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imaprettygirl · 5 months ago

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A drop of ink, a blot spread across time

(Vintage au)

Plot summary: It was 1950s when pen pals were popular and almost everyone had one! You used to have a handful of them but the camaraderie between you and them faded as you got older. One day, you found a newspaper on your late great-grandpa's shelves in his bedroom. Excitedly, you flipped the papers to get to a specific page and bingo! There was a section for the addresses of people who are looking for a pen-friend much like yourself. After randomly choosing, you sent out your first letter and he replied back! However, you noticed something weird in the photo he sent...

Crds to @drinkthesky for the divider!

Men I deem fit: Alhaitham, Albedo, Imbibitor Lunae/Dan Heng, Dr Ratio, Diluc, Zhongli, Venti, Neuvillette, Scaramouche, Sunday.

(Fck alphabetical order, I can't do that sh*t)

The amber glow of the afternoon sun bathed the room as the open windows situated at the opposite of the door allowed sunlight streams to enter the room as its panes quivered in hushed symphony due to the beckoning of the hot air. If you moved closer to the windows, you could see dust particles illuminated by the natural light. Even after the passing of your great-grandfather, the bookish scent of his cologne still lingers in his bedroom along with his possessions which were either coated with a thin layer of dust or covered with a big white cloth.

The wooden floor creaked beneath you as you walked towards his bookshelves in hopes of finding pieces of classical literature and maybe learn a thing or two from it. You delicately traced your index finger through the long vertical rows of books, leaving a trail of dust on the pads of your digit. As you peruse through countless novels only to be unsatisfied until you saw a newspaper at the edge of the shelf, untouched by the dust that plagues the rest.

'How strange...' you thought to yourself as you rubbed your thumb and index finger against the surface of the paper to determine its texture: it was sandy and rough, definitely ancient but the format was similar to the ones your dad reads in the morning so it must be a freshly produced newspaper, albeit printed in a different quality of paper.

Or so you thought...

The newspapers in your hands gave you a glimmer of hope; it was an opportunity to find a pen friend! You used to have a few ones but stopped writing to them either because they used too much colloquial words or they had at least twenty spelling mistakes in each sentence which gave you a migraine whilst trying to make out if your correspondent was writing in a foreign language or not. But this time, maybe you could hit the jackpot and find an actually nice pen-pal. Excitedly, you flipped through the papers and stopped at the specific page which had a list of names along with their addresses under the bold heading:

'Pen-friends! Make new friends around the world!'

Your eyes scanned across the list of names, allowing your intuition to guess the personality of that stranger based on their names alone. But then, a specific name caught your eye- it was uncommon which was the main reason it stood out from the rest of the names which probably were taken from 'Top 10 best names for children of this year'. You took a closer look of the address below that person's name and turned out, both of you lived in the same area! A surge of enthusiasm rippled throughout your body and immediately tucked the newspaper into the inside pocket of your coat.

~~~~~♡~~~~~♡~~~~~♡~~~~~

The curtains of your living room slowly opened as you peeked your head out and pressed your face against the glass. A day had passed after you had sent your very first letter and heck, you even went a mile far by sending a photograph of your two cats to make a memorable first impression. Then- just like you had anticipated- the postman on his bike suddenly came into view and halted his vehicle by your mail-box and placed a letter inside. You clutched the folds of the curtains unable to contain the happiness blossoming inside you. As soon as the postman disappeared out of your eyesight, you rushed outside to take the letter out of the mailbox. The first thing that greeted your eyes was the immaculate handwriting and the scent emitted from the paper.

'How sweet of him...' you thought as you continued reading the letter in your mind. The paragraphs were neatly organized and made of outdated vocabulary that you wouldn't understand had you not taken an interest in classic literature. You could tell this man practiced utmost eloquence just by his letter alone. Overall, he wrote a few things about himself and asked you about your hobbies, what you like and blablabla.

But then, something struck within you concerning with the photograph he sent and notes written behind it:

"The construction of the mall is making my ears bleed. I cannot stand the constant sounds of the drills and other sounds coming from it. I daresay, you must be experiencing the same disturbance as we are only one street apart from each other. Perhaps we should plan to meet up after the mall opens. What do you think of it?"

The more you stared at the photograph and the note, the more confused you became. The picture showed the mall with the same as the one down the street but it was still in construction according to the photo. 'Huh?' A frown stretched across your face. That specific mall had been going on more nearly a century now to the point that the community had been urging the government to shut it down in order to build a more innovative one. Didn't it finish construction like a hundred years ago? But his photo told a whole new different story.

Suspicions rose inside of you as a spiral of questions revolved around your head- you found it difficult to process it. Not missing a beat, you hurried to your room to find that newspaper you took from your late great-grandfather's shelf. You mumbled in frustration when you couldn't find it; you swore you left it either on the desk or on the bed. Finally, you found it under the bed and oh my...

The letter was published a century back in time which meant that...

"T-The man I just sent a letter...was from the past...." The newspaper dropped from your hands. Your letter had ripped its way out of the fabric of time and went into the mailbox of a man who lived in the same area as you but different time period. He was in the past, you were in the future.

Still, a part of you felt curious about the interaction between two people of different dimensions. So you decided to reply back to his letter. What could go wrong...right?

To people who are more knowledgeable in time travel or parallel universes, pls don't attack me, I know what I wrote may or may not make sense for some of you but pls don't mind me 😭😭😭

And also, not proofread because I wrote this around midnight and I'm literally on the verge of dozing off- (Ik I have such healthy sleep cycles and I have to wake up at 6 am yayyy!! Sleep-deprived-students-core😘🙆🤗)

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quitealotofsodapop · 11 months ago

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Some Tang-y asks;

Both asks referencing; this previous about Tang realising his buddies are the Monkey King and the Six Eared Macaque + he's the godfather to their upcoming baby.

Tang is freaking tf out after the shock/fainting wears off. His academic career has revolved around the Journey to the West and connected mythology. Even as a lowly libarian who does mythology talks on the side, even he recognises that this is historical Iridium. He has *The People Who Were There* in his apartment (eating his chips)!!

Afterwards he has a moment of; "Oh gods, I've pretty much adopted the Monkey King." since he's been helping the monkeys learn how to read/write in modern chinese and generally giving Wukong life advice in the manner of a father-figure (all mid-twenty years of him).

And although he def shares all his secret wuxia and isekai fantasies with Macaque (fantasy nerd to theatre nerd communication); he certainly didn't expect to end up like This.

Tang knows he at least has a genetic link to the historical Tang dynasty - something he isn't really proud of since he's been kicked out by his parents. But with all the Monkey King stuff starting to pile up, he wonders...

Then he gets kidnapped by a firey toddler calling him "The Tang Monk", and is told to help out in a super specific ritual that requires the skill of an enlightened sage. Tang faints in the backseat of Red Son's mini-car when the penny drops. His frantic call to Pigsy straight afterwards is a babbling info-dump that sounds more like a cicada screaming.

Bonus ask!: Did Wukong *know* that Pigsy and Tang were reincarnations of his friends?

Sort of.

You see, after the Harbringer accidentally got sealed in Macaque (and the shadow monkey was still passed out); Wukong asked Guanyin to help him seek guidance from his old master - since he isn't exactly able to contact the Pure Lands himself. Guanyin tries calling up the Golden Cicada and... she appears to a confused, bleary-eyed Tang in the noodle shop at like 11pm. Even the bodhisattva is confused. Tang Sanzang/Tripitaka was supposed to be the last Golden Cicada incarnation. Tf is he hanging out on earth for?

Guanyin mentions this fact to SWK, and Wukong has a heart-stopping second of "Oh sweet buddha, Master is alive!!", before the goddess confirms otherwise. Wukong is super-confused, and a little disappointed, but really wants to seek out this new version of the GC even if for his own comfort. He's given a vague direction of where his master's soul is now residing, and the bodhisattva doesn't discourage him from following it. Wukong does hide his main reason for hiding in the city when Mac wakes up.

Eventually as the duo are ducking the sight of curious local demons/human (the meteorite and battle on the mountain def drew attention), Mac and Wukong bump into a strangely famililar face...

You see, after Tang literally glimpsed at the Goddess of Mercy, he became super-awake and rambled to Pigsy about his vision. Pigsy, despite being dismissive of most magic talk, thought that his suspicions of the meteor shower being a "sign" could be correct. The two went downstairs to eat/talk about what Tang's vision of Guanyin could mean.

Ironically, it's Pigsy who catches the monkeys walking down the street. He'd gone out to grab something from the convenience store and saw the two young, kinda skinny-looking, monkey demons arguing and trying to dodge the rain. The ginger-haired of the two shielding the darker-furred one with an old cape.

Pigsy has a moment of "No. No no no no. Good samaritan sh*t only gets you hurt." before he recognises something off about the two "kids" words. And with Tang's talk about having a vision of the Goddess of Mercy...

"Mihou": "This is all your fault!" "Wu": "How is it all my fault?!" "Mihou": "You put this... this thing in me! Now we've got no money, our magic isn't working, we can't go home, and we don't even have shelter for the night! I'm so..." *crying* "I have no idea what to do Wu..." "Wu", holding the other's face: "Hey, hey, it's ok Mihou. We'll figure this out." *presses foreheads together* "I won't let anything happen to you or the ki... guess it's too early at the moment. Egg, I guess?" *goofy, hopeful smile* "Mihou", sniffling: "You're so dumb."

