#writing challenge day 17

[noa-de-cajou]

Day 17 : Washing something / Blurry image / The ultimate horror

Dolmund belongs to @corneille-but-not-the-author

The following text contains mention of relationship abuse and trauma and just. Well. References to Leonova. Which comes with a whole lotta ptsd.

Listen. I like my things clean.

Khaliun used to tease me about it, you’re such a cleaning freak, and that never failed to get a rise out of me, I'm a surgeon, Khaliun, of course those godsforsaken instruments need to be spotless or at least sanitized do you want RUST in your RAW ASS WOUND-

She'd laugh and say Ether, I'm kidding!

Said she couldn't help herself, that I was cute when angry.

Leonova sure as hell didn't find it cute when I plunged my scissors into her eyes. She was into a whole bunch of things, seemed to really enjoy gouging my eye out, but clearly the opposite wasn't well received. Should have felt satisfying to give her a taste of her own medicine – doctor pun intended – but it didn't.

Not only did it feel gross but now the blood won’t come off.

Her blood on my scissors, his gift.

I've been scrubbing with all the products I found but it's still not back to its original color. It’s still red, brownish, incrusted, like rust, and it's. Not. Coming. Off.

It wasn’t meant to be used like this. It wasn’t… It’s scissors. Not even surgical scissors. It’s to cut hair, hair, not threads, especially not flesh –

Cut hair. Cut hair. She cut it. My hair. I rub my hand against the back of my neck. It's short. It’s okay. It's short. I cut it. I cut it myself. Nothing to grab, nothing to sell, I'm fine. I’m okay.

Alright. Back to scrubbing.

It's gonna come off eventually. It's gotta come off.

That cloth I'm using's way too dirty. Can't even be called a cloth, that's a rag at best. Those scissors deserve better.

What would have happened if he didn't give those to me? How would I have escaped? Maybe if I used the knives on the table? Who am I kidding, I could barely stand, let alone outrun her.

I would have died. Alone in that basement, killed by the woman I loved most, with no one to tell where I was, no tomb, no memory, all of those years for nothing-

I scrub harder.

Even if it’s useless.

Fuck, it's been, like, an hour, when is it gonna…

Maybe never.

It’s ruined. I ruined it. She ruined everything. Now I won't be able to even cut my hair without seeing those damn stains. And she's a vampire so she’ll regenerate while I'll have to see this constantly.

You know what, lying to me for years and tearing off my eye was already bad enough, but sure, let’s say that was fine, but trying to ruin the only things that I have left from him, to sully his memory, my memories like that, it's the last fucking straw, now it's midnight and this bitch has gotten me scrubbing blood that had three years to dry off a fucking pair of scissors and… and…

It's not coming off.

Maybe she cut my hair with it too. My memories are too hazy. I can't remember. I don't want to remember. I want to erase it.

It’s not coming off.

I want to puke.

I scrub and scrub and scrub and scrub and scrub but it's not coming off it’s still there I remember everything and my eye hurts and my chest is too damn tight and I don’t want to remember.

Everything's blurry, I can barely see anything now, come on, get it together, you shouldn't cry for this, you've been through worse and…

And the worse in question is in those stains.

It’s not coming off, it's not coming off, fuck this, fuck everything, I hate this, why do I even bother, why won't it FUCKING-

“Ether?”

Shit. Shit. I scrub harder. Harder. Come on. Come on please please please-

“Ether, I'm coming in.”

No no no it’s still there I have to get it clean before-

The door opens. I squeeze my eyes shut, a tear escapes. Dolmund’s there. I can't see him but I know he’s standing there. Shit.

“What the hell are you doing kneeling on the floor?”

Can’t he mind his own damn business for once? How do I explain this? How do I explain…

“It won't come off.”

Great. Amazing. Couldn’t have sounded more pathetic if I tried. My voice doesn’t even remotely sound like mine. Good job, Ether.

Dolmund walks up to me. I'm so hunched over it makes him taller.

“... Again?”

Yeah. Again. I guess I just never learn. He doesn't even sound mad or disappointed and that's probably the worst part. I cough, try to get my voice to work.

“I need to… I don't know. Thought I might give those bad boys a good scrub again. Never hurts to try, right?”

“Never hurts? Look at your hand before saying shit like that.”

I open my eyes.

The cloth is all stained with blood. So are the scissors.

Didn't even notice my nails breaking.

And now it’s even bloodier than it used to be. Tears well up in my eyes again. Great. Just great. Can this evening get any worse? Stay tuned to find out.

Dolmund sighs with all the weight of his chest.

“Put those away and go patch up your hand.”

“I c-can't.”

“Why?”

“How am I going to defend myself if you try to kill me?”

That's ridiculous. He wouldn't do that. Rationally, I know he wouldn't.

But I thought Leo wouldn't either.

“Ether, you have eight guns on you. Use them. Defending yourself with scissors? You still in kindergarten or something?”

Oh, he thinks he’s so funny. I’d punch him if my hand didn't hurt like a bitch.

“Yeah, yeah, you can glare at me all you want once you put those away.”

“But I need-”

“What you need is a drink, Ether. A drink, and to get the fuck out of your room and fix your hand, your only good hand, in case you forgot.”

He narrows his eyes at me.

“I can deal with an hungover doctor. Not an injured one. Put. Those fuckers. Down.”

…

I do. Put the fuckers down, that is. After washing my blood off right away with some water. I shut my drawer tight. Out of sight, out of mind, or whatever.

“That’s better. You comin’, or do you need help walking too?”

He’d help me, if I said yes. But he knows treating me like I'm sick would be ten times worse. I can pity myself just fine, thank you very much.

And we know we both need way more than what we can give each other.

“I'm good.”

Just a little wobbly on them legs. Wooooo.

“Hope you got something strong enough.”

“You bet.”

The drink is indeed strong.

It's the only thing keeping my mind right and clear lately. I’m glad Faloi and Khaliun are dead so they don’t have to see this, but it’s their fault for getting killed in the first place.

