#your own little private idaho

[troncelliti]

@annetv86 my knowledge is small but acute: Dostoyevsky; Proudhon; Gorky; Schulz; Rand… to name a few.

Words like: anarchy; democracy and who is, Democritus or what is, utopia? …are a couple of things I understand, also.

And, you? Anna. Tell me a little of your knowledge, won’t you? What have you come to understand up to now, in your own little Private Idaho?

[plutoswritingplanet]

It's A Special Death You Saved (Feyd Rautha x Female!Reader) pt.4 (final)

a/n: we did it Joe! this chapter officially marks the first ever series i've completed lmao. thank you for all the support on this fic, every like, every comment, every out-of-pocket anon ask.

Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content (like...fr this time), Blood and Violence, Manipulation.

Summary: After the wedding, Husband and Wife work out the intricate web of their relationship.

Pt. 1, Pt. 2, Pt. 3

Gurney looks at you as if you're already dead.

You hide from his gaze, ducking behind pillars, whenever you can hear his footsteps. It's truly depressing, the way your mentor shakes his head, as if, instead of looking at you, he's looking at a coffin. You suppose he might be right, he's the one with the most experience in the Harkonnen area. He's fought them, dined with them, seen their customs through and through. And now, his dutiful little student is about to be thrown into the very same world, he has relayed to you as a nightmarish fairytale. Still, a little misplaced optimism wouldn't kill him. Or just, a sliver of hope, an inclination that you might survive this. 

The day of your wedding rolls upon you like an oceanic storm, all chaos and rumbling. 

Here you sit, your bones locked with nerves, as the servants pack away your things. A futile thing, you muse to yourself. It's highly doubtful the Harkonnens will let you keep any personal items back from Caladan. They'll mold you into their image, until all your hair naturally falls out. The thought would make you laugh, but here's a servant, placing your jewelry into a case, which lands in a bag, which will be transported to the Harkonnen ship by the end of the day.

Your room, the place you've spent all your life in, slowly becomes more and more barren. 

The closet stands empty, so do the drawers. All your trinkets are swiftly transported away until you're left alone in your wedding dress, the only familiar thing between the hollow ribs of your life's sanctuary. Wishing you could fold the entirety of the castle, with the stables, and the horses, and the cliffs, and throw it into the final suitcase, so you can open it up in times of turmoil, and breathe in the familiar scents. You need to leave, right now. Sitting like this, wrenches a dangerous numbness out of your chest. And you can't be allowed to dissapear into yourself. You're an Atreides, you shall wear your pain with dignity, as per your Mother's wishes.

Your wedding dress swishes around you, as you stand up from your bed. It's much more classy, and less of a chiffon catastrophe, than your engagement dress, a welcome change. The veil is embroidered with light crystals and metal plating. It falls heavily over your face, and jingles when you move. By all intents and purposes, it is a dream dress. A dress you'd like to wear for a wedding of your own, a wedding with some dashing gentleman. A gentleman, which in your most private of dreams, has the face of Duncan Idaho, with silver rings braided into his hair. 

Instead, you're left with this monster, so alien and cold. A beast at the center of the maze.

The bull looks at you from the wall. Its horns, smeared with your Grandfather's blood, curl grotesquely into the ceiling. The head is mounted above the doors to the library, a grim reminder of his spectacular death. As a child, you'd spend hours, standing right here, at the entrance, staring at the animal's head. You've always wondered, whether it were the lights playing tricks on your mind, or you saw a shadow of pride in the bull's eyes. 

Did it know who was its victim? The leader of one of the most important Houses in all known universe laid dead at its feet. Did it know what sort of spectacle it produced? What destruction of hubris? You suppose it couldn't, it was an animal, after all. A headless creature, hung on a wall. Still, you stare at it, just like you used to, trying to decipher your own fate from its cold, dead eyes.  

After all, there will be a spectacle, a life-long fight stands ahead of you. Giedi Prime shall be your arena, dead and cold, covered in black. And every single Harkonnen will be your bull, their mere presence a deathly danger to your being. It took one bull to end your Grandfather, you dread to think how many it'll take to end you. There will be blood, you're sure of it. And if things were allowed to go your way, it would flow in rivers upon rivers, through the industrial halls of Giedi Prime. You'd have the entire planet drowned in their blood. Your cursed betrothed, the Baron, the fucking Emperor if you had to. 

The bull laughs at your quiet hate, beady eyes bearing down upon you in an imaginary display of indifference. You huff, cheeks reddened, insides twisted and burning.

That's how your Father finds you. Enchanted by a once living instrument of death. 

He hasn't spoken to you, since your betrothed has arrived, not really. Not like you used to talk. A way to shield himself, you supposed, from the Emperor's order, which will soon enough take his only Daughter away from him. This was your superpower. You could fish out signs of love in every action. 

- Your Mother hates that thing - he comments, as he stands next to you, eyes looking up at the bull. 

- I don't blame her, the sight is quite disturbing. - you reply evenly. 

You've missed him, more than you can possibly explain with words. But teary displays of affections were below you, especially since you're trying to distance yourself, rise above your body, float right out of your head. Perhaps it'll hurt less that way.  Duke Leto Atreides turns to you, and for the first time in a month, you recognize your Father behind this statue of authority. He looks troubled, for lack of a better word. There's much more gray on his brow and the lines of his face are darker, harsher. 

- I came to give you something - he announces, producing a small object out of the pocket of his trousers. 

It's harder than you thought, tearing your gaze away from the bull, but you manage, your eyes landing on a figurine in your Father's hands. Your heart stops, as you recognize the blackened stone, polished to perfection. On a flat disc stands a figure of a Matador, proud and posed. Next to him, a bull, ready to strike. It's cold to the touch, when you take it from your Father, ridges of the small sculpture digging into your palm. 

Jumping in front of danger, for better or worse. Your head starts to hurt.

- Father - the sound of your shaking voice carries through the corridor - How will I ever survive this?

By the way Duke Leto Atreides sucks in a sharp breath, you can deduce the answer. And what a sad answer it is. 

Your Father steps closer, gathering your trembling hands in his, the warmth of his embrace engulfing you like the first sun rays of spring. He squeezes your fingers, tightening your own hold on the small figurine, and his eyes are so incredibly sad, you're convinced they could make any heart in the universe weep. 

- With courage - he says - and grandiose. 

Like a true Matador would. 

***

Your bull stands completely still. 

His pale skin creates a beautiful contrast against the ever present darkness of the Harkonnen ship. It's so much different from your native fleet, all sleek and black, and efficient. Terrifying, but at the same time, strangely beautiful. 

The both of you watch, as the hatch is being pulled up, slowly but surely obscuring all sight of your home planet. Of your family, standing by the docking station like a funeral parade. It's only when you can no longer see them, your life sealed with a click of finality, does your betrothed, now husband, move. 

His hand grasps your upper shoulder, and you jump at the sudden contact. Your confused gaze is completely ignored, as the man drags you through the ship, taking large, hasty steps. 

Hairless faces swish past you, all so similar to each other, you're worried you'll never figure out who is who. The corridors of the ship wind and turn like a merciless labyrinth, a realization daunting on you, that you will never be able to find your way in this place. 

Suddenly, you're faced with a black door, which opens as soon as your husband walks up to it. His grip tightens and he basically throws you forward, watching you stumble through the entrance on weak legs. 

It takes you a second to gather yourself, as you instinctually settle into a defensive stance. The room you're in looks quite different from the rest of the ship. It's much more luxurious, one would risk saying cozy. With a gigantic, round bed filled with pillows, a dark desk, and a deliciously comfortable looking armchair. It all dims in your eyes, however, as you look up at your newlywed.

He stands right at the entrance, blocking the only means of escape with his tall frame.

Both of you are still in your wedding clothes. Your dress hugs your body in a way that is anything but comforting. His outfit is as black and sharp, as all his attire. It exposes his lean physique, clings to his warrior's physique. Terrifying, your brain summarizes, muscles freezing suddenly. Feyd Rautha looks at you with emotions you can't decipher in the low light of his room. Your room. Your marital abode. 

You can't breathe, lungs tighten painfull with the sheer thickness of the air between the two of you. Still, there's a certain power, residing in your bones, an inclination of a fight you're ready to put up, should he try anything. And by the way his brow bone settles over his darkened eyes, your husband seems to understand. What a terrifying thought. The sheer idea of finding a common ground with this awful man makes your guts turn. 

He doesn't even flinch, when the doors behind him slide open. You however, nearly jump out of your skin at the sound, cutting through the deafening silence of the bedroom. With furrowed brow you watch, as three Harkonnen women spill into the room. All of them completely hairless, lips pulled back in feral snarls, as they regard you with an emotion you can only interpret as contempt. Their bodies, clad in typical, Harkonnen garments, flow and slither, when they gather behind your husband, like three hungry lionesses, their black eyes flickering to him, to you. 

- Get her ready - Fey Rautha throws a command over his shoulder, eyes glued to you still, and his gaze drags itself across your body like tar.

This is the first time you've heard him speak since the wedding, and involuntarily, you cringe at the gravely sound. While he stayed silent, it was easy to forget who you're dealing with. But as soon as sound leaves his mouth, you're cruelly reminded of the roughness, and the strangeness of your life's partner. 

The three women stir behind him, hands sliding up his body in a gesture, that is almost too close to reverence. He does look like a young god, like some ethereal being, but you're too distressed to dwell on that thought. Instead, your arms encircle your body, a shiver of terror and strangely, disgust flowing over you, at the mere idea of these women touching you. Then, one of those three strange creatures moves forward. She has a stripe of black running down her bottom lip, and her face twists into a cruel smile.

She says something in a language you don't recognize. Probably a native Harkonnen. A rough bark, her disgusted expression translating the meaning better, than any dictionary would. 

 Still, you have no time to process the foreign insult, because as soon as words leave her mouth, your husband turns. His white hand grabs the woman's hairless head, as one would pick an apple from an orchard, and then, you see a flicker of true terror flash through the woman's face. In a smooth, deadly gesture, Feyd Rautha smashes her face against the wall, the resounding sound of her skull fracturing against the concrete is like the cracking of a whip in your ears. 

That's all it takes, one move, and she falls into a lifeless heap, sliding down the wall. 

A sigh escapes your lips, as your eyes stay glued to her body. You can't see her face. 

Your husband barks something towards the remaining two women, and they scurry towards you, heads hung low, bodies curled onto themselves. You don't know, whether he looks at you, acknowledges you in any way, shape or form. The doors close behind him, as he leaves you in the hands of his... Whatever these women are to him. 