They hear a cough beside them and turn. Wukong looks at the face illuminated by the neon of the storefront like its wearing a halo. It can't be!

Pigsy, holding grocery bags: "Hey... you kids sound like you're in a tough spot right now. If you need a roof over your head 'til the rain eases off, my restaurant is around the corner. Door's opened either way."

Wukong happily jumps at the offer, seeing the familiar glow of his pilgrim brother's soul resting warmly in the cook's body. Macaque is super sus of the situation; he kinda recognises the face infront of him but he just knows it isn't Zhu Bajie. The tired, sincere look on the demon's face is far too unalike the greedy gluttonous fool he'd seen getting his King into so much trouble. Just for now will he trust only his instincts - which at the moment wish for him to get dry.

Wukong sees it as a sign from the Buddha. Clearly someone is looking out for them. Even if this isn't Zhu Bajie, and the man inside the noodle shop isn't his master, then something in the Pure Lands or Diyu has shifted to allow them to reunite in this life - just in time for the King's heir responsibility to be brought into the world.

And then Pigsy ruffles his hair? Calls him "kid"? And then Tang is helping him with his writing? And telling him all the stories he's heard a million times in a way thats never boring?

Wukong feels queasy in a good way. He doesn't know how to describe it. He cries when he sees the silly mock shop logo he drew pinned to the corkboard by the kitchen - pinned amongst the pig-chef's most prized moments in his cooking journey. He doesn't know why he's crying but it feels like something he's been left out of for so long... thats the moment he decides that Pigsy and Tang (+Sandy) would be the godparents of the Egg. He just knows they'd all be great parents cus they already are.

#the monkey king and the infant #the monkey king and the infant au #asks #lmk #lego monkie kid #lmk aus #lmk tang #lmk pigsy #freenoodles being parents #shadowpeach being parents #shadowpeach #lmk shadowpeach au #sun wukong #liu er mihou #six eared macaque #lmk au tmkati story events

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ase-trollplays · 2 months ago

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Florah, why do you really think you aren’t good enough for Cacoph? Who do you think you’d be “good enough” for? Genuine question.

Because I'm fucked up in every way! I have like, twenty different mental illnesses, I get anxiety and panic attacks stupidly easily, I suck at basic interaction, I fucking bit him and drank from him with✿ut his permissi✿n and freaked him ✿ut, I'm paran✿id f✿r n✿ reas✿n ab✿ut everything, I'm a gr✿ss walking c✿rpse, I'm c✿nstantly sab✿taging myself and I can't fucking st✿p-- In what w✿rld is any ✿f that s✿mething he sh✿uld have t✿ put up with???

He deserves s✿me✿ne wh✿ actually has their shit t✿gether and has a bunch ✿f stuff in c✿mm✿n with him and is actually fun t✿ be ar✿und.

#Florah answers #cloudbatcave #TLDR he's not good enough bc his self-loathing says so

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aristaspark · 1 year ago

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Winx Club Rewatch : Season 1 episode 3 : Alfea College for fairies

I'm only twenty seconds into the episode and Stella and Bloom are already being cute as hell smiling at each other in class 😭

The "imagine yourself with another hair color" exercice is so clever, that's exactly the kind of exercice I would imagine for a first day at a magical school

Lmao Bloom said f**k that sh*t, she tried for 2 seconds then gave up

I love seeing the girls being all domestic and shit, actually doing student activies by helping each others with homework

Stella the procrastination queen

Honestly I love the way they roast each others and act it feels so natural, later seasons could never

Ok Flora totally deserved that pillow kick 😂

I paused at the breakfast moment where all the students are listening to faragonda and the students look like freaking zombies

Alfea really is the dream school where you prepare a party instead of going to class

Griffin being pissed that they weren't invited screams maleficent

To them ruining a party out of biterness is a school project, I can't

Their dresses are soooo pretty omg

Bloom is so stupid, that blue dress was IT JUST TAKE THE FREAKING MONEY (...honestly that was kinda Flora's fault)

My favorite dress is Stella's it's so perfect

You're telling me the "worst" thing the witches could think of was to repalce the specialists presents with rodents ??? Please.

Yeah Bloom, customize your dress with fire WHAT COULD GO WRONG

At that point her dress should have turned to ashes

How did the Trix not see Bloom ? 😂 She was right before them

The presents were kinda lame let's be honest

Bloom bumped into Sky's ass, what a fitting beggining for that annoying ass love story (in case you didn't know I don't like Sky, at least not with Bloom 😂)

Yeah girl, ghost him 😂

Why was Stella always so mad though 😂

Just realised that was their first convergence spell 👀

In love with Flora's buns

My question is why didn't they tell Bloom that Stella's ring wasn't in the chest ? 😭

The OST when the Trix attack Bloom is fire

The Trix really are trying to kill a student, never realised how fucked up that was, I though that was a totally normal behaviour 😭

FIRST TRANSFORMATIOOOON

The scene is really cool

Bloom's dress is really pretty but I feel like it doesn't fit with the other's

Sky YOU'RE ENGAGED LEAVE HER ALONE

His hair looks stupid

#Sorry fo the Sky roasting I just can't help it #Winx #winx season 1 #winx rewatch #winx club #Bloom #stella #musa #tecna #aisha #flora #magical girls #fairy #cartoon

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florianniss · 1 year ago

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From Chapter 14:

"It may be twenty outside," his breath tickles the front of Steve's neck, "but it's ninety-eight-point-six inside."

Steve can't help but grin too. He turns his mouth to meet Eddie's and finds himself being devoured one nibble at a time. His cheek, the corner of his mouth. His lower lip next, and then the top.

"Come on, Baby," Eddie mumbles, coaxing Steve's mouth open with words. "Slip inside my sleeping bag."

And Steve laughs.

(s m u t under the cut)

"Ha ha ha!"

"What?" Eddie pulls back, his face unreadable. The flashlight is still in the door well, and there are shadows over everything.

Steve hums the ridiculous song out loud.

"Slip inside my sleeping bag!"

Eddie growls at him for laughing. "It's not supposed to be funny."

"I know!" Steve snorts, feeling warm and silly and unable to contain it. "I know, but –"

His friend's shoulders hunch again and Eddie turns away. He fishes the flashlight out and shines it directly in Steve's face.

"Ow! All right! I'll stop! I'll stop!"

"You better," Eddie grumbles, huffing a little and not hiding one bit that his feelings have been hurt. Steve blinks the brightness away, forces the silliness away and takes a deep breath.

The back of the van is cooler than the cab, even though the vehicle hasn't been off for very long. Steve pulls his shirt over his head and shivers as it slides off one bare arm, then the other. The boots are next, and he realizes too late that they should have been first. They've made the carpet wet, his knees too. Steve lets them fall into the door space with a clunk and pulls off his socks, too.

"Uh."

Steve glances up and catches Eddie staring open-mouthed at his hairy chest. It's always been the main difference between them: Steve's hairy hardness and Eddie's soft – well, softness.

The beam of light on the ceiling slowly tilts to the side, runs down the length of the curtain. Eddie continues to stare like he's that deer in the headlights.

Steve smirks and gets up on his knees again to unzip his jeans. Things have settled down and he's not as ramped up as he was before. But Eddie's gaze drops from his chest to his drawers, the bulge of his tighty-whities inside the useless underwear flap. It spurs him on, heats his cheeks and makes his stomach flip-flop into somersaults.

It's awkward trying to slide out of jeans with so little space. Steve accidentally kicks Eddie, and he jerks a little, shifts to get out of the way. All the while stunned into silence as he watches Steve undress.

They haven't done this before.

The jeans finally come off in a heap, inside out and rolled up and completely fucked. Steve pushes them to the side with the rest of his clothes and finds the opening to the connected sleeping bags. He looks up at Eddie and slips a hand inside.

It's fucking freezing. Steve clenches his teeth and unfolds his legs to shove both feet inside. Like plunging into cold water, he figures it's best to make it fast. He wiggles and shrugs into the frigid space, gasps as his bare stomach touches the sheer fabric. And before he curls into the fetal position to warm himself, he turns his face to look at Eddie.

"You coming or what?"

Eddie has never moved so fast. The flashlight clunks to the floor and he rips his shirt off, flashing tattoos and bare skin, elbows frantic, fingers scrabbling to take down his own jeans. He's so quick, in fact, that Steve barely has three seconds to make out the substantial thickness of him, the extra-largeness of him. But it's there, and it's real, and Steve thinks he might die if they were to –

"Sh-shit." Eddie shivers violently as he crawls in beside Steve. A heel pokes into Steve's gut, and an elbow catches his jaw. But it doesn't hurt. It feels wonderful, in fact. Especially once Eddie's completely undercover and his arm comes up over Steve's, and Steve gets his elbow under Eddie's head and pulls him close.

"Ohhh."

It's a sigh heaved in unison as skin presses up against skin, and Steve laughs again. This time, Eddie doesn't get offended. He rolls a bit and tucks his chin into the space at Steve's neck. His knee slides between Steve's, fucking warm as hell. And Steve doesn't even feel the outside air leaking in at his back.