Hey, at least I did Leo one better.

Can’t sell or eat a fucked-up liver.

[more-better-words]

Day 17!

🍀

Karveth didn't keep her waiting - he never did. One of many things Monica liked about him was his promptness. If he said he would be some place at a certain time, he would.

So she was ready when her door chimed. They were going to try the new sushi place that had opened not far from the Olympiad, and she had been looking forward to this all day. She grinned excitedly, slipped on her shoes, smoothed her skirt, opened the door-

And stared.

He was wearing civvies, which wasn't surprising in itself. He did all the time, both Andorian styles and human, and she thought he had pretty good taste in clothing. But the shirt he'd chosen today… She swallowed, hard.

It was a henley, the top two buttons negligently open, revealing the perfectly shaped hollow of his throat, the sleeves pushed up from his gorgeous forearms, the fit just tight enough across the chest and shoulders. And all this in a soft sage green, the color beautifully complimenting his pale blue skin.

Dear God. How dare he?

His antennae moved inquisitively. "Is something wrong?"

"You're, um…" She swallowed again. "You're wearing a color."

"It came in a set of two," he shrugged. "The other is grey."

"Oh. Of course." She wet her lips. "It looks good on you."

His shoulders straightened a degree, and that was incredibly unfair of him. "It does?"

She nodded, a little weakly. "Yeah."

"Thank you," he said, still preening. "Shall we?"

"Actually…" She reached out, catching his bare forearm, his skin smooth and cool under her hand. "Maybe not yet?"

"Why not?"

"Well… the problem is…" She tugged him a step closer. "… I can't decide if I want you to keep that shirt on or take it off."

Pleased comprehension lit his eyes, his antennae seeming to reach for her. "I see. But what about our date?"

"Oh, we'll still do the date." She pulled him into the living room, closing the door behind him firmly. "Just… in a different order."

[topsyturvy-turtely]

turtely's OTP challenge

now on ao3! (tumblr link)

read part 17 here: (prompt: washing something)

summary:

"I don't get it!", a very grumpy John Watson stomped through the flat. Almost aggressively searching for the one jumper.

Out of a sudden spur, John marched into Sherlock's room without knocking. Sherlock looked at him, startled. With John's jumper in his hands.

"Is that... my jumper?" John asked surprised.

Sherlock - looking caught - stared up at John. Looked at the jumper in his hands... looked at John again. "It... might be?"

Gen, 1.068 words, Getting Together, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, John Watson is Perfect

☝︎john watson looking for his favorite jumper be like (lmao i feel so unhinged for adding this gif to that fic , especially since he is fucking wearing it 🤣)

tags under the cut ✨

tag list! (tell me if you wanna be added or removed please 💚) @justanobsessedpan @helloliriels @catlock-holmes @fluffbyday-smutbynight @inevitably-johnlocked @hisfavouritejumper @rhasima @forfucksakejohn @ohlooktheresabee @turbulenttrouble @so-youre-unattached-like-me @totallysilvergirl @peanitbear @train-mossman @loki-lock @smulderscobie @timberva @grace-in-the-wilderness @chinike @jawnn-watson @whatnext2020 @escapingthereality @missdeliadili @kettykika78 @musingsofmyown @7-percent @speedymoviesbyscience @astudyin221b @francj15 @ladylindaaa @we-r-loonies @mxster-jocale @sherlockcorner @noahspector @our-stars-graveside @jobooksncoffee @baker-street-blog @macgyvershe @myladylyssa @battledress @a-victorian-girl @dreamerofthemeadow @oetkb12 @ohnoesnotagain @mutedsilence @jawnscoffee @raenchaosandcozyadashofmurder @lisbeth-kk @quickslvxrr @compact-and-beautiful @kabubsmagga @sunshineinyourmind

[that-dreaming-dragon]

Archetropy

In some way, I see archetropy as embodying one's own symbolism. Or is it perhaps becoming a symbol yourself? To take on a role, to be in the framework, to embody or identify in some way with an archetype, or trope. Compared to being something monstrous, mythical, or celestial, to have an archetrope feels like wholly embracing, living, and being something, plus a bit more. It gets a bit fuzzy and there has been discussion of how having archetropal identity can share similarities to having a conceptual identity. Yet, the distinction is there, for one is a solid identity, being it, or existing alongside it (conceptual alterhumanity), and the other is something more like a symbolic or metaphorical relationship (archetropal alterhumanity).

If I were to say I have a solid relationship with orange or dream, I'd call those conceptual alterhumanities. For me, Mew, ninja, and Bond Weaver are the roles, archetype that I have, taken on, or are already. They are not solid identities, but almost like a lifestyle, something that has a shape, a hole which I myself fill in.

In the case of Mew, it's the mythical, whimsical, cryptid nature of Mew. But it's also a sort of special side character in a game that isn't all-powerful like the big L Legendary pokemon, yet it fills its own niche. The little mischievousness is also tied in, and a flavor of chaos. I am not a Mew, or identify with Mew, but because of all these attributes that I have, my impression of what Mew is, the role Mew filled, which I myself have, Mew is a paratype-archetrope (or, paratrope) to me.

I feel like ninja is self-explanatory. This is definitely one of those chicken-or-egg situations. Is it because of my Naruto hearttype being a potential past life that I have this something with the archetype of being a ninja? Or is it something more generic, a past life outside of Naruto, which I'd suspect to be some sort of Japanese warrior, potentially a shinobi. And it's not just ninja, I have a penchant for stealth genre games, sometimes you are some sort of assassin, and sometimes you are some thief. I guess ninja wrap those two and more up neatly into a single package.

What is Bond Weaver?

