanas really, can we all just appreciate this!!!

anyway, happy birthday to kim taehyung!!! our favourite cutie tbh who has a strong passion for acting, photography as well as music. dont we love an all-rounder taehyung oh god. honestly, i didnt think taehyung could shine even more but here he is, driving us mad with his looks and talent!!! to think that he started sharing his photographs with usb and honestly i love it all, its so raw and wonderfully taken!! not to mention how he shines more vocally and in his dancing!!!!!! i wish you would have a great birthday this year taehyung!!! happy birthday again to taehyung!!

so this is my special fic rec edition that would comprise mainly of taehyung x y/n stories that are my favourites!!

lets start~

Oneshots

1) Nerves

by @tayegi

scientist au 

( this was so funny i died )

2) Holiday Spirit

by @workofteaguk

christmas au 

( christmas aint over till i say so )

3) Dichotomy

by @kpopfanfictrash

oneshot

part of the bound series, a collab between @kpopfanfictrash , @knockknocksoosthere and @bread-jinie

( bless me ) 

4) Broken Rings & Queens and Kings

by @gukyi

royalty au 

( this is so cute )

5) After Hours

by @bts-sinning

teacher au 

( bless me )

6) Hippogriffs

by @beeguks

hogwarts au

( i am weak for hogwarts au )

7) Rent-A-Boyfriend 

by @jimlingss

a taehyung x y/n fic 

part of the service series ( i love all of it )

8) Between us and Infinity

by @taechubs

soulmate au 

( im so soft )

9) The Crimson Prince

by @taechubs

vampire au, apocalyptic au ( bless that twist !! ) 

10) Frisson

by @taesthetes

college au 

( i died over the fluff ) 

11) Elevator 

by @jiminisalier

one shot

Series

1) Tamer

by @btsinned

hogwarts au 

2 part series with the 2nd part called Not a Monster

2) Zaddy

by @btssmutgalore

12 part completed series 

Multi-member

1) Indulge

by @bangtans-baby

a taehyung x y/n x hoseok fic 

one shot 

( is it hot in here ) 

2) In the Middle

by @emboyz

a jimin x y/n x taehyung fic 

one shot 

3) Delivery Boy

by @min-yoonyi-fic

a taehyung x y/n x yoongi fic 

completed 3 part series 

4) Guess Who

by @silhouetted-beauty

a yoongi x y/n x taehyung fic 

two parts are out ( not too sure if its completed or not ) 

( bless me ) 

5) Number 23

by @bangtansohotdamn

a jimin x y/n x taehyung x jungkook fic 

one shot 

( bless ) 

6) Between otherworldly Creatures

by @btsjeonjazz

a jimin x y/n  and y/n x taehyung fic 

ongoing series with 2 parts out 

7) Lust & Limerence

by @btsfanficss

a taehyung x y/n x jungkook fic 

hogwarts au 

ongoing series with part one out 

once again, happy 23rd birthday kim taehyung !!!

this is all for this fic rec, another one up soon~