"Fuck," Eddie sighs, mouthing the point of Steve's shoulder. He pushes up on one elbow and his hair falls over his face. "I forgot the flashlight."

Steve snorts another laugh as Eddie scrambles halfway out of the sleeping bag-for-two to fetch the light. His hip juts against Steve's armpit and he gets a glimpse of the smooth firmness of Eddie's taut back.

"Oh ho ho," Eddie whines as he returns to Steve's side. He snakes himself around, one arm and leg under, one over. The flashlight lies at his head, aimed at the curtain behind them. There's just enough light to see the highlights in Eddie's hair, the ink on his shoulder, the curve of his spine. And it's so wonderfully, amazingly warm.

"You gonna turn that light off?" Steve hums into Eddie's hair. He smells so good, slightly sweaty, slightly smoky.

"You wanna go to sleep already?"

Sleep is the last thing Steve has on his mind. He pulls Eddie in even closer. He can do that now. There's nothing and nobody to stop him.

"Didn't think so," Eddie says, triumphant. As if he's the one who's got everything he's ever wanted, wrapped up nice and tight in the bare skin Steve's been dreaming about for months.

They're silent for a long time. Steve goes a little crazy with Eddie's hair in his face, warm, smooth chest against his own. There's a hand on his neck, and another in the middle of his back, fingers spread wide, just holding him close. Wanting him. Needing him. Him and only him.

Even the silence is warm. Steve gets lost in Eddie's breathing, the gentle lifting of one chest against the other. He thinks if he listens closely enough, he can hear Eddie smiling. And it makes him so, so happy.

"Think you can handle one last surprise?" Eddie whispers over Steve's shoulder. It's so soft, so gentle, that it sends shivers down his spine. He thinks he knows what Eddie is asking.

"I dunno. Can I?"

Eddie pushes Steve on his back to be able to see his face. His hand is flat on Steve's chest, big brown eyes looking down on him, his hair in curtains over his face.

Something is different. His mouth falls open and his chin quivers as if he's about to speak, but doesn't. His forehead wrinkles like he's worried, and his eyes go all soft and wide. Steve's never noticed how red his lips are.

"I dunno," Eddie repeats back to him and his gaze intensifies. "Can I?"

Steve catches the tensing of Eddie's abs somewhere inside the sleeping bag, but can't make himself focus on it. There's something intoxicating in the way Eddie's looking at him.

And Steve finally gets it. Finally, he understands what Eddie's asking in not-so-many words. It's a thing they've been working towards in frustratingly slowness. Something Eddie's been controlling the pace of. Until Steve turned eighteen.

Steve remembers Eddie's words the night they parted.

"But slow, OK? We talk about things. You gotta go easy on me, cuz I've never done this kind of thing before."

It takes Steve's breath away, and he struggles to put a sound behind his answer.

"Yeah, you can."

Eddie's whole body visibly relaxes, as if he'd gone rigid with anticipation. He curls his fingers in Steve's chest hair and tugs gently, then wets his lower lip.

"Thank you."

Steve doesn't know what to say, so he doesn't speak. He doesn't move; he doesn't breathe. He only feels the slow, torturous slide of Eddie's hand down the center of his chest.

Eddie's exhale when he reaches Steve's navel is reverent, adoring. There's nothing to see; the sleeping bag hides his downward progress. But his eyes follow as if there's nothing there, as if he's drinking in Steve with sight as well as touch.

Those lashes flicker as his fingers run gently underneath the elastic band, and Steve has to close his eyes. It's so damn good, the delicious way Eddie is enjoying him. There's so much of that enjoyment between them Steve can practically taste it on the back of his tongue.

Steve lets out a surprised grunt as Eddie closes fingers over his dick, finds the full swell of him, wraps his hand around and tugs. Their eyes meet. Eddie's mouth forms an 'oh.' Fire rushes to Steve's gut and he can feel himself clench in excitement.

"Oh, Baby," Eddie breathes and squeezes strong fingers around the glans of Steve's penis. And god damn, if that doesn't make Steve want to rise up and meet his hand for more pressure. He's never been touched so boldly, so explicitly needy before. Eddie's got a hold of him in such a way that needs no direction, no instruction. Because Eddie knows how to pleasure a cock. He knows exactly what it's like.

"Can I?" he says again, with fingernails digging in now. All Steve can do is nod; if he speaks, he'll beg. And he doesn't want to give away that he's losing his mind, that he doesn't have control, that he's practically crawling out of his own skin at the thought of Eddie's warm hand on his dick.

"Jeezus," Eddie sighs and breaks eye contact to flatten his hand on Steve's stomach. He slides his fingers under the band, cups his smooth hand against the hot flesh of Steve's erection. Licks that damn puffy lower lip and swears again. "Jeezus Fuck."

It's hot, the way Eddie stretches the underwear out of the way with his other hand, drags it under his balls, knuckles grazing against his taint. Steve gasps and tenses, surprised at himself and how eager his body responds to the faintest of touches.

There's a quick movement of Eddie's hand, and he's grasping Steve's whole cock now. Fingers wrapped around it, tugging as he squeezes the damn life out of him. He pulls upward and the foreskin follows along. It stretches from the pucker of his asshole while he twitches involuntarily. Like putty in Eddie's hand, Steve can only clench his fists and jaw and butt cheeks and go along for the ride.

And what a ride it is. When he reaches the tip and finds wetness there, Eddie sucks in a breath. He catches Steve's eyes and brings the other hand to his mouth, licks the palm and reaches back inside the sleeping bag. The double fisting with saliva sends Steve's head back and his torso arching into the air.

"Fuck, Baby," Eddie growls, pushing him back down again without losing hold of his dick. "You're so expressive it hurts."

Steve knows the feeling. The pressure building somewhere behind his navel is half heated pleasure, half painful stinging. He wants badly to finish, to come and come and come all over himself and their cocoon of blankets. But he also wants the hurt to go on forever. He doesn't want this first time to end.

Eddie seems to get that. He strokes with deliberation but also with care. He wets his hand twice, three times, transfers it to the super sensitive head of Steve's cock. Holds the top with his palm flat, then circles it over the tip, teasing the slit open, wider.

"Oh, fuck," Steve calls, and Eddie smiles his response. But it's more smug, like he understands how good it feels, how crazy intense it is. Like he knows he's a bastard by dragging things out. Teasing Steve to the edge.

Steve untangles one hand from where Eddie's sitting on it, realizing he's holding him down, keeping him from touching too. He finds the meat of Eddie's thigh and sinks his fingers in, searching for the package he knows lies between those lean, muscled legs. And Eddie gently pushes him away.

"I'm almost done. I promise."

Steve feels the whine at the back of his throat before it escapes.

"Please," he begs, even though he doesn't mean to. Even though he doesn't know what he's begging for. He wants to touch Eddie, wants to find out how big he really is. Wants to hold him between his fingers and feel the width and length of him. Slide his thumb up the side of the bulging vein there, slip it into his slit, and press hard.

Just thinking about it while Eddie's teasing his cock head is enough to make the heated pressure increase substantially. His brain kicks into gear, imagining Eddie's mouth on him, sucking him dry. Imagines his fingers in his ass, pressing on whatever that sinful thing inside is.

"Oh fuck, I'm gonna come." And Steve means it. He's too far gone now to hold back.

Eddie licks his hand one more time and wraps it just under the tip. He finds the fucking button and pushes it, rubs his slippery thumb over and over it, hums and whispers and encourages Steve to come.

It's with a shout that he does, that his orgasm spikes and strikes and causes his body to go tense with it. He comes into Eddie's palm, quickly placed over the slit. Gasping with eyes tightly shut, cock pulsing as the warmth washes out of him. Feeling Eddie's hand wet with his spunk, pressed firmly into his gut, a warm, reassuring, grounding thing.

Steve's body fucking vibrates with it, the strength of the orgasm. He opens his eyes to Eddie looking at him with an expression that's absolutely wrecked. As if he was the one to experience the pleasure, as if he was the one who blew his load into their makeshift bed.

"God," Steve moans while Eddie grabs a fist full of chest hair with his other hand. "Holy fucking hell!" It's all he can think to say.

Eddie smiles, purses his mouth and fucking tsks.

"Wow, Harrington. Such a potty mouth on you. Wonder if it's good for anything else."

Read on AO3

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things

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redeemedgiantcol · 2 years ago

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Getting Snow

Red groaned, as she attempted to de-knot her hair for the third time this morning, only for it to cause a hair to pluck from her head.

She grimaced as she stared at the illicit strand like it was a pest, tossing it into the trash can along with the comb and giving up.

"Hey, Jenny? Is it just me or is the cold making my hair worse?" She called out to her roommate.

"I mean.. the air is drier, Rebekkah," Jenny said, as her olive face peeked from around the corner.

"You know I hate being called that, right? Why can't you just call me Red, Like everyone else?"

"Sorry. I'm just used to calling you that for official college papers, you know?" Jenny said. Red let out a frustrated huff as she looked herself over in the mirror, and Jenny stood behind her, grabbing a toothbrush.

"What time is it again, Reb- I mean, Red? Aren't you gonna be late for your night class orientation?"

And that was all that Red needed to click into overdrive. She dashed out, and shoved on her clogs, overcoat, and scarf.