It is something I already embody and live by. I have a self-made title, 縁結ぶ星の夢化竜, bond-weaving starry Dream Dragon. The bond in question, currently English translation is much lacking and doesn't translate well at all, possibly due to not having such a cultural concept. I'm talking about yuan fen, Wikipedia translates it as "fateful coincidence", a concept in Chinese (and other Asian cultures that has Chinese roots, potentially Buddhist roots) that talks of one's potential connection in life that was due to past lives, like a seed that's planted, a web that had been woven over centuries. I like to talk about it a lot in my earlier alterhuman community life, and I wish to introduce the concept more in a more official setting, it is such a wonderful concept. Some may think of only "fate", "destiny", or even "soulmate", and they are all kinda touching a bit on the concept that is yuan fen. It's like trying to translate certain Chinese words into English, the complexity within a single or two characters is so difficult to express, even with a dozen English words used, it still can't really encompass the whole thing. Yuanfen is like that. I have written a bit on my view of how it is very prominent within alterhumanity, and just in general what it could be. I will transcribe it over to Tumblr and dreamwidth at a later date, or write up a new one. What I do on the regular is that I connect others. If someone expresses a need for specific sub-communities, and I happen to know or are in them, I try to get them an invite into those spaces. Or if some folks share similarities, if not identical experiences, I try to connect them to each other. Sometimes it is me learning niche words and tossing them at people should they need it, but that's something the community already does. Sometimes it's simply me sitting down with someone and helping them figure out their alterhumanity, whether that's their appearance or any possible way they connect to something. These all seem like something any community member does, but I'd like to think that I especially embody the role of being someone who Connects others. In a punny sort of way, perhaps that's why I enjoy and like Othercon and Otherconnect so much. Maybe I can jokingly call it an Otherconnect archetrope.

Although, if English weren't the community's primary language, or if it were to be more accessible, I'd probably call myself a Yuan Connector archetroper. Or just have my title directly used, ("Fate") Bond-Weaver archetroper.

[wowbright]

Chapter 17: Tiger

Figureskating!Blaine/designer!Kurt Olympics AU for december klaine fanworks challenge. Also on AO3.

“Just skate like you’ve been skating. It's that simple.” Sue was leaning in close, staring right into Blaine’s eyes. Hers were blue. (Had he ever noticed that before? He'd become so much more attuned to his surroundings lately. Either Kurt’s attention to visual details was rubbing off on him, or it was a side effect of the endorphins Kurt was imbuing him with.) She slapped Blaine’s back. “Go get ’em, tiger.”

He stood and walked toward the rink. The crowd hadn’t yet quieted down from its adulation of Tatsuki Machida, and Blaine couldn't blame them. He was amazing. But that talent couldn't carry the entire Japanese team. Japan focused on singles to the detriment of ice dancing and pairs. Blaine didn't need to worry about Japan. The real threats were Russia and Canada, both with well-rounded teams and Russia also having the home field advantage. But Mike and Kitty had blown Russia out of the water, and Madison and Mason had outscored even Canada with their rhythm dance. Blaine needed to keep the U.S. in the top three.

Blaine shook his head. He shouldn’t be thinking about points or rankings, or that a chance at a medal for the entire team was resting on his shoulders. He needed to think about … nothing, actually. Or as little as possible. Just the music and the movement and the ice. That was how you made art: by taking all your work and practice and skill and experience, and sublimating them so that what arose felt magical, spontaneous, as if it had grown from the substance of the universe and not through any effort of one's own.

Blaine ran a hand over the line of rhinestones trailing over his hip. He thought of the countless rainbows hidden in their depths, and all the people who had to hide their souls like Blaine used to hide his—and still did, in smaller ways, especially with family. Cooper had messaged him twice since Blaine’s ultimatum, but Blaine had immediately archived both texts without reading. It was too big of a risk right now when Blaine needed to stay focused. If Cooper’s messages weren't an olive branch, but just another attempt at getting Blaine to make a public statement, it might have broken Blaine’s heart. A broken heart never helped in competition.

By not knowing what those messages contained, Blaine could pretend they said anything: things like Sorry and Go get ’em champ and Being yourself is the clearest statement you can make against Putin.

Blaine couldn’t free each person forced to hide in the shadows, but maybe his skating could strengthen a few enough to find their own liberation, the same way his spins and turns released the rainbows inside his rhinestones.

If happy little bluebirds fly beyond the rainbow why can't I? Blaine could, and they could. He would show them.

At the edge of the rink, Blaine looked past the flowers raining onto the ice to where Kurt was seated. He was far away in the stands, but he was looking at Blaine, smiling with his whole face. They hadn't had much time alone over the past couple days, but there had still been plenty of opportunities to tell Kurt that he loved him. Something had always stopped Blaine, though. Maybe it was fear that Kurt wouldn't be ready to say it back, and it would be awkward, and then they would be awkward, and then the wonderful buzz Blaine had been riding on for weeks would fizzle, and then he would crash, and he would forget how to do a quadruple Lutz or even a triple, and his newly rediscovered dreams would go swirling down the drain.

Besides, Blaine already felt Kurt’s love. It was in Kurt’s expressions and in his voice, in the way they interacted, in the way Kurt touched him and responded to his touch. It was better not to complicate things by trying to put them into words. Language was fraught and imprecise. If you said something and expected certain words back, it caused trouble. Speaking his feelings would only be an opportunity to create doubt where none had been.

But Blaine could use his body. He'd used it to express his love in the privacy of Kurt’s hotel room, and he could do the same out on the ice. He could show Kurt the way his love was awakening Blaine and transforming him. He could show the world what it meant to love.

