#*spasmodic joy*

[bossuary]

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[wats-am]

I’ve uploaded and deleted this one shot multiple times. It’s a little old, now. On the one hand, I want to share it, because I think the writing is okay, and it’s finished piece, though it’s short. It was also based on some actual, nasty feelings I was having at the time, particularly after watching “Chasing Amy”. I had been thinking about the scene where Alyssa looses all of her friends in a matter of minutes, after essentially coming out as bi. The reasons I kept deleting it, were also multiple. I think it’s more than a little unrealistic and embarrassing, somewhat emotionally incontinent. But, even more, I feel like lack of context, or even with it, Jay’s attitude looks selfish. Perhaps it very much is selfish. In writing this I had not intended to lay the burden of my own negative feelings at anyone else’s door, expecting them to deal with it. This was more an attempt to show a mutually loving lesbian/bisexual relationship in a specific context. But, I can understand how it might come off as insensitive, or, as I said, selfish. I had not intended to undermine the struggles of lesbian women, in comparison to bisexual women. If this really proves to be hurtful, I may delete it again. But, I hope that it’s something I can offer as a reasonable read, if nothing else.

Don’t Forget To Be The Way You Are

TW: Internalised Biphobia, Implied Trauma, Implied Comphet

It had been Brodie who suggested they paint their faces. You could have it done at the parade, she had said, but she and Rene always painted each other’s colours. 

“It’s nice, ya know?” She said, her face softening with a look of rare, unguarded tenderness. “Gets us ready for the day.”

So, as if they had taken on a rule, rather than a sweet idea, Jay and Silent Bob hopped on a bus into town and marched themselves to the Halloween store. There, they picked up an armful of face paints, and a pack of cheap brushes. 

Jay had been chipper enough when they were buying the paints. Bobbing up the aisle and twitching over the display, flipping the tubs over in her hands, scrutinising the colours. As the days leading up to the parade crept by, though, something seemed to take hold of her. She dulled. Her frenetic energy turned to a sort of twitch. Spasmodic tremors through a stiffer, heavier body, that made Bob wonder if she was coming down with something. A summer cold, maybe. And when she came traipsing into the living room to find Bob popping the lids off the face paints and lining them up on the coffee table, she froze. She looked as if she had found Bob laying out the evidence of some betrayal with her name on it. A lipstick stained cigarette, or a soggy condom. 

With a gentle smile, Bob ushered her into the room, patting the cushion at her hip. Jay obeyed, tottering over to the sofa and easing down beside Bob, for once, as silent as her. Bob could count on one hand, the times that Jay had done as she wished without a word of commentary, or protest. The last being the night she had first asked, openly to kiss her, tapping a finger on her lips and bracing herself as Jay pounced. 

Bob decided she would paint Jay, first. She rearranged the tubs on the table in order of colour, from sunset to twilight. The twilight where Bob ended and Jay began. She cracked the packet of brushes open and plucked out a small, square bristled one. Perfect for painting a little flag. As she dipped the brush in water and swirled it over the deep blue cake, she stole a glance at the speechless ghost of Jay. 

The look in her eyes sent a prick of worry through her gut. It reminded her of the time Jay had taken her to A&E with a cracked head. A particularly tight customer had managed to topple her, right into the sharp edge of a brick wall. The wait for a painkiller had been long, and Bob very nearly wept with relief when the nurse rolled up with her cannula. She had turned to smile at Jay, share her joy, but Jay was not looking at her. Her pale face was pointed at the needle, puncturing her vein, filled with such bewildered sorrow that it was all Bob could do not to roll out of the nurse’s hands and hold her. Jay looked like that now, watching Bob load up the brush. 

She dropped it onto the wet cake and reached for her Jay. She laid a hand on her arm, thinking she might shake her from a reverie, but Jay slowly looked up at her with pained resignation. Her eyes shone pointedly at Bob, as though she were about to confirm a diagnosis for something terminal. Then, she seemed to check herself, and tried to pout, instead. 

“What’s up, Lunchbox?” She croaked. 

Bob lifted her hand to her face, tucking her hair back from the cheek she had intended to paint. 

What is it? She asked with a pinch of her brow. What’s wrong?

Jay swallowed, almost tilting her head into Bob’s hand, before drifting away. A tether of cotton-soft hair slithered through Bob’s fingers. She gazed back at the three colours of paint they had found for her, and Bob saw that little muscle in her jaw swell. 

“D’you really-...” Her hands played in her lap and ten years suddenly seemed to fall off her. “I mean...You sure about this?” She peered at Bob for an answer and received a shrug and wave of a hand. 

Sure about what?