"Dammit dammit dammit..! See you later, Jessigator!" Red said, as she scooped up her car keys, and slammed the front door shut.

"There she goes.."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Well... I guess this is it."

Harley looked at two penciled portraits, taped to a steel beam. "I'm sorry that I couldn't do anything to save you two.. Mom.. dad.." tears threatened to spill from the floodgates behind his eyes, but he tucked his lips together, taut, like his dad would do, and the tears seemed to recede.

Right underneath the gypsum tile he stood on, he could hear a class beginning in the basement of the building.

"Why did they have to remove the snack machines..? They keep those things everywhere, why not here?.." he looked into his reserve pack, and knew he didn't have enough for more than a full day, even if he rationed smaller bites..

"I guess this is goodbye, huh?" He said to the papers. He grabbed two twigs and tied them into a plus sign, setting it in front of the portraits.

"Wish me luck, okay? I want to see you again, but not that soon."

He walked towards the large metal ductwork-- backpack set on his back, and an unwieldy box cutting blade at his side. With the trapezoidal shape, it was more of a two handed weapon than one, but Harley would make do.

He climbed into the ducts, and instantly felt the hot air being pushed through.

When he was a child, Harley thought he would be burnt by the heat, but his father convinced him otherwise as they pushed against the heat to head towards the outside.

Harley followed the motions that he remembered from that experience.

He found a corner, close to the Heater's fan, and waited until the fan (satisfied with the thermometer of the building) shut off.

"Go" he whispered, dashing pas the fan and over the heating grates** towards the exit of the building. He ran to the grate to peer through it, then paused.

"Oh no..."

Snow.

A lot of snow.

High enough to cover his body.

Before he could think through what to do, the fan was turning on again.

"Sh*t--!"

He pulled himself through the grates and jumped feet first into the white fluffy stuff.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Red stared absent-mindedly at the professor, then at the clock.

Twenty minutes, Red. Just 20 minutes to freedom.you can do this. You already know all of the safety procedures, so it is just rinse and repeat.

As the clock ticked and the teacher droned, Red's infamous red hair received the lightest dusting of gypsum.

"Hmm..?" Red looked up to the ceiling tile, noticing that it had moved ever so slightly from the Heater turning back on.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harley pulled at the bright orange hat that was his father's, ensuring it was securely on his head, as he got his bearings..

"There." He said aloud, staring at the knotted oak tree. There was a hole at the bottom where squirrels liked to nest, but these grounds were maintained enough by the humans that he knew he would be safe there.

He started trudging as he made an estimate.

"If I push, I'll make it there in 40 minutes through all this snow." He looked a little more "but... it's daytime.. I'll have to watch for humans."

He still pushed himself. Maybe a little too hard, as the next thing he knew, he was at the crosswalk dead tired. The cold was getting to his legs first, as the snow had clung to them, with sticky fervor. He attempted to bat it away as the heat drained him, and he could feel his eyes droop. "I.. I am halfway there.." he hissed, willing his legs to do anything, but the knees buckled, and gave way, sending him to the frosty ground, as he could feel.. no, hear and feel something coming.

"Hu...man..." he whispered, as his eyes refused to open, and his mind fell into darkness...

**Author's note: I have forgotten how heaters work, bear with me for the story concept

Thanks to @not-in-the-library for giving me this idea! Look for part 2 soon!!!

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smokeybrandcompositions · 1 year ago

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Family Matters

I always find the generational gap between perspective to be interesting. Like, my extended family is having a birthday party for one of my mom's aunts and a celebration of life for one who passed this year. She's very adamant that i participate but i don't see the point. A little context, my mom has these awesome memories of her time hanging out with her family. She has stories for days about her cousins and aunts and everyone. That's fine. I do not. I did, early on, but after my grandma died, it's like all of those relationships went with her to the grave. My grandma died when i was around twelve years old. I turn thirty-nine tomorrow. I've not had a relationship with these people (or the ones my age, to be honest) for two and a half decades. I've lived an entire life away from these people so, when they have get-togethers like this, I'm just there. For my mom, this is a big deal. It's family. It's all of those memories she has, given form. For me, it's basically a bunch of people I've seen a handful of times since my grandma died. I just don't care.

My mom subscribes to the Boomer notion that you can't choose your family. Blood is thicker than water and all that. I do not. I learned much later in life that the full quote is "The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb." Basically, the actual saying means that you choose your family, that those bonds aren't tied by relation. Why would i want to spend time with people who basically threw my entire family away the second my grandma passed away? To be clear, this isn't me holding a grudge. I wasn't hurt that they stopped coming around or calling. Hell, i didn't even notice until one of my kid brother's pointed it out when i was well into adulthood. Like, i don't have a desire to stick to these people for leaving me out to dry or whatever. I sincerely don't care. I have my tribe. I've had my tribe for decades now at this point. I'd choose any of them over time with my extended family, any day of the week. And, in absence of one of mu chosen, i default to me.

I have very limited time for myself. I work a regular nine to five, but really i start at five so it's more a five to five. Get off work and then i take care of my mom. She's in bad shape so i tend to do the heavy lifting for her. Take out the garbage, walk her dog (which i do in the morning before i go to work, too), clean the kitchen, and whatever else she needs. I generally knock out by about nine or ten. I have around four hours to myself when i get home, and even then, I'm still kind of at the mercy of my ma's beckon call. Saturdays, i tend to sleep in because, of course, but those are the days where i have to run her errands. My ma refuses to drive because she's scary so that falls on me. Generally, from ten to twelve on a Saturday, I'm doing sh*t for her. Thems is part-time job hours, bro. Afterward, I'm still on the hook for all the sh*t she needs me to do during the week after work, too. Sunday is the day i reserve for myself, as much as possible but, even then, a third of it it is filled with my chores. Grocery shopping, cleaning, clothes washing, and i still have to walk her dog twice a day. I don't begrudge my ma for this at all. She's old and needs the help. That's fine. This is just context for why i don't want to do "more" than i have to do. Sh*t eats into my "Me" time.

I write. I draw. I game. Hell, sometimes i just want to throw my Spotify on shuffle and vibe. What's that sh*t called? Self care? There is value in that for me. Much more so than spending time with people I've seen less than my best friend, and he's been dead for four years. That's not hyperbole at all either. My best friend passed away in 2019. I'd known him since the eighth grade so, what is that? 1998? We had been in each others' lives for twenty years. I talked to that man multiple times a week, even when i moved to Arizona. Even when he got married and disappeared for a year. Even when i moved to Houston, we stayed in touch. We hung out for a few hours two weeks before he passed. He changed my brakes, we drank a carton of Newman's Own Lemonade. We blasted Du Hast at three in the morning. It's one of my happiest memories and the last one we shared. I don't have one like that for any of the people I'm expected to hang out with today. None of them. But, for some reason, in my mom's eyes, the non existent relationship i have with them, should carry the same weight as the one i had with my best friend, just because "family."

That sh*t doesn't make any sense to me. It feels like her definition of family is basically just obligation and i disagree. I don't owe anyone, anything, ever, and i don't think setting that boundary is such a terrible thing.

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smokeybrand · 1 year ago

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Family Matters

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watchinglikeafangirl · 3 years ago

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KinnPorsche Ep 4 - analysis

Because I have something better to do like studying, I'm writing this analysis. Gotta procrastinate you guys and I'm gonna pretend I'm really sad I spend my time watching KinnPorsche instead.

This episode is basically parted into two storylines. Vegas is introduces as a sort of villain here, though I think there's more to it than just him plotting stuff. Kinn and Porsche flirt a lot and we discover some depth of Kinn's character.

Kinn is jealous

Last week, Kinn and Porsche ended up kissing and now it's the next day. Since this is a drama, the antagonist and possible other romantic lead is showing interest, so even before anything really started between Kinn and Porsche, Vegas steps in and Kinn feels extremely jealous. The problem is, of course, that they haven't even talked about the kiss yet but Kinn feels the need to since he's kinda salty about Vegas interfering.

Side note: The garden seems to be pretty important because everytime we see Porsche interacting with the minor family, he is in the garden. Last time I said the garden is representing a sort of fairytale Thankun loves to live in, but Porsche destroyed it by killing the fishes. This time, it's the scene Vegas steps up. Porsche wants to smoke which kind of symbolizes him destroying a fairytale and Vegas helps him with it by lighting up his cigarette. It's a symbolic threat to Kinn because Vegas is a "bad boy", encouraging Porsche to keep doing destructive things while Kinn is "the good guy" showing Porsche what his heart truly wants.

Kinn's jealousy is clearly shown in the scene at the pool. The pool gave me some flashbacks to the trailer tbh and the "Deutsche Bank" logo in the background just made this whole scenery hilarious to me.

"Did I interrupt? I saw you two having a fun conversation."

Porsche doesn't have a clue what this is about and then, we get an important piece of information. After Kinn reminds him to not talk to the minor family members because he doesn't like them, Porsche just says something like "if he talks nicely to me, I talk back nicely. It's manners" and Kinn's face is just gold at this point but this short sentence shows the entire conflict between those two and why Porsche helps Kinn to see the world in a different light. Kinn is so used to do things the hard way and to always state his point. He never tried to talk nicely to anyone because that's what he was taught: friendliness doesn't get you anywhere. But Porsche is different. He always needed people to like him and couldn't just give a sh*t about other's opinion of him. The difference is right there and unnoticable but if you watch closely, the conflict is already laid out.