The last of the flowers were cleared from the ice. It was time for Blaine to go on.

~~~

Blaine sat down between Sebastian and Sue, the rest of the team lined up behind them, and tried to stay detached while waiting for the scores to come in. It was a skill he'd worked on cultivating for years. It was also something he could never quite accomplish.

Sebastian handed him something soft and blue. “Your boyfriend insisted I give this to you for him.”

Kurt.

It was a tiny fabric bluebird, the same colors as the ones Blaine would sometimes see in the mountains of Colorado. The underside was soft hand-dyed velveteen that faded from turquoise at the throat to silvery white at the belly, the face and back a rich cerulean velvet covered by wings of layered silk the same color as Kurt's eyes.

Blaine smiled and kissed the little bird, waving at the camera in hopes it was projecting to the screens in the stadium so Kurt would see he loved it. Then Blaine settled in for the wait. He  took deep breaths and focused on the soothing shape of the bluebird nestled in the palm of his hand. Kurt was with him. No matter what his ranking was, Blaine would be okay.

The score flashed on the screen.

Sue shrieked. Sebastian kissed him on the cheek and then grumbled, “Oh, God, why did I do that? You're so sweaty!” Mike squeezed him in a monster hug.

Blaine stared at the screen. It was his highest ever. Higher than Tatsuki Machida and higher than Kevin Reynolds and higher than Evgeni Plushenko. High enough to move Team USA to the top.

“I did my part!” Blaine said, stunned.

“Don't act so surprised!” That was Madison, leaning in for a hug. “We knew you would.”

The next few minutes were a blur. There were more hugs with the rest of the team, and some waving at spectators and cameras, and a few short words with journalists. The whole time, Blaine kept the little bluebird in his hand.

When Blaine finally made it to the corridor that led to the locker rooms, Kurt was already there, waiting for him. “You were brilliant!” Kurt said, wrapping his arms around Blaine. “I’m so proud of you.”

There were so many things Blaine was used to hearing from others when he did well. Praise, congratulations, tips for doing even better the next time. But not those words. They were rare from Sue, rarer from Cooper, rarest from his parents; and he had never heard them from a lover. They implied an exceptional level of intimacy; you couldn't be proud of someone unless you were invested in their success—in their whole being—as much as they were. Yet here Kurt was, ready to be proud of Blaine even when Blaine had forgotten to be, too preoccupied with relief at not failing the team that he hadn’t stopped to take in what he’d accomplished.

That’s when it hit Blaine. He had scored higher than his Russian competitor in Russia as Putin had looked on from the stands, forced to watch an American faggot outskate his countryman with his own eyes.

“I want you to be proud of me.” The words were more tremulous than Blaine had planned. “And—” He held the bird out toward Kurt. “—thanks for this little guy. You made it, didn't you?”

Kurt smiled coyly. “You recognize my signature style, huh?”

“When did you have the time?”

“It's small. It didn't take that long.”

“And you found the perfect fabrics.”

“I grabbed everything that shade of blue from my stash when I was in New York.”

“Don't downplay it. He's beautiful. I love him.”

Kurt's cheeks flushed. “I'm glad. I couldn't be there with you while you waited for the score. It felt like the next best thing.”

“It was.” Blaine squeezed Kurt’s hand. “And I'm glad to be with the actual thing now.” Blaine couldn't stay all night in the back corridor with Kurt, of course. The ice dancing and ladies free programs were up next, and he needed to stick around to support his teammates. But he could enjoy a few minutes with the man he loved.

“And you smell incredible, by the way,” Kurt whispered.

“I smell like sweat.”

“Exactly.” Kurt’s voice dropped half an octave. “You sure you want to keep that costume on?”

Memories from Kurt’s bedroom flashed through Blaine’s mind, the sweat on their skin easing the friction between their bellies and thighs. “Not when you put it that way. But I have to keep it on. It’s good luck. Because you made it. And don’t worry. I'll let you help me take it off later. I’ll let you do a lot more than that.”

“Tonight? Back at my hotel?”

“Is that an invitation?” Logically, Blaine knew it was an invitation. But everything with Kurt was so incredible and new and outside of Blaine’s previous experience. It sometimes made it hard for him to trust his own instincts, even when he knew they were right. So he needed to double check.

“Of course.”

“Good. I was hoping for one.”

~~~

“Are you always this horny when you win?” Kurt said, lowering one hand to Blaine’s deliriously swollen cock and brushing his fingers along its length.

“I— I didn’t win, technically. It was all of us. The team.”

Blaine was ridiculous. Spread across Kurt’s bed in abject nakedness, every muscle of his body standing out in stark contrast against the white sheets—the most beautiful, talented man Kurt had ever laid eyes on—and he was still being modest. Kurt straddled Blaine’s thighs, nestling the seat of his briefs against Blaine’s erection, and began to unfasten the last few buttons of his own shirt as he leaned forward and whispered into Blaine’s ear, “You're part of the team. Your score made the difference between silver and gold.”

“It was a team effort.”

“I’ll show you a team effort.”

Blaine whimpered when Kurt kissed him. They had only been in the hotel room for five minutes and already Blaine was as worked up as if they had been going at it for an hour without relief. But maybe that's what happened to athletes when they won gold medals (and even to athletes who denied they had won them). Maybe from the moment the final score from the ladies’ skate was announced and the crowd had erupted into applause—more loudly for the Russians’ silver than for the Americans’ gold, of course, but not for any lack of effort on Kurt’s part—Blaine had been growing increasingly horny. Maybe the only thing that had kept him from sporting a full hard on during the flower ceremony had been his dance belt.

Kurt kissed down Blaine’s chest, pausing only long enough to throw his own shirt off before taking Blaine’s cock into his mouth. It was salty already with precome, huge and fully rigid, and it twitched in time with Blaine’s surprised moan. Kurt sealed his lips around the head and slid down, relaxing his tongue and throat to take as much of Blaine in as he could. Kurt loved this. He loved the way Blaine stretched his jaw and filled his mouth, and he loved the sound Blaine made as Kurt moved his tongue over the prepuce, and he loved the way Blaine whimpered as Kurt slid up and down, faster and faster, taking more and more of Blaine in with each plunge.

“Wait, wait,” Blaine panted. He slid up on the bed until his cock popped out of Kurt’s mouth. “I'm gonna come if you keep doing that.”

“And that’s a problem how?”

Blaine grumbled and pulled Kurt up beside him. “I don't want it to be over yet.”

“You seem horny enough to keep going even if you did come.”  Kurt stroked Blaine’s dick. He really wasn't in the mood to let it go.

“I am. But it's not from winning. It’s all you, Kurt. You're so hot. And the bird you made me-"

"My bird made you horny?"