They begin to strip you where you stand. Their hands peel off your wedding dress from your trembling body, and every move feels like tearing skin from muscle. You can't protest, can't do anything really. Dark, thick blood pools around the third woman's head, dripping between the tilled floor, slowly making it's way closer to your feet. 

When they pull you towards the bed, you say nothing. Let them massage your body with some ointment, which smells of heavy chemicals and scratches your throat. 

Their hands are unexpectedly delicate. You suppose they're too scared to take revenge on you, or perhaps, they just don't care. Doesn't really matter, because you do. You really care, despite yourself. Heart squeezes in your chest impossibly tight, when they help you up from the bed, and once again you're confronted with the white corpse in the corner of the room. 

The dress they pull over your body hardly qualifies as a garment in your eyes. It's made of delicate, sheer material, which barely covers anything, looking more like a courtain thrown over a window. 

Is this how he wants you, you wonder. Terrified, bare, always on the verge of something, be it tears or anger. 

One of the women steps in front of you, takes your hands in hers and rubs something into your cold bones. You try to catch her eye, try to decipher how to categorize them, as humans or as creatures, but she swiftly ducks under your inquisitive gaze. That is, until your eyes flicker towards the corpse once again. 

Her hand shoots up towards your chin, dragging you back to meet her onyx eyes. You can see the reflection of your own confused face in the void.

- You- she rasps, her voice a grating symphony of gurgles and growls that stumble over the common language - Soft.

Whether it's a warning, or a threat, you can't fully decide, but it doesn't matter. Those two words tell you more about your future life, than any book, any archived account. This is what the Harkonnens are made of. Sensless violence, outbursts of anger, dark blood. You swallow thickly, and nod, your expression hardening in the woman's eyes. She looks as if there's something else she'd want to say, but her head ducks at record speed, when the sound of the doors opening cuts through the air once more. 

For a longer moment you're completely devoid of words. 

Here stands you husband, some sort of fruit in his right hand, two daggers hanging from the belt on his trousers. His chest, white and (unfortunately) toned beyond belief stares back at you. His unoccupied hand makes a wide gesture, and the remaining two women scurry off towards their third, dead companion. With quick hands, they grab the body and drag it out of the room, letting the door slide closed behind them. Immediately, you miss their presence, unnerving as they are.

Once again, you're left alone with the na-Baron. 

His eyes float freely all over your figure, taking it in with an impassive stare. It's deeply unnerving, the way you're presented to him, the way he organized all of this, tailored it to his liking. You can't help it, the way your body begins to warm before him, skin becoming prickly to the touch, much too sensitive for the strange imitation of fabric covering it. Still, your mind stays sharp, and instinct kicks in, as you take a cautious step back, angling your bady away from him. 

- So, what now? - you ask, voice rough, eyes following his every move. 

And move he does, slowly advancing towards you. His feet, which you now discover, are bare, drag behind him. Grace and danger mix well within his movements, as he circles you, still without a word. You throat runs dry, when he bites the fruit in his hand, dark juice spilling all over his lips, drops rolling down his hands, his forearms. Your stomach churns. 

- Now - again you're reminded of the gravely tones his voice can carry - We consumate our marriage, wife. 

Somehow, your marital status sounds like a mockery spilling from his lips, and he laughs at the way your face scrunches.

- I don't want you to touch me - a lie, your entire body burns for any semblence of friction, but you're determined to keep some dignity.

To that, he nods his head in silent agreement, a gesture, which actually manages to surprise you. The fruit is thrown forgotten onto the floor. It rolls under the bed, and you fight the urge to reprimend your husband. Instead, you bite your lip. 

- I thought you would say that - he murmurs, coming closer, his breath fanning over your exposed shoulder. 

The hair at the back of your neck stands straight, and you crane your head to the side, so you can look him in the face. So he can see the disaproving expression, perhaps he'd feel a fraction of the hate boiling in your gaze. Then, you can feel something, cold and sharp, drag itself from the dip in your spine, all the way up to your shoulder blades. A gasp escapes you, and your entire body shivers violently. 

- That's why I brought these. - Feyd Rautha whispers into your ear, and you can't help but sway lightly in your place, as if his words have the power to physically move you.

Then, your hand closes around a metal object, and you look down to be met with a beautifully crafted dagger. The blade is silver, shiny, and unbelievably sharp. It fits into your grasp as if it was made specially for you, and the possibility almost makes you smile. Then, confusion creases your brow, and your husband flashes you a deadly, black smile, as he steps back a couple of steps. 

He's holding a blade as well, jet black and strangely matte, a perfect antitype of yours. There's a sort of lazy excitement about him, hidden in every movement. It reminds you of the way he'd behave in the arena, while making a spectacle of death for you and your family. 

- I though this would work on you - he muses, twirling the blade in his hand, and your muscles seize with realization. - And it definitely works on me.

The idea is preposterous, utterly scandalous. Using a fight as some perverse attempt at foreplay, your brain swimms with conflicting emotions. 

- You're being ridiculous - you attempt to diffuse the situation, but your husband doesn't budge, rolling his shoulders.

- Come on, wife - he snarls, with a sharp smirk - Don't you want to hurt me?

Something boils inside of you at his words. Some ancient, terrifying anger that you supposed, has always been there with you. From the moment you stepped onto the red carpet, leading you towards your undoing at the altar. Red, like the spilled blood still staining the floor of this bedroom. The rage, which you swallowed down, when you recited the vows, when you let him unveil your face, kiss you in front of the entire Atreides court. Now, it seeped through every pore in your skin, covering you in a tar like courtain. 

You hate your husband. You hate Feyd Rautha, the na-Baron of House Harkonnen.

Hate him for being your husband, for agreeing to this cruel match. For taking you away from your family, from your wise Father, and your strict Mother, and your sweet Brother. For ripping you away from love, which didn't even have time to properly bloom. Duncan's face dances in front of you like a taunting vision from an angry god, and your fingers tighten around the dagger. 

Feyd Rautha is right. You want to hurt him. You wanted to, before you even met him. 

- There you are - his lips pull back into a cruel, blackened smile of self-satisfaction - I was worried they took away all your venom, Viper. 

You'll show him fucking venom, you think, feet sliding on the floor, twisting your body into a dancing position. Two sets of shields click into life, and suddenly you begin to understand. 

This is your arena. This is your bull. 

This will be your battlefield for the rest of your life, for as long as you're able to withstand it. With courage and grandiose, your Father's voice haunts you, but soon after another echo rises in your mind. Your Mother, your teacher, her whisper slithers from your memory, a passing comment right before you're shipped off to Giedi Prime, when she squeezed your hand so tight, you were worried tendons under your skin would snap. 

Excitement and arousal flow freely from your husband's expression, as he watches yours harden. Something inexplicable settles over your features, a promise. You'll give him a fight of a lifetime, and he'll love it, every single time. It should unnerve you, the way his body lowers itself, like a panther ready to strike. It would've unnerved you some time ago. 

Now, however, it shows you a clear path to survival. This is how you take control.

Cold blood splatters from under your feet, as you jump towards him, a series of measured blows following closely behind. He blocks them, lets some be pushed back by the shield. Then, he's on you, brutal and unhibited slashes fly around your body, and you meet all of them with a blocking blade. You're pushed back, towards the wall, where remains of the previous killing still stain the concrete. Blood seeps into the thin fabric on your body, and you shiver in disgust, as it sticks to you. 

Your husband doesn't notice, his blade leaves a rather deep mark in the wall, as you duck under his arm, and avoid a nasty punch to the gut.

 Plap, plap, plap, your feet carry you through the room, as you try to gain some leverage. The mattress on the bed is surprisingly soft, when you climb on top of it, gaining the advantage of a higher position. An advantage, which is quickly torn out of your hands, as your husband grabs onto your ankle, tugging at it with such force, you tumble down in an instant.

Panic rises in your gut, as the world sins around you, and without really thinking, you let your mind flow into autopilot.

- Let me go! - the Voice tears out of your throat like a landslide, and Feyd Rautha throws himself off of you, his body colliding with the nearby desk. 

Books and papers crash to the floor with the force of his figure. Your head swimms, but you will it away, too focused on survival to care for your well-being. Both of you are panting, trying to recover from this sudden use of ancient magics. 

- I should rip that treacherous tongue right out of your skull - the threat would carry more strength, if your husband's expression wasn't absolutely dripping with unabashed lust. 

Never in your life has someone looked at you this way, and the shock of emotions is enough to pull you right to your feet. Your blade reflects the dim lights of the room, as you raise it high, body taunt and ready. 

- You'll never get that close.

A challenge, which doesn't even have enough time to properly resound in the thick air of the room, before Feyd Rautha pushes himself off the desk. Things clatter to the ground from the force of his movements, and you barely have time to react, when his blade sinks into your shield. Your body flies backwards, falling in heap with his at the foot of your marital bed. The edge digs into your back, your left hand pressed tightly into the mattress. 

He's hovering over you, panting like a wild animal, face illuminated red from below, where, just short of his juggular, your blade licks a stripe across his alabaster skin. His right hand is wedged between your bodies, dagger nicking you under your ribs. And you stay in this position, like a marble statue, your eyes melting into his, frozen in time. 

- You fought well, Atreides - his voice rumbles deep within his chest, and you can't help, but snarl at his words. - We would've taken each other to an early grave. 

Something dangerously close to fondness floods his features at the idea, and your fingers start to unravel, letting go of the dagger one by one. He doesn't have a chance to react, when your blade clatters to the floor, and your hand, now free, grabs the back of his head, pulling him down.

Your kiss opens the gates of hell, and soon, his own dagger is thrown across the room. You can't see, refuse to see, as your eyelids flutter closed. His lips are slightly chapped, but not any less delicious. Left hand thrashes in his hold, until he lets it go. Then, they both find purchase against his sharp cheekbones, and you hold him so tight, you might break his face with your ministrations. 

- I knew it would work - he pants against your lips, you can hear the smile in every syllable.

- Shut the fuck up - you snarl, fingers digging deeper into his skin.

He groans into the kiss, immediately forcing his tongue into your mouth, as his hands work hard to manouver your legs open enough, for him to slot in between. Then, his touch is everywhere. On your legs, he drags the sheer fabric up and down your thighs, as he carresses your skin, blunt nails digging into the flesh of your hips. They venture upwards, to grab at your breasts, they fight their way into your hair, where he pulls and scrapes. 

It doesn't matter, you think, when you hear the fabric tear, and the carefully chosen attire falls from your body. Nothing matters. 