I think this jealousy made Kinn realize something he is not ready to admit to himself yet but it leads to the sauna scene and the most clichéish question ever.

"If you were a girl, would you like a guy like me?"

I just love how Porsche says "you're weird today" because he can't remember lmao. Porsche mostly just goes with the flow and Kinn thinks things through. Kinn only kisses someone he likes. Porsche kisses back because it's nice and if it turns into something, it's nice as well but not intended at first.

Kinn shows a very different side here. He is not cold and calculative. Just a man in his twenties (?) who just tries to have someone and tries to deal with his life even if he doesn't like it sometimes. Kinn is someone who loves money but had to realize money doesn't give you everything you want, so he's kinda lonely. With Porsche, he's just not lonely, I think.

The calm Kinn vanishes when Vegas shows up again. The jealousy is on another level here and Vegas recognizes and picks up the fight. Kinn is all too serious, Vegas is very amused and the others are just uncomfortable. But Vegas still seems to know something about Kinn's past which was missing up until now. Someone like Kinn obviously has a trauma. Else he wouldn't keep people away and never care about what other's feel.

Progress

Shortly after this, we get the next bit of information about Kinn.

"You never seem to change. Never let me kiss you"

With this both being said, everything that happened and will happen is seen in a different light. Because Kinn has kissed Porsche after shortly knowing him. He cares deeply about him. He checks up on Porsche's wound and when Porsche lies on the bed, all out of it, Kinn caresses his cheek and sends the other bodyguards away. He seems to be really scared.

But first, let's talk about the whole Big incident and how prod Kinn looks. The lightning is very beautiful right here because Kinn feels appreciated and Porsche protects him in some way, that's why the lights are between them. It's what Kinn wished would happenen but thought "just in my dreams". It then happens for real, but it still feels like a dream.

Talking about lightning, can we talk about the auction?! Kinn wears a red suit. He is ready for war. Vegas is there too and Kinn is just ready to fight (not physically speaking). The whole room is gloomy and blue, it's a dangerous scenery and a tense atmosphere. Vegas and Kinn keep bidding and Porsche gets poisoned. They all knew events are dangerous and Porsche definetely learned from the last time because he really doesn't want to drink a random water that was just given to him. But yeah, Kinn is forced to smile at him and he gets all confused by it.

Now we get to the scene we all want to to talk about. But let me say, I was surprised how it turned out. I wasn't ready to see them having sex because I think they aren't there yet. But again, sex isn't always something to wait for, so of course no judgement. I especially loved the coloring here because the background is dark-geen but these two are constantly put in a warm yellow and kinda orange light which just looked so beautiful. And I have to say, I love their acting. Like Apo is so good portraying a very high Porsche and Mile is amazingly playing a distant Kinn who is confused. I just love them.

So, we remember from earlier that Kinn doesn't kiss anyone. He seems to have some trauma and at the pier, it was more thoughtless than now. Here, Porsche teases and touches him very much and Kinn is just lost I think. His face shows it all. And when Porsche "shows him the real deal", Kinn looks like he's about to cry.

The kiss probably awoke some nasty memories of his trauma and he wasn't sure if he can endure it to then arive at the other side where Porsche is. He gives in shortly after but it was important to see him being confused because of the things that have been said earlier.

Vegas is the antagonist

Short analysis about the last scene with Vegas standing nacked in a red room with candles, being aroused by the flashbacks of a knocked-out Porsche. The flashback thing is obviously there to show what kind of creepy and disgusting guy he really is. We only see that now after what happened because Porsche and we only know now what Kinn already knew about him: that he is not in any way nice. So, that would have been enough to make clear that Vegas is the antagonist. But they put him in a red room with candles and this combination is very spiritually. He is portrayed as the devil. Candles are mostly seen in churches and weird cults. Red is the color of war and the devil. This whole scenery is in a very ancient looking room and all these things together, are clearly stating "he is the villain". I'm excited for next week after this chaotic analysis lmao

#kinnporsche #kinnporsche the series #apomile

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iwasbored777 · 3 years ago

Note

News reporter on TV : Adrien Dupain-Cheng caught on footage destroying priceless artifacts at the Louvre Museum. Our police officers are now keeping him in custody.

Lila : When you said that you were gonna play an April Fool's Day prank on your cousin, even I didn't expect that you were gonna get him arrested.

Felix : Well, you obviously don't know me well enough.

Lila : Oh well, I was glad to have you as my husband anyway.

Felix : Wait, what ?

Lila : Do you seriously think his batshit crazy b*tch of a wife isn't gonna kill you after pulling off that stunt ?

Felix : Pftt, she's not scarying me. Still, have you seen my passport by any chance.

Lila : Yeah, cause running to your mommy back in London is definitely gonna save you from her snikers.

Chloe walking in and watching the TV : OMG, Adrikins, no ! If you were so mad, you should've destroyed me instead ! I would've thanked you for it.

Lila : Here, take this banana to feed your stupid brain.

Lila: Why can't you stop whining about him?! It's been twenty years!

Chloé: Not everyone's got a bad copy of Adrien like you, Lila! You got Félix, I got nothing!

Félix: You got Sabrina.

Chloé: I need a BOY!

Lila: Keep telling yourself that. You're too deep in your closet, girl.

Félix: Maybe that's because she doesn't want to let her skeletons go. Just like me and Marinette. I'll NEVER forgive her-

Lila: Ah sh*t here we go again...

Félix: SHE KILLED MY BROTHERS! MY BROTHERS! I WATCHED THEM DIE!!! NOW I'M ALL ALONE!!!

Lila: I'M LITERALLY MARRIED TO YOU, YOU IDIOT!

Chloé: And I'm like your sort of friend...

Adrien: AND I'M HERE WITH YOU AGAIN WHY IS EVERYONE PRETENDING LIKE THEY DON'T SEE ME IN THIS HOUSE! WHAT IS WRONG WITH ALL OF YOU?! GOD KNOWS I TRIED TO BE FRIENDS WITH YOU! *leaves*

Chloé: *goes after him* Adrien, talk to me!

Adrien: *crying from distance* NO ONE UNDERSTANDS ME!

#The last one was Mean Girls reference for those who didn't get it 😭#miraculous ladybug #Lila rossi #félix graham de vanily #Felila #chloé bourgeois #Adrien agreste #ml incorrect quotes #Ml ask #ask and answer

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ohgodmyeyes · 3 years ago

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Patience

Heavily implied Ferus x Anakin; 6.5k words; T-rated; hurt/comfort. (I really like this one.)

Summary: Anakin's guilt over Darra's death killed his marriage before it even began, and now it's killing him, too.

How many more times can he call on Ferus to clean up his messes for him before Ferus decides he's had enough?

...

"No, Anakin— I can't. I can't do it this time; I'm sorry."

"Ferus, please— sh-she's going to be here with them at noon, a-and—"

"I've already missed three of the last five practices because of this! If they think they can't even trust me to show up to the arena, they'll—"

"I know! I know, okay? But I can't do it by myself, and I don't have anyone else to call."

"Anakin, I told you last time that I can't keep—"

"I won't bother you again! Not after this! Christ, Ferus, please! You know she'll—"

"Fine! Fine, I'll be there in twenty minutes. But you have to promise me this time that you'll—"

"I will! I will; whatever you want! Just— just... hurry, okay? Please?"

"I'm already on my way, Anakin— I'll see you soon."

"O-okay. I'll be waiting."

"I know."

Anakin's phone hit the dusty carpet at his feet, landing with a muted thump. Face-up with its lockscreen lit, he couldn't help but wonder if the device didn't actually intend to mock him with the big, blatant 9:37 am situated prominently in the centre of the display.

He wanted to stand up from the sofa... but no matter how much we willed himself to try, he just couldn't seem to straighten out his legs.

Ferus was going to be furious with him if he couldn't even manage to answer the door when he arrived, and he knew it.

His eyes travelled across the surface of the coffee table in front of him; it was crowded, but his cigarettes and lighter— both bright-blue— stood out clearly, even in the dim light (Anakin nearly always kept his blinds shut). He took a smoke, stuck it in his mouth, and lit it; after that, he reached back over to the table, and picked up something else: A small photograph; wallet-sized, and unframed. One of those ones everybody's parents used to buy from their school every year, and line up on top of the refrigerator or television or fireplace.

This one was of a girl— a happy-looking, mousey-haired, teenage girl.

Anakin bit his lip and turned it over onto its face, because now that he wasn't quite so drunk as he'd been last night, he couldn't bring himself to look at it.

The rest of the table around the picture was littered with loose cigarette butts and miniature bottles of vodka; here and there, a beer can stood tall as if to break up the monotony of the landscape. All of the containers were empty, and all of the butts were burned right down to their melted filters: Anakin hadn't had a good night last night.

The back of the photo wasn't much better than the front, but it was easier not to look at Darra's hand-printed name than it was to try not to look at her face.

I'm sorry— I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

That's all he ever said to her anymore, whether he was drunk or not; still, he took out that damn picture and laid it out on the table every time he so much as thought of her. Anakin owed Darra that, didn't he?

She'd still be alive, after all, if he hadn't tried to drive her home that night— hammered drunk, and pumped full of adrenaline. He'd only tried it because he was the one who'd dragged her to the stupid graduation party in the first place; he was the one with the car, and the licence. When she'd asked him to get her out of there, desperation writ clear on her face, what else was he supposed to have done?

Anything. Anything else.

He'd ended up wrapping his little red car around a tree that night; Darra had broken her neck flying through the windshield and out onto the pavement, but Anakin had walked away virtually unscathed.

It was almost funny to him that, even all these years later, he still liked to drink.

"Okay," he said out loud, although even he wasn't sure why. Likely, it was intended to be self-motivational; however, Anakin remained just as immobilized after he finished saying it than he had been before.

All he could smell was smoke; smoke, and maybe some old food, although he couldn't begin to guess where he might have left something like that (unless, of course, the kitchen had grown so bad that the stench was wafting in from there). He was clothed, but his clothes were filthy; it was Saturday now, and he'd had them on since about Thursday morning.

...How the hell was it already Saturday, anyway?

Counting like a toddler on a set of shaky, calloused fingers, Anakin tried as he choked back his smoke to recount the past few days in his head. He'd started drinking Thursday evening after work, because he knew he wasn't going to have to go back until Monday; he had known to expect his kids on Saturday, but something had obviously gone wrong, and now—

Now, his living room was littered with garbage and bottles and misplaced items of just about every description, the air in his house was blue with smoke, and he was sure he looked precisely as terrible as he felt.

All that, and his kids were due to be here in less time than it would have taken Ferus to attend his hockey practice, if only he'd made it out the door that morning before Anakin had made his phone buzz.

At least, he thought, Ferus was used to him making his phone buzz.

"Okay," he repeated to himself, after a few more grateful lungfuls of smoke... and this time, he seemed to have a bit more luck with his legs: Stubbing out his cigarette (he even managed to do it in the ashtray), he grunted as he pulled himself to his feet, and reluctantly surveyed the mess in front of him.

Shit.

No— no 'shit'. Ferus is coming, remember?

Even Ferus said he can't keep doing this. Next time—

"Shut up." Anakin was no stranger to arguing with himself. "There won't be a 'next time', alright?" He didn't know if he really believed that or not; all he wanted was for his brain to pipe down.

He kicked at a half-crumpled beer can near his foot on the floor, and when its tinny rattle was all he could hear, he supposed it meant his talking back had worked.

Knock knock.

"Ferus."

Maybe he would be impressed instead of disappointed, Anakin thought— here he was, after all; up on his own two feet. That was better than last time, wasn't it?

...When the hell had Anakin Skywalker become a person who hoped against hope that someone would be 'impressed' with him for getting up and walking ten feet across a room to answer a goddamn door?

"Hey," he started in a near-mechanical fashion, desperate to ignore his own intrusive thoughts. "I really can't thank you enough for—"

"Not this time, Anakin."

Shit. "I— I didn't mean to—"

Ferus breezed right past, before Anakin could get another word in— as soon as there was enough room between himself and the open front door to do so. The first thing he did was wrinkle his nose in response to the rank odour of old smoke and stale food lingering in the air; the second thing he did was survey the space. His face was stony, and his shoulders were squared; to Anakin, he looked almost confrontational.

"At least it's not as bad as it was last time," he observed, even though he knew very well that wasn't saying very much.

Anakin didn't answer to that— what was there to say?

Immediately, Ferus started opening windows: Between the smoke and the acrid stench of whatever was rotting away in the kitchen, he felt he didn't have much of a choice.

"I've told you before," he said as he finished his walk around the perimeter of the room, "that if you're having a hard time, you need to tell her— be honest with her! I know you aren't together anymore, but—"

"If I could tell her about things like this," interrupted Anakin, motioning about at the mess, "then we would still be together. She doesn't understand; all she does is get angry. If she sees the house— sees me— this way, she'll take me right back to court. I... I might not see my kids for months." She hadn't always been so stringent, but over the years, Padmé's patience with Anakin and his struggles had worn thin. She wanted to go to work, raise her children, and see her friends— not babysit her sad, drunk husband.

Now that he was approaching thirty years of age, in fact, no one wanted to do that for Anakin anymore. Few ever did, except for Ferus, and even he'd grown increasingly distant since the start of the most recent spiral: It had all started almost a year ago, with Anakin quitting the hockey team; as far as Ferus could tell, there was still no end to it in sight.

He'd been there for Anakin as much as he could over the years: Sometimes that had been a lot and sometimes it had only been a little, but no matter what, it only ever got harder. Anakin made it that way, whether he meant to or not— like a heavy stone, inexplicably destined to be rolled uphill.

"If you're afraid of not being allowed to see your kids, Anakin..." Ferus trailed off; he sounded just exasperated enough that he knew he didn't need to finish. He didn't want to finish.

"I know," said Anakin, because he did— he did know. Swallowing hard in an effort to forgo the last sticky, useless vestiges of his own ego, he admitted, "I was going to a group, but..."

"But what?" Ferus demanded. Anakin had been in and out of about a dozen 'groups'.

"But... there were too many people. Every time I went to say something, I froze up— and— well, it—"

Ferus interrupted with a heavy sigh. "Whatever, Anakin," he said, with deliberate dismissiveness. "It doesn't matter. You called me here today to clean up for you, right?"

Anakin bit down on his lip. "Y-yeah— but it's not just—"

"Then I'll get cleaning." He walked off in the direction of the kitchen, then. Even though Anakin had only lived in it since his divorce, Ferus was quite familiar with the layout of his home: Again, this wasn't the first time he'd been called to fix things after one of his binges.

Ferus soon discovered (predictably) that the countertop needed as much work as the living room seemed to, if not more; several days worth of barely-picked-at food was stagnating in dishes all over every surface. The stove was near-invisible, and the sink might as well not have existed just then for how much there was stacked up inside of it.

There was a garbage can in the corner, but Ferus could hardly hazard a guess at the last time the bag inside had been changed.

Goddamnit, Anakin.

Ferus tightly clenched his own jaw as he bent to retrieve a big, plastic garbage bag from the cupboard beneath that tragically-overloaded sink; the one he hated that he was likely about to have to clean. He didn't like to be frustrated; not with Anakin, or anyone else— very likely (and somewhat juxtapositionally), his own inherent distaste for those types of feelings were what let him tolerate things like this as well as he did.

There was, however, only so much a person could take— even when that person happened to be Ferus Olin.

Anyway, cleaning Anakin's sink for him time after time didn't seem to be helping him very much. Briefly, Ferus wondered if he shouldn't just leave right then— if it might actually end up being better for Anakin (and everyone else) if his ex-wife were allowed to see for herself just how terribly he seemed to fall to pieces every few weeks.

...That thought, though, left his mind almost as quickly as it had invaded it. Even in the midst of his own irritation, Ferus couldn't bring himself to imagine the pain it would cause Anakin to have his children turned around on a dime, and marched back out to their mother's car on a day they were supposed to have visited.

Garbage bag in hand, he walked back out into the living room. Seeing Anakin standing there was, somehow, jarring; to view him head-to-toe was to be forced to acknowledge just how much of a toll nearly a decade's worth of guilt and grief had taken on him.

He was more pale (ashen, really) than Ferus could ever remember him being; skinnier, too; with dull, greasy hair far longer than anyone who knew Anakin would ever have presumed him to be comfortable with. His face was drawn, and his eyes were red— he didn't look well. It was then that Ferus came to understand that a large part of why he'd been so distant lately was (to his own deep and immediate regret) that Anakin had, quite simply, grown increasingly difficult to lay eyes on at as time had marched on.

It wasn't because he was ugly— no matter what Anakin did to himself, he could never have been ugly— but rather, because he didn't seem 'right'. He didn't seem like Anakin. At the very least, he wasn't who Ferus had come to know him to be, and witnessing his decline was, above all else, painful.

Even right now— from several feet away— Ferus was quite sure he could smell the days of grime that had built up on his body as he'd sat and drank, sprawled out on his gross, old couch.

"You should go upstairs and have a shower," he said, almost certainly more tersely than he actually intended. "I'll start taking care of things down here." That was, after all, how it had worked every other time he'd been called for this.

Anakin nodded, exactly as aware as Ferus of just how badly he needed to scrub himself down. After a brief moment of silent hesitation, he turned on his heel and walked off in the direction of the narrow staircase at the far end of the room. As he did, Ferus watched him; again, it hurt to do: From this angle, Anakin looked too old; almost gaunt beneath his clothes, with lines on his face and even a few subtle streaks of grey in his hair.

...In another way, though, he looked altogether too young: Like he hadn't aged (or, for that matter, grown) since the day he'd killed Darra.

He didn't 'kill' Darra.

He didn't mean to kill her.

By the time Anakin was trudging his way up the stairs (maybe for the first time that week), Ferus was glad not to be facing him.

He knew he shouldn't blame Anakin for what happened that night; he knew nobody else should, either— but it was, to an extent, unavoidable. He did it anyway (although he certainly wasn't the only one), and Anakin was all too aware of it. Her death had driven a silent wedge between them, and their relationship had never quite recovered. Ferus often theorized that it was a large part of why Anakin had run so readily into Padmé's arms after high school.

That endeavour, however well-intended, had always been destined to fail. Anakin had been broken beyond measure by then; too broken, anyway, for a single person to be able to pick up all of the pieces. Ferus had, in essence, left Padmé to do that all alone— was it really any wonder it hadn't worked out for them?

It hadn't all been Ferus' fault, of course, and he did know that, even if he didn't always feel it. Anakin had, frankly, been too young to get married— too young to have babies, and certainly too young to get divorced. Although fatherhood obviously brought him great joy (if it didn't, he would never have embarrassed himself by phoning anyone about this at all), it also took more from him than Ferus sometimes suspected he had to give.

He waited until he heard the shower upstairs begin to squeal before he started loading trash from the table into the bag. He couldn't help but shake his head as he did; the sheer volume of cigarette butts and liquor containers was, to him, patently morbid. Was Anakin trying to die?

He didn't have a right to that, Ferus thought bitterly. Not when he still had his kids; not when he still had people (or, one person, at least) who would come to him when he called. Darra never even got a chance to have anything like that.

Doesn't that mean anything to him?!

In his frustration, Ferus found himself being a bit less careful with what he was grabbing from the table— handfuls of trash went into the bag all at once; bottles and cigarette wrappers and loose bits of all manner of crap. As the dirty, semi-lacquered surface started to become visible again, he almost didn't notice when he happened to pick up something that wasn't garbage.

It was a good thing he did notice— because not only would Anakin never have forgiven Ferus for throwing out one of the only remaining photos of Darra in his possession, it was quite likely that Ferus wouldn't have forgiven himself, either.

"I don't know why you do this to yourself, Anakin," he muttered anyway, setting down the trash bag. He didn't actually look at the photo as he walked it over to a shelf at the edge of the room, and put it up out of harm's way: Why the hell would he have looked at it?

Looking at Darra wasn't going to bring her back.

The shower upstairs was still running; by now, Ferus could smell Anakin's soap as its scent wafted down the stairs. Graciously, it seemed to be helping displace some of the stale smoke that had built up in the living room—encouraging it out the newly-opened windows, and replacing it with something more palatable.

Anakin had been using the same soap for years; the familiarity of it was enough to dissolve Ferus' irritation (for now, at least) while he went back to work on the coffee table. Anyway, if he'd truly been upset with Anakin for this, would he really have shown up to help?

...Maybe.

He supposed that since he was already here, it didn't particularly matter anymore what he'd been feeling when he'd made the decision to show up.

Ferus would rather have been shooting pucks at Tru right now— he and Anakin had once done that together, alongside Ben and a number of other assorted alumni of their local high school; however, Anakin hadn't played hockey for a long time, now. Anyway, Tru hadn't spoken to him in any meaningful capacity since the accident with Darra; likewise, Anakin hadn't been close with Ben for years.

When she died, they had all died— all in their own ways.

Maybe Anakin's death was simply the ugliest. Maybe that was why it stood out.

The shower had stopped by then, and Ferus had moved onto the floor. He knew he couldn't vacuum the carpet until he'd at least picked up a few of the bigger chunks of clothing and garbage scattered about it. He managed to make a bit of progress before he heard Anakin's footsteps; segueing first into the hallway above him, and then starting heavily back down the stairs.

"Why aren't you dressed?" he asked, when Anakin appeared at the threshold of the living room with a towel wrapped around his waist.

"I don't have any clean clothes," he answered simply. He didn't even seem embarrassed to admit it, which somehow made it all the more sad.

Ferus sighed— sighed, and tried not to react to the sight of Anakin clad in a saggy, threadbare strip of terrycloth (it felt like a long time since he'd seen him in just a towel).

"My hockey bag is in my car," he said. "I have clean sweatpants, and a clean shirt in there, too— if you want, you can borrow them."

"I, um— that wouldn't... bother you?" Now Anakin did look ashamed, if only a little bit.

"Of course it wouldn't. We used to share clothes all the time, didn't we?"

Anakin nodded. The two had, in fact, once made quite a habit out of exchanging t-shirts and hoodies. "You, um— you don't mind going to get them, then...?"

"I'll be right back," said Ferus, setting the trash bag down in front of Anakin. "Try to pick up a couple of things while I'm gone, alright?"

"...Alright."

As Ferus walked out to his car, he couldn't help but wonder if the clothes he had in his bag would even fit Anakin properly. For someone who sat around drinking on most of his days off, he was disconcertingly thin; he supposed it must be a consequence of all that prepared-but-uneaten food he'd detected rotting away in the kitchen. He and Anakin had once shared dinners together— lots of them. Before he'd gotten married; sometimes even after that too, if Padmé was busy and her husband was lonely.

Ferus hadn't had dinner with Anakin for almost as long as he'd gone without seeing him in a towel.

Maybe it was something he ought to try again sometime.

"Here," he said, thrusting a soft, mostly-black bundle into Anakin's arms once he'd closed up his car, and made his way back into the house. "Go and put these on— you'll have to tie the pants up tight."

"Thanks," said Anakin. "I'll wash them and give them back; I—"

"Don't worry about it right now, okay? Just go and get dressed. I'll vacuum, and start gathering up laundry; once you've put yourself together, you can help with the kitchen." Ferus started to go back to the mess on the living room floor (there was even a small, dried-up puddle of what looked like vomit near the couch; that would require a bit of extra attention), but paused for a moment before fully turning his back.

"What?" asked Anakin. Of course he had noticed.

"...Nothing," replied Ferus. Anything else he had to say right now would have been inherently distracting; Anakin didn't need that. Anakin needed to get dressed.

"...O-okay," he conceded. "Okay, I... uh, I'll be right back, then." He wanted more than anything to prod Ferus (it had been a long time since the two had spoken meaningfully), but even he knew the time wasn't right— in less than two hours, he had to be a father.

He could always talk to Ferus later on... couldn't he?

It was too late to ask, because Ferus was already back at work filling up that garbage bag.

Anakin, in retreating back upstairs momentarily, found that Ferus' supposition had been correct: The pants were, indeed, too big; pulling the drawstring tight only seemed to do so much to rectify the issue. It made him feel insecure, but insecurity was just another luxury he didn't have time for today. After combing his hair through with his fingers, he tugged the shirt over his head— unable to keep from noticing that it bore the bright, cheerful emblem of the team they both used to play for.

The team whose practice Ferus is missing right now to help your sorry, drunk ass.

"Shut up. Not now."

Okay— but it's true.

The shirt was about as baggy as the pants, but that was alright. Ferus had always been a litter taller than Anakin, and Anakin had always liked clothes he could hide in. Back in high school— before what had happened to Darra; before he'd ever met Padmé— Ferus' hooded sweatshirts had been some of his favourite things to wear.

He probably still had one or two of them laying around, he thought... but his closet was as much a mess as the lower half of his house; he knew he wouldn't have had time to find one of them, even if he'd tried.

Another day, maybe.

Anakin's next descent into the living room was, to his dismay, marked by a brief-but-intense flash of abject terror: It expanded like fresh ice in his gut as he raced against his own angry body to get to the coffee table, whose spotlessly-clean surface was the source of his disconcert.

Ferus had left the room— presumably to go off and get the vacuum cleaner.

Unsure as to whether he was about to vomit or fall down, Anakin gripped the back of the couch.

"She's fine."

"I— I didn't—"

"I put her up on your bookshelf," said Ferus calmly, approaching Anakin where he stood by the sofa, vacuum in hand. "But... you know you should really get a frame for her, right?" If he'd been annoyed with Anakin for dwelling on the photo before, he wasn't anymore.

Anakin didn't look up from the surface of the coffee table. He didn't know why he was surprised that Ferus seemed to understand what he'd been doing— probably, it was because they hadn't talked about it in so damn long.

That made it even more difficult for him to confess to him, "If I put her in a frame, I... I won't be able to see her name anymore."

"...What?"

"Her name— on the back. She wrote it there for me; if I put it in a frame, I won't be able to flip it over and see it whenever I want."

Ferus was only barely successful in fighting his urge to sigh (later on, he'd be glad he had managed). "Why do you want to 'see' it, Anakin?" he asked. Ferus' voice was, inherently, more sharp than it was soft; he'd never been a gentle speaker, necessarily, but he tried hard to be one right now for his friend's sake. He didn't want his exasperation to show— not the full extent of it. "Why do you want to see Darra?"

"I miss her," said Anakin flatly. He sounded just the way he had when he'd answered the door; as though his words were a pre-programmed response to just the kind of question Ferus was posing him.

"You can't beat yourself up over her forever," Ferus pointed out. "You can't keep beating yourself in the head with this, and expecting—"

"Everyone else does."

"That isn't true! You—"

"Yes it is!" Anakin shouted, even though shouting hurt his head. "Tru and Ben both blame me; so do Darra's friends— and her mom and dad, not to mention everyone else we went to school with!" Anakin finally did look up at Ferus, then. "No one treats me normally anymore," he said, "and they haven't for years."

"You barely treat yourself normally anymore, Anakin!" There was that exasperation he'd been trying so hard to tamp down. "No one knows what to do with you; all we can do anymore is stand by and watch you get worse! You don't let us do anything else!"

"Th-this— this is why I stopped going to hockey," croaked Anakin, surprising even himself with the way his voice caught in his throat. He meant to say more, but he couldn't; his chest had already tightened, and his eyes were rapidly filling up with tears.

Ferus regretted saying anything about the picture at all beyond revealing that it was safe; alas, it seemed too late to remedy that. What was he supposed to say now? Anakin hadn't been able to solve this for ten years; Ferus certainly wasn't about to fix it in the span of a few minutes on a single, panicked, hung-over morning.

If he had that particular superpower, he'd have used it a long time ago.

"I— I'm sorry, Anakin," he tried. "I didn't mean—"

He stopped speaking when he realized that it didn't matter what he 'meant'. Anakin couldn't hear him anymore, because Anakin had started to cry.

When was the last time Ferus had seen Anakin cry?

The tears didn't come quietly; rather, Anakin's sobs made him shudder and heave, grateful he was still gripping the back of the sofa with his hand. When he started to double over anyway, he quickly resigned himself to hitting the floor— nothing he hadn't done before; nothing, even, that Ferus hadn't previously witnessed him do.

The confusion that overtook him when his knees failed to impact the carpeted hardwood was almost enough to shock him out of his fit.

Almost.

"Wh-what— what a-are... y-you—"

"Shh."

"F-Ferus, I— I don't—"

"Quiet," Ferus whispered, unafraid of bearing Anakin's entire weight against his chest. If anything, it was too easy to hold him up. "Just be quiet, alright? I'm sorry I said anything— I'm sorry I ever brought it up."

He felt Anakin shake his head ruefully against his breastbone.

"No," he shouted! muffled, into Ferus' shirt. "No, you— you're right; right about everything, a-and I— I—"

Anakin couldn't seem to finish a sentence; Ferus, for his part, dug his fingers into his old friend's back as a wave of conflicting emotions crashed into him: Relief, first, because this was as honest as the two had been with one another in an exceptionally long time; fear, too, because he didn't know where the hell to go from this point. His phone buzzed from inside his pocket— an alarm, he knew, telling him that hockey practice was starting. It made him jump anyway.

"Anakin," he said, taking an inordinately deep breath in an attempt to maintain his own composure. "Anakin, it's eleven o'clock— your kids are going to be—"

"I know! And if I— i-i-if I c-can't even c-clean up for them, th-then—"

"You can clean up for them, though! I've seen you do it; I've helped you do it!" Carefully, Ferus moved to peel Anakin's head away from his chest. He wanted to look at his face, no matter how difficult it was. Something told him he was going to be seeing a lot more of it, in the weeks and months to follow.

Anakin shook his head again, looking up at Ferus through his own wet hair and tears. "No," he protested. "Not this time! I... I just can't— you're right; it's too bad this time, I need—"

"You need to let me help you, Anakin! Not just help you clean; not just help you hide things from Padmé! You'll let me in long enough to do this," he emphasized, daring to take a hand from Anakin to motion at the room around them, "but you always throw me out before I have a chance to even try to figure out what else you need!" He could feel tears of his own, now; they were gathering at the very edges of his eyes, making him angry at himself. "You do that, and then you get mad at me for not understanding!"

"Ferus—"

"How can I understand?!"

"F— Ferus—"

"How can I?!"

Anakin didn't have an answer for Ferus— not then. How was he supposed to help him understand? After so many years of awkward silence and walking on eggshells, how was he supposed to know how to do anything else?

"I... I don't know. I don't know, Ferus— I'm sorry."

Ferus didn't know either... but once again, it had been years and years since he'd felt so close to finding out. He wanted to sit Anakin down and get him talking; in a very big way, this was the perfect time to do it.

...In a much, much bigger way, though, it truly wasn't— and that was because Anakin had more than just himself to worry about these days.

Ferus had been steeling himself against one thing or another for most of his life: He did it against his own long-repressed empathy and affection just then, telling Anakin with an utterly feigned air of authority, "That's fine— that's fine; you don't have to know right now."

Whether he truly understood his choice or not, Ferus had already decided that he wasn't going to leave today just because Anakin's house was clean. That meant they had plenty of time to figure it out together... as long as Anakin would talk to him later.

He hoped Anakin would talk to him later.

"B-but—"

"No," said Ferus. "No buts. Your kitchen is a mess, there's puke to scrape out of your rug, and your kids are on their way— the only thing you need to know right now is how you want them to see their dad when they get here. Do you understand?"

Anakin's stomach clenched, and he found himself having to repress one final, heaving sob before he could will himself to separate entirely from Ferus... who had, by now, been buttressing him for a rather extended period of time.

He did it, though— he did it, and once he was standing under his own power again, he bit down on his lip and nodded.

"I do," he said. "I... I do."

"Good— then go into the kitchen, and start throwing things out while I take care of your carpet. If we don't stop until we're finished, we might just be able to make this place look okay in time for Luke and Leia."

Hearing his kids' names spoken out loud seemed to be the last little spark Anakin needed to ignite his motivation: He came unstuck from the floor, then... that newly-bare coffee table in front of the couch finally having become a source of relief rather than fear.

Darra is as safe as she's ever going to be, his brain reminded him, far more gently than it had told him anything else that day. Leave her, just for now— Ferus is right.

It seemed he really was... because once Anakin started scraping old food into the trash, loading up his dishwasher, and soaking his pots, he felt significantly more capable than he had when he'd woken up. Not better, necessarily... but certainly more apt, if nothing else.

He'd desperately needed the boost of confidence.

"I still don't know how I'm going to be 'on' for them," he confessed, when the two finally met in the living room to survey the house at the tail-end of their mutual cleaning endeavour. Ferus had just ascended from the basement, having loaded some laundry into the washer; Anakin had just put the finishing touches on the kitchen.

"What do you mean 'on'? They're your kids." Driven purely by old instinct, he took Anakin's hand in his; held it tight. It felt as natural as anything.

Anakin didn't pull away, because why would he have? Ferus hadn't held his hand in years; so many that he'd barely realized how much he'd missed it. He also couldn't help but laugh: Ferus didn't understand, because he didn't have children of his own. "That's exactly it," he said. "They are my kids. They're six years old; they're going to want to talk, play, and have fun... and because I was an idiot all week, I still feel too much like shit to be what they need me to be."

Ferus thought.

"...We could take them to a movie together," he offered tentatively. That fake authority he'd been injecting into his voice back before Anakin had begun to come around was all but gone, right along with his own initial desire to leave.

If anything, he was now far more frightened of being sent away than he was at the notion of staying behind to help.

"You can sit in the dark for a little while," he went on, when Anakin didn't answer him right away. "And drink some water, too. I'll do the driving, and the kids will think it's all for fun; by the time we get back here, you'll feel a lot better." With his eyes instead of his mouth, Ferus added to that, If you're as tired as you look, you can even rest your head on my shoulder for a while and try to fall asleep— just like you always used to. Few things had felt better to Ferus, back when he'd still been nineteen.

Anakin was a bit slow sometimes, but he wasn't stupid: He more than understood. Although he smiled, Ferus' offer was nearly enough to start him crying again; the only thing that stopped it was a noise— one that seemed sudden, but really wasn't.

He turned his head, because he could hear the gravel in the driveway crunching beneath the tires of what he already knew to be his ex-wife's little green sedan. (It did not escape him that the sound would never have wafted through the front window so clearly, had Ferus not had the prescience to open it when he'd arrived.)

"...Ferus," he said, voice catching in his throat yet again as somebody outside opened and shut one of the car's doors. "I... I think a movie is a good idea, but I— I... I'm also still sorry for—"

"Don't be." Ferus squeezed Anakin's hand one last time, then released it in favour of motioning towards the front door, as if to usher him in its direction. "You don't have time for 'sorry' right now, remember?"

Anakin nodded. "...Still," he said, grasping the knob, "I know I need to make this up to you, and I will— I promise."

Briefly, Ferus paused to think. "...If you really want to make it up to me," he proposed with an admittedly sly smile, "then you can do it by coming to the game on Wednesday. How does that sound?" He felt especially satisfied with himself, because he knew Anakin didn't have time to argue with him. Besides— during their initial phone conversation, he had promised to do 'anything' in return for Ferus' help.

"I— Ferus, you know I haven't been to the arena in—"

Just then, there was a knock at the door: It was quick and enthusiastic, almost certainly belonging to either Luke or Leia (but probably Luke).

Anakin half-sighed, and— feeling for all intents and purposes as though he didn't have any other options available to him— reluctantly agreed to Ferus' condition. "...Fine," he said, "I'll come by, but I really don't think—"

It didn't matter what Anakin thought, though, because he'd already begun to open the door... and as soon as the gap was wide enough for Luke and Leia to slide in past one another, they did: Calling out greetings to both their dad and to their newly-grinning 'uncle' Ferus beside him— whose presence, of course, they didn't think twice about as they bounded into the freshly-tidied living room, immediately taking it upon themselves to make it their own.

They had no idea what it (or their dad) had looked like mere hours before... and now, thanks to Ferus, they wouldn't have to. All Luke and Leia needed to know about their dad today was that he loved them, and (hockey or no hockey) Ferus was going to make sure that his love for them was all they got to see this weekend.

Anything else he and Anakin needed to worry about, they could worry about it later on— together, the way they always should have.

#anakin x ferus #anakin skywalker #ferus olin #modern au #jedi quest #alcoholism #drunk driving #angst #happy ending

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