"Sort of? I mean, the fact that you made it for me. It's so romantic."

"Ahh. So romance gets you horny."

"Totally. That's why I want you all the time.”

“Oh yeah?” Kurt teased. “How do you want me?”

“I want you to fuck my brains out. But I also want—" Blaine flipped around on the bed, his cock hovering in front of Kurt’s face and his hands around Kurt’s thighs, yanking off Kurt’s briefs and murmuring “God, look at that,” when Kurt’s dick was free. Blaine's breath was warm on Kurt’s shaft, and then Blaine’s lips were, soft and gentle and kissing up and down, nuzzling affectionately like when he kissed Kurt on the lips. That once-hated phrase flashed again through Kurt’s mind—making love—because that's what Blaine was doing, kissing him so reverently, sucking him with sweet adoration, his mouth warm and wet, his tongue looping and circling around his head and down his shaft, strong suction, back and forth, in and out, until Kurt was giddier than he got watching Blaine do a combination spin.

Kurt was holding on to Blaine’s cock like a lifeline. He couldn't stop staring at it, hot and thick and leaking, so lovely Kurt never wanted to lose sight of it and breaking his heart because he wanted to taste it too, and he couldn't do both things at the same time, and Blaine was humming now, soft sounds that vibrated through Kurt’s dick and into his balls, and Kurt was lost in sensation. How had this bliss happened? Kurt had been in complete control and in a split second Blaine had turned everything on him, had made Kurt the panting and desperate one, unable to decide between a multitude of wonderful things.

Blaine let go of Kurt’s cock, and maybe that should have offered some relief from the relentless pleasure, but Kurt was still riding it in waves, being lifted higher as Blaine kissed the inside of his thighs, over the soft flesh of his ass, pushed Kurt’s legs open and pressed the pad of his finger against Kurt’s hungry hole.

Kurt gasped.

Blaine looked up from where he'd been staring between Kurt’s legs. “Is that okay? You can still fuck me later if you want to. This doesn't have to be a prelude to anything. I just really like your asshole. It's cute.”

Blaine’s finger was still there, resting while Blaine waited for confirmation. But even with its lack of movement, it sent sparks of desire skittering over Kurt’s skin and up his spine. Kurt didn’t know whether to moan in delight or laugh at how moved he felt by such an absurd compliment. The sound that finally came out of his mouth sounded like a sob.

“Hey, did I—” Blaine rotated himself on the bed so that he was now face to face with Kurt again. “Is something wrong?”

“No.” Kurt wiped his eyes. “I think … I'm not sure anyone’s said that to me before. I guess my brain short circuited and good feelings came out as tears. It happens sometimes.”

“Well, they should have. It's all nice and tight and pink like a little rosebud, and I want to kiss it so bad. Would that be okay?”

“I thought … you wanted me to fuck you?”

“Sure, but this doesn't preclude that. Unless you want it to. Because honestly? We need a lot more than one session to get through all the things I want to do with you.”

With anyone else, not having a clear plan about who was going to bottom or who was going to top—or whether any bottoming or topping was going to be taking place—would have made it impossible for Kurt to move forward. He couldn't deal with those kinds of unknowns when he was naked with another person. It made him feel too vulnerable.

But now, here with Blaine, vulnerability became strength. Kurt didn't know what was going to happen and he didn't have any grand scheme for getting Blaine off. But that was okay. It was exciting not knowing what would happen next. Because he knew that with Blaine, whatever happened and even when Kurt didn't know what he was doing, he was safe.

“Me too,” said Kurt. “Follow your bliss, Blaine.”

Blaine did. The first light touch of his lips sent a frisson of heat up Kurt’s  spine and made his eyelids flutter. Blaine’s mouth was warm and soft and— Oh. Kurt shivered.

He should have known Blaine would be good at this. He was amazing at kissing Kurt on the mouth. And this. This was … transcendent. Even the lightest of kisses here shot to Kurt’s core.

And when Blaine began to kiss more firmly, more insistently, his mouth and his tongue pressing against Kurt’s most vulnerable place—coaxing him open—emotions welled up in Kurt’s chest that he could not name.

They pushed against his throat, making him moan and gasp, and they made his eyes water, and they coursed through his body, setting everything alight. He felt like he might fly away if it weren't for Blaine holding tightly to his haunches, holding Kurt down and open and making him take the pleasure, every soft suck and every firm thrust of it, take more and more of it until Kurt’s desire and love and gratitude spilled from every pore.

It had never been like this before for Kurt. Never. No one had done this solely for Kurt’s enjoyment. It had always been a means to an end. Always, as the waves began to crest more forcefully, pushing Kurt deeper into transcendent desperation, a lover would suddenly pull away, reminding Kurt that the intimacy had been only a prelude, not an act of love in itself.

But Blaine didn't pull away. He kissed Kurt and he kissed Kurt and he kissed, tongue and lips and soul, his nose occasionally nudging against Kurt’s scrotum, his moans reverberating through Kurt’s body. When Kurt looked down between his legs he met Blaine's eyes, smiling in amber and gold, his eyelashes fluttering heavily. His hands were caressing Kurt’s hips, tethering him, as if the possibility of Kurt’s hole slipping away from Blaine’s sweet mouth was as anathema to Blaine as it was to him.

The truth of it struck Kurt with force. Blaine was enjoying this as much as Kurt was. Blaine was as desperate for Kurt’s fulfillment as Kurt was.

Energy sparked up Kurt’s spine, curled out through his chest and arms and up into his jaws and tongue. He cried out as the orgasm hit him, a sound like joy and weeping, his body quaking, his hands clawing at the sheets as Blaine moaned right into his core, devouring Kurt like a feast.

Blaine didn’t stop. He kept going, pushing Kurt further along the wave than Kurt had imagined it could carry him, taking him through peak and trough and back up to another peak, his eyes always on Kurt’s face, full of love.