You're boneless and defenseless against this one insidious emotion, which carries your every move, which compells you to arch your back, to reveal your running pulse under his searching lips. Feyd Rautha bites down on your skin, right where your neck meets your shoulder, and you respond in kind, head descending upon his porcelain skin. He shudders under your teeth and tongue, his entire body tensing.

This is how you take control, and you've never felt so greedy. 

His trousers aren't even fully off of his legs, when he enters you, clumsily and with urgency, bare feet sliding on the floor. Surprisingly inexperienced, he chases your core with his entire body, as if the heat of your insides in a completely foreign sensation.Your moan tears at the column of your throat, where his lips leave a trail of purple marks. The covers remains undisturbed, as your husband ruts into you, pressing your back harder against the edge of the bed. It's uncomfortable, it's hurtful, but somehow, it feels perfect for the two of you. Fucking like wild animals, not even able to make it onto the bed.

- I hate you - you repeat, like a mantra, broken voice cascading with every thrust. - I hate you, I ha- 

Your head rolls backwards, when a particularly hard thrust nearly breaks you, but your husband is here to help, his hand grabbing the the roots of your hair, bringing your head down, so you can watch as he performs a magic trick of repeatedly disapearing into your body. 

You're not sure who's blood his hand slips on, but suddenly, you're fully on the floor, your body crushed by his. Nothing stops his wild movements, not the sloppiness of it all, not the hard wails he tears from your body. If anything, the more strain his body is under, the more ferocious he's being. Your hand shoots up, all five fingers digging into his throat, and you're rewarded with an angelic moan, which almost brings you to your finish line. Almost. 

His head leans down into the crook of your neck, where he whispers something in Harkonnen, a gurgle of rough sounds, interrupted by sinful moans. He sounds so beautiful, so conflicted, for a second you consider being gentle with him. Alas, you hate him still.  

Another realization dawns upon you, as your feet kick with force into your husbands backside, to force him deeper, to keep him inside. This is still a fight. You're still on the battlefield, still waving a red flag in front of a raging bull. So, with courage and grandiose, your muscles tense, and you roll your husband over. 

The change in position makes both of you gasp in unison, as you sink down onto him. For a second, everything stops. His lips are red and swollen, sweat and blood mix on his skin, flow down in pinkish stripes. And he watches you, as one would a holy painting of a foreign god. With reverence and utter lack of understanding. You're fully aware the look is mirrored on your face. 

Slowly at first, your hips begin to rock, up and down, in a steady rhythm, that forces a shuddering breath to leave Feyd Rautha's lips. You bend down, to catch it, and because of your greed, you catch his bottom lip as well. The bite you give him is anything but romantic, and his hips jump from the floor, hitting a spot within you, you didn't know existed. He swallows your moan along with his own blood, and his fingertips map the curve of your spine, as you straighten upon him.

Fingernails latch themselves into the skin of his chest, as you speed up, chasing your own release and no one else's. Moans spill from your lips, the concept of shame abandoning your mind completely. Then, compelled by something dark and twisted you drag claw marks down his torso. 

His body shudders, and his hips lift off the ground, fucking into you with reckless abandon. The hold he has on the flesh of your hips is bruising, to say the least, but you did enough damage to call it even. Enough, to make your body tremble and tense up, as climax creeps up on you steadily. 

Like a shark sniffing for blood, he senses the change in your being, and as you tumble over the edge, a silent scream tearing at your throat, he suddenly rises into a seating position. His arms encircle you fully, pressing your sweaty bodies impossibly close, as he too finds his own end. 

It takes him second, to tumble over, filling you to the brim with ink. His head buries itself into your shoulder, inhaling your scent through deep gasps, each eliciting a broken growl from his chest. 

Your bones are gone completely, body relaxing and falling breathless into your husband's arms. After a while of sitting in complete stillness, he moves first. Strong hands lift you up, off of him, and you whine at the emptiness. 

Then, as a last hurrah, he throws you onto the bed, where your recovering body sinks into the soft mattress. It's heavenly, the way you seem to float in nothingness, head swimming from exertion. For a moment you don't even register him climbing into the bed with you, drunk on the fading tension seeping from your every pore.

The lights are almost completely out, yet his skin shines against the black comforter. You wish to see if he's flushed, like he was at the engagement party. Leaning on one arm, his fingers trail around the small wound under your ribs. Dried blood flakes off of your skin, and you shudder again. 

- I - you start, voice completely broken - I've never known hate, until I met you. 

You're not sure why you've said it. Perhaps, in this moment of serenity, truth seems to float to the surface much more easily. Or perhaps you're possessed, or worse, gone completely insane. Eother way, your eyebrows furrow, and Feyd Rautha leans down to kiss your forehead, gently. 

- If this is how your hate looks like - he whispers into your hairline, teeth scraping lightly against it - I dread to imagine your love. 

You'll never find out, you think, but for some reason can't fully vocalize it. 

He says something else, after a while, but your mind is becoming as heavy as your body, and as the day descends upon you in a heap of exhaustion, you fall asleep.

And while your story has nothing but suffering in the future, while there's death and mourning, and years of violence written in the stars for you. Right now, on the Harkonnen ship sailing through space to Giedi Prime, you sleep in the arms of your husband. Whether this strange symbiotic relationship will last, no one can tell, but there is hope, and what else could you possibly need? 

[ballerinarina]

Now playing Teen Idle - MARINA

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌၊|• 4:14

𐙚my details:

𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬: cece, cissy

𝐚𝐠𝐞: twenty years old {a may 2004 baby}

𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐬: she/her & they/them

𝐛𝐢𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞: taurus sun, piscies moon, sagittarius rising {born in são paulo}

𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐭𝐲𝐩𝐞: infp 4w3

𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐬: portuguese, english, spanish

𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐮𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬: multimedia and performing arts

𝐝𝐞𝐯𝐨𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐨: aphrodite and dionysus {beginner}

𝐲𝐞𝐬𝐲𝐞𝐬! ballet, fashion, acting, singing, polyamory, moodboards

𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐨! zionism, anti-mogai, racism, psychophobia, j.k rowling, t.a tumblr

⭑ i was found dreaming and blogging between my angelic-girly-pink and my nerdy-theater-kid sides

𐙚things in my heart:

𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐜: bts, lana del rey, marina, sandy & junior, kate bush, björk, coldplay, new jeans, duquesa, txt, aurora, måneskin, the neighborhood

𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐬: the dreamers, whiplash, secret garden (1993), pearl, big hero 6, august rush, ballerina, my own private idaho, my sweet orange tree, the little prince (1970)

𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬: flower of evil, maid, the queen's gambit, the umbrella academy, baby italy, heartbreak high, it's okay to not be okay, hilda hurricane

𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬: gravity falls, banana fish, the promised neverland, naruto, sakura card captors, your name, words bubble up like soda pop, oshi no ko

𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐬: quackity, cellbit, bagi, matt, guaxinim

𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐬 & 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬: river phoenix, ana paula arósio, froy gutierrez, taís araújo, mia goth, fernanda torres, jamie bower, wagner moura, lázaro ramos, aidan gallagher

𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬: my candy love, omori, undertale

𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬: sasuke, mike wheeler, hiro hamada, dipper, ray, nico di angelo, eleven, taki tachibana, adrien, ash lynx, five

𐙚find me here too!

#cecediary - text posts

#ceceoutfits - fashion posts

#cecemoodboard - aesthetic media posts

#cecefandoms - nerd fangirl posts

#ceceart - drawings, sketches

#ceceasks - well, asks

[jinkieswouldyoulookatthis]

These were some of the tags on one of those "Are they soulmates?" polls...

Okay, once more with feeling...

The axis mundi runs through heaven but it's not the corridors that we see later on in the series that the angels use to get around up there. It's the path that a soul can take to move through their memories, their own heaven. If they follow it long enough it will lead them to the garden. Just like the axis mundi, the garden appears differently to different souls. But Sam and Dean both see the axis mundi the same, a two lane blacktop road, and they both see the garden the same, the Cleveland Botanical Gardens. Every other time they show us Heaven, souls have to pull serious tricks to get out of their heaven and into someone else's but Dean doesn't have to do anything special to find or get to Sam, he just follows the path through his heaven which leads him to Sam. Ash finds them together because they are in a shared heaven, that's literally how the show set it up. Only special cases like soulmates share heavens and they see the garden and the axis mundi the same because they are soulmates.

And whether or not Sam and Dean are soulmates in the show has absolutely ZERO to do with anyone's personal ideas about soulmates and what they are or aren't. All that matters for this discussion is what the show says. I realize the show didn't come right out and say, "Sam and Dean, you two are soulmates" but that is the only fucking reason that the idea of soulmates would have ever been brought up in the first place. What the show did say was...

Sam: So… no offense… Ash: (interrupting) How did a dirt bag like me end up in a place like this? I’ve been saved, man. I was my congregation’s number one snake handler. Sam: (smiling) And you said this was your heaven? Ash: Yup! My own… personal… (Ash shotguns his beer while Sam and Dean watch. He burps.) Sam: And when the angels jumped us? We were… Ash: In your heaven. Sam: So there’re two heavens? Ash: No. More like a hundred billion. So, no worries, it’ll take those angels boys a minute to catch up. Dean: (completely confused) What? Ash: See, you gotta stop thinking of heaven as one place. It’s more like a butt-load of places all crammed together. Like Disneyland except without all the anti-Semitism. (Dean and Sam still look confused.) Sam: Disneyland? Ash: Mm-hmm. Yeah. See you got Winchesterland. (He holds up his hands to indicate the bar.) Ashland. (He points all around outside the bar.) A whole mess of everybody-else-lands. Put them all together: heaven. Right? At the center of it all? Is the Magic Kingdom. The Garden. Dean: So everybody gets a little slice of paradise. Ash: Pretty much. A few people share—special cases. What not. Dean: What do you mean ‘special’? Ash: Aw, you know. Like, uh, soul-mates. (Silence greets his statement. Dean and Sam don’t look at each other.) Anyway. Most people can’t leave their own private Idaho’s. Dean: But you ain’t most people. Ash: Nope. They ain’t got my skills.

There are a few important things said here. When the angels attacked them, Ash found Sam and Dean in their heaven, Winchesterland as Ash calls it, not Deanland or Samland, but combined. He then says that soulmates are unusual because they share a heaven. And then, in case there was any doubt, he specifically says that most people cannot leave their own heavens. Ash can because he has special, unusual, skills. So Dean couldn't have simply driven from his heaven to Sam's heaven because heaven doesn't work that way.