“I mean, do you want people to fucking know?” Jay took in the bafflement in Bob’s eyes, and her own suddenly turned oily. Her lips pressed into a furious, reddening line that unfurled with an audible snap of spit. “Do you want them to know what I am, Lunchbox?!” 

She had tried to shout, but her voice broke off into a sob. She choked out another, blistering with frustration and shame, and she hefted herself around on the sofa, shrinking away from Bob, as though she had just found her in a wet bed. 

Bob was moving before she realised it. She shot across to Jay and pulled her foetal body to her, with a frantic strength she might have used to wrench her from a burning wreck. Jay’s throat squeaked and bubbled as she tried to gulp her tears back down, but her cries forced their way up like bile. Bob did not care what might spill out of her mouth, she kept her close. She nosed the wool cap from her girl’s head and buried her lips in her hair, breathing warmth and gentle sounds over her scalp. 

Her head was buzzing. Jay had not cried like this in years, not since her Grandma died. And then, as now, it had taken too long to happen. It was not until almost a month after the funeral, a month that Jay let pass slow and sour, just like this last week, that the floodgates finally opened. When Jay cried, it was like a haemorrhage, and Bob would try to plug with mouth and tongue and stunted fingers, and happily let the blood cover her if she could quell it. And here she was again, soaking in Jay, feeling stupid for not expecting to. Only, this time the reason was not quite so plain.  

“Jaybird, you don’t have to get your face painted, if you don’t wanna.” The words sounded feeble, even as she spoke them. 

Jay still rattled and panted, but she had calmed enough to settle into Bob. 

“No, I-...fuck, I-...fuuuck.” Jay sounded so young. Her burbled words rang as wretched and remorseful as a those of a kid, cradling the corpse of some little animal she had broken with her own hands. It was tearing Bob’s heart at it’s seams. 

“I don’t wanna hurt you, Bob.” She managed, at last.  “I don’t wanna be like Amy.” 

The seams burst, and the hot tears that sprang up in Bob’s eyes seemed to flow straight from her ruined heart. She gathered Jay up into her lap and hugged her as tight as she dared, curling a fist in her hair. 

“Amy wasn’t the one who hurt me, Jay,” Bob tried so hard to keep the anger from her voice, because she did not want Jay to think she was angry with her, “and neither are you.” 

“I want you, Bob. Okay? I only want you. I only-“

Bob trailed fierce kisses over Jay’s forehead, tender ones on bridge of her nose where she petted her to lull her to sleep on restless nights. 

“I’ve done a lot of shit, Jay.” She muttered against her cheek. “A lot of shit I didn’t wanna do.” Jay wriggled up in Bob’s arms to rub their noses together, and heat spread through Bob’s aching chest. “But that was me, Jay. That was my shit, my pain, not Amy’s. Not your’s. And you’ve gotta stop thinkin’ that I’m wasting myself on damaged goods, because you’re not. You’re fucking not, Jay.” 

She pressed their mouths together, hard, again and again. In the seconds they were apart, Jay shifted in her lap, taking Bob’s shoulders and pressing her into the back of the sofa with renewed strength.

“Perfect, Bobby. You’re fuckin’ perfect.”

 Bob pushed her back. One hand still bound with flaxen silk, she took Jay’s face and made her look at her. 

“I know you want me, Jaybird. Whoever you wanted before, that’s nothing to do with me. What other people have to say, though? People who don’t even fucking know you? That’s everything to do with me. Jay, this parade is for people like us. People like Brodie, Rene, me and you. But even if everyone there turned on you for wearin’ your colours, or me for being seen with you, we’d say fuck the lot of them and leave. We’ll leave together Jay, ‘cause you’re mine. You’re all I want, Jay.” 

They kissed again, Bob’s own cap getting knocked off as Jay reached for her hidden hair. Jay’s sharp hips canted, lightly into Bob. The movement was not an invitation, Bob knew, but a uniquely Jay flavoured assurance. It was getting better. Everything would be alright. 

Jay sat back on Bob’s thighs and coughed, scrubbing at her sticky cheeks. 

“Shit, Big Girl.” She still sounded embarrassed, but in a wearier, moodier sort of way. The sadness had all bled out. Bob shrugged against the cushions, smiling easily this time. Jay peered at her a moment, then tugged her sleeve over her knuckles and began to wipe the last traces of tears from Bob’s face, dabbing carefully around her eyes and lips. “Don’t you fuckin’ start. Shit, it’s like a fuckin’ disease.” 

Once Bob’s face was dry, Jay twisted around to the table where the forgotten paints sat. She shunted off Bob’s lap, deliberately catching her plump hip with her full weight on the way down. With a resolute sniff, she snatched up the crusty little brush and dunked it in the water. 

“Keep blubberin’ like that, Tubs, your colours won’t stay.” 

[poem-today]

A poem by Gregory Orr

The World Seems ...

The world seems so palpable And dense: people and things And the landscapes  They inhabit or move through.

Words, on the other hand,  Are so abstract—they're Made of empty air Or black scratches on a page That urge us to utter Certain sounds. And us: Poised in the middle, aware Of the objects out there Waiting patiently to be named, As if the right words  Could save them. And don't They deserve it?  So much hidden inside each one, Such a longing  To become the beloved.

And inside us: the sounds  That could extend that blessing— How they crowd our mouths, How they press up against Our lips, which are such  A narrow exit for a joy so desperate.

Gregory Orr

Gregory Orr writes: This poem is part of a sequence of lyric meditations entitled The Word and the World. I’m fascinated by the spark and arc of connection between us and the world that words enact — meaning-making at its most intense, which is lyric poetry. What Emily Dickinson endorses as the poet’s ‘Audacity of Bliss,’ what Martin Buber urges as the spasmodic but sustaining power to turn the ‘it’ of things into the ‘thou’ of the beloved.

[blackjackkent]

Narrator: As you step into the silent water, a foreign dread travels through you. It curls its way up your leg, squeezing tight.

Hector stands on the precipice, the entrance to the domain of the goddess antithetical to all he believes. For a few brief moments, he considers retreating, turning away - and then the shadows seize him.

The dim light of muted lanterns fades. Cold shoots up his legs and through his torso into his heart and he is dragged down, down into the waiting water and the abyss below.

"Karlach--" he gasps out, and then the water fills his lungs.

Darkness. Silence. He floats in the void. He does not breathe. He does not see. He does not speak. He is emptiness within emptiness.

For a long, infinite moment, he understands why the followers of Shar believe as they do. There is no fear in this emptiness. There is no joy, but there is no pain. He is nothing at all.

He can feel himself succumbing to the welcome of that endless dark.

No. Even in this place, his control is not lost to him. He casts his mind back, remembering the light of the Moonmaiden as Isobel conjured it in the darkness. He remembers the glow off the mirrored pillars of the monastery in the nighttime sky. He remembers Karlach's body on his, the joy that makes the pain mean something. He remembers life.

Let GO of me! I am not yours to hold!

He feels, like a blow to the stomach, cold rock under his hands. His lungs ache and he coughs spasmodically, sharp pain replacing the numbness. Water bursts from his mouth and he curls into a ball on the ground and struggles for breath.

"Soldier!" Karlach's voice in his ear, her hand on his shoulder. "You're all right. You're all right - breathe. Breathe."

His heart is pounding in his head. Slowly he clears the water from his lungs, his fingers flexing into the stone, and his breathing returns to something like normal. He looks up, finds Karlach's eyes with his. "I'm all right..." he echoes, and his voice is hoarse. "We...did we make it?"

He pushes himself to his knees and looks around.

In a way it almost reminds him of the inside of the Astral Prism, that pocket of void strewn with floating rock. But there is none of the glorious color and light of the Astral Sea here. All is shadow, bare rock held together by enormous spiked chains.

"Moonmaiden, guide my path..." he whispers hoarsely to himself, the prayer tumbling out of him helplessly. "Light me the fair way between the shadows. All things with your strength..."

This is hell, as Avernus never was. He is deep in the darkness that he has eschewed all of his life.

Behind him, Shadowheart is standing staring out at the abyss with an expression of religious trance.

"Lady Shar...I can feel her all around," she whispers. "This is her domain. This is the Shadowfell."

[artemiscalled]

Life was not a valuable gift, but death was. Life was a fever-dream made up of joys embittered by sorrows, pleasure poisoned by pain; a dream that was a nightmare-confusion of spasmodic and fleeting delights, ecstasies, exultations, happinesses, interspersed with long-drawn miseries, griefs, perils, horrors, disappointments, defeats, humiliations, and despairs--the heaviest curse devisable by divine ingenuity;

but death was sweet, death was gentle, death was kind; death healed the bruised spirit and the broken heart, and gave them rest and forgetfulness; death was man's best friend; when man could endure life no longer, death came and set him free.

- Mark Twain

[yhwhrulz]

Streams in the Desert Devotional for March 27

"I do not count the sufferings of our present life worthy of mention when compared with the glory that is to be revealed and bestowed upon us" (Romans 8:18)(20th Century Trans.).

A remarkable incident occurred recently at a wedding in England. A young man of large wealth and high social position