Kurt reached down and grabbed Blaine’s hand as he crested the final swell, so intense it threatened to submerge him. Blaine responded, interlacing their fingers and giving Kurt something to hold on to, something to keep him afloat as he rode the wild tide. Kurt brushed his thumb over the back of Blaine’s hand, speaking with the gesture what he couldn't with his voice: I need you. I love you. We're in this together.

[missazurerose]

"In this and every life / I choose us every time"

(I have a wildly unhealthy amount of AUs going on in my head. They will get written one day.)

[hashioki7]

Their nightmare

Travis woke up to the cries coming from beside him.

"Laura!"

"Don't come near me!"

Trembling with fear, Laura tossed the sheets aside and flailed her arms and legs aimlessly with vacant eyes.

"It's okay, Laura! It's me! Everything's fine!"

Wrapping his arms around her thrashing form, he repeated those words in her ear over and over again.

"There are no more werewolves here. It's all over. There's nothing to attack you or blame you anymore. Everything's okay, it's all okay."

The hands that had been wildly striking out suddenly stopped. Her breathing, which had been as intense as a storm, gradually became regular, and her chest, which had been tumultuous, began to calm like gentle waves.

"Are you feeling calmer now?"

"…Sorry, Travis."

Wrapped in the sheets, Laura turned around in his arms, shyly smiled, and then looked down.

"You had another nightmare, didn't you?"

She silently nodded. Travis gently embraced her trembling form, holding her hand tightly from behind.

"Don't worry, I'm here."

"Thank you…"

With each shaky breath she took, Travis hugged Laura's body tighter and tighter.

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

"…Travis?"

Laura woke up to the groans coming from beside her.

She couldn't see Travis's face as he lay facing away from her. Only his white shoulder, peeking out from the sheet, seemed to be trembling slightly, at least that's how it appeared to Laura.

"Travis?"

She asked again. There was no response. She heard the sound of sighs being squeezed out, as if sobbing softly.

"You're having another nightmare."

Once again, She didn't expect a response. It was just like always.

The moonlight filtering through the curtain cast a glow on his back, making it seem like he was crying. No, he might actually be crying, Laura thought.

"It's okay, Travis."

She wrapped her arms around his sturdy neck and hugged him gently from behind.

"I'm here for you. It's okay, so relax."

As she whispered gently in his ear, she ran her hand through his straight, black hair. His labored breaths gradually calmed, turning into peaceful snores.

"Good boy."

With that final whisper, she placed a soft kiss on his neck, being careful not to make a sound. Feeling the gentle rhythm of his back against her chest as she held him close, Laura softly closed her eyes.

[tobi-the-minnow]

17.) Pane - a single sheet of glass in a window or door.

Looking in from the outside feeling the cold bite at their skin they shiver as they keep watching. Starveing for the warmth on the other side watching as what seems like friends and family chat idlely. It's starting to get to cold to sleep at night they need warmth. Being stuck in this cold is makeing them crazy. They're cold, they're tired, they're hungry; they start to slip open the pane and crawl inside and once in they find its just as cold as the crule world on tne out side. Theres no warmth here. Theres no nourishment here. Theres no rest here. Theres nobody to lean on here. The perceived family and friends are all faceless strangers standing stiffly as if they all froze at once. Nothing but lies on this side of the pane.

[monthlywritingchallenges]

🌟 Comforcember Day [ 17 ]

🌟 Today's prompt is: [Frozen Fingers, Warm Hearts]

Let’s bring some warmth and comfort to this winter day! Whether it’s a cozy drabble, a heartfelt story, or a poetic moment, we can’t wait to see what you create.

[lunarcartoonist]

Day 17 - Journal

Self-explanatory.

Decided to do the Inktober Challenge this month, doing my Simple Things drawings - which I haven't done in a few years!

Feels nice to do traditional ink drawings again.

At some point I'll upload these drawings as cards on my Etsy store.

[failedmitosis]

"How do you have negative two purple coins? Um. Uh. You've gotta spend money to make money, honey."

[cozycompositions]

Hello, Lovelies! This is a little leftover from @juneofdoom Day 17: "Don't Lie To Me". Happy late 4th of July to all my fellow Americans! Little special fic for that coming out soon!

“Don’t lie to me, mon ami,” Lafayette practically begged. “You are not fine,” He looked around the clearing, almost trying to manifest a savior to help them. 

Alexander groaned, either from annoyance or pain, and tried to push Lafayette away from him. Lafayette gave a gentle push to Alexander’s shoulder, effectively pinning him back against the tree. The fact that he allowed it was a testament to how hurt he must be. 

“Just let me see.”

Alexander just stared at his friend for a moment before sighing. He pulled open his overcoat to reveal the deep gash in his gut, still oozing blood. Lafayette gasped, rushing to lower Alexander to the ground and put pressure on the wound. Alexander yelped in pain. 

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he tried to assure the frenchman. Lafayette only shushed him, looking around the area again helplessly. Laurens should have been there by now.

“It’s not that bad,” Alex yelped again, cutting himself on, “I got a few good hits in, too,” he laughed humorlessly. 

“Now is not the time for jokes, Alexandre,” Lafayette chastised. Alex sobered, groaning as Lafayette applied a bit more pressure to his abdomen. Russling came from the leaves behind the pair. Lafayette threw his head around, helpless to do anything to protect them without allowing his friend to bleed out. 

Instead of an enemy soldier, however, John Laurens appeared from the woods. 

“Oh God, what’s happened?” He almost shouted as he ran to his comrades and dropped to his knees next to Alexander. 

“We got into a little run in with the enemy, when we were trying to escape the canonfire,”

“Do they know our location? The General will be here-”

“No, it was mere luck. They shouldn’t have been this far to our side.”

A cough from Hamilton drew the two men’s attention back to what was important. They looked down and tried to assess the situation. 

“You’ve got to stop getting yourself into these situations, Dear Boy,” Laurens huffed, caressing Alex’s pained face. Alex smiled up at his best friend, but all humor between the two was washed away when he coughed once more, but this time blood poured out from the corners of his mouth. 