Like, this really isn't that complex. What they gave us was a basic equation where they explained the variables and left the answer understood but just not filled in.

Neither Sam nor Dean could leave their heaven on their own because they lacked the skills to do so, only soulmates share a heaven, but they were together and seeing the landmarks of heaven the same way. The only thing this equals is that Sam and Dean are soulmates.

[adamnsey]

abby (adamnsey)’s super-duper funky fresh adansey fic rec masterpost

Hello friends. i like to think of myself as a connoisseur of adansey fanfiction and so i thought i’d put some of my favs here in a list. no one asked for this but here it is. yippeeeee

this is what i live for by kitschlet

this is my favourrrite adansey fic EVVVERRRR. this fic has everything: adam as a vampire. gansey as a human. gansey desperately wanting adam to suck his blood. adam being to proud to suck gansey’s blood. gansey being a jealous little brat about this. SEXUAL VAMPIRE TENSION. THIS FIC IS A GODSENT.

A Complex Superiority by cloudsweater

is this my own fic? yes. do i feel a bit bad about including it? yes. do i also think it is a wonderful exploration of a pre-trc adansey kiss at an aglionby party? also yes. :)

With My Hands Open by HindsightHero

this one is just sooooo well written and i love the details and their dialogue is really good ummmm.... probs one of my fav kiss stories & it takes place in cabeswater so there’s that

forests / fields / seas by VioletSargent

have u ever wondered.... what would happen if after adam walked away from the gansey house in tdt... what if after they found adam they spent another night in D.C..... well this fic answers that!!

Twelve Days ‘Til Christmas by flitwickslittlebrotha

this fic is xmas themed but I! LOVE! IT!!!! it’s just a sweet au where gansey frequents the pub adam works at and its SO CUTEEEE

A Study of Living in Your Own Skin: A Presentation by Adam Parrish to Richard Campbell Gansey III by Kasket

i just LOVE a good au and this one delivers. they get paired up to do an assignment today and there’s tension and crushes and just AH. SO GOOD.

cowboyland by Ophelia Marina

gansey visits adam at harvard and things ENSUE......

BONUS ROUND !!! ADANSEY MOVIE AU LETS GOOOOOOO

The Raven Network by declantheelynch

SORRY MY PRADA’S AT THE CLEANERS, ALONG WITH MY POLO AND MY FUCK-YOU BOAT-SHOES, YOU PRETENTIOUS DOUCHE-BAG

where is my mind? by Fix9

the first rule of the adansey fight club au fic is that we must talk about the adansey fight club au

carcass for the vultures to colonize by robinsegg

UMMMM MY OWN PRIVATE IDAHO ADANSEY AU ANYONE?

Bleed All The Sweetness Away by Zee

(new addition!) HUNGER GAMES AUUU DFSHJKJDKSFJH. THIS WORKS SOOO WELL! GREAT FIC!

When the Fog Clears by cloudsweater

im sorrrryyyy yes this another one of mine im SORRRRYY its not my fault i love picturing them in Alternate Universe Scenarios!!! anyways this is a Lighthouse AU and i think it’s really deranged and good :)

if anyone has any adansey fic recs please send them my wayyyyyy. these r just some of my favs and i wanted to put them all in one spot. thank u to everyone for dealing with my brainrot ok have a nice day bye <3

[anyataylorjoys]

A YEAR IN REVIEW: CREATIONS OF 2023

Post your favorite and most popular post from each month this year (it’s okay to skip months).

Tagged by @pascow thank you for recirculating this one again, it’s always nice to get the chance to review all of your creations from the year and document your favorites 👀 I cheated and posted multiple for each.

JANUARY

MOST POPULAR: Before Sunrise (3.9k) FAVORITE(S): On main: Pans Labyrinth, Blue Planet II, Ammonite Other blogs: The Neon Demon (dailyflicks)

FEBRUARY

MOST POPULAR: Jurassic Park (1.4k) FAVORITE(S): On main: Same as most popular + The Lost World: Jurassic Park Other blogs: Gothika (braindamage)

MARCH

MOST POPULAR: Little Miss Doomed to the Narrative (6k) FAVORITE(S): On main: Kanej + Kaz + "what doesn't kill me better run" Other Blogs: Bite Me - Avril Lavigne (ladiesblr)

APRIL

MOST POPULAR: Last Night In Soho (2.1k) FAVORITE(S): On main: Same as most popular Other Blogs: Kaz Brekker (shadowandbonecentral)

MAY

MOST POPULAR: Devon Aoki Met Gala (6.5k) FAVORITE(S): On main: Characters of all time meme: Katherine Pierce + A Perfect Planet Other Blogs: Yennefer of Vengerberg (ladiesblr)

JUNE

MOST POPULAR: The Witcher (1.2k) FAVORITE(S): On main: The Wolf of Wallstreet Other Blogs: The Princess Diaries (dailyflicks)

JULY

MOST POPULAR: Fantasia (3.2k) FAVORITE(S): On main: Yennefer x Ciri in Season 3 Other Blogs: Baby Driver (dailyflicks)

AUGUST

MOST POPULAR: Riverdale polycule finale (21.1k) «TOP POST OF THE YEAR FAVORITE(S): On main: "The worst enemy you can meet will always be yourself" compilation, Helter Skelter Other Blogs: Antichrist !tw animal gore (braindamage) + Stand By Me (chewbacca)

SEPTEMBER

MOST POPULAR: Bottoms (16.4k) FAVORITE(S): On main: Yellowjackets + Shauna Shipman + RWRB x Wicked Game Other Blogs: RWRB (chewbacca)

OCTOBER

MOST POPULAR: Jennifer's Body (1.8k) FAVORITE(S): On main: James Wan + My Animal + Sam Carpenter (Scream) Other Blogs: Event Horizon (braindamage)

NOVEMBER

MOST POPULAR: Blue Planet II (1.1k) FAVORITE(S): On main: Top 10 most obsessively watched horror movies letterboxd lineup Other Blogs: Riverdale x Jennifer's Body parallel (ladiesblr) + Jughead x cat (jugheadjones)

DECEMBER

MOST POPULAR: My Own Private Idaho (2.3k) FAVORITE(S): On main: Saltburn + Easy A Other Blogs: Black Christmas (societyclub)

You can also see my 2022 year in review here!

Tagging (no pressure!): @natscatorrcio, @yenvengerberg, @maxxxines, @saws2004, @arabellas, @moonlight, @mike-mills, @savajeffries, @mulderscully, @madeline-kahn, @rachelsennot, @margoterobbies, @girlbutcherwife

[silkendandelion]

The Real Thing (original version)

A Fears to Fathom: Ironbark Lookout drabble, related to My Own, Distant Home

We reached 100 hits on My Own, Distant Home while I wasn't looking, that's so exciting! Thank you all for your support, and have this as a gift. I'm working on another long fic for Ironbark, a proper sequel to this one, so this should line up as a teaser. Something soft and sweet, with just enough dread

UPDATE: This is the original version. A new, longer version is posted to the masterlist and ao3, which is considered the canon version in this AU.

Jack Nelson x Connor Hawkins Words: 1.3k Genre: Fluff (too sweet maybe), horror elements

~*~

Tall, bright green trees lined the winding blacktop road, obscuring the path around the upcoming curves, but not able to block out the sun on such a clear, summer day. The RV navigated the road with ease at the hands of it’s owner and operator, most recently passing a green interstate sign, “You are now leaving Idaho”, and the doubly large sign after it where a cowboy on his horse declared “Welcome to Wyoming: Forever West.”

“I think you were more excited to get your CD collection back than your truck,” said Jack, as Connor flipped happily through his shoe-box of albums, the edges worn down to the cardboard where it had been slid out and back under the bench seat over and over for years.

“The joy is split, for sure. I let the kids keep all the Journey and Alice Cooper. They were vocal about wanting those.”

Jack took his eyes off the road long enough to smile at him, admire the childish joy on his face as he hunched over the box, thumbing over the track lists like he was a teenager again, in a music store for the first time. Behind their RV, they towed along said truck, a 2000 Toyota Tacoma in what Connor affectionately called “Stacy’s favorite green”, bought brand new for cash the year he left the army. The truck he only drove for a few months before he became a fire lookout at Ironbark, and since then had been driven almost exclusively by Stacy: Connor’s older sister, another deceptively charming blonde with two children under 10 and no one to rely on besides her brother.

“That was an incredible thing you did, Connor,” Jack said seriously. “To buy Stacy a car in exchange for getting the truck back. When it was yours to begin with, and she wasn’t going to fight you on wanting to keep it with us.”

“Nah.” He shooed away Jack’s admiration, flipping over the CD in his hand. “I wasn’t gonna leave her with nothing. And it wasn’t like I got her a Mercedes, just a little something for her to get back and forth to work and the kids to school. I should be thanking you, actually, you’re the one who looked over the engine and told the guy to change the oxygen sensors before we would pay for it.”

Jack offered a shrug, managing a shy smile when Connor reached over to nudge his cheek, unable to kiss him with his seat-belt on.

“What kind of albums do you have, Jack? I think we’ve listened to nothing but the radio since we left Washington.”

“I like the radio. It’s got NPR, weather, rock, every—THING! Connor, no.” He yelled (squeaked) in alarm when Connor began rummaging through the glove compartment, looking for evidence to the contrary. Curse the RV for being so wide, he risked swerving if he reached far enough to slam the lid closed. Meanwhile, smiling and completely unbothered, Connor continued to snoop.

“What do we have here? Oh, Jack. Jackie, baby, what are these?” He grinned in triumph to hold up a handful of CDs: his partner’s most private feelings in rhythm and prose. “Is this what you listened to before you picked me up? Toto, Tracy Chapman, Annie Lennox, BOBBY Caldwell—Jackie? Blue-eyed soul?”

Jack’s face was red enough to pass for a farmer’s market tomato, hands tight on the steering wheel. If Connor squinted, he might see steam rising from his collar beneath the tight line of his lips. “Don’t make fun of me, Connor, please.”

“I would never, Jack,” he replied earnestly, all whiskey and warmth as he popped open one of the cases and began to decipher the RV’s stereo system. Static seemed to be the most common channel in their current neck of the woods, among a brief news transmission: ‘—ark state park in Washington, where the body count is up to 9—’, lost to both their ears with Connor’s searching for the right button.

With a slip of the disc in the slot, a sensual piano filled the cabin, only worsening Jack’s embarrassment when a sultry saxophone joined the singer, the iconic croon of a soulful ballad. He burned, resisting the urge to enjoy himself, and chanced a quick look at Connor.

To the tune of his fluttering heart, he only found him smiling, no longer looking through his box or reading the billboards. Smiling at him, all warm brown eyes as he began to sing along, as if to say that between them, everything was sacred because nothing could be wrong.

“I want the real thing, or nothing at all. I need someone that I can be sure will catch me if I should fall. Someone who’ll be there when I call, then I’ll know that it’s the real thing.”

“How… do you know all the words?” Jack mumbled, and Connor cut off his amateur singing.

“Why do you think?” He reached across the console to touch his hand where it loosened it’s grip on the wheel. “You never have to be embarrassed, Jack, not with me.”

Easy for him to say, when he’s the one playing with both the tempo of the poor man’s heart and the temperature in the room. They came to a stop under a light, and Jack busied his hands tapping his thumb on the wheel until he heard Connor’s seat-belt click, saw him rise to walk towards the back of the RV.

“Where are you going?” As long as he was out of sight, he would miss him.

“Use your imagination, Jack, I can’t exactly wander far. Although, I suggest you find a place to park soon, or you might miss the good part.”

“The wh—” He kept his foot on the brake, turning away from the red light to look for him, only to bite down on his words as Connor slowly slipped his belt free, let it fall to the rug with a quiet thump. Next came his shirt, pulled off by the hand on the back of his collar. Among the slow reveal of his toned back, the moles on his spine, the song urged Jack onward, a different one, something about “Come to me” and “Let me love you, honey”.

“The light’s green, Jack.” Connor smirked at him, tossing his shirt in the vague direction of the driver’s seat.

He snapped his eyes back to the road, pressing the gas a little too hard and hearing Connor’s laugh drift up from where he grabbed the kitchen counter to steady himself. If Jack didn’t find a place to park in the next 3 miles, he vowed, he would pull them onto the damn shoulder and hope this road was as rarely traveled as the map had suggested.

From the bedroom, a quiet moan piqued his hot ears, among the sound of what might have been his name if the CD player wasn’t still going in the speaker beside his feet.

Shit. All right, 1 mile.

By the grace of somebody, otherworldly or other, the parking lot to a campsite appeared on his right, empty too, all thanks to the heat advisory that was meant to last for the rest of the week. Jack was probably the only person in the county grateful for it, if only because it meant leaving the key in the ignition to keep the AC running left the music on too.

They deserved their break.

Neither of them knew the winter was going to be a hard one. That before the end of the year, they would be in danger again. Better to grab some comfort while they can, hold each other close, before the leviathan resident of those Ironbark woods extends itself from the trees and begins to seek out the only survivors who know it’s name.

They couldn’t know it was already awake.

[milfygerard]

For the ask game: Dorothea, tis the damn season, cowboy like me?

oughhh the trifecta...

dorothea: If youre ever tired of being known for who you know y'know, youll always know me....dorothea

I just love when taylor really leans into wordplay and turns of phrases and this might be one of her most effective and smoothest examples. evermore is probably one of her albums with the least amount of what I affectionately call Taylor Clunk, which comes in many forms but here is where taylor has a specific idea she wants out and refuses to cut but she cant quite make it fit leading to awkward vocal patterns, rhyming a word with itself or painfully basic/obvious rhymes, songs where the structure just doesnt quite click etc. You can find it plenty in her catalogue but especially on the better bonus/cut tracks like jump then fall (rhyming face with face, you can almost feel her irritation that she cant fix that), its time to go (the "thing" bridge that feels just a little too vague and awkward compared to the rest of the track) and IION (the verses are just kind of a mess structurally). This line? is what happens when taylor has nothing but time to hammer out each kink and annoyance and just make a lyric that flows like water. Its extremely singable and noticably clever but also still clears as smart if you sit and think about it while working beautifully within the song and still feeling real to the character taylors inhabiting. HM: "skipping the prom just to piss of your mom and her pagent schemes" "from you i'd buy anything"

TTDS: theres an ache in you put there by the ache in me/but if its all the same to you, its the same to me

what a profoundly sad and resentful lyric in a profoundly sad and resentful song. This one line I think really captures what TTDS is about which is aboutthat constant sense of feeling trapped. You felt trapped in your home town and you ran away, you escaped, but the escape alone isnt enough as you have what feels like all the same issues but somewhere else, and how a few times every year you have to walk back into the open spring-trapped cage and be reminded of the comfort of the cage you already know compared to the one youre pursuing. the what if of "should I just come back and be unhappy here if theres at least one person who will truly understand that?" Old habits are slipped into easily but not unknowingly, and the ache is still there even as dorothea and her lover pretend for just a weekend that they are still two anchors in one terrible place kind of silverflitn if you think about it i mean what. When paired with Dorothea as a track its also a tale of poor communication, dorothea as a character creating a sense of resentment from her lover far more intesne than the fond sadness in her namesake track. HM: "if I wanted to know who you were hanging with while I was gone i would've asked you" "I parked my car right between the methodist and the school that used to be ours"

CLM: now you hang from my lips like the Gardens of Babylon/ with your boots beneath my bed, forever is the sweetest con

AMBIGUITY BABY!!!! CLM has a stone cold poker face with a bleeding gash of emotion on its cheek and i love it so so much (the my own private idaho AMV that exists in my head for this song goes so crazy you wouldnt believe). this weird little third-verse-bridge-thing (the structure of clm is batshit even genius barely knows what to do w it i cant believe the track works as well as it does)plays on the surface as plainly romantic but like all the best stories it doest quite line up. The song itself feels like a story being spun a story is true a story is untrue i mean what by someone trying to avoid the direct stating of a too-painful truth. Even within this imagined narrative, reality slips through. The Gardens of Babylon are a great and beautiful thing, and architectual wonder lush with life. They also most likely never existed. A common thread throughout evermore is the questioning of its own reality, of if any of it was real or just a construction of marriage or suburbia or the law or death or a dream or our own anxieties, almost none of the songs have a conclusive, clear-cut ending and some even loop into themselves (tolerate it and gold rush both end how they began). In the end, this is a tale told over a campfire under the new mexico night sky as you watch the storyteller look off into the distance and you wonder if anything theyve told you is even a little true. HM: "Never wanted love just a fancy car/now I'm waiting by the phone like I'm sitting at an airport bar" "tellin all the rich folks anything they wanna hear/like it could be love, it could be the way forward only if they pay for it"

[coldbrewgf]

thank you for the tag @newbromantics ☺️ i'm finally getting to this after several days omg

1. do you make your bed?

usually! not super well but i at least try to pull the covers up and fluff my pillows

2. favourite number?

11... when i was playing soccer as a child i was number 11 when i made a goal from half field and ever since then it's just been my lucky number

3. what’s your job?

i just started one (1) month ago as a program assistant in executive education. it's been a bit of a wild ride already but i feel like it's going to open some good doors for me!

4. if you could go back to school, would you?

...perhaps. i would love to expand my knowledge and maybe take another undergrad program in something that i would actually want to pursue now but also looking back on my undergrad i was somewhat miserable and maybe that had more to do with my mental health at that time but still. maybe if i could just do it slowly with a course or two at a time

5. can you parallel park?

i can but i am not efficient at it and i try to avoid it if i can. if i'm parking on the street i look for a spot where i can just pull up to the curb and not deal with all that maneuvering

6. do you think aliens are real?

i mean i think they're out there somewhere but i don't think that they're like among us or anything...

7. can you drive a manual car?

not at all, i don't even think i know anyone with a manual car to practice. i do think it's kind of a sexy skill to have though and i would like to learn eventually

8. guilty pleasure?

honestly i'm only half guilty about it but musicals. only half guilty because i know theatre kids are annoying but i also am not an annoying theatre kid, and also because i think i have at least Some Taste

9. tattoos?

i have 8! various things that i've liked and are special to me in different ways

10. favourite colour?

probably green, but i also wear a lot of blues, so one of the two!

11. favourite type of music?

honestly my tastes range all over the place, probably most often in the indie category. lyrics matter a lot to me so regardless of the genre if the lyricism is there i'm there. a banger can entice me more than a slow song, but if i'm in the right mood a ballad can hit.

12. do you like puzzles?

yes!! nyt games is my friend and i do the new yorker crossword... if i remember i play the cinematrix... i went through a big sudoku phase a little while ago...

13. favourite childhood sport?

i played soccer as a kid, and that was kind of my only team sport, but i also did karate which i have fond memories of, and playing badminton in gym class was always my fav

14. do you talk to yourself?

not really i don't think?? maybe a little bit but not constantly

15. tea or coffee?

coffee... i mean look at my url

16. first thing you wanted to be when growing up?

a paleobotanist like ellie in jurassic park... my older brother wanted to be a paleontologist and we both loved jurassic park so i thought i had to be like ellie

17. what movies do you adore?

fav of all time is my own private idaho (1991), my others in my letterboxd top 4 are when harry met sally (1989), twin peaks: fire walk with me (1992), and before sunrise (1995)... movies from this century are like inside llewyn davis (2013), stoker (2013), and emma. (2020)

i'm tagging @intrusivethoughtsandprayers if you want to, and anyone else who does :)

[synthetlcsss]

hello my esteemed dudes! i'm dana (she/they) and i'm so excited to be here!!! my discord is dumbasshithead and plotting is one of the greatest joys in life so please hit me up for all the plots, especially if they hurt. the worse the better!!! sorry this turned out hella long so i included a tl;dr at the end lol

*     ◟    :    〔  timothée chalamet  ,      agender    +    he/him    〕      angelo ‘angel’ eisenman ,      some say you’re a  twenty-seven  lost soul among the neon lights.      known for being both resourceful  and  manipulative,  one can’t help but think of  my body is a cage by  arcade fire  when you walk by.    are you still a    replicant   /     associate  at  the    jade  tribe,     even with your reputation as the marionette?     i think we’ll be seeing more of you and people-watching for hours on end, shelves lined with potted plants, the blurry outline of a memory just out of reach although we can’t help but think of mikey waters (my own private idaho)  +  bucky barnes (mcu) + frenchie (the boys) whenever we see you down these rainy streets.

tw: gaslighting (like hardcore)

angelo remembers—

your father’s hostility, your mother’s indifference, your peers’ derision. piano lessons and little league soccer. bloody noses and harsh shoves. scraped knees and summers by the beach, blanket forts and hushed giggling. prom night and smoking under the bleachers. sleepless nights talking with your sister until dawn and sleepless nights keeping her company in hospital rooms. your sister— a beacon, your only friend. the burden of being her keeper, so small compared to the grief of losing her and the guilt of knowing you could have prevented it. the air in the house thick with unspoken accusations afterward, the pressure building and building until it finally blew up. being kicked out and left with nowhere to go, adrift in a world that never wanted you.

then, new york.

you can’t remember getting there or even making the decision to go, only the feeling that the world was so much vaster than you’d ever thought possible. as if you’d stepped into oz, life was suddenly in technicolor, realer than real and bright enough to blind.  you remember wandering and wandering and wandering. nights spent in the bed of whoever would have you, means for survival but also connection, however shallow. nimble fingers relieving tourists of their wallets, conning your way in and out of situations with equal grace. learning to make up for your skinny frame with a quick wit and loose morals. but clearest of all, you remember the aimlessness, the longing for some sign, some guidance, some purpose.

it’s painful to think about it now, but you aren’t scared of your memories. it’s what you don’t remember that terrifies you. the snippets of a life you never lived, pieces from another puzzle trying to force its way into yours— scars you don’t remember getting, phantom touches that make you shiver, the feeling that if you look down you’ll find hands bloodied to the wrist. how you can look at a room and instinctively know all its exits, all potential threats and assets. the way the jade tribe had called to you like a siren song. ‘you’re a natural,’ they tell you, and it’s true; you hone skills you’ve never learned with an ease that borders on eerie— picking locks, disabling security systems, slicing necks with the utmost precision. all of it like muscle memory. it scares you, how natural it feels; easy as breathing.

‘paranoid delusions,’ your therapist says when any of it comes up in your weekly sessions. or, ‘dissociation. episodic memory loss.’ their office used to feel safe, but now something feels off in a way you can’t articulate; something hidden in the pauses between their words, in their gaze, in the way they sometimes rush to scribble the notes you never get to read.  the strange, creeping sensation of being evaluated. not that you say anything; these thoughts are the very reason you need therapy, anyway.

there’s sanctity in the simple things: the flowers blooming in your apartment’s makeshift garden, the quiet purring of the stray cats you took in, the ebb and flow of people outside the window. these are the moments that feel yours, tiny revolts against a life you’ll never fully understand and for which you’ll do whatever needs doing— be it slipping poison into someone’s drink, something out of their home or yourself into their bed.

somewhere, in some fancy office in a high-rise, your puppet masters are watching. the ones who made you lie and fuck and steal and kill, then replaced your memories of it with someone else’s childhood, not expecting your body to remember what your mind forgot. the ones who left you in this strange city, without direction, just to see what you’d do, going over your therapy notes and analyzing your every choice. to these labcoats, you are so much more than a drifter— you’re a puzzle, a pet project, a revelation in the making. a replicant whose sole purpose is to not have one. they shift reality around you and study the way you stumble, wondering with bated breath if, or when, you will pull at the strings tying you and see them for what they truly are.

[ tl;dr: angel's a replicant being monitored by stoneage industries to see if/when he'll realize he's not actually human and how he deals with making choices for himself after previous "lives" where he was given explicit purposes and missions. his memories of this previous programming have been wiped, but he still remembers them subconsciously which was not the plan but that's too bad for stoneage ig. he's basically a jack-of-all-criminal-trades (or at least the ones that don't require muscle mass) and slowly realizing something is amiss. ]

etc

an enfj for any mbti girlies out there

literally programmed to be chill about killing and is only now beginning to truly understand that murder might be kind of fucked up actually? (baby steps though. he's still p whatever about it)

very very sneaky and light-fingered. genuinely enjoys stealing and often does it just to see if he can get away with it. will steal friends' lighters or pens or whatever else for fun, then give it back (or not) once they notice it's gone.

more to come !

wanted connections

ok so i have this idea about angel being modelled after someone's dead relative, prob someone's kid? and his first ever function was to serve as a replacement for whoever that was but for some reason that went south (maybe the person realized he didn't make up for their loss and started to resent him and see him as a reminder of what they lost? or maybe they just died and angel was left at stoneage's hands? honestly there are so many ways that could go wrong lol) and angel was repurposed. but it would be interesting to have someone who knew the person he was modelled after or have something to do with that whole mess idk

under construction !

[superblycaffeinated]

Year One: At Home In the Dark masterlist

warnings for series: mentions of alcohol/being drunk, mentions of violence/blood imagery (with warnings for specific chapters), mentions of anxiety and depression symptoms (with warnings for specific chapters), swearing - please do not read if you may find any of this triggering and take care of yourself.

“The proverbial saying ‘All’s fair in love and war’ expresses the idea that, like war, where any strategy is accepted, affairs of the heart are also no-holds-barred contests.”

Chapter One:

“Your mission, should you choose to accept is-“

Groans fill the room and Rebecca Baxter rolls her eyes at everyone. An amber bottle pressed to her lips as she nudges his shoulder. A silent, ‘Can you believe them? They’re absolutely no fun.’

Zachary Goode snickers into his own beer, a silent response of ‘No, you’re just overly dramatic as usual and Cam has probably had too many glasses of wine for this.’

“Alright, alright, fine.” Bex waves her hands and to look at him fully. “Truth or Dare? Clock’s ticking Goode.”

Maybe it’s the way he hasn’t felt this light in a long time - maybe ever, that they’re all together again for it too. Summer evening wind blows at his hair that’s gotten a little too long. From their spot on the porch, he can hear the hum of crickets and cicadas, smell the familiar scent of leaves that are ready to turn for Autumn in the air. He doesn’t even have shoes on, he can’t remember the last time he didn’t feel the need to be ready to go. Or it could be the way his heart does this funny thing of swelling and aching in the same beat when Cam blows hair off of her cheek, giggling like she’s eighteen again as Liz pours more wine.

Or maybe he’s just drunk.

“Truth.”

Yeah, definitely just drunk.

The entire circle falls silent, cups and bottles half suspended to parted lips, laughter trails off as eyes widen. Every single one of them can hear each other’s heartbeats, the distinct ping of water from the faucet hitting ceramic inside and down the hall, and the ticking of the clock just inside the dining room.

Cammie sits up straighter, wiping at her lips. “What?”

Bex sits back against the porch column hard. Liz props up on her knees - clearly criss cross applesauce is too child’s play for what’s at stake here. Macey narrows her eyes at him from her spot on the couch above the other two girls as she tosses back the rest of her wine. Even Preston and Jonas look at him with furrows forming above their brows.

Jesus, they’re all so dramatic.

He rolls his eyes and turns to Bex. “You gonna ask me the question or not?”

“But you, you never pick-“ she looks around the group and he marks the date in his calendar. Rebecca Baxter has been rendered speechless and actually physically appears frazzled as she drums her fingers on her knees and looks at the stars. “I mean, what do I ask? I never thought I’d actually get the chance.”

Cammie narrows her eyes and points at him, “Ask him where he hid the M&M’s because I know he did.”

Zach grins, blowing her a kiss that she rolls her eyes at but smiles into her wine glass because of nonetheless.

Bex waves off the suggestion, not serious enough of course. She snaps her fingers and Macey moves to the edge of the couch cushion. “Oh! Private jet and the Russians!”

Bex counters, “Finland, embassy with the Duchess?”

Cammie laughs, “Idaho, potato farmer?”

Jonas shakes his head. “Nah, don’t waste it on that one, I have pictures.”

Zach makes a mental note about finding and deleting those, beginning to hum the jeopardy theme song. He’s definitely drunk, because he should have been noticing the one girl who was far too silent. He should have known that when Elizabeth Sutton is quiet, that means she’s thinking big things.

“What about when he fell in love with Cammie?” The question is calculated, lazy almost in her tone, but it catches him off guard and Liz is far to perceptive to let it slip. His eyes widened, pupils dilating. His breath changed just so, stuck in his throat. His heart rate increased. Damn stupid beer he was never drinking ever again.

The two men opposite him groan at the suggestion and the four women turn on him. Hawk eyes, lioness’ stalking their prey. He was done for the minute the question was suggested. He has one of two options as he sees it now. Lie his ass off to the room of people who know all of his tells or plead with the love of his life.

Zach shakes his head, staring directly at Cammie. “Cammie, no, please don’t make me talk about this in front of everyone? You hate attention, it’s complicated and-“

She hums into her wine glass interrupting him, “I dunno, Zach, I think high school Cammie really needs some answers. You messed with her head quite a bit.”

Shit, bad move. Should have lied right away - ‘I loved Cammie the minute I laid eyes on her in that DC mall. Truly love at first sight, I just had to figure out who that Gallagher Girl really was’ is not gonna cut it now, they’re far too hungry for juicy gossip like they’re back in school.

“We’re married!” He holds up his left hand to prove the point, grasping at anything to make this all go away. Zach gestures out the entrance of the porch, “Our children are asleep down the hall!”

Cam only levels him with a look he’s grown to know very well. It’s the look she gives the kids when they lie and say they brushed their teeth before bed. He’s busted.

Liz stands, the girl closing in on him until his back hits the porch railing. She nudges his chest as she speaks so threateningly for someone with ducks all over their pajama’s. “Spill, or I get the truth serum.”

“You know, I forget that you’re the scariest one of the bunch sometimes Lizzie,” he gulps as Jonas cackles from his spot on the ground.

The four girls simply raise their eyebrows, and he admits defeat. His hands lift to the air beside his head. “Okay, okay, but I need another beer for this.”

Giddy with their victory, everyone settles into comfortable positions, eager to not let him get away with anything but a good and long story.

Zach avoids the creak of the floorboard as he heads into the kitchen, listening intently for the sounds of his children stirring at all. His hip hits the fridge closed in just the right spot, pulling the opener from it’s drawer.

He looks at the fridge as he leans against the counter, a picture of him and Cam in front of Gallagher on the day of Rachel and Joe’s wedding held up by a hand painted magnet. Red splotchy paint covering the words ‘World’s Best Dad’ glazed and shiny from a kiln. It’s not that he doesn’t know when he fell in love with her, he does, it’s just not so simple.

The bottle cap pops off with a hiss, then a click of it hitting the counter. He watches the green metal spin, slowing as it gets closer to meeting the flat surface of the countertop.

“Goode!”

Zach snatches the copper coin he’d been spinning against the tabletop before it flattens and stands, hands held into fists behind his back at attention.

An armed guard with flushed cheeks and a forehead dappled with sweat marches towards him.

Oh swell, it’s Jeff.

At Blackthorne, any guard calling your name in that tone isn’t gonna be great, but Jeff has this way of spitting when he talks, of not realizing what the words personal space mean, and probably has never ever heard of breath mints and their miraculous powers to ward off coffee breath.

Zach’s fingers fiddle with the coin behind his back. He’s getting better about the whole restless energy and showing it thing, but he figures it’s not dire circumstances to be on his game right now. His mind wanders through the possibilities of what today could be about. One of his bedsheet corners wasn’t tight enough, someone found the little yellow package of chocolaty goodness in his sock, or perhaps Jeff didn’t get his coffee and donut this morning and he just feels like picking on someone.

The cafeteria grows more silent as everyone decides that the show that’s about to go down has got to be better than eating the mystery meat on their trays.

“Sir?” Zach questions, staring at the spot just above Jeff’s left ear. A thing Jeff positively hates, causing him to continuously look over his shoulder and wonder what the hell Zach is staring at - but a thing that fills Zach with a small amount of joy.

It’s the little things.

Jeff does just this, head whipping around so fast he’s surprised the man doesn’t give himself whiplash. Jeff’s gaze darts across the wall and back to Zach. Beady, narrowed eyes meet his, Zach’s lips twitch slightly, revealing too much - another thing he’s still working on. But Jeff is fairly harmless and hasn’t quite mastered the art of interpreting Zach’s smaller tells.

“Visitors,” Jeff snarls and Zach’s shoulders fall.

Fuck.

The room grows even more silent, the quiet din of metal silverware hitting their trays and cups hitting wood vanish completely now as the unmistakable red head of hair floats through the cafeteria towards him. Shoulders straighten, voices cease, and breaths are held with each click then clack of black pumps against the concrete floors.

His mother is here, and she’s brought friends.

“Hello darling, miss me?”

Catherine Goode commands attention, she just does. A room full of hormone crazed teenage boys was already going to be acutely aware of a woman wearing a black dress accentuating her curves walking amongst them, they were already going to stare, Zach knows this. But Catherine has something else, the strong voice of a soldier mixed with a soft femininity enveloping each word she speaks, making you think each word is somehow meant only for you. A perfect way to get what she wants that he’s seen in action enough times to know she’s mastered skillfully. Her loss ratio is zero, she has the control every time.

For everyone except her son.

“Can’t say that I have, Cat.” Zach presses the coin between his thumb and forefinger, the indent of Abraham Lincoln surely going to be preserved in his fingerprint forever. He knows it’s a shot in the dark. Sometimes she’s pleasantly surprised by his resistance, dare he say almost impressed. But most times, it ends poorly for him.

Catherine Goode’s eyes - his eyes - narrow, her playfulness disappearing with an art that Houdini would envy. “That’s no way to talk to your mother, Zachary. Let’s go. I have people I need to introduce you to and we have something important to discuss.”

She gestures to the men behind her as she speaks, before stepping closer. Her head dips - like a snake ready to attack. He visualizes it perfectly before it happens, a hand wraps around his bicep, squeezing. Not in a loving, motherly way, but in a warning - strike one. Her voice lowers as she hisses, “Behave,” while fingernails dig into his skin leaving small crescent moons. The snake is playing with it’s food before it tightens it’s coil and removes his oxygen.

“Yes, ma’am.” He grinds his teeth, jaw clenching as the toes of his boots tap together when he straightens to formal attention again.

She smiles, satisfied with his submission and pats his cheek a little too harshly before turning on her heels and clicking away. Her fingers curl behind her head as she walks. “Gentleman.” Then they waggle out to the faces of the cafeteria in a wave, “Boys.”

He hates that he ducks his head, that he follows her blindly. His gut twists as he counts the cracks in the concrete he already knows the number of, knowing that if he were to lift his head, his classmates - if you can even call them that - would be looking at him with eyes full of pity. Sometimes he envies the ones who have nothing, it has to be better than her. But then, it’s like she knows he’ll have a thought like this. She’ll do something almost nice, she’ll make him feel guilty. How dare he wish he didn’t have her, there were good times once upon a time right?

He shakes his head, no, this is what she wants. He simply follows, choosing to hold his chin up in defiance of any pity that he can feel hitting the back of his uniform as he walks out of the cafeteria.

The men she’s brought follow closely behind her. Suits. Not terribly expensive, they’re not big deals. One is slightly taller, a thick brown mustache. This man watches his mother with sharp blue eyes, he’s not fully under her spell it would seem. As Catherine smiles and gestures into a door, the man nods and enters. The slightly younger and shorter one gestures for Zach to enter first. He’s blonde, strong shoulders, with brown eyes that look at Zach in a way that makes him feel like he’s under a microscope. This man closes the door and stands in front of it and Zach would bet his next few meals that he was Secret Service.

Mustache man sits with a groan loudly in a chair as his mother leans up against a low bookshelf. A fairly empty classroom that wasn’t used much these days. While the weather was nice, it was strictly outside for use of the range, running drills, and perimeter and mountain trail runs. Classroom time was for the bitterly cold days that even the teachers and guards knew wasn’t worth making the boys get frostbite over. Catherine fiddles with a cup of pencils, a finger swiping over the top of the shelf and leaving a streak of clean wood in its wake as her mouth pinches in disgust.

Lovely place you send me to school, huh, mom?

“Well, Zach,” mustache man’s voice is gravely, it leads Zach to believe the man used to smoke. The fact mingles with the face in his brain, a connection trying to surface to the forefront of it. Mustache man continues while holding his hand up at a height not too tall, “You’ve grown! You weren’t more than ye high last time I saw you I think.”

Zach’s always hated this greeting. What was a person supposed to say back to that? Thank you? That’s how time and puberty works? That’s what happens when you get three meals a day and stop wondering when the next one will be?

He mashes his lips together in a thin smile with a nod. He’s pretty sure that was a better move than opening it and saying any of that.

The man looks to Secret Service man and then his mother before giving another nod. “Right, well, you must be wondering what we’re here for.”

No, I love being humiliated by my mother in front of groups of people and then following her and two strangers into a dusty classroom to sit in silence, dude. I live for it, it’s my shit.

Again, not saying that, so he remains silent. Mustache man claps his hands together, looking to his mother for further instruction so it would seem. She smiles at Zach, her salesman one - the one he knows she pulls out when she really wants her way.

“Darling, these men, they have a proposition for you. A mission.”

He stands up a little straighter, unable to help himself at the word mission. A real mission? Involving his mother? The men furrow their brows slightly as Catherine continues and his apprehension and curiosity fight bay-blades style in his head - whirling around and knocking edges, unsure of who’s going to pull out in the lead just yet.

“They need some information. Some information that they think only you may be able to get for them.”

Zach waits, knowing his mother is just getting started. She’s setting a trap, complimenting him, loosening some stones in his closed off exterior, weakening it until it’s ready for a final strike. He rolls the grooved edge of the coin between his thumb and forefinger.

Catherine walks along the wall, her hands clasped behind her back. Her heels click against the tile, gaze lost on the tattered map hung on the wall. She leans in, feigning inspection as she speaks again. Her tone somehow lazy but dripping with an authoritative quality that when combined, made you lean in and feel the need to listen carefully. “As you’ve most likely come to know in your training, it’s important, in some missions, to get close to a subject. To have a relationship with them, to make them an asset.”

The mustached man cut in, “An asset is-“

“A person within organizations who provide information to outside sources. Yeah, I know.”

“Zachary.”

Warning number two, he won’t be given a third.

Silence fills the room again at her sharp use of his name. Zach’s head bows and the other two men focus on her - it’s her happy place, he knows this. She controls the room, two grown men with their entire attention fully on her and her son’s submission, she’d bask in it like it was the sun on the beach for hours if she had the time.

Zach begins to flip the coin, impatient for the details of how this all affects him, what exactly it is he’s being asked here. He watches the coin arc in the air and land in his hand several times, waiting for her big finish.

Her slender and skilled fingers intercept the coin on his next toss. Her green eyes hold his and this time, even he can’t deny them as she delivers his very first official mission.

“We need you to get some information from Joe.”

[bisexualmorpheus]

1, 3, 6, 32 !!

1. what are 3 things you’d say shaped you into who you are?

one; DISCO ELYSIUM. definitely. easily. changed my life.

two; CAR SEAT HEADREST and the surrounding indie fur community. thru cshr I found that circle of niche furry webcomic artists and my art was changed forecer. reading crow cillers made me finally realise I wanted to pursue making comics.

three; okay probably cringe as hell but undertale because that's what got me into making art properly as a kid. making aus and Undertale fanart on my dad's work iPad is where I started OH

honourable mentions -- little big planet, neon genesis evangelion, serial experiments lain

3. 3 films you could watch for the rest of your life and not get bored of?

end of evangelion, my own private idaho, venom: let there be carnage

6. what’s the best and worst part of being online/a creator?

I'll start with the worst because I love to be negative. and that's the hypervisibility of it all. anything you say can and will be used against you. the best is being able to communicate w and collaborate w such a wide range of people and find people based on interests, find people you truly get alng with and who accept you rather than hoping you stumble across them (which is next to impossible in a small town!)

32. how many tabs do you have open right now?

I closed all my tabs before I went to bed. I can't deal with the clutter!!!

also bonus because I misread and I like my answer ;

36. are you an open book or do you have walls up?

call me the city of Derry with the walls I got up🗣️🗣️

[stylecouncil]

hey can you guys have a little more respect? this is my own private idaho. not yours

[t4tstarvingdog]

OH MY GOD UNCLE TIM!! what a beautiful ring to it

what are some of your favorite movies!!

please i am going to get a big head. the ego boost of Uncledom….

anyways! movies are so so good i love them.

national treasure (1&2), when harry met sally, top gun, indiana jones (only the older movies), my own private idaho, little women (both of them), pride and prejudice (colin firth, but both), inception, catch me if you can, spiderman into the spider verse (both of them), and while you were sleeping

[bitter-limelight]

What's your top 10 favorite bands/singers and top 10 favorite films? 👋🏽

Oh man this requires brain thoughts!

Hands/artist:

1: Amigo the Devil

2: Alanis Morisette

3: America

4: Gordon Lightfoot

5: Nickelback (yes)

6: Poets of the Fall

7: Don Mclean

8: Savage Garden/Darren Hayes

9: Queen

10: Elton John

Tldr, good music was invented in the 70s

Top 10 folms-

1: Titanic. Yes, really. It's amazing.

2: Pacific Rim

3: Crimson Peak

4: Interview with the Vampire

5: Grave Encounters

6: My Own Private Idaho

7: Occulus

8: The Brave Little Toaster

9: Marie Antoinette

10: Memoirs of a Geisha

[silkendandelion]

The Real Thing (Final Version)

A Fears to Fathom: Ironbark Lookout Fanfiction

ao3 link

Jack Nelson x Connor Hawkins Words: 2.2k Genre: Fluff, humor, horror elements Summary: A short one-shot to look at Jack and Connor's lives after the events of My Own, Distant Home, and is a short prologue/teaser to the in-progress sequel. Alternative title: Two fools in love have no idea what genre they're in.

Rated: Teen and Up Audiences for sexually suggestive content and mild language, and horror elements.

Tall, bright green trees lined the blacktop road, obscuring the path around the upcoming curves but not able to block out the sun on such a clear, summer day. The RV navigated the winding road with ease in Jack’s hands, most recently passing a green interstate sign, “You are now leaving Idaho”, and then the doubly large sign after it where a cowboy on his horse declared “Welcome to Wyoming: Forever West.”

“I think you were more excited to get your CD collection back than your truck,” said Jack as Connor flipped happily through his shoe-box of albums, whose edges were worn down to the cardboard where it had been slid out and back under the bench seat for years.

“The joy is split, for sure. I let the kids keep all the ones they wanted.”

Jack took his eyes off the road long enough to smile back at him, admiring the childish joy on his face as he hunched over the box, thumbing over track lists like he was a teenager again, in a music store for the first time.

Behind their RV, they towed along said truck, a 2000 Toyota Tacoma in what Connor affectionately called “Stacy’s favorite green”, bought brand new for cash the year he left the army. The truck he only drove for a few months before he became a fire lookout at Ironbark, and since then had been driven almost exclusively by Stacy: Connor’s older sister, another deceptively charming blonde with two children under 10 and no one to rely on besides her brother. Twin fuzzy dice in lucky red bounced beneath the rear-view mirror, bleached almost pink from summers at the lake and catching Jack’s eye in the side mirror.

“That was an incredible thing you did, Connor,” he said. “To buy Stacy a car in exchange for getting the truck back, when it was yours to begin with, and I don’t think she would have fought you on wanting to keep it with us.”

“Nah.” He shooed away Jack’s admiration, flipping over the CD in his hand. “I wasn’t gonna leave her with nothing. And it wasn’t like I got her a Mercedes, just a little something for her to get back and forth to the plant and the kids to school. I should be thanking you actually, you’re the one who looked over the engine and told the guy to change the oxygen sensors before we would paid for it.”

Jack just offered a shrug, though he smiled when Connor reached over to nudge his cheek gently with his knuckles.

“What kind of albums do you have, Jack? I think we’ve listened to nothing but the radio since we left Washington.”

“I like the radio,” he said matter-of-factually. “It’s got NPR, weather, every—THING! Connor, no.” He yelled (squeaked) in alarm when Connor began rummaging through the glove compartment, searching for evidence that he was fibbing. Curse the RV for being so wide, he risked swerving if he reached far enough to slam the lid closed. Meanwhile, smiling and completely unbothered, Connor continued to snoop.

“What do we have here? Oh, Jack. Jackie, baby, what are these?” He grinned in triumph to hold up a handful of CDs: his partner’s most private feelings in rhythm and prose. “Is this what you listened to before you picked me up? Tracy Chapman, Bobby Caldwell—Jackie? Blue-eyed soul?”

Jack’s red cheeks approached their smoking point, hands tight on the steering wheel. If Connor squinted, he might see steam rising from his collar beneath the tight line of his lips. “Don’t make fun of me, Connor, please.”

“I would never, Jack,” he said earnestly, all whiskey and warmth as he popped open one of the cases and began to decipher the RV’s stereo system. Static seemed to be the most common channel in their current neck of the woods, among a brief news transmission: ‘—ark state park in Washington, where the body count is up to 9—’

Stop. Go back.

“What?” He mumbled, so quietly Jack only hummed his vague acknowledgment as Connor flipped the channels back and forth, desperate to return to that station.

“It… it was this one, I’m sure of it,” he said, met with only snowy static from the stereo, and Jack took his eyes off the road for less than a moment.

“What was? I’m sorry, I wasn’t listening.”

His blood chilled, too much like that night when he had descended from the tower to work on his generator in the middle of the night, believing they were safe and leaving Jack to sleep off his episode alone—until he heard the crickets go quiet in the bushes behind him.

Jack had been the one to save him then, and he would not be caught unaware again. Nor would he let himself be weak when Jack trusted him enough to need him.

“It’s not important, I can’t even find the station again.”

The awkward tilt of Jack’s half-smile was reassuring, even as his heart pounded too hard. He reached to press a button with a circular graphic, one Connor hadn’t assumed was supposed to be a CD, and the little orange display flashed ‘INSERT DISC’.

“… Ah.” It was Connor’s turn to blush, though Jack couldn’t hold himself back from a good-natured chuckle.

“Under 30 and still bested by technology.”

“Hey, I spent four years falling behind on the curve. Do you think the army gave us anything more advanced than ping pong paddles and sun dials? It did make me excellent at smoke signals, though.”

Jack’s laugh warmed him, the only thing he had found that could chase away the unease lately. “You’re an old soul even without living mostly analog all that time.”

“We couldn’t even afford all those letters, they just gave us ANAM,” Connor said with his most comically raised eyebrows, just to hear him laugh again.

As he slipped the disc in the slot, a sensual piano filled the cabin, renewing Jack’s embarrassment when a sultry saxophone joined the singer, the iconic croon of a soulful ballad. He burned, resisting the urge to show how much he was enjoy himself, and chanced a quick look at Connor.

To the tune of his fluttering heart, he only found him smiling, no longer looking through his shoe-box or reading the billboards. Smiling at him, all warm brown eyes as he whispered along with the words, as if to say that between them, everything was sacred because nothing could be wrong.

“I want the real thing, or nothing at all. I need someone that I can be sure will catch me if I should fall. Someone who’ll be there when I call, then I’ll know that it’s the real thing.”

“How… do you know all the words?” Jack said, more to himself than aloud.

“Why do you think?” He reached across the console to touch his hand where it loosened it’s grip on the wheel. “You never have to be embarrassed, Jack, not with me. We’re in this together.”

Easy for him to say, when he’s the one playing with the tempo of the poor man’s heart and the temperature in the room. They came to a stop under a light, and Jack busied his hands tapping his thumb on the wheel until he heard Connor’s seat-belt click, saw him rise to walk towards the back of the RV.

“Where are you going?”

“Use your imagination, Jack, I can’t exactly wander far. Although, I suggest you find a place to park soon, or you might miss the good part.”

“The wh—” He kept his foot on the brake, turning to look for him, just to bite down on his words as Connor slowly threaded his belt free, letting it fall to the rug with a quiet thump. Next came his shirt, pulled off by his hand on the back of his collar. Among the slow reveal of his toned back, the moles on his spine, the song urged Jack onward, a different one, something about “Come to me” and “Let me love you, honey”.

“The light’s green, Jack.” Connor smirked at him, and tossed his shirt in the vague direction of the driver’s seat.

Jack snapped his eyes back to the road, pressing the gas a little too hard and hearing Connor’s laugh drift up from where he grabbed the kitchen counter to steady himself. Quietly, lest he be seen through even more than he already was, he vowed that if he didn’t find a place to park in the next few miles, he would pull over to the shoulder and lock the door.

From the bedroom, a quiet moan piqued his hot ears, among the sound of what might have been his name if he could hear better over the stereo.

Shit. All right, 1 mile.

By the grace of somebody, otherworldly or other, the parking lot to a campsite appeared on his right, empty too, all thanks to the heat advisory that was said to last for the rest of the week. Jack was probably the only person in the county grateful for it, if only because it meant leaving the key in the ignition to keep the AC running left the music on too.

He found Connor already splayed across the bed, distracted from his intentions by the toy bear on the windowsill, the little “Get Well Soon” card in his arms beginning to fade from all the sunbathing he did while his dads drove from state to state. His fingertip nudged the bear’s plastic nose, and Jack began to press kisses along the slope of his shoulder, over the old ink of his tattoo.

“Are we staying here for the night? Adrian’s expecting you Monday morning,” he said.

“I won’t be late, I promise.” Connor turned to steal a kiss from his lips, several actually as he coaxed him to lie back against the pillows. “But whether we get there the day before or the morning of—depends on how much you’ll let me do to you.”

He bared his neck in a plain invitation despite his protests, allowing Connor to seek out his favorite places to kiss while Jack ran encouraging hands into his hair, shorter now after his interview, as well as smoothing his palms over the scratch of the day-old stubble on his chin. It had been a telephone interview, of which Jack reminded him he didn’t have to shave, but Connor insisted it was the right thing to do.

“You’ve always been the needier one, but this—,” Jack’s breath hitched when teeth grazed the skin behind his ear. “You’ve been really affectionate lately.”

“It might be awhile before we get the chance again.”

Light and teasing just a moment ago, the quiet melancholy of Connor’s voice against his neck made Jack’s eyes flutter back open. He cupped his face in his palms, warm in the cheeks where his body was still wound up despite himself, and beckoned him to look up.

“Hey.” From so close, he could see all the barely-there freckles across his nose and cheeks, too light to be anything more than a secret to the rest of the world who didn’t get to hold him the way Jack did. He placed another kiss on his lips. “You’re so good to me. Remember that.”

Connor’s brow scrunched, worried still as he let their foreheads touch. “I want to live up to the version of me that’s in your head.”

“He’s real, I’m holding him. I can feel his dick on my leg.”

The sudden sputter of Connor’s laugh puffed warm across both their faces, and Jack grinned back at him with what he hoped was all the adoration he felt in his chest, the swell of his heart when Connor smiled so bright.

“Okay, Jack… You say you’re not funny, but I like funny men.”

“Eh, logical fallacies, something something, cognitive bias.”

“You lost me.”

“No I didn’t, I can still feel—”

Connor shut him up with a deep kiss, coaxing his mouth open with his thumb so he could slide their tongues together until their lungs burned. With a wet sound, he finally relinquished his lips, admiring the daze in his hazel eyes and the berry-red of his mouth until his voice broke the spell.

“Who are you?” Jack quipped.

“Someone who loves you very much.”

The softness of his face disarmed any playfulness left in the air, replaced only by earnest devotion and the looming ache of starting over, bittersweet no matter how wonderful the company is.

They deserved a break.

Neither of them knew the winter was going to be a hard one. That before the end of the year, they would be in danger again. To take comfort now was a gift, to hold each other close before the leviathan resident of those Ironbark woods emerges from the trees and begins to seek out the only survivors who know it’s name.

They couldn’t know it was

was already awake

.

They cannot know my name.