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landwriter · 23 days

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Hi! I hope you feel better soon!

This is a great prompt by @academicblorbo about Hob Gadling being the landlord of the Dead Boys. It has a wonderful fill already by @omgcinnamoncakes but I’d love to see what you come up with for it!

Alternative prompt from me if that doesn’t work for your brain: remember the date between Jenny and Maxine? How about one between Jenny and Esther? Poor Jenny is going to really question her taste in beautiful blonde women 😭

Thank you! I saw ‘landlord’ and ‘decades’ and blacked out. I love Hob having them as tenants. Maybe even before the modern day meeting in Sandman.

The Sandman/Dead Boy Detectives, 2.4k, G Dream/Hob, pre-slash, alternating/outsider POV, found family, a reunion and revelations etc.

---

Hob did not, strictly speaking, have tenants. It was more of a minor haunting. Pun intended.

The small room above the pub and below his flat wasn’t worth charging anyone rent for; when he first bought the building he had put a handsome oak desk in there and some bookshelves before wondering who he was possibly keeping up appearances for. Who was he going to take back upstairs that would stop and say, Wait, can I see your office? So he’d left it as more or less an abandoned room.

When he realized a pair of boys were using it as their clubhouse, he didn’t do anything at first. He saw them quietly coming and going a couple times, disappearing around the corner of the first landing. Brazen things. He meant to call after them, but the shout had died in his throat. He’d been young once. He still remembered the need to get away from it all. It was only when he went to check if they’d been making a mess of the room that he discovered it was still locked.

He’d crouched down and inspected the latch and found no marks at all. Huh, he’d said, and jiggled it again, and been a little more interested in whatever clever way they were getting into it after they disappeared up his stairs. Then he didn’t see them for weeks, and assumed they had gotten bored and stopped.

Until they came back. In the middle of an argument, striding through the pub like they owned it. Hob straightened up as they passed him.

“I cannot believe you broke the mirror.”

“I was in a rush! It’s not my fault you forgot you needed Arcana Incantatum after we arrived at the church. And found the demon.”

“I hardly forgot, I only made the mistake of assuming you would know to pack it by now.”

Hob raised his eyebrows. The boys disappeared into the back hallway. He followed them as they went upstairs, too preoccupied with their drama to notice Hob. They turned onto the landing, still carrying on. Even as they walked through the door. The locked, closed door.

Hob blinked. Then he drew his keys from his pocket and opened the door. The boys were still inside. One of them was pulling a mirror out of a backpack that was several times too small for it. They didn’t even look up, and Hob wondered how he couldn’t possibly have put it together earlier. He cleared his throat.

“Hello, boys.” That caught their attention. Hob grinned. “Seems we’re neighbours.”

---

Edwin abhorred getting involved with the living. He and Charles got along perfectly well on their own. They were a duo. An intrepid pair. Best mates, like Charles often stressed whenever he was about to ask something particularly ridiculous of Edwin. They were solid together. As solid as two ghost boys could be. The living, though, were messy and unpredictable.

Perhaps the most salient fact at present: Charles invariably became attached to them.

“He’s sad, mate. I can see it in his eyes.”

“You said those exact words in ‘94 about a dog. At least ask Hob himself.”

Before you decide to adopt him too.

Hob Gadling, irritatingly, was unobjectionable on every ground Edwin could think of. He had made no imposition upon them. When he found them, he only asked them their business, and then told them he was usually downstairs, or upstairs, if they needed anything they couldn’t procure themselves. He had an interest in rare and old books, as it happened. In explaining this, he had also hinted at being far older than his looks would suggest, which vexed Edwin twice over. He knew his curiosity would not be slaked until he talked to Hob, but then he would be the one getting involved with the living, and Charles would hardly let him forget it.

“Do you think he’s really immortal? Mate’s far too calm. Last week I saw him stop a fight downstairs by stepping right between these huge blokes. He just said something and smiled and they backed right off.” Charles lit up. “Do you reckon he’d teach me how to do that? Conflict de-escalation, innit? I could show him some moves with the cricket bat, I bet. Oh, do you think he’s a cricket fan?”

It was obviously a hopeless case, and since the Dead Boy Detectives never took on hopeless cases, there was only one course of action that remained. Edwin had long since disabused himself of the notion he needed to breathe. He had no beating heart, yet when he was startled, he would find himself clutching his chest. Now, he exhaled slowly through his nose in an entirely superfluous sigh of resignation. “Well, Charles, shall we go talk to him?”

---

When the millennium came around, Hob found himself celebrating it with his accidental tenants. There was something gloriously satisfying about being able to make a toast to the next one and have it taken seriously. He’d asked them if they had something better to do - spectral trouble to get into et cetera - and they both looked at him with almost identical put-upon and incredulous expressions.

Hob had a terrible suspicion they thought they were taking care of him as much as he thought he was taking care of them.

Edwin, with his insatiable curiosity and, deep underneath it, something Hob thought he recognized from himself: a sharp animal ferocity and a refusal to go until he’s good and done, natural laws be damned. Charles, still brightly, painfully alive for a ghost - who should be alive still, by all rights, but nothing of this life was fair - who joked to cover up hurt in a way Hob knew too, and glowed any time Hob turned so much as a kind word to him.

He wondered what they saw when they looked at him.

The year ticked over, and technology kept working. Charles grinned innocently and said he could probably possess the telly and break it that way if Hob wanted?

Hob’s heart twinged. He knew they weren’t his, not to keep, but it seemed that teenagers didn’t change at all over the centuries, even if the boys were only sort of teenagers in the way Hob was only sort of in his thirties. It didn’t change that they’d been punted from the mortal coil before having a chance to grow up, and figure out the kind of men they were, and make their own choices and fuck up and try to be better than their fathers, and everything everyone deserved. Hob had made more than his share of mistakes. They hadn’t been given the chance to make nearly any at all.

So they made toasts to the new millennium, to the detective agency, to themselves, all stuck out of time in different ways and refusing to move on for different reasons, and Hob allowed himself to think of Robyn and privately pretend that they were his all the same.

---

A week later, Hob was reminded of the other universal traits of teenagers when he mentioned his stranger and both boys began to grill him with terrifying alacrity. Before turning to his dating life, like ravening bloody wolves. When Edwin had asked, in a specifically nineteenth century manner that Hob remembered all too well, if Hob had always been unmarried, he’d nearly put his head in his hands.

“It can be hard for me to associate with the living too, you know. For obvious reasons.”

Charles had turned to Edwin and hissed “See? I told you.”

Right in front of him. Nobody had taught them manners.

“Manners, Charles,” replied Edwin loftily. “We will, of course, respect your privacy. A man is entitled to his secrets.”

“You’ll go upstairs and rifle through my personal things, is what you’ll do,” said Hob.

Charles coughed to hide his laugh. Edwin flushed and looked away. Hob snorted, and told them about Eleanor and Robyn. Properly. It was a strange relief. He’d told the story wrong for plausibility’s sake so many times he had been worried he’d forget the truth of it one day.

They had listened, and been remarkably quiet until Charles piped up and offered to set him up with a ‘really fit’ ghost. Hob had roundly shut that down. Woefully, not all explanations were satisfying enough. Charles cornered him again the next morning while he was cleaning the bar.

“No, mate, I still don’t get it.” Hob was about to say he no more wanted to be with someone who couldn’t feel pleasure from his touch than someone who would grow old and be taken from him while he stayed the same, when Charles went on, bafflingly, to ask, “Why don’t you meet your mysterious friend more often than once a century?”

Hob sighed. “Adults are often busy, Charles.” Nevermind that he had begun to wonder the same since the eighteenth century. He’d always just assumed time passed differently for his stranger.

Charles just laughed and perched himself on the bar top. “Ooh, low blow. We’re busy too, you know. Plenty of cases to solve.”

“Really,” said Hob. “You’re busy. Right now.”

Charles waggled his eyebrows.

“Charles, I am not a case,” said Hob, sternly as possible. “I’m not even a ghost. He’s not a ghost. No ghosts.”

“We could investigate. Maybe ghosts are involved. What even is he? Why every hundred years? Is it some sort of Persephone situation?”

Hob bit his lip against shouting I don’t know! I don’t know anything about him! Instead, he tried to smile, and felt it come out as a wince instead. “He’s very private.”

Charles scowled. “Yeah, obviously. You don’t even know his name. He can’t be that good of a friend if he’s too busy to see you more than once a century.”

Hob couldn’t see the expression on his own face, but he saw Charles’ shocked reaction well enough. It was so long ago for him, and still Hob knew at once what Charles saw now: that first time you manage to visibly hurt a grown-up’s feelings, people who seemed too old and too stern to actually feel pain, when you’d been going around kicking at them like a new foal, just to stretch your legs.

“Sorry,” said Charles, instant regret chasing his surprise. He was a good kid.

“It’s alright,” said Hob. He meant it. He looked down at the shining bartop. His hands were restless with the urge to light a cigarette. He gave in. It wasn’t like Charles would be dying of lung cancer any time soon if he decided to follow Hob’s example. “I don’t think he would say he’s very good at being a friend either. Truth is, I’d love to see him more often. But we had an awful fight the last time we met. If he forgives me, I’ll have to ask.”

“Mates always make up,” said Charles earnestly. He was such a good kid.

“I suppose they do.” Charles still looked sorry, and Hob clapped him on the shoulder. “Hey. Thanks for looking out for me, Charles.”

Charles beamed at him. “Always. We’ve got your back, me and Edwin.”

---

Charles couldn’t bloody believe it. Hob’s friend was here. There was nobody else it could be. He and Edwin were watching from a nearby table, pretending to be absorbed in their own conversation. Neither man noticed them. They were too busy looking at each other.

He couldn’t imagine spending more than a century apart from Edwin. The way Hob had talked about him and his stranger over the years, it sometimes seemed like they were best mates too, no matter how little they saw each other. He was dead sure that’s what had Hob looking so gutted when he thought nobody was looking. He had known they would make up, though. Maybe now Hob would be happier.

“Charles, we really ought not eavesdrop,” hissed Edwin. Right as he scooted his chair closer, the cheeky hypocrite. Hob and his friend were talking too quietly to properly hear, their heads bent together. Lots to catch up on, Charles reckoned. A hundred years. He couldn’t stop thinking about the number. It seemed impossible. Funny, he couldn’t imagine that long away from Edwin, but he could imagine spending that long being best mates. There was nobody he’d rather hide from Death with.

Hob’s face was doing something strange as his long-lost friend talked. Then Hob moved and grasped him by the shoulders, so tight that his knuckles stood out in relief. The man said something in low tones and Hob shook his head, and then pulled him in for a hug. The man stiffened and then relaxed, and his arms came up around Hob’s.

Their cheeks both looked wet.

Charles swallowed and it felt suddenly a little like he was choking. He should look away, only he couldn’t.

“They must be great friends,” said Edwin softly.

“Yeah,” he managed to croak. We won’t ever need to have a reunion like this because I’m never going to lose you, mate. I won’t let them take you. It was stuck behind the phantom lump in his phantom throat. His hand, without him telling it to, reached out and grabbed hold of Edwin’s. Edwin squeezed it hard, and Charles knew he didn’t have to make his voice work after all.

Then the man pushed Hob away, but only far enough to grab his face and pull him back again, thumbing over Hob’s cheeks, and beside him, Edwin honest-to-god gasped, and then Charles momentarily forgot how thoughts worked too.

---

It happens thus: in the New Inn, just next door to the White Horse, some 639 years after they first met, Hob Gadling and Dream of the Endless share their first kiss. Neither, if they had bothered to think about it, would have intended to have an audience, but it’s a well-known fact that some kisses cannot wait, and theirs was chief among them, being that it had so much to say, and was so very long overdue.

I missed you, it said, and I came back, it said, and Please don’t go away from me again, and I could not.

And atop them, like blankets, were laid invisible the daydreams of those who saw them, including two long-dead boys, whose dreams were woven from the fresh and unaccounted-for possibilities of Hob kissing his mysterious stranger. Another man, thought Edwin. His best friend, thought Charles. Dream was the only one who could have heeded this, but he did not, because Hob Gadling was holding him tight and daydreaming loudly of this kiss and more, of this today and tonight and tomorrow, ever greedy and ever easily pleased, and Dream could hear nothing at all over their clamouring and comingled joy; the bright gold daydream between the scant space of their bodies that sounded so much like at last.