“Oh God,” Laurens repeated. “No, no no-”

“Merde,” Lafayette exclaimed, pressing nearly all his body weight onto Alexander’s body. The noise that tore itself from Hamilton’s throat wasn’t quite a scream (there was too much blood and not enough air for that), but it was heartbreaking nonetheless. Lafayette closed his eyes, praying to the Lord to save his friend.

“We need a medic, Laf, he needs help,” John was crying. Alex wrapped a weak hand around Lafayette’s, uselessly trying to pull it away. His head tossed in pain that was drowning him and clouding his mind. 

Laurens moved his hands to cradle Alex’s head. Tears were falling down his cheeks as he gasped, yet a smile that didn’t meet his eyes still graced his face. 

“You’re going to be okay, we’ll get someone for you, Alex,”  he comforted. He turned to Lafayette, the smile gone. “We need to get someone for him. He needs help.”

Obviously, Lafayette knew this. He was quickly beginning to panic. Laurens was hysterical and Alexander was bleeding out in his arms. They were only two miles or so from camp, they might be able to make it. 

“We have to run,” he said to Laurens. “It might be the only way to help him.”

John sobbed. “If we move him he may die faster! We can’t-”

“Merde! Get it together, Laurens!”

Without any more words, Lafayette secured his arms around Alexander and lifted him up, trying to ignore the cry of pain that erupted from the boy. Later he would regret snapping. Laurens rose with them, wiping the tears from his face. They ignored how they were quickly replaced by new streams. He took out his pistol and rushed ahead. 

“I’ll make sure it’s clear.”

They walked, and after Alexander went limp in Lafayette’s arms, they ran. After sprinting for a while, the camp started to come into view. Lafayette could have cried. Laurens already was. 

When they entered the camp, there was an ambush of voices and hands trying to take Hamilton away from Lafayette. He barely noticed Laurens taking him away, handing him off to the medics' outstretched arms. 

“Gilbert,” Lauren’s voice cut through his thoughts. He wiped the tears from his own face. 

“Will he be okay?”

“I don’t know, I really don’t know,” Lafayette admitted. 

When Alexander awoke, he didn’t immediately recognize the room he was in. He sat up quickly, only to be stopped by a firework of pain in his abdomen. He gasped, crashing back down onto the sheets beneath him.

“Alex,” a voice said suddenly from his right. A figure came into his line of sight, hands touching his forehead and the voice shushing him gently. 

“John,” Alex recognized the voice. He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them the world was a little bit clearer. 

“Don’t try to move too much, you’re injured.” 

That much Alexander could tell. The pain in his gut was burning, it was difficult to think of anything except the pain. He faintly remembered a flash of a red coat, the initial shock of the blade slicing through his stomach. He had called out for Lafayette.

“John,” Alex croaked. He brought his hand to clutch at Laurens’ which still rested on his forehead. “John, where’s Gilbert? Is he alright?”

John shushed him again, taking a seat in the rickety old chair next to the bed. 

“He’s fine. I told him to take a rest. He didn’t want to leave your side.”

Alex nodded, closing his eyes again and focusing on his breathing. He was alive. They were all alive.

The pair fell into a comfortable silence, both just basking in the fact that they were alive. John suddenly broke it.

“Be grateful for that pain, Dear Boy.” 

Alexander opened his eyes and tossed his head to face his friend, “Excuse me?”.

“Be grateful for the pain,” John repeated unapologetically. “For it is only proof that you survived.”

[thedailyvio]

Day 33 - 36

WIP Below:

[enigmatic-mystery-777]

Emotional Downfall

You and Daniel are not talking after a fight had the previous week and you're terrified that this is the end. All you want to do is make up with him, but every time he's near, you freeze...

Taglist: @jgem87 @cuillere @stargaterevival @daydreampending @riverageleis @geekygumiho @frostysfrenzy

[moonatyourservice]

Stubborn

Had your eyes been a cooler shade of brown maybe I would not have fallen so stubbornly in love with you

Had your hands been rough on my skin I would not crave your touch so desperately

Had you not shown me kindness

Had you not shown me I could love my life

Maybe I would not love you so stubbornly

[hashioki7]

If Travis became a cat...

As the title suggests, Travis becomes a cat. It's a slightly longer story than the usual flash fiction of mine.

Travis woke up in the morning and realized that he had turned into a cat. The moment he woke up, he felt something was off. The bed felt strangely wide, and the ceiling seemed unusually far away. His body also felt unusually light. Looking down to see what had happened, Travis saw black fur and fluffy paw pads, and let out a scream, or at least he thought he did. In reality, all that came out of his mouth was a pitiful "meow".

Rushing out of the room, Travis jumped onto the bathroom sink and looked into the mirror. There, staring back at him with insolent yellow eyes, was a round, black cat.

Travis felt despair. But strangely, there was no resistance to accepting the situation. After all, he had witnessed people turning into werewolves for six years. He understood that strange things could happen in the world.

But why me, of all people?

This is really trouble, he thought. Today, Laura was supposed to come to North Kill to meet Travis. Looking at the clock, it was 10:30. She said she would be waiting at the café from 10 o'clock.

"I intend to stay until 2 o'clock. If you don't want to come, you don't have to. But I want to talk to you."

He remembered the message she had sent him. Honestly, Travis didn't really want to see her. Because of Laura's actions during that incident, Travis had lost most of his family. Of course, he had also done terrible things to her. He didn't know how to face her now.

It had been six months since the incident. Travis thought it would be best if they both forgot about it.

But maybe this is rather convenient. After regaining some composure, Travis thought so. She is a veterinary student. And she had even experienced turning into a werewolf. If he could somehow convey his current situation to her, maybe she could come up with a scientific solution to this strange phenomenon.

It was strange that he still had such trust in her after that incident, but Travis didn't have the luxury of thinking about that now. Once he made up his mind, he jumped out of the open window and ran to the café.

Laura was sitting alone at the café's outdoor terrace. There was a cup of hot coffee in front of her, but she hardly touched it. Nervously, she alternated her gaze between her smartphone screen and the people passing by. It was clear she was waiting for someone.

Seeing her looking so helpless, Travis felt a pang in his chest.

"Laura."

He ran to her feet and weakly spoke. But his voice only turned into a meow and dissipated into the air.

Oh no. Travis felt for a moment like he wanted to disappear into the ground.

"Oh, what a cute cat,"

Laura noticed him and gently reached out to tickle him under the chin. Inadvertently, Travis let out a purr again, and he felt dizzy.

No, that's not it.

Travis made the shushing sound that cats make when they're angry. Laura said "hey, stop", but he jumped onto the table in front of her without a care.

"Laura, it's me. It's Travis. I woke up like this this morning. I need your help."

No matter how desperately he pleaded, his voice only turned into the meow of a cat. Laura looked at him with a puzzled expression.

"You're quite friendly"

There's no way that's true.

Travis, feeling exasperated, stopped meowing, realizing how ridiculous it was. Isn't this girl supposed to be aiming to become a veterinarian? How could she be so unable to understand animal feelings? Travis narrowed his yellow eyes and glared at Laura, but it seemed to have the opposite effect on her, an animal lover. For some reason, she smiled and rested her chin on her hands, gazing at him affectionately. Maybe that's it after all. Because now he was just a cute little cat on the outside.

Still, Travis had never imagined her looking at him with such an expression. Such a soft and gentle face. Feeling strangely agitated, Travis licked his paw nervously.

"If you'd like, would you accompany me? I've been waiting for him and got bored."

She started talking on her own, oblivious to Travis's thoughts.

"I've been waiting for an hour. That rotten sheriff is so rude, making a girl wait. I've been messaging him, but he hasn't even read them."

She sighed deeply, furrowing her brows in frustration as she looked down at her smartphone screen.

"He's not coming. What a coward. He's still the worst corrupt sheriff. I was a fool to expect anything from him."

"It's a misunderstanding, I'm right here." As usual, this girl speaks so rudely about him. Travis tried to protest desperately, but all that came out was a threatening hiss.

"Thank you for being angry with me."

That's not what's happening! Does this girl really have the talent to be a veterinarian? Travis wondered, feeling too drained to even muster up anger as he slumped limply onto the table.

"Maybe it was unnecessary after all," In stark contrast, Laura muttered in a subdued voice. Travis, who had been curled up, twitched his ears at her words. Feeling a sense of unease at this change, he lifted his head and found Laura, with a face on the verge of tears, holding her head. Travis's eyes widened in astonishment, and his pupils dilated quickly. However, no matter how surprised he was, all that came out from Travis was a short, indistinct "meow" sound, neither a confirmation nor encouragement in his current feline state.

"I knew deep down that he wouldn't come. …Because of what I did. To him, and his family," she continued. Her shoulders trembling as she let out a deep sigh. Travis finally noticed the dark circles under her eyes. "He did some terrible things to me too… and there are a lot of things I want to tell… but now I understand. He isn't as bad as I thought, and he was trying to protect me," she confessed. Travis straightened up, feeling a sense of awkward. Before he knew it, his gaze was fixed solely on her. "I should have talked to him more. I've been thinking about it for the past six months. So I thought… maybe it's not too late to do that now. I can't undo what's been done… but I still want to talk to him properly. I want to face that together with him," she continued, her expression heavy with sorrow. "But it's none of my business, really. If I were in his shoes… I wouldn't want to see me. I guess I've gone off the rails again," she added. A single tear falling from her lowered eyes.

It was the first time she had shown weakness in front of him. Even when she was imprisoned for two months, when her lover turned into a werewolf and attacked her, and when she killed Silas—she had always been surprisingly strong.

Why is he only realizing this now? Travis cursed his own heart. She was just a girl. She had her own worries and sorrows, just like him.

"Laura."

Even though he wanted to convey that he was here, the voice that came out was just a meow again. But Travis didn't mind. If this voice could comfort her even a little, then that was enough.

As she said, he was a coward. She was sincerely trying to face the consequences of her actions. And yet, he was afraid to face his hatred and guilt towards her. He was trying to pretend it never happened and run away.

—If he had come here yesterday in human form, could he have lightened her burden even a little?

His stomach felt tight. Laura still didn't raise her head. If words couldn't convey it, then he had to convey it through actions. Travis quietly approached her. But here, he hesitated for a moment. Even though he was in the form of a cat, he didn't have the courage to lick her face. After much deliberation, he decided to purr and rub his cheek against her arm.

"Are you comforting me?"

"Ah, I see. You're really talented as a veterinarian." Travis thought.

Although her eyes were still wet, Laura wiped her cheeks and smiled a little more brightly. "Thank you. You're right…it's not like today is my last chance. If I can't meet him, I can come back again until he meets me." That's troublesome, Travis thought, but he decided not to say anything. And then he realized that even if he said something, it would just be in cat language, so she wouldn't understand anyway.

Anyway, there was nothing more he could do at the moment. And feeling terribly tired, Travis suddenly felt sleepy. It would be better to go home and sleep. He didn't know why, but he instinctively felt that way. With one last meow as a farewell, Travis jumped off the table and reluctantly went back home.

The next morning, Travis woke up and breathed a sigh of relief as he held his hand in front of his face. The bed was as usual. There was no sense of discomfort in his line of sight when he got up. Looking into the mirror, he saw the familiar unfriendly face of the sheriff staring back at him. What had happened yesterday. Leaning on the bathroom sink, he thought for a while. But what he was thinking about wasn't the miraculous phenomenon of turning into a cat. It was Laura and—the tears she had shown.

She said she would come back as many times as it took to see him. So if he waited, maybe he would eventually receive a message from her. But he didn't think he needed to wait for that. First, he wondered how he should apologize for not being able to go to their appointment yesterday. How would the excuse "I turned into a cat" go over? Frowning deeply, lost in thought, Travis went back to get his cellphone from the bedside table.