#asks #the sandman #dead boy detectives #fic #crossover? fusion? i guess? who is to say! not me!#dreamling #perhaps some notes of chedwin #(a fabulous ship name btw. i may not get cob but i WILL get chedwin)#author wrote this while sick as dog so please excuse errors :')#might put on ao3 later if i have a chance to clean it up and expand on it a little!#my writing #me yesterday: 'i really don't see the appeal of blending both stories beyond doing it for the sake of it'#me today: 'no you don't understand they NEED each other here is my chart of the interpersonal dynamics and a list of all the ways hob can h #accidentally writing the new inn reunion scene i'd always dreamed of oops

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lokitapendragon · 1 month

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Something that the book makes so much more obvious than the movie is Anakin's mental/physical state throughout the story. Like yes, he's scared out of his mind of losing Padme, but also he's never sure when he last ate or drank (and then it's Palpatine offering him water, naturally) and is so freaking sleep-deprived a human would be having hallucinations. I've had quite a bit of experience with insomnia/nightmares and I speak from experience when I say that brushing your teeth becomes a herculean task when you've been up since 3 a.m. and it's 7 p.m. Your friend asking if you can lend them a pencil feels like an egregious imposition. The world is out to get you. Everything sucks. Food starts to all taste the same. You ache but nothing actually hurts, you want to cry because your shirt is blue, the urge to smash all the plates in the cupboard is overwhelming. There is a REASON sleep deprivation is the first step in torture and brainwashing. Add to this the mistrust of the people who raised him, the threat of his wife's death, and all the pressures of war...geez, Anakin never stood a chance against Palpatine.

#star wars #anakin skywalker #revenge of the sith #revenge of the sith by matthew stover #lokita rants #anakin defense

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yourheartandmind · 1 year

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Imposition

Pairing: Wednesday Addams x Reader

Summary: Sometimes, you questioned your relationship with Wednesday. Sometimes, it felt like she was the only one allowed to hurt.

At times, you found yourself questioning your relationship with Wednesday. On such days, you couldn't help but wonder if it was worth it at all.

The raven hair girl currently sat facing away, her back serving as the physical barrier between the two of you. She had been upset for quite some time, now; not a word of acknowledgment having been casted over to you for the better part of two hours.

A small part of you was tempted to break the silence, to reach out and ease the tension that seemed to have grown with each passing moment; the more stubborn part of you refused. And perhaps the proudest part of you, buried deep within all the affection and love you had for Wednesday, wonder if it was even your responsibility to do so.

Because sometimes, it felt like the only one who was allowed to hurt was Wednesday.

It had been sudden.

One second you were fine, the next you were suffocating. An invisible string wrapped itself around your chest, making it hard to breath as the air staled around you. The smog threatened your sanity, and your heart began to race.

It was happening again - the panic, the dread - creeping up on you, unwelcomed and unannounced. Your body tensed, muscle losing their strength as you felt the urge to curl into a ball. Things had been like this for you - ever since the Hyde attacked. Thoughts scatter like debris in your mind, leaving you disoriented and lost.

The pencil in your hand started shaking, your grip on it loosening with every scrap of breath you took, even as you fought for control of your actions. The words that you managed to write came out sloppy, an incomprehensible mess that even you could not make out.

Memories of what had happened the night the Hyde found you played through in your mind. How easily he had overtaken you. How bitter your blood had tasted when you thought you were done for. But what you remembered most clearly was the fear and hopelessness you had felt.

As as you struggled to compose yourself in the face of your own memories, frustration bubbled within and you didn't know if you'd rather laugh or cry at your own helplessness.

Through the haziness, you just barely registered the creak of your bedroom door opening before Wednesday entered your vision. There was concern on her face, an emotion so vividly different from the usual nothingness that she showed. In that fleeting moment of weakness, relief washed over you, chasing away the fog in your mind. You found yourself instinctively reaching for the girl, yearning for the comfort of her touch. But as your eyes locked with hers, you saw urgency mixed with her concern, and you froze. The realization that she, too, was currently going through something replaced your breath of relief with despair.

"There you are!" You heard her exclaim, though her tone was far from one of excitement. Instead, it dripped with frustration, as if you had already offended her with your absence. The way she spoke hit you like slap to the face, making you flinch in shock. Any hope of comfort that had momentarily arisen in your heart withered away in shame.

"My father," She was saying, her words blending together and feeling distant, "Somethings happened."

Even in your state, it was clear that she needed you. Gathering your strength, you willed your panic back, determined to conceal the turmoil until Wednesday left. The last thing you wanted was to add to her burden. Your trembling hands found refuge in your lap, hidden from her view, as if they were the physical manifestations of the mess you were within.

Not that Wednesday seemed noticed either way.

Oblivious to it all, she began speaking and her words pour forth, a torrential downpour to your already muddle mind. Each sentence crashed against your ears, reverberating like thunder through your skull. You tried to listen, to understand - straining to comprehend the urgency in her voice as you puzzled through the pieces of words that managed to break through to you.

Your silence, however, only seemed to only annoy her further, impatience etching itself onto Wednesday's face. And as the weight of her frustration collected into the air, you felt yourself begin to crumble under the pressure of her obvious disappointment. Her reaction proved the helplessness you had been feeling. Inwardly, you berated yourself for not having the strength to face your problems alone and failing to support her in that moment.

Wetting your lips, you attempted a response, only to find your voice stolen away by panic. The invisible string in your chest tightened, and your nails dug into your palms with a dull pain that would surely burn later.

Wednesday only continued, her words drowning out your thoughts and spiraling you deeper into your own abyss. The desperation to understand, to be useful to her, clung to you like a lifeline. Even as the task buried you deeper and deeper within your own mental grave, the words themselves slipping through your grasp.

The knowledge that your silence only increased Wednesday's irritation added another layer of suffocation. It felt as if the ground beneath you was suddenly crumbling along with you.

It was a pathetic sight, you were sure. Your normally sharp and capable mind now struggling, desperately clawing for any semblance of clarity and control. The way Wednesday seemed to glare at you only intensified those thoughts as the atmosphere hung with the unspoken words and expectations.

A small part of you wanted to yell, to tell her that you were trying your best, and that you needed her support, not her frustrations. But like everything else, it got lost in your thoughts.

Eventually, it seemed she gave up, fed up with your uselessness at last. Huffing out the room, she hadn't spared you another glance, only leaving you alone with your thoughts.

You gave in to the panic not long after, the sobs that followed swallowing the first and last of your voice.

When Wednesday had finally returned that night, she had ignored you. As if you were nothing to her. As if you were nothing.

Listening to the clicks of her angry typewriter, now, you bristled at the notion that it would be you who would be forced to apologize. Yet, you also knew that she would never be the one to do it.

Because when it came to Wednesday Addams, she was always right, and if you wanted her to stay, you had to be wrong.

---

#wednesday x reader #jenna ortega x reader #wednesday addams x reader #wednesday addams x you #wednesday addams imagines #wednesday addams x reader fluff

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suzukiblu · 7 months

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Day fifteen of fic NaNoWriMo; obligatory sugar daddy Tim/sugar baby Kon AU.

Kon grins wider, then holds his cup out to him. Specifically, he tilts it so Tim can take a sip instead of just giving it to him.

Bastard. Bastard-coated bastard with bastard-flavored nougat-y filling and a bastardly ganache coating and bastard sprinkles on top.

Bastard.

Tim thinks several more accusing things, then leans over and tries the smoothie. It does taste pretty good, though it’s a little too sweet for him to want to drink the whole cup. Blackberry is definitely more his thing.

“Not bad,” he says anyway, because it’s not and also goddammit, Kon is still grinning at him. Because again: bastard. Absolute full and complete and entire bastard.

“Yeah, for the East Coast, at least,” Kon replies with an easy shrug, reclaiming his cup for another sip. Tim does not think about indirect kissing or anything that ridiculously juvenile and middle-school. Not at all. Not even slightly, in fact. “I dunno, the whole thing just reminds me, um . . . like, I didn’t really do the whole ‘childhood’ thing, obviously, but you know that thing where people talk about extra-liking stuff they used to eat when they were kids? Tropical flavors kinda make me feel like that. Comfort food or whatever. I mean, it’s not Loco Moco or musubi, obviously, but . . .”

Tim blinks, makes a few mental notes, and wonders if there’s a single actually authentic Hawaiian restaurant in Gotham. Maybe? There’s got to be at least a decent food truck or two around, if nothing else. There’s always a food truck.

He could probably bribe one to come into the city for a day or two, if it comes to it.

“That makes sense,” he says, since technically Kon’s childhood pretty much was in Hawaii. He refuses to count the stupid fucking cloning tube, because counting the stupid fucking cloning tube is literally too depressing a thought to even contemplate. Fuck the stupid fucking cloning tube. Fuck it sideways.

Maybe Tim can just bribe a Hawaiian food truck to set up in Kon’s future cul-de-sac once a week or something, once he's conned him into moving into it. Just include it in their usual schedule or something, he doesn’t know. Or at least drop off a regular lunch order for him, maybe.

Whatever, he’ll work something out. He’s going to be working a lot of things out, at this point; hooking Kon up with a regular supply of his childhood comfort foods is not even an imposition. He doesn’t even know what either Loco Moco or musubi is, but he’ll put them on the list and do his damn research. He'll go to Hawaii and hire a personal chef straight from the source if he has to, at this point.

“Can I try yours?” Kon asks, grin going sly again. Tim’s head immediately empties out all over again, and he mutely holds his cup out. Kon’s grin widens.

He leans in and ducks his head and Tim has to deal with how long his eyelashes are and just how pretty his stupid face is and, worse, how pretty his stupid mouth is.

Fuck’s sake, this is just not fair at all. He knows Kon’s a flirt, obviously, but does he have to actually be good at it? Because Tim is not used to him being good at it, actually! Usually he’s being overbearing and too-eager and weird about it, in fact!

Tim has the unfortunate thought that maybe Kon always flirts like this and he’s just not seeing it as overbearing or too-eager or weird because it’s focused on him for once, then immediately dismisses said thought as a thought he absolutely cannot allow himself to ever have again. Just–ever. Not for anything.

Jesus, what is his fucking life right now?

Kon leans back; licks his lips. Tim dies, kind of. Like, just a little bit.

Alright, maybe more than a little bit.

“I like it,” Kon says, grinning at him. Tim tries not to think about how intimately he now knows how Kon’s mouth would taste right now, sharply sweet-sour with blackberry and tropical fruit and all warm and soft and wet and–never mind.

“Want a pretzel too?” he offers in a hopefully normal voice, tipping his head towards the stand.

“Sure,” Kon says, glancing towards it. “Sounds good, man.”

“Cool,” Tim says, incredibly awkwardly, and they head over. He orders a regular pretzel because he doesn't know Caroline Hill's pretzel order anymore than he knows her smoothie order, but “regular” isn't going to be interesting enough for Kon to make a note of either way. Possibly he should just be ordering things Tim Drake would, but the flaw in that plan is that Tim Drake isn't thinking very clearly right now and it is currently much, much easier to be in mission-mode than anything else.

Kon orders a cinnamon-sugar pretzel. Tim wishes the bastard would stop eating things that taste good, but also recognizes that it’s his fault that the bastard's been eating things that taste good. He’s literally the one both suggesting and buying said things for him.

So Kon’s mouth is about to taste like cinnamon sugar right now because of Tim, which is actually making the fact that Kon’s mouth is about to taste like cinnamon sugar right now infinitely worse.

Tim pays. They get the pretzels. Kon immediately tears off a bite of his and Tim wishes he had a cover identity that didn't like cinnamon, or at least was allergic to it or diabetic or gluten-intolerant or something. He could use a cover identity like that to fall back on right now.

“Wanna bite?” Kon offers.

“I'm good,” Tim says, because he will literally die if he takes him up on that offer right now. Or possibly go criminally insane like fifteen years ahead of schedule, which would be its own problem. He doesn't have enough kryptonite for that yet. “You like it?”

He doesn’t know why he asked that. Apparently he’s just a glutton for punishment.

“Yeah,” Kon says, licking sugar off his lips. “It’s good.”

“Good,” Tim says, then desperately flails for a subject that doesn’t involve the way anything currently in Kon’s mouth tastes. “Do you have a personal phone or just a work one?”

“Just work, technically. And then, like, I get issued communicators when I need them,” Kon replies, looking puzzled. “Why?”

Because Cadmus could very easily track and tap and block whatever numbers they wanted on that, Tim doesn’t say.

“I’m trying to get your number and I don’t want to call you on your work phone,” he says. “That seems weird.”

“You a little on the shy side, pretty boy?” Kon asks teasingly, flashing him a smirk. Tim does not examine anything about that statement or his own feelings about it. He also does not think about what Kon’s mouth tastes like, though Kon makes that incredibly difficult by immediately taking another bite of pretzel.

Has Tim mentioned what a bastard he is yet? Because he is a bastard.

“I’m buying you a phone,” he says, deciding if he just acts like it’s a foregone conclusion and some small little thing, Kon’s likelier to not reject the offer. “I cannot mentally deal with the idea of your boss seeing what I text you about on some random weekly report.”

“You can’t, huh,” Kon says, biting his lip around a grin and shifting in a little bit closer. “Why, Tim? What are you gonna text me about?”

Tim realizes how that might’ve sounded much too late, but by then it’s too late to rephrase or backtrack, so fuck it: time to commit.

“Depends on what you text back, I guess,” he says. Kon laughs, then grins at him again. His face is a little red again too. Tim is resigned to having to survive the experience.

“Well, I guess you’d have my number if you got me a phone, huh,” Kon says.

“I would, yes,” Tim says. He’s going to have to resist asking Kon to turn on “find my phone”, probably. Or adding any trackers or bugs to it. It’s the Bat instinct, but it’d probably creep Kon out if he caught a “civilian” doing anything like that. And also definitely concern him, what with the “supervillain creep” concerns he was already having. And Tim would have a really hard time paying for Kon’s entire life if Kon decided he was a supervillain before he’s even become a supervillain, so he’d prefer to avoid that outcome.

He guesses Caroline Hill could give it a shot if Tim Drake can’t pull it off, though. She’d still probably have better chances than him anyway, given Kon’s usual taste in people.

They eat their pretzels on the way to the electronics store and Tim tries to plot how to convince Kon to let him get him the best possible phone but is incredibly, incredibly distracted by watching him lick cinnamon sugar off his fingers. Tim actually hasn’t seen Kon with his gloves off too many times, come to think of it. Or possibly, like . . . ever. Like, he might’ve actually never seen him with his gloves off before.

Alright, well, that’s a thing that he hadn’t yet realized and is now going to be completely normal about.

Definitely normal. Very, very normal. So normal.

They toss out their empty pretzel wrappers outside the store and Kon licks a little more sugar off the pad of his thumb. Tim wonders if he has any callouses. Probably not, considering the TTK, but who knows. Maybe he trains with it down? Or maybe TTK just doesn’t protect his skin quite that thoroughly. Tim’s never actually seen him get cut or scratched or even bruised, though, so . . . maybe?

He really has no idea, at this point.

He supposes he could ask. Tim Drake’s already said he knew about tactile telekinesis and that he did some research, so . . .

“Does TTK protect you from callouses?” he asks, gesturing at Kon’s hands with his smoothie and a little too curious to repress the question. Kon tilts his head and smirks at him again.

“You tell me,” he says, then casually reaches over and catches Tim’s free hand in his own.

Tim had thoughts in his head at some point today, he’s pretty sure, but hell if he knows what any of them were.

#timkon #tim drake #kon el #conner kent #dc robin #superboy #rinfic #wip: obligatory sugar baby kon #long post

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ichxraaa · 2 years

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⤷ you wanna go out with your friends but osamu has other plans…

⁂ MINORS DNI

warnings; fem! reader, cunnilingus, osamu being a menance

keys, phone, wallet… checked. all set and ready to go, you’re nearly at the door when you turn around on your heels, muttering to yourself “charger…”

now you’re ready, all that’s left is…“bye samu, i’m leaving!”

you nearly bump into him when you turn on the hall while reaching for the door once again.

“jeez samu! you scared me, i thought you were in the shower”.

he’s still in his black assemble of work clothes minus the apron and the cap, and you don’t pay him too much attention as you check yourself on the mirror one last time.

osamu’s stare is fixated on you, the charger dangling from his right hand forgotten in favor of checking your outfit.

“you’re really dolled up”.

“you think so? i wanted something causal”. maybe you still have time to change? oh fuck it, you like it and that’s it.

“i meant it as in you look pretty”.

you smile at him through the mirror and he yanks you by the hips to make you face him.

“do ya’ really have to go?” his question sounds harmless, uninterested even but by the way in which his fingers have begun tracing against your skin and the way his eyes are turning opaque you can see his true intentions.

something stirs inside you and you stretch on your toes to reach for his lips in a slow kiss. his fingers immediately dig into your sides, palms pressing you against his chest as one of his hands wanders to place itself on the back of your neck to deepen the kiss in a way that was you clinging to his broad shoulders for leverage.

“samu” you mumble in a whisper after managing to escape from his assault for just a second, his half lidded stare nearly making you forget what you’re about to say. “i gotta go…”

“mmm?” he breaths against your neck, a wet trail of kisses coming down your neck as his hands begin to wander across your back, pinching and grabbing with hunger as you can’t help to moan against his ministrations.

you can’t cancel this meeting, not again. the last time you tried to get together with your girlfriends osamu did the same thing, and the time before that too.

his lips have reached the cleavage of your top and nimble fingers have begun dancing under the fabric of your bra with a very clear intention. you arch involuntary as he finally frees your boobs from its restraints and eagerly begins sucking on one of your nipples with malicious intent.

your phone beeps from the depths of your forgotten purse and you are certain that it must be your friends on the group chat.

your voice has lost strength but you must try to do the right thing, “samu…”, you trail off, breath choked up on your throat as you watch him get on his knees, fingers easily unzipping your pants and head resting against your stomach as he looks up at you with that hint of lust and adoration that has you melting into him.

“stay”. he nibbles onto the lowest and softest part of your stomach, “stay and i’ll prepare your favorite”, your breath hitches, his nose has begun to press against the damp spot of your panties in a way that has your insides twitching.

“my friends are gonna be so mad, i can’t”.

“we can also watch mulan, or…” his fingers pull the fabric covering your lips to the side, tongue immediately flattening into you as his fingers open yourself for him. he grunts as he dives in, head getting lightheaded as he tastes you, the feeling of your cunt already throbbing and so wet for him making the strain inside his pants even tighter.

your fingers scratch against his scalp, more like a plea instead of an imposition to make him stop. you shouldn’t. he’s begun lapping at your clit. you really shouldn’t.

the next ‘samu’ you exhale feels more like encouragement than resistance.

“my friends are gonna hate me”.

he slurps your juices without a care, face pressing with such vehemence against you that you can’t hear for a second. he breaks apart just slightly, enough for you to see your arousal coating his chin and his eyes piercing through you.

“take them to the restaurant next time, my treat”. he gives you a second to think, but he knows your answer even before you think about it yourself. osamu ducks down once again and you exhale in defeat when two of his fingers begin rubbing into you with perfect rhythm.

maybe you can cancel after all…

#miya osamu x reader #osamu x reader #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu smut #haikyuu scenarios #miya osamu x chubby reader #chubby reader #haikyuu headcanons #.dancing in the moonlight

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luveline · 1 year

Text

𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 | 𝐣𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫

one | two | three

Finding out you’re a princess isn’t half as intimidating as suddenly acquiring a full-time bodyguard. Especially when that bodyguard is disarmingly handsome, charming, and can’t seem to stop flirting with you.

bodyguard!james, fem!reader, shy!reader, princess diaries au, all characters in their 20s or older, star-crossed lovers/ forbidden romance, slowburn, background wolfstar

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

Julianna is a real princess. As the niece of the Queen, her title is official. She’s been a princess all her life, and it’s a detail you can’t miss.

James’ hand is hot but amicable against your shoulder blade. He hasn’t stepped away from you since Julianna arrived, though what threat she poses has yet to be seen. She doesn’t seem particularly volatile. You can’t imagine her in all her dewy skin and fine clothing lifting a finger, let alone her fist.

“Mama says you’re an artist,” she drawls.

“Not really.” How her mother knows anything about you is a mystery. “It’s a hobby, is all.”

“And you didn’t finish university?”

“No.” You don’t owe her anything. You know you don’t. But it’s not just her you want to defend yourself to, not when Remus is sitting by the window of the parlour and James is close enough to hear your heartbeat. “I tried to, obviously, but I couldn’t, uh, afford to not work.”

“Ah.”

You don’t expect her to understand it. You know most people don't. Studying and working, the majority can handle both. You’d been ashamed of yourself for failing, but you’d come to the realisation that it was sink or swim. You could sink —hate yourself for being a little more fragile than others, for needing more time, more space, more accommodation— or you could swim. Accept your ‘shortcomings’. Make the most of what you have.

Find yourself in a foreign country surrounded by the highly educated and the ridiculously wealthy. People who might never comprehend why you’ve struggled, or how.

In that moment, you decide to treat this heart-wrenching trip as nothing more than a holiday. James is nice to you. The food is free and apparently plentiful. The grounds…

Fuck, the grounds. The scenery. The royals aren’t currently living in their most famous residence, Loswell Castle, but are instead mourning the Prince at the more private and more subtle Bellaverden House. Subtle, yet gorgeous. The grass is green and stretches as far as the eye can see in all directions, broken up only by the silhouette of the alps to the east and the shimmering Lake Orlo to the west. The palace itself is nothing like you’d expected, and so far from the capital city of Genovia it is no surprise to find that the royals let their personal tastes bleed into every corner. It’s tasteful, silent wealth, no crystal chandeliers hanging from the eaves but instead a Rembrandt in the hallway. No solid gold cutlery, but instead Noritake porcelain tea cups and their matching exorbitant saucers.

“Loswell is the gaudier of the two houses,” James had said, evidently pleased by your wide-eyed surprise.

A nice boy who’s being paid to spend time with you and his funny friends. All you have to do is survive the paparazzi (check!) and your suspicious possible relatives (less so).

Any hour now, the paternity test will come up negative and they’ll be shepherding you home in search of the actual princess, wherever she may be.

If she exists at all.

“You haven’t eaten anything today,” James says softly, for your ears only. “Should we go down to the kitchens?”

It’s hard to describe the true and daunting scale of the palace, but James’ use of ‘kitchens’ rather than ‘kitchen’ sums it up nicely.

Julianna rolls her shoulders, reaching for a black telephone on the side table. “No need. We’ll have it brought up. What do you like? They have yards of fresh pasta prepared by now. Doesn’t matter, I’ll ask for some of everything.”

“Oh, no,” you say, stepping out of James' reach. “I don’t want to be an imposition while I’m here.”

“That ship has sailed,” she says neatly.

Ouch. You look back to James without intending to, an automatic movement. He’s become your safety net too quickly. His job is to protect you from harm, not your catty maybe-cousin’s mild disdain.

“Sit,” Julianna says. “James, you can take up station in the hallway. Go on.”

Her voice possesses all the snobbish airiness you’d expect it to. She’s regal, elegant, and rude. James’ hand stretches toward yours, but your skin never touches. You think it might be his silent way of saying he won’t be far.

He gives you a reassuring look, not quite smiling. “If you need me,” he says.

“Tutor,” Julianna adds once James is at the door, “you can leave us.”

“Remus, please.” You smile at Julianna appealingly, piping up before she can steal your last lifeline. “I need him to tell me what silverware to use. If I have any hope of catching up, I’ll have to start learning about proper etiquette straight away.”

You look to your tutor to make sure he’s on board. Remus gestures for you to sit and crosses the hardwood floors between you, his soft shoes barely making a sound. Julianna sniffs, your suggestion agreeable but tiresome for her, and pulls the telephone receiver to her ear.

Remus settles into the chair next to yours at the table.

“Don’t worry. We won’t leave you for wolves,” he says.

You’re grateful. You nod to the book in his hands. “What are you reading?”

He turns the book around. A Comprehensive History of Contemporary Genovia.

“I’ve never had to educate someone who didn’t already know a very specific, very intricate history of our country,” he says in his rough voice, the barest hints of his accent peaking through. He says our country like you already belong as he does, not native but citizen anyhow. “Honestly, I provide supplementary education for the well-educated, I… I’m like a second chance for rich slackers. You’re neither, and so I’m unsure how I can make this easy on you.”

You admire his thinking. You’ve been lucky to find yourself in the care of people who put your comfort first. Remus, James, Sirius, even the ambassadors of the country, and the matron you’d been introduced to upon your arrival here, they’ve all been so conscientious.

But it won’t matter.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he says.

“You do?”

“You’ve made it clear how much faith you have in the current situation. I believe…” that you’re who we suspect you are, you think he might say, but he parts his legs to bump his knee into yours. “I believe we’re going to be good friends.”

That is… “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

He nods.

“So, what’s with the bruise?” Julianna asks abruptly. “And the bad makeup. Mean boyfriend back home?”

Her cavalier attitude rubs you the wrong way immediately. “I was a little too close to the door when someone opened it.”

“Ah.”

Again with the Ah. Extra syllables must be at cost.

Positivity, you remind yourself. This is a vacation. This inane and insane need to constantly prove yourself to the people around you is going to make you crazy, especially when all of this is temporary. Who cares what princess Julianna thinks of you now when, in a day or two, she’ll remember you as nothing more than the girl who they brought by mistake? And wouldn’t it be nice to just… not care? Who cares what Julianna thinks.

You stand and walk to the door where James is standing, because calling for him would make you feel like an entitled dick. He turns his head to you obligingly.

“Would you come back inside?” you ask. “The painting is giving me the heebies.”

“That’s a portrait of your great great grandmother.”

“She’s scary.”

He claps your shoulder, giving it a tender squeeze. “If the test comes out negative, princess, I’ll happily commit royal espionage for you and fix the results.”

“That is not a joke you should make,” Remus calls mildly.

“Probably not. I’ve made it now. Sit down, princess, the food’s arriving.”

The food they bring up to you is incredible. Genovian cuisine is actually mostly stolen from the Italians, and how fortunate you are for that. You have no clue where to start, surrounded by rich smells of broth and stewed vegetables, the spritely aroma of white wine and tomatoes so fresh their roasted skins split under the gentle bottom of your spoon.

James refuses to eat with you, as he’s on the clock, but Remus sits down at the table as promised to guide you through the fascinatingly awful etiquette of a new royal.

“That’s Cioppino,” Remus says, pointing to a dark red stew bragging large pieces of crab, smaller chunks of a white meat you’re unsure of, and the distinct dark brackets of mussel shells. “It’s actually an Italian-American dish. It’s served with sourdough or french bread, but in our case, where you can’t necessarily use your hands, we’ll go without.”

“Well, there’s nobody here I need to impress, right?” you ask quietly.

You swear you can hear Julianna twitching.

He ignores your comment, but his voice is riddled with amusement when he says, “It’s more common for the crab to be served in its shell, but I don’t suppose they want the royals using crab forks and crackers." He points to a second bowl. “This, from the looks of it, is a variation of stufato di capra e fagioli, Italian for ‘stew of goat meat and beans’. Self explanatory. It’s very popular here in the winter, it’s,” —his voice drops to a lower register— “Sirius’ favourite. Shoulder meat, onions, carrots, celery, white wine and white beans. I don’t suppose I have to tell you what that is.” He nods to a heaping bowl of gnocchi coated in a green, buttery sauce, and its familiar wingman — fettuccine alfredo.

“Now there’s one I know,” you say with a smile.

“I think they’ve gone easy on you,” Remus says. “Given you something they knew would be familiar. The head cooks, Marl and Marsha, hardly ever serve fettuccine without ragù di pollo. Chicken ragù. It’s a sacrament in Marlene’s eyes to separate the two.”

He moves so easily from English to Italian. You wonder if he speaks Genovian. Is there a Genovian language? You’re too embarrassed to ask, and instead pile some unadventurous fettuccine into your bowl.

Julianna picks up the telephone again and you let yourself relax as her conversation begins. She picks at her food and talks in Italian down the line, staring straight at you as she says the word, ‘principessa’. You don’t have to be a linguistics expert to know she’s talking about you. Eventually, her attention fades. Remus relaxes with you.

“This spoon,” he corrects, before opening his book and sagging into his seat.

You're famished, but now all this rich food is making you feel sick. You pick at your fettuccine alfredo and a little of the cioppino. Weirdly, you miss the ordinary smells of your kitchen. You think you might prefer a white bread sandwich and a packet of crisps.

A figure moves behind you, James shadow shifting to cover your hands. “Unladylike it might be,” he says, “but you’ll regret it if you don’t try the bread, princess. Freshly baked, pretty much soaked in pesto, it’s what us peasant folk fight over at the end of a shift.”

You hold your hand to a beautiful sliced baguette, “This one?”

“That’s the one.”

You pull the bread apart and enter a stodgy, olive oily sort of heaven. The only thing better than how it tastes is James' happy sound when you set aside a huge slice in a napkin and usher it behind your back, as inconspicuous as you can possibly be about it. He has no choice but to take it. You don’t look, but a telltale crunch comes quickly and poorly smothered.

Julianna excuses herself, and a maid, maybe, comes to take her plates and dirtied cutler on a silver cart. You lean toward Remus with a hand over your mouth. “What do you call them? The ladies in uniform.”

“Princess, you could call them whatever you wanted to,” James butts in. He wipes his mouth with a napkin and sits in one of the chairs facing the door and windows. He’s always on the alert.

“But what’s nicest? I don’t want to be offensive.”

“You’ll learn their names in time,” Remus says easily. “You’ll be fine. Officially, they’re ‘attendants’. Maids, cleaners. Oh, you’ll have a lady in waiting–”

“A what?”

“A personal assistant,” James says.

Your face heats up like an instant flush, all hot pinpricks and embarrassment, “No,” you beg, standing up, “please, that would be entirely unnecessary, it’s not like I’m some sort of–”

“Princess!” A familiar voice shouts. Sirius has weaselled inside the door and closed it tight, his back pressed against it for a moment like he’s keeping someone out. He wears an exuberant smile and a brilliant dark ensemble with fine pinstripes that mess with your eyes as he approaches. He’s practically running. “I’ve spoken to Delilah who’s spoken to Bella who’s spoken to Lily who’s been in contact with the legal team in charge of Y/N’s care here in Genovia, and they’ve heard from the medical team who have been fighting tooth and nail to be put in talks with you,” —he looks at you now, and there’s something about his expression, part wide-eyed awe, part sympathy, that freezes you to the spot— “because it’s technically your care, and–”

“Sirius, mate, just put her out of her misery,” James says. He’s looking at you in a different way. Like he’s waiting for you to fall over.

“Your father,” Sirius says, promptly deciding to start again. “The paternity test came out positive. Your DNA is a match for the Prince, may he rest in peace. You’re a princess. You’re the princess, by blood. You’re a Thermopolis.”

There’s a stretching silence. You wrap your hand around the back of your chair and stare at the velvet upholstery of the seat.

“Terrible last name,” he adds sympathetically.

You don’t want to be the girl who faints. That would be ridiculous, to fall over and crack your head. So, though you hate to ask for anything, you mumble, “James?”

He wraps a shapely arm behind your back and under your armpit before you lose the feeling in your legs.

“I think I need to sit down again,” you say.

“Reckon you do," he agrees, as he pulls the chair out with his foot and arranges you in it efficiently, the tip of his thumb pushed into the pulse point on your neck. “We’ll get you something cold, princess. You can breathe.” He gives you a little shake, hand spreading wider as it drags down your collar. The pressure is like the safety release of a suction cup. You take in a huge breath. “Breathe. There’s a good girl.”

“I’m fine," you say meekly.

“It’s alright,” he says, with his impossible softness. He’s unafraid to be kind, even when there are people watching.

“I’m fine. I–” You can’t finish your sentence. You’d wanted to say you’ll be okay. That this is just some melodramatic episode, but it isn’t. This is a human reaction to unbelievable news. Because you’re a– you’re a princess.

You cover your face with both hands and curl in toward your thighs. Silence pervades, your ears abuzz with white noise. You aren’t sure how long you sit there paralysed, but soon James’ gentle murmuring and shushing cuts through the ringing. “It’s alright,” he’s saying, his hand at your elbow, “I swear, it’s alright. You take as long as you need.”

“Mickey’s at the door,” Sirius says.

“Good. Tell him to radio in a level two security detail and stay by the door. Who else knows, Sirius?”

“By now? Everybody in the castle. Including government officials.”

“And you’re sure?”

Sure said severely.

“Of course I am.”

You’re trying very hard to keep your pasta down. This can’t be happening. It can’t be right. Their test is wrong. They swabbed the inside of your mouth wrong, or got it mixed up with some other person test, or the doctors are lying. Not once in your whole life has there ever been any indication that you are more than the nothing you’ve always been. All your worst insecurities rip to the surface. Not me. Not me.

“Level two isn’t as bad as it sounds,” James says gently. He’s been talking to you again. “All it means is that I’m not at full attention, and I need someone else to watch the room. That’s all it is.”

“I’m not,” you say.

“You’re okay.”

“I’m not a princess,” you say, peeking at him through your parted fingers.

His hand curves around your arm. He pulls it toward him. Encouraging rather than demanding. You let him.

“Whatever it is that you are,” he says, meeting your eyes, “I’m here to take care of you. Okay? Try to calm down for me.” He nods, hoping you’ll nod back no doubt. You worry at your lip, your teeth scratching delicate skin.

“Sorry,” you say.

“No one’s expecting you to feel a certain way right now,” Sirius says. The urgency in his expression has departed completely. He has an air of regret about him now, an uncomfortable set to his jaw.

It’s not just James in the room witnessing your wobble. You cover your face again and try to become one with the furniture.

James stands off of his knees, having seemingly decided that you aren’t in any mental peril. He stays hovering behind your chair. You think you might’ve found them all at a loss for what to do.

The door opens. You imagine a nightmare, Julianna coming to play nice, but it’s the British ambassador Lily once again. She looks as perfect as she did when you saw her last with an immaculately straightened sheet of hair fluttering behind her, her steps hurried. Despite her speed, she doesn’t look unhappy. She’s smiling. Genovian ambassador (in particular, the ambassador that facilitated your movements between the two countries and the establishment of your dual citizenship status) Emmaline follows behind her.

You try to straighten up.

“We have wonderful news,” Lily says.

“You’re the princess!” Emmaline squeaks, her tiny stature no bounds for her excitement. “Welcome home!”

She begins clapping. It slows when nobody joins in.

“What?” she asks cluelessly. “Has something bad happened?”

That’s what you’re trying to work out.

—

James can hear you sniffling.

He rests his shoulders against the wall by your bedroom door and sighs. You'd held it together for hours now after the announcement, but Sirius' last amendment had toppled you over.

You have to meet your grandmother tomorrow to begin preparing for your father's funeral.

James thinks you might have reached your breaking point. He can't imagine the grief of losing a father you didn't know you had, and the stress of being pulled out of your life so suddenly, carted across Europe and left under the judgemental eyes of royals and officials with little direction. Now that the paternity test has been conclusively positive and checked by many, many professionals, your confirmed identity should hopefully provide a more stable schedule. From James perspective, the days ahead will be easy. For you, they are going to be very, very hard.

You'll meet the Queen tomorrow at breakfast. The plans for your permanent residency in Genovia will be decided. Your entire life is about to change, and there's nothing you can do to stop it.

Well… James doesn't really want you to stop it, but it's not entirely true that you can't. You could reject your heritage and go home to your flat, your art, your degree equivalent classes. Maybe you're crying because you're scared you don't have options.

James thinks about knocking on the door to talk to you. He meant it when he said he has a duty to all aspects of your health, the mental as well as the physical, but it's difficult to define the line between professionalism and being friendly. He's already crossed it.

He sighs and rubs his weary head. He's fucking tired. Today has been the longest day ever. You'd slept for an hour in the car from the airport to Bellaverden Castle, and James had watched you half jealous and half enraptured. He won't mind looking after you no matter how you look, but your being easy on the eyes is a brilliant plus. Well, when ignoring the huge bruise staining your cheek.

"Fuck," he says.

He hasn't been doing very well. Honestly, his failure to keep you from harm in your flat (even if the harm had been him) and then his screw up with the paparazzi…

He pulls out his pager. He should swap with one of the night guards now and he trusts them all, having picked them himself, but he wouldn't feel right walking away while you're crying.

He clicks in Remus' code and waits until he hears it back. It's shorthand between them. If he wasn't awake or didn't want to see him, Remus could've ignored James' page and there'd be no hard feelings. But he answered. Tonight, once James has made sure you're okay, he'll crawl into Remus' bed like when they were kids in a cold dormitory and missing home and sleep for a glorious eight hours. He might even tell Remus how stressed he is. He knows his friend will listen.

He'd invite Sirius, of course, (and that's assuming he isn't already there) but it's well past ten. Sirius is definitely asleep.

James hasn't had a proper night's sleep in a week. He feels poorly. He misses his mum. He's hungry. This job is great, he loves what he does; he gets paid to take care of people. It's also too much. It eats at him.

"Fuck," he says again.

"James?"

He flinches hard.

There it is, his third mistake. He's very lucky that the chief of royal security is busy making funeral arrangements, because if Mary were here she'd gut him.

You've crept up on him in his distraction and that is so fucking dangerous. How could he not notice your footsteps across the floor, or your door handle's heavy metallic thunking?

"Princess," he says, biting his tongue when you wince. He'll have to call you something else. "I'm sorry, I–" James squints at your sore eyes.

"It's okay. I just wanted to ask… are you alright?"

His shoulders hunch slightly. "Am I alright?"

You fluster. "I just heard you and I wanted to make sure you were doing okay. You sounded… stressy."

"You don't have to worry about me. That's my job." He frowns at the remnants of your tear stains, dampness shining at the corners of your eyes and your lashes sticking together in darkened triangles. "I was just about to come and see you, actually. I know today's been hard, and I know I haven't helped you. I'm so sorry, again, for your cheek. And at the airport, I know the scuffle with that photographer didn't help your nerves. I know," he stresses, "this is hard. I swear things will be smoother from now on. You have my word."

You rub your elbow wordlessly. He's about to backtrack, or perhaps dig himself a bigger hole, but you look up at him and give him one of the softest smiles anyone's ever given him in all his years.

"It's forgiven. Believe me, James, this is the least of my worries," you say, gesturing to your cheek. It only takes a second for shame to stick its hooks in you, yanking your gaze to the floor. You're wearing an expression he's seen a thousand times on the people closest to him.

He flicks you under the chin gently.

"Things are gonna get easier. I swear it," he says.

You plaster a smile on. James figures he can push it some more and wipes the smudgy shine of old tears off your cheek.

"There. Looking good, angel."

Definitely unprofessional. He keeps getting this weird feeling like you're his friend and not his charge. It's fleeting and it's making him stupid. This and the sleep deprivation. He swears to himself he'll be better tomorrow.

You bid him goodnight. He listens to your night time motions until another guard comes to release him from duty. James rushes to his room for a shower and a cereal bar, giving his teeth a half-hearted brush before setting off for Remus' room halfway across the castle. Remus and the other scarcely employed scholars don't have to sleep in the servants' quarters like he and Sirius do. Schmuck.

He finds the door unlatched. Mercifully, James decides to spare them both the safety related lecture. He tries to be as quiet as he can, but a head of sandy brown hair turns his way.

"James?" Remus asks, his voice thick with fatigue.

"Sorry. You can go back to sleep."

"I was waiting for you. Drifted off."

James scrubs a hand through his damp hair and knocks off the light. He can find his way in the dark.

"Sirius isn't here?"

"James…"

"What, are we still pretending?"

"James."

"I'm sorry. Forgive me, Moony."

"Yeah. Don't lean on my left side. I'll move over."

"What's wrong with your left side?"

"I don't know. Maybe from carrying the bags. Maybe not."

James slides into the warm space Remus has made for him and tries not to go into overprotective mode. Loving someone who's constantly in pain can be confusing. You don't know how much love you're allowed to give before it starts to look patronising.

Remus can take care of himself, but he doesn't need to.

"Anything I can do?" James whispers.

"Tell me what's bothering you."

"Oh, you know… Everything. Nothing. I'm so happy we're all together again, I mean, what are the fucking odds? How long has it been since I could come and see you guys after work without making an appointment? And I didn't love the Prince, but I hate that he's dead, and I…"

Remus turns his head to James. They're a pillow apart. When James looks at him, he can't remember what he looked like when they were young, but he can feel the years of knowing one another stretching out between them. A straining curtain of yellow light from the hallway catches the edges of Remus' features. James can see the corner of an uneven smile.

"Go on," Remus says quietly.

"She's nice. She's really nice. I don't want her to get hurt."

"James, you don't want anyone to get hurt."

"I thought this was a demotion."

"Isn't it?"

"If it is, it's one I deserve. I deserve another one. Once Mary sees the mess I've made…"

Remus reaches across the sheets to pinch James' bicep. "Nobody is good at their new job. Sirius didn't touch up the princess' bruise when we got off the plane, and while they're paid off for now, someone who needs the better payout is going to publish those photos, and soon. Sirius should've been doing his job, but he was too busy looking after me."

"I tried to cover it–"

"I know. You did a good job and I'm not blaming you, Prongs, anyway. My point is that he made a mistake. Does he deserve a demotion?"

"Ew. Hate you."

"And I should've better prepared her for meeting Princess Julianna. It was my fault that she felt embarrassed. I tried my best to fit in some coaching for breakfast tomorrow but the poor girl doesn't know a butter knife from a paring knife."

"That's not true."

"No," Remus agrees. "I'm making her seem less educated than she is to prove my own point… James, she isn't a princess. She has the blood, and soon she'll get the official title, the land and the money and the education and maybe some of the bad bits, as well. But right now, she's new to being a princess, and she's not very good at it."

"I get it."

"Yeah, I know."

Remus readjusts in bed. James almost misses the pain in his friend's exhale under the sound of crunching fresh sheets.

"Are you sure I can't do something for you?"

"I wish," Remus says. He isn't depressed. The opposite, he sounds way too spritely for the time. "You could stop hogging the blankets, for starters."

James feeds Remus some more blanket and sighs. The mattress is heavenly. The quilts and sheets and pillowcases are soft and thick. By all means, James should've fallen asleep the second his head touched anything mildly comfortable.

"You've asked Mickey to look after her tomorrow, right?" Remus asks.

James had radio'd Mikkelson after his shower to put the early morning shift and protocols in his jurisdiction temporarily. That means James will hopefully be able to sleep until his body feels like it can hold itself together again. He doesn't like leaving you to face the Queen by yourself, but it's not as if she'll hurt you, and Sirius will see you bright and early to help you get dressed. James isn't worried.

"I have. How did you know that?"

"You're the only one of us who knows how to properly take care of themselves," Remus explains easily. "Good. I'm glad you did. You haven't been sleeping."

"How do you know that?"

"I love you. I know everything about you."

James smiles at the ceiling. Beams. There is nothing quite as valuable to him than his family. He would do more to keep them all safe and healthy than he should admit on the record, so he keeps it all tucked inside and out of view. It's terrifying and freeing at once to look at someone you love and know you're going to do something awful one day if it means they'll come out on the other side of it alive.

"Not everything," he murmurs.

"Everything, James."

"Yeah? How many fingers am I holding up right now."

"One."

"Which?"

"Middle."

"Lucky guess." James laughs at their childish squabbling. "I love you too. I'm really glad we're in the same place again."

"What did you say? What are the fucking odds?" Remus quotes, so tired now that his words are running together. "I'm not sod enough to do the maths, I think it's gotta be deep in the decimals. Lily's and Mary's involvement definitely helped, but to have someone come along who needs security detail, special education, and a lady in waiting is unfathomable."

James laughs and feels his abdomen shaking. "I'm telling Sirius you called him a lady in waiting."

"Sorry," Remus says, and James knows his friend is genuinely repentant, even though Sirius would've laughed himself if he'd heard the joke. "I'm not trying to put him down. He's worked so hard, he– He's working so hard. He thinks it's easy work because he's good at it. He doesn't realise it's easy because he worked very very hard to be good at it."

James has to chew it over for a moment to understand what Remus is saying. Once he understands, he vehemently agrees. Sirius is skilled in so many areas. He can style both a model and their wardrobe spontaneously. He's a media liaison, a sleuth, a sweet talker. He understands the inner workings of Western media — Sirius can deduce the honesty of a smile from a precursory glance. He may not always trust what he's seeing, but he sees it undeniably.

"He's the best of us," James sighs agreeably, stretching down the length of the bed until his spine pops and his calves burn. "Shit. I need to start working out properly again now we're here."

"Tomorrow. We'll figure it all out tomorrow, James. Go to sleep."

James is obedient. He falls asleep, and doesn’t wake until the sun is warming his cheeks. His hair is still damp and he feels awful in a new way. Better for having slept with someone close by, and catching up on the hours he’s been missing. But his back is stiff.

He goes back to his room. His neck aches as he brushes his teeth. He does a workout in the small space of his room and stretches out his rigid limbs until he feels human again.

The black telephone on his nightstand starts to ring. He hates them. He wishes the royals would go back to bells.

“Hello, sir,” Lily says cheerfully down the line. James can picture her sweet smile. “I couldn’t help but notice your absence this morning.”

“How did it go?” he asks, trying to tug on a new pair of socks one handed.

Lily hums. “It wasn’t awful. It wasn’t good, but it could’ve been worse. Her majesty liked her. Y/N was quiet, she was awkward, but we all know they prefer quiet to mouthy. The last thing they wanted was another Julianna. I felt kind of bad, really. Like I was handing her over.”

“She…” James sighs. “She didn’t seem upset, did she, Lils?”

“No, I actually think she was feeling good. Your boys took good care of her.”

“Brilliant. Oh, and to answer your unasked question, I’m being slovenly. I’ll be back on duty by noon.”

“Slovenly,” she repeats. “I’ve never known you to be any sort of lazy.” She laughs. James is happy that the sound doesn’t break his heart anymore. “Alright, James. I’ll see you later.”

He appreciates what she’s doing, letting him know you’re okay while he’s away. It’s uncanny how fast the people in charge of your care can band together.

James gives himself a minute to wipe away yesterday and prepare for today. He closes his eyes and shakes his head ferociously, his hair flying every which way. He sorts through all his worries one by one, letting that anxiety eat at him methodically —he’s a bad bodyguard, he’s a bad friend, he doesn’t call his mum enough, he’s chicken shit scared of dying alone, the works— and then pushing it away. Today is a new day with new opportunities. He can prove to you and to himself that he’s good at his job, he can make sure his friends are doing alright, he can call his mum tonight before dinner, and dying alone? He isn’t dying today. So that one’s on the back burner.

He makes his way from his room in the quarter and into the main building, wary that he might come upon a duke or duchess. His radio, clipped as it always is against his left shoulder, chirps with chatter. He bites back a scolding about keeping the line clear and looks out the huge glass windows at the grounds below. A marble water fountain spurts proudly at the foot of the stairs, and an elaborate hedgework stands at pruned attention. It’s a nice day. He wonders if you’ll be up for walking.

He looks for you in the secondary parlour, the den, the library, the dining room. He swings by your room, and when you aren’t there he admits defeat and unclamps his radio, cutting through an inappropriate joke unapologetically.

“Afternoon. Location on Princess Y/N?”

He imagines his subordinates scrambling to answer, embarrassed by their unprofessionalism, but it’s likely they just don’t know where you are.

“If I don’t get an answer in the next five seconds, you can all expect to be running laps tonight. That includes you, Mikkelson, I don’t care how much overtime–”

“Sir, this is Daniels. Me and Roma are with the princess in the south wing.”

“Why?”

“She wanted a pencil sharpener.”

James grins to himself. The south wing (or, as James might put it, the guest wing), houses the scholars, the ambassadors, and whatever government official the royals are trying to butter up at the time. He’s feeling positively joyful when he finds you, sketching away with your face pressed to the window. The genovian mountainscapes take shape on your page one confident stroke of graphite at a time, a small leather bound sketchbook pressed flat to your knee.

“Settling in?” he asks.

You raise your head but not your eyes. “You could say that.”

“How was meeting Her Majesty?”

You frown.

“That bad?” he asks.

“No, I mean. You know. She’s a queen. It was terrifying.”

Despite your unhappy mouth, you look as relaxed as you have since the moment he met you. You’re in what’s clearly a casual Genovian dress, what with the subtle but remarkable stitching a shade darker than the dress itself and the squared neckline. Your calves are out and glossy in the daylight. They’re rather distracting.

“You look good,” James says carefully.

“I’ll miss the fancy lotions,” you say. Your pencil scratches away.

James’ hands falter where they’re clasped behind his back. “What?”

You meet his eyes properly. He hadn’t realised you’d been avoiding his gaze until you weren’t, your face ringed with guilt, an explanation slow to come.

“I’m not staying. I can’t be a princess, James.” You shake your head mildly. “I’m going home.”

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

thanks so much for reading! oh no, you want to go home!! rest assured, james and co aren’t letting you go too easily. i hope you enjoyed, reblogs are always appreciated, a thousand kisses for all of you either way <3<3

#james potter fic #james potter #marauders era #marauders #james potter x reader #james potter x y/n #james potter x you #james potter fluff #james potter blurb #james potter drabble #james potter imagine #james potter fanfic #james potter fanfiction #the marauders

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the-other-art-blog · 2 months

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I need to talk about Pen's "glow-up" because it's something so special to me and so relatable.

In the book, Pen can change her wardrobe only because Portia gives up on her and doesn't make an effort to dress her up anymore to attract suitors. This is sad, but it does tell you that Portia genuinely thinks her horrible taste is good. But this left Pen to figure out what SHE wanted to wear without her mother's imposition. She likes more sober colors and she actually knows what looks good on her. She's making her own style and growing up. 🥹🥹🥹🥹

I say this is relatable because I also had an overbearing mother who imposed a certain kind of clothes on me for years. Now that I am living alone, I finally buy clothes based solely on what I want. It's a freeing experience to be able to choose what you want. And I'm so here for Pen to get that.

I will also say that the colors and style were not the problem per se with Pen. It was the fact that she hated them. There's not one ball in which she doesn't complain about her outfit. Because she hated the dresses, she was uncomfortable and she transmitted that negativity. Edwina thought she looked pretty, and Pen immediately thought she was making fun of her 😭. Like Edwina said "it's about how one wears it." Kate looked radiant in yellow. Prudence and Philippa liked what their mother chose for her and it showed. But Pen hates it, so she should be able to say so and not wear it.

As we have seen in the tiny glimpses of her, she has amazing taste. Madame Delacroix helped her, but Pen also knows what looks good. And I find absolutely amazing that Pen still retains traces of Portia's style. She has sober colors, but the silhouette is much more fitted than regency dresses, and that's just Portia's influence. She's still her mother's daughter, she's still a Featherington.

Anyway, I love to see a woman getting the reins of her life. Clothes and hair may seem like a vanity issue, but they're not. I spent my whole life listening to my mother telling me that my hair was the most horrible type ever when I only needed to style it correctly. This is important for a person's confidence and Pen should be able to dress however she wants.

I love this for Pen.

Of course this is not going to solve her problems, but it's a step forward.

#penelope featherington #bridgerton #polin #bridgerton s3

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negobeauriva · 1 month

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The Windows95manifesto: In defense of Finland's performance for 2024

Happy first rehearsal week everyone!

The first wave of rehearsals is done, and with it, we have gotten a wave of comments about the performances. Some filled with praise and approval, but some others completely hateful and rude. And today I'm going to talk to you about this second kind of comments about one of this year's controversial entry: Finland's "No Rules!" by Windows95man (Teemu Keisteri) ft. Henri Piispanen.

Many people have said that this entry is a joke, or that it doesn't deserve to be in Eurovision because it's distasteful. But here I am, in defense of uniqueness and weirdness, not only because this entry is in my top 5 this year, but also because it's important to understand what "art" is about. Here's to all the "weird" Eurovision entries that have been called unworthy of stepping on stage because they've been misunderstood.

A special shoutout to @/tottakaibi on Twitter/X because she gave me one of the pointers for this article in particular! And she's constantly in the lookout for Teemu and Henri's projects.

Without further ado, step in and enjoy the read.

No Rules! is, undoubtedly, the most distruptive entry this year - the nudity, fast-paced music and unique mise-en-scene, all make for an entry that many have deemed nonpalatable or not artistic. But behind every art display, there is a story, and I'm here to tell you a little bit more about it.

To start, the staging of No Rules! refers to the Kalevala, a book of finnish folk poetry from the 19th century that contains the myth of creation: Earth was born from an egg, with the shells forming both sky and land. Goddess Ilmatar, mother of nature and creation, soon realized that whatever she touched would grow and her every move was an act of creation itself. And so, she gave birth to Väinämönen, the first man to ever walk upon Earth.

Teemu arising from an egg is a clear reference to the Kalevala myth of creation, and he's even referred to it in some way in a video recently posted by UMK, in which he tells the tale of how Windows95man was born and Henri, in the figure of an eagle, becomes his friend so he can walk on the rule-burdened Earth without caring much for the impositions. It's both a mythical reference and a song of liberation: to not care about what others think and what others say to live freely and happily. To disregard societal "rules" in order to pursue happiness (this, of course, in the sense that you shouldn't care about "neat" or "appropriate", and not about the lack of order).

This song has also been called an anthem of liberation for LGBTQ+ members: No Rules! refers to the absence of gender norms ("Quiet, as I speak / I am the king, I am the queen" // "Is there something wrong with the way I look? / Is there something wrong with who I am?") and to live your life expressing yourself in the way you deem the best fit for you. As an agender person who's constantly told what to wear, what to say and how to act, this song is very meaningful and close to me. It makes me feel a bit better about my identity.

Now, to the point that interests you the most - how can No Rules! be considered an artistic performance, with the disruptive elements that make many shriek in disgust?

Let's begin with this - art is subjective and it's meant to make you feel something, whether good or bad. Art is meant to move something inside you, to make you question things. Have not many artists in the past made paintings about poor people's lives to protest poor living conditions or to showcase how hard it was to get on by? To many, art forms like paintings and sculptures that we now consider artistic were once considered scandalous or distasteful. This is the exact point of this performance.

In a recent documentary called "No Shame", Teemu referred to this - the point of his art is to appeal to disgust, to weirdness and to what makes you question what's tasteful or not. Shock factor also plays an important part in modern art performances. It's about going into the raw parts of your psyche and make you uncomfortable.

Teemu has been a visual artist since 2008, under the name Ukkeli. Vibrant colors, strange outfits and drawings, uncovered butts as part of his art installations and the message "No Rules" as one of his oldest mottos (not surprising, considering that in an interview he said he grew up with hippie parents that were very permissive) are the main features of his work. It's reminiscent of early 2000's adult animation shows, who also had a big shock factor and were frowned upon back then.

In this appeal to weirdness resides the charm of Windows95man's performance - in making you feel uncomfortable and weird, you're proving the exact point of the song. You will be bitter about how Finland could've "sent something better", but that won't change the fact that Teemu and Henri were chosen by his people because they understood the art beyond the shocking display. They understood what living with no rules means, to embrace weirdness, to embrace unique, and not care about what others say. If it makes you feel happy, who says that you're not allowed to like or pursue it?

Let's take a look back - Go_A's Shum, who was also catalogued as weird due to Kateryna's bewitching voice and vocalizations, made it to 5th place with no problem in 2021. Zdob si Zdub & Advahov Brothers' Trenulețul 2022 got to number 7 in 2022, after being called disruptive noise, and Konstrakta's In Corpore Sano made it to 5th place even when it was called creepy by some. Mama ŠČ! by Let3 made it to an impressive 12th place last year, and 3rd place in Dora this year with their strange Baba Roga.

If every country sent the same cookie-cutter type of "safe" song to Eurovision, the contest would be very repetitive and monotone. Let's face it, the public loves unique, loves something that will blow your hats off for three minutes and wondering what happened. They love songs that go off the "normal" standard because it takes you for a trip and makes you jump off your seat. It's no wonder that, in contrast with No Rules! getting so much hate, along with Doomsday Blue (another of the misunderstood entries, reduced only to its wrongly called "satanistic" character), 5Miinust and Puulup seem to be favorites this year, along with Joost Klein, who is rumored to win. People either love or hate weird and unique. Sadly, Finland got the worst end of the stick, and I think that's very unfair.

There's also the double standard, many think that it's inappropriate for Teemu to show up in nude-colored underwear, but they had no problem with female contestants in revealing outfits in previous years. Here's the thing - it's either okay for everyone to wear revealing outfits, or it's not. The argument that 2022's Chanel is given a pass to wearing revealing clothes because "she's a sexy girl speaking about being sexy" is invalid. Beauty, much like art, is subjective. And I do think that Teemu is very beautiful. He is allowed to wear what he wants (of course, according to EBU's standards, and they seem to have approved of the performance as is) and you don't get to say what's tasteful or not based off an aesthetic standard settled in sexism.

To finish this off, let me sum up the most important points of my mini-essay: No Rules! is an artistic performance because it's disruptive, it has elements that refer to Finnish myths and it's a liberation anthem that is meant to reach all those who feel like being themselves is wrong, to make them forget about this world's standards for three minutes and remember that the only person they need to please is themselves. As such, this song accomplishes its goal perfectly and beautifully. To call Teemu and Henri's performance a joke is to bypass every element of its artistry and to insult the artist standing on stage. Finland chose them, and so we must respect their decision and refrain from sending hateful comments.

I do think that we need to keep high hopes for this performance. I know that the two of them will go beyond everything we know and expect and will blow us all away when the Semifinal 1 comes in May 7th. After all, Henri's vocal skills have improved greatly since UMK, and Teemu's charisma can only grow by the second. These two have everything to go far and to show everyone that sometimes, all you need is to not listen to your surroundings and act as your heart commands.

Sometimes, the only rule is no rules.

#eurovision #eurovision 2024 #esc 2024 #esc24 #no rules #windows95man #teemu keisteri #henri piispanen #get this guys to top 5 asap #finland #umk

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talonabraxas · 1 month

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Taurus Talon Abraxas

Unleashing the Power of Taurus’s Spirit Animal: A Guide

The symbolism of the bull as Taurus’s spirit animal extends to themes of fertility, abundance, and sensuality, making it ideal for rituals related to manifestation and prosperity.

To harness the energy of Taurus’s spirit animal, witches can perform rituals involving earth elements, such as grounding spells or working with crystals like emerald and rose quartz.

Rituals involving the bull spirit can enhance one’s ability to set and achieve practical goals, fostering a sense of unwavering determination and resilience.

Incorporating the bull’s energy into your witchcraft practice can also help you connect with the earth’s energies, deepening your spiritual connection with nature and the cycles of life.

Taurus’s spirit animal

Taurus’s spirit animal is the bull. It is a very stable sign-in which stubbornness and a lot of possessiveness are present. The animal moves and thinks slowly, but the moment it learns something it assimilates it in a lasting way.

Taurus hates change and has the gift of knowing how to handle money. They are not deflected by flattery, they insist on logic and do not disperse their interests. They are usually in excellent health. People of this sign have intense physical magnetism towards others.

Its greatest virtue is patience as well as constancy. Someone born in the sign of Taurus is very tenacious in pursuing a goal, despite being strong and rather slow, and when fate is adverse, he knows how to wait with great calmness and start again with great calmness without getting tired and without wasting time in recriminations that, for him, would be useless. Nature passionately expresses itself, more sensually than sentimentally.

They are loyal individuals with some weaknesses: they have a great sense of friendship, they would really do everything for a friend, even help him economically, even if the Taurus possesses great parsimony.

The formation of the individual is influenced by childhood and the family environment, he knows where he wants to go and does not tolerate impositions, moreover, he hates intrigue and shuns gossip. It becomes very dangerous when he realizes that he has been betrayed and exploited. However, the

Taurus does not lack defects: he has a possessive nature, laziness, and a total lack of self-criticism that leads him to a sort of presumption. The Taurus knows how to give warmth and love to those close to him, but he is equally selfish and jealous of the same people.

Those born under this sign should be taught dominating instincts and the control of arrogance. From a very young age, he will be favored in relationships with others, he wants to show himself well and often succeeds, his bonds are constant and lasting, whether they are of love or friendship. Taurus loves the so-called “good life”, so he usually surrounds himself with beauty.

His home is his temple and he loves décor; he creates a great place where he can feel relaxed and pampered. Those born under the sign of Taurus are considered to be practical and simple people, peaceful and open; they love their home, they have a great taste (aesthetic and more), they are attracted by the pleasures of life and material goods.

With strong and constant characters, they are suitable for the arts or cooking, for works in the field of aesthetics, well-being, agriculture, in any case respecting nature and its balance (great ecological sensitivity). The psychology of those born in Taurus is not as simple and serene as it may appear; on the contrary, it is complex and tormented, often involving a relationship of love, which is understood as the possession of the loved one, of deep jealousy.

The female psychology represented by Venus in her dark side is, in fact, also highly seductive and observing, a bewitching and astute manipulator. Being happy for Taurus means possessing, merging, planting roots, and relying on safe nourishment and support.

The symbolism of this spirit animal explained

Due to its virility and the might of its presence, the bull has been a cult icon for many cultures. In many ancient cultures, such as Mesopotamian, Greek, Roman, and Egyptian, it was considered a sacred animal and it was common to offer the blood of this animal as a sacrifice during sacred rites.

In Celtic symbolism, the bull represents physical strength and power. According to the Celtic beliefs, the bull was extremely virile and therefore symbolized fertility and the power of procreation, which in turn meant extending one’s life.

The druids associated the bull with solar energy, and the cow, on the other hand, with earthly energy. For the Celts, the bull was also a symbol of luxury, wealth, and prosperity: after all, it has been a source of benefit and income for these people for centuries.

Also, according to Celtic thought, it was said that the bull possessed a very important characteristic that stands out above all the rest: the fact that this animal is very stubborn and obstinate. It is also a symbol of virility for men and fertility for women.

According to the Celts, this animal would help improve the mental state in relation to sexual strength. Since the bull was a great source of food for the Celts, it is easy to understand why his figure is associated with an age of serenity and abundance.

According to a more modern perspective, the bull has several meanings related to safety and strength. Although the source is unknown, the bull is said to be a positive symbol for investment in business due to the remarkably active lifestyle it leads in its natural habitat.

Some aspects of the symbolism associated with this animal are stability, virility, strength, prosperity, security, fertility, determination, and help.

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battyaboutbooksreviews · 3 months

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🌈 Queer Books Coming Out in February 2024

🌈 Good afternoon, my bookish bats! Struggling to keep up with all the amazing queer books coming out this month? Here are a FEW of the stunning, diverse queer books you can add to your TBR before the year is over. Remember to #readqueerallyear! Happy reading!

❤️ We Ate the Dark by Mallory Pearson 🧡 The Paper Boys by D.P. Clarence 💛 Skater Boy by Anthony Nerada 💚 Your Shadow Half Remains by Sunny Moraine 💙 A Vicious Game by Melissa Blair 💜 Clarion Call by Cayla Fay ❤️ Relit: 16 Latinx Remixes of Classic Stories edited by Sandra Proudman 🧡 The Absinthe Underground by Jamie Pacton 💛 Truthfully, Yours by Caden Armstrong 💙 Outsider by Jade du Preez 💜 Cross My Candy Heart by A.C. Thomas 🌈 The Tainted Cup by Robert Jackson Bennett

❤️ An Education in Malice by S. T. Gibson 🧡 The Imposition of Unnecessary Obstacles by Malka Ann Older 💛 Never a Bridesmaid by Spencer Greene 💚 The Rewind by Nicole Stiling 💙 Good Christian Girls by Elizabeth Bradshaw 💜 The Fox Maidens by Robin Ha ❤️ The Terrible by Tessa Crowley 🧡 Blood Rage by Ileandra Young 💛 Call of the Sea by Emily B. Rose 💙 Sign Me Up by C.H. Williams 💜 Ways and Means by Daniel Lefferts 🌈 Peaceful in the Dark by A.A. Fairview

❤️ We Are Only Ghosts by Jeffrey L. Richards 🧡 Dead Ringer by Robyn Nyx 💛 Somacultural Liberation by Dr. Roger Kuhn 💚 Stormbringer by Erinn Harper 💙 A Saga of Shields & Shadows by A.J. Shirley 💜 Ghost Town by R.E. Ward ❤️ I Heard Her Call My Name by Lucy Sante 🧡 The Night Alphabet by Joelle Taylor 💛 Remedial Magic by Melissa Marr 💙 Bloom by N.R. Walker 💜 Entwined by Alex Alberto 🌈 Queer Newark edited by Whitney Strub

❤️ Tristan by Jesse Roman 🧡 How to Live Free in a Dangerous World by Shayla Lawson 💛 Daniel, Deconstructed by James Ramos 💚 Of Socialites & Prizefights by Arden Powell 💙 Lost Harbor by Kimberly Cooper Griffin 💜 Hannah Tate, Beyond Repair by Laura Piper Lee ❤️ Bunt! Striking Out on Financial Aid by Ngozi Ukazu & Mad Rupert 🧡 How You Get the Girl by Anita Kelly 💛 Blackmailer’s Delight by David Lawrence 💙 Tile M for Murder by Felicia Carparelli 💜 Impulse Buy by Jae 🌈 Live for You, Die With You by Kalob Dàniel

❤️ Fairest of All by A.D. Ellis 🧡 Goddess of the Sea by Britney Jackson 💛 A Taste of Earth by Nico Silver 💚 The Moorings of Mackerel Sky by M.Z. Emily Zack 💙 How the Boogeyman Became a Poet by Tony Keith 💜 V is for Valentine by Thomas Grant Bruso ❤️ Crushed Ice by Ashlyn Kane & Morgan James 🧡 When Tomorrow Comes by D. Jackson Leigh 💛 Bugsy & Other Stories by Rafael Frumkin 💙 The White and Blue Between Us by Kiyuhiko 💜 Guide Us Home by CF Frizzell & Jesse J. Thoma 🌈 The Friendship Study by Ruby Barrett

❤️ Infinity Alchemist by Kacen Callender 🧡 Heart2Heart edited by Annabeth Albert 💛 No Time Like Now by Naz Kutub 💚 Bless the Blood by Walela Nehanda 💙 Vengeance Planning for Amateurs by Lee Winter 💜 Who We Are in Real Life by Victoria Koops ❤️ Prove It by Stephanie Hoyt 🧡 Mewing by Chloe Spencer 💛 Awakenings by Claudie Arseneault 💙 Born of Scourge by S. Jean 💜 Disciples of Chaos by M.K. Lobb 🌈 To Cage a God by Elizabeth May

❤️ Greta & Valdin by Rebecca K Reilly 🧡 What Feasts At Night by T. Kingfisher 💛 You Had Me at Merlot by Melissa Brayden 💚 Turning Point by Cathy Dunnell 💙 For the Stolen Fates by Gwendolyn Clare 💜 Season of Eclipse by Terry Wolverton ❤️ These Haunted Hills by Jana Denardo 🧡 Samson & Domingo by Gume Laurel III 💛 Lies that Bind by Rae Knowles & April Yates 💙 We Got the Beat by Jenna Miller 💜 The Diablo's Curse by Gabe Cole Novoa 🌈 Blessings by Chukwuebuka Ibeh

❤️ Out There by Iris Eliot 🧡 At Her Service by Amy Spalding 💛 Green Dot by Madeleine Gray

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eletricheart · 1 year

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You're Losing Me

(Mother Miranda x Reader)

*image creds to the owner

Word count: 1.255

song: You're Losing Me by Taylor Swift

ps: i've been trying this new way of writting my stories, i have the ideas but i still cant put it all in one story, so i'm connecting it to the song lyrics, just to get it out yk.

ps2: angst

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

You say: I don't understand, and I say: I know you don't

We thought a cure would come through in time, now, I fear it won't

Miranda had come back to the cabin after spending a week inside the lab. She expected to see you waiting on the couch but you were nowhere to be found inside the house.

It was three in the morning, way past the time you usually went to sleep. You considered waiting for her, at least during the first two days.

Miranda found you sitting outside, she sighed and sat beside you.

"You're late." You stated, keeping your eyes closed in a relaxed position.

She shrugged. "I had much to do."

You huffed. "I'm sleeping in my room, alone."

Miranda furrowed her eyebrows and looked at you. "I don't understand."

You sighed. "I know."

Remember looking at this room, we loved it 'cause of the light

Now I just sit in the dark and wonder if it's time

Miranda stayed around for a couple days before diving into work again. You became used to it, the silence, the loneliness.

You would spend hours sitting in your shared room, remembering how long it took to decorate since you had different tastes. Remembering how the morning sun would always give the woman a holy aura.

You missed her.

Do I throw out everything we built or keep it?

I'm getting tired, even for a phoenix

Always rising from the ashes

Mending all her gashes

You might just have dealt the final blow

This time the priestess came back during the morning, but only for a few minutes. She had forgotten one of her notes for the meeting with Alcina.

You reassured her it was fine, you were fine, she could go, you could talk later, it's okay.

She just never noticed you.

Stop, you're losing me

I can't find a pulse

My heart won't start anymore

For you

'Cause you're losing me

You'd rarely see her now. She was either busy with experiments or in another meeting with one of the Lords.

You started to hate the cabin, you would walk around the woods (the lycans were smart enough to not bother you), sometimes you'd even accompany Duke during his sales.

Miranda only noticed when you weren't there once she arrived, but didn't pay much thought into it.

Every morning, I glared at you with storms in my eyes

How can you say that you love someone you can't tell is dying?

I sent you signals and bit my nails down to the quick

My face was gray, but you wouldn't admit that we were sick

You started to sleep less, to match her schedule.

You were exhausted, everyday you tried something new, anything to have just a moment with her.

And the air is thick with loss and indecision

I know my pain is such an imposition

Now, you're running down the hallway

And you know what they all say

You don't know what you got until it's gone

You had woken up to Miranda looking for something in the drawers, waiting for her to find it in order to speak.

You sat on the bed, facing her. "Mira, it's one a.m, can you stay? Just this one time, please."

She looked at you, hesitantly. "I apologize for waking you, but this is urgent. I'll be back, wait for me. Okay?"

You weakly nodded and she left without another word.

How long could we be a sad song?

Till we were too far gone to bring back to life?

I gave you all my best me's, my endless empathy

And all I did was bleed as I tried to be the bravest soldier

Miranda was stressed after the service at the village, and you were faithfully listening to every single complaint she was making. You dutifully supported her, just like all the other times she returns with a list of complaints big enough to write a book.

You accepted when she wanted to go over to Donna's for tea, even tho the priestess claimed you couldn't join because the dollmaker didn't like strangers.

Sometimes you still tried to prove that you could be there for her, but the woman never listened.

Fighting in only your army, frontlines, don't you ignore me

I'm the best thing at this party (you're losing me)

And I wouldn't marry me either

A pathological people pleaser

Who only wanted you to see her

Miranda stared at you in confusion. "You don't even like crows."

"But you do, this can be a group project, they become bearable when you're around." You responded, with a pleading smile.

She took a deep breath. "Sure, maybe next month."

You rolled your eyes. "I've got nothing to do right now, can't you fit this in your schedule?"

The priestess shook her head. "I have more important matters to attend to. We'll do this when I'm done, okay? Just wait a bit more."

And again, you nodded and she left.

And I'm fading, thinking

Do something, babe, say something (say something)

Lose something, babe, risk something (you're losing me)

Choose something, babe, I got nothing (I got nothing)

To believe, unless you're choosing me

You stood next to the door with your bag next to you. Duke had kindly offered to take you on one of his trips, you accepted of course, now you just had to tell Miranda.

Part of you wanted to just leave a letter, giving her the same consideration she has given you, but you couldn't. So now you were waiting.

When she arrived, the first thing to be said was "I'm really tired right now, we can talk tomorrow."

You were righteously annoyed, so you took a deep breath and let it out. "I'm leaving."

Miranda stopped before the stairs and turned around. "What do you mean by leaving?"

You nervously bit your lips. "Duke invited me to travel, I said yes."

She chuckled. "No."

You arched a brow. "I'm going Miranda, I just wanted to let you know."

Her smile turned into a frown. "When are you coming back?"

You laughed. "Really? That's what you're asking?"

"What do you want me to say?" She asked, slightly annoyed.

"Ask me to stay! Why is it so hard?"

"If you want to stay, why are you leaving?"

You put your hands in your head, trying not to cry out of anger mixed with sadness. "I just want you to care."

She sighed and walked towards you. "I care, why don't we talk about this later? We can unpack your bag, I'll even tell the Duke you reconsidered."

Tears were sliding down your face, which she was carefully wiping with her fingers. "We're not gonna talk, we never do."

Miranda nodded and pulled you in a hug. "I know, I've just been very busy lately. You understand, right?"

You nodded, weakly, hugging her tight.

She smiled, faintly. "Good. Let's go back up, it'll be over soon, you just have to wait."

You gently separated from the hug and looked her in the eyes. "I need time."

Miranda frowned. "You don't need to leave for that."

You smiled, weakly. "I know, but I want to."

The woman looked at you with furrowed brows and a frown, but still nodded. "Will you come back?"

"I don't know."

You're losing me

Stop (stop, stop), you're losing me

I can't find a pulse

My heart won't start anymore

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

masterlist

#re8 #resident evil village #non canon #resident evil #fanfic #mother miranda #mother miranda x reader #re8 mother miranda #re8 miranda #resident evil 8 #resident evil fandom #resident evil fanfiction #Spotify

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thedemonknownasbilly · 6 months

Text

As We Know It: Chapter Two

Master List

Word Count: 1,080

Warnings: the Fall, angst, cyanide, coffee theory (hinted)

Aziraphale x Crowley

He/him for Aziraphale // he/they for Crowley

Crowley didn’t know if he was grateful that at last the angel was real, or if they were desperate for it to be naught but a dream. Certainly they missed the ethereal man, but the pain was too much, and now he was having to hold it all together, to act like they were fine. Like there wasn’t far too many bottles of Laudanum and Cynide beckoning them to the bar. Like they hadn’t cried for months, almost daring to pray for the angel’s return.

“Crowley?” He instantly looked up to where he heard his name, a smile daring to tug as he saw Aziraphale dressed into some black silk pajamas that had been miracled to his size. “You seemed lost in thought, is anything troubling you?”

‘Yes, you. Your rejection only for you to turn back around and ask me to kiss you again!’ Crowley screamed in his head, but he couldn’t say that, he couldn’t hurt Aziraphale, not when the angel was wrecked with newfound PTSD. “Just how much I missed you.” He said, not a total lie, his body relaxing when the other sat besides him, and he almost felt the same, leaning into his warmth, their hands brushing together.

“I never want to return. I’d rather Fall than to return.” Crowley’s eyes widened at that, looking to Aziraphale curiously.

“Surely you don’t mean that?” They questioned.

“Oh, but I do. I don’t know why I let the Metatron bring me back. What we had, our own side, it was all we wanted. All I wanted and yet… I felt like I couldn’t tell him no.” Crowley knew, while Aziraphale told the First Lie, he knew that his angel spoke the truth.

“Do you think it was duty?” They pressed gently.

“No. Heavens no. I felt like I couldn’t physically say no, my mind was telling me to leave the Metatron and tell him to find someone else, but my mouth and body reacted as though this was all I wanted… when that’s not how I felt. Not really.” Crowley bit their lip as his head rested on the angel’s shoulder, thinking much too hard, trying to seek out why Aziraphale felt so compelled to return when it wasn’t his desire.

“I wish I had an answer, angel.” For both of our sakes, went unsaid.

“As do I,” Aziraphale turned to press closer to Crowley, melting around the demon perfectly as his cheek rested on the soft ginger hair. “I can go soon, return to the bookshop-”

“No!” The volume of Crowley’s protest seemed to surprise them both, because now they spoke much more softly. “Please, don’t go, I’ll keep you safe here.” Stay with me. Don’t leave me again. I can’t take it if you leave again, all unsaid pleas that Crowley hoped the angel could feel.

“Okay, I didn’t want to impose upon you… my dear.”

Crowley knew he was grinning like a mad man as they pressed closer to the angel, holding him tightly, like they wanted to melt into one. “Never an imposition, not you, angel.” His face against Aziraphale’s neck, just like the time that the angel stayed in their flat, seeking each other out for comfort about Not-Armageddon. “I need a drink,” Crowley mumbled, his chest tightening as they tried to push down their feelings, untangling himself from the other and going to his bar, pouring out some cyanide to start. “Would you like your usual sherry?”

“Actually, I was wondering if I could try what you’re having?” Crowley raised an eyebrow, but shrugged and poured a second glass out, whatever happened Up There must have really messed with his angel.

“That’s funny, it smells similar to almonds,” Aziraphale chuckled, having sniffed the drink before his sip. “Almost like that…” his face had fallen as a possibly bestowed upon him, “that almond syrup… in my coffee…”

“Coffee?” Crowley asked, their eyebrows furrowed in concern.

“Nothing, oh, nothing at all dear. I’m speculating, such a wild one too.” Aziraphale downed the cyanide all too quickly, making him cough and sputter at the taste, it reminded him almost of the human whisky the demon adored. Crowley’s laugh filling the flat, a sound Aziraphale missed greatly, his blue eyes gazing to the red haired being, admiring him openly and fully.

“Don’t give me those eyes, angel, might just kiss you.” The cyanide seemed to be effectively working its magic on them both.

“Then kiss me.” And that was all Crowley needed, his slender fingers cupping Aziraphale’s cheeks, pulling him into a hasty, needy kiss and whimper caught in the demon’s throat as they felt the other kiss back with just as much desire.

“Angel,” he murmured, kissing Aziraphale more and more, each kiss getting less desperate, turning soft, gentle. “Over six thousand years, I waited.”

“It was you,” Aziraphale hummed, “my missing piece. Oh, Crowley.”

Crowley knew that Aziraphale didn’t understand the full meaning of his words, but they knew. They knew exactly when the angel formed that ache.

His fall.

“Aziraphale!” The Starmaker cried out, trying to reach the cherub he had come to love, the tips of his wings burning, turning black.

“Oh, oh!” Aziraphale gasped, meeting his beloved half way and taking them into his arms, “what happened? My heart, what happened?” Tears began to flood his eyes.

“God didn’t like the suggestion box… I was so stupid, you warned me.”

“Don’t, don’t ever blame yourself. Your questions and your curiosity, they brought me to you.” Aziraphale smiled sadly, cupping their cheek and pressing their foreheads together, he was terrified, what was happening? Was the Starmaker dying?

“Don’t cry, not you, not my beautiful cherub.” Aziraphale gasped as he felt a kiss to his forehead, and he couldn’t hold back, eagerly pressing his lips to the Starmaker’s, his hands fisting into their burning robes. His wings almost entirely black now.

“I will not leave you alone. Wherever I am, however long it takes, I will find you, trust me.” The Starmaker promised, feeling his form getting heavier, like he was being pulled down.

“I trust you.” Aziraphale’s cry was the last sound they would hear before the sounds of wind and screams flooded his ears.

“I can’t see the what’s so bad about knowing the difference between good and evil anyways.” The Fallen Starmaker said, standing besides their once beloved cherub on the wall of Eden.

“Well it must be bad…” they felt their heart stop as he realized Aziraphale didn’t remember him.

“Crawley.” He introduced himself, trying to stay composed, but he could no longer focus on the conversation they were having.

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raedear · 1 year

Note

Morning Sex + "the purest expression of grief"

Tw: loss of immortality

Joe takes his time in every possible way. It takes him fifteen minutes just to relieve Nicky of his sleep shirt. His shorts don't follow for another twenty. He sleeps in socks too, because he's terrible and wonderful and the best and worst person Joe knows, and those socks are still on almost an hour after Joe woke up and kissed Nicky's neck.

Nicky lets him, is the important thing. He doesn't hurry either of them along. Just lifts his chin for every searching kiss; trails his fingers through Joe's hair, down his neck, traces patterns on his back as Joe kisses every single centimetre of skin he can find.

The sun is high enough to light up their room in gauzy gold through the thin white curtains when Joe finally gets his mouth as far as Nicky's hipbones.

From Nicky's neck down trails the pattern of Joe's love. Kisses form constellations that stay and stay and stay and Joe has to make them beautiful because otherwise the sight of them will make him ill.

Nicky still smells like himself, underneath it all, even after all these years. Soaps might change and the general scents of the world around them, but Joe has known the scent of Nicky's skin since before he even truly knew his name, and pressing his nose into the warm space where his thigh meets his groin is the best place to breathe that in. When he sucks a bruise there, the rich red starburst of his mouth almost seems to form a heart. It's the closest he's come yet to feeling fond of the evidence of pain on his beloved.

(Nicky hisses on that one more than the others. His hips shudder under Joe's hands, his face screws up in a flash of pleasurepain that takes a beat longer to lessen than it ever has before. Joe sinks his teeth into the bruise and knows that Nicky feels the pain echo from his heart.)

Joe has never truly been a patient lover. He can pretend patience enough to drive Nicky wild, but they both know he always wants more and harder and faster. Not this time. This time it takes him so long to kiss and lick his way from the root of Nicky's cock to the tip that Nicky is openly, painfully sobbing by the time Joe gets his mouth fully around him. Joe has to come off him again almost immediately before Nicky comes in his mouth from the sheer relief of it.

'Not yet, my heart,' Joe murmurs against his thigh where he's stopped to wait. 'Hold on for me.'

'Joe��'

'Hold on,' Joe says again, trailing the tips of his fingers up the inside of Nicky's thigh as he takes Nicky in his mouth again. Nicky keens, twisting and writhing already and stilling only when Joe presses the dry pad of his thumb against Nicky's hole. It's pure overwhelm that arrests him, Joe knows. He can feel it in the way Nicky's cock twitches in his mouth; in the flood of precome that only ever happens when Nicky is truly, debilitatingly turned on.

'My love, please, please—'

Joe rubs his thumb in place as he gently and slowly sucks on the head of Nicky's cock and Nicky makes a sound not entirely unlike the one he used to make when he pulled an arrow from some soft part of his flesh.

'Joe—!'

'Not yet,' Joe says again, lifting his head and his hand. Nicky looks wrecked, tear stained and kiss bruised all over. Joe's hand still on Nicky's knee squeezes reflexively at the sight of them before he calms himself. 'You told me I could take my time.'

'I didn't know how much time you wanted to take,' Nicky says, but there's no heat but lust in it.

Sighing like it's the truest imposition of his life, Joe reaches for the lube on the beside table. Nicky snatches it and thrusts it at him, twice as fast as Joe was moving.

'Cheeky,' Joe says with a click of his tongue. 'I can go slower.'

(He can. He's been enjoying himself so much just tasting and teasing and touching Nicky that he's barely half hard. He'll get there when he wants, but there's no urgency at all. Not for him at least.)

Wanton, desperate, Nicky spreads his thighs further apart and reaches out again for Joe.

'My love, please don't be cruel.'

Joe gasps, dramatic and playful, but only half a joke.

'Such cruelty from my beloved, to accuse me of such a thing.' Nicky looks unrepentant under his rosy cheeks and tear stains, and Joe sighs, clicking open the lube. 'Always in such a rush.'

(Nicky has never rushed in his life. He's never needed to before. There's never been an end looming to force his hand. Joe focuses on slicking up his fingers and shoves the thought away.)

Joe has defused bombs with lesser care than he uses to slide the tip of his finger into Nicky. Nicky gives a tiny whine and tilts his hips up, trying to quite literally force Joe's hand.

'Joe, please,' Nicky snaps, sounding distinctly less enthused than he did the last time he said those words. Joe slides his finger in to the second knuckle, moving slowly, gently. 'Love, you know I can take more than that.'

'I know,' Joe murmurs, pressing a kiss to Nicky's belly. 'I know.'

'Then give me more,' Nicky says, frustration in his voice. 'I won't break.'

Joe freezes. Nicky's voice seems to echo in his ears. There's a bruise on Nicky's thigh in the shape of Joe's mouth, it matches the dozens of others scattered across him, and something in Joe snaps. He removes his hand from Nicky and turns to bury his face in Nicky's stomach completely, hiding in the warm and dark of him.

'Tesoro?' The frustration isn't completely gone from Nicky's voice, but concern overrides it.

'I might,' Joe whispers against Nicky's skin.

Nicky's hand is warm and solid on Joe's shoulder. His other is gentle as he strokes Joe's hair.

'No,' he says, very quietly. 'No, you won't.'

Nicky lets Joe stay there, breathing in the scent of him, until Joe's hands stop shaking. Then, with the quiet surety Joe has always loved about him, Nicky tips more lube onto Joe's fingers and guides them back into himself, eyes fixed on Joe's the whole time.

Joe is quicker, this time. He watches Nicky's face as he gets him ready, exactly the way they've done it a thousand, a hundred thousand times before. Nicky squirms when Joe rubs the heel of his palm against Nicky's perineum, and gasps when Joe withdraws enough to hold Nicky open on the widest point of his knuckles pressed side by side.

'That's it, my love,' Nicky says as Joe slicks himself up, holding Joe close as he works himself to full hardness. 'Just like that.'

The first time Joe fucked Nicky, it was quick and messy and transcendent. He had known nothing like the passion he felt for Nicky with any of his previous lovers. When he had had the words to say, Nicky had said he felt the same.

Joe feels that same feeling now, as he has done every time he's had Nicky in this way, or Nicky has had him. Becoming one body, one heart, one breath, it's everything.

Joe doesn't have to ask to know that Nicky feels it too. Nicky clutches him close, holds Joe so tight against his body that Joe can't do anything other than grind his hips against Nicky's ass, locked tight inside him by the fervour of Nicky's embrace.

Neither of them minds. Joe knows Nicky's body too well, every grind keeps his cock tucked just where Nicky needs it. Nicky holds Joe so tightly both inside and out that Joe feels wild with it. They gasp and moan together in the morning light, so warm the air feels damp around them, so bright that even though closed eyes the world seems to glow.

Coming seems secondary to any other concern, and it creeps up on them both. Nicky comes, his cock pressed tight between their bellies, with a moan that cracks into a gasp, and sinks his teeth into Joe's collarbone to ride out the screaming pleasure of it. Joe follows swiftly, helpless not to in the face of the twin sensations of pain from the bite and the way Nicky's body squeezes his cock as he comes.

They collapse together sideways onto the mattress, Nicky's thigh crushed under Joe's hip, Joe's cock still twitching inside Nicky. It's messy, and slightly painful, and Joe's favourite way to be.

'I love you,' Nicky murmurs into Joe's beard. Joe kisses blindly, trusting Nicky will be near enough somewhere that he'll be able to smudge a kiss against him. He thinks he gets Nicky's hair, but he doesn't open his eyes to be sure.

There's a slight shuffle between the two of them as they try and find a more comfortable position without letting go of each other. Nicky hisses as Joe's softened cock slides out of him, and Joe knows the arm he has around Nicky's waist must be painfully tight, but he doesn't let up until he's used his other hand to (gently, carefully) check Nicky isn't hurt.

'I'm fine,' Nicky whispers as Joe touches him with shaking fingertips. He's wet with lube and come, but when Joe lifts his hand to see there's no blood mixed in. Joe breathes in, slightly shocked at the sheer scale of relief he feels, and only then lets his arm loosen enough for Nicky to squirm away slightly. 'You could never hurt me, my love.'

'That used to be true,' Joe says, trying not to sound as broken as he feels.

'It will always be true,' Nicky says, in the same tone he would use to explain that the sun rises in the east. 'In every way that matters.'

It's Joe's turn to cry, again. He manages not to make a sound this time, just buries his nose in Nicky's hair and cries heavy, silent tears. Nicky holds him, and doesn't say another word.

youtube

#what happens about five minutes after this is Joe sits up to blow his nose #and Nicky notices the bite he left on Joe's collarbone is still there #they spend the rest of the day alternating who gets to cry and who gets to leave bite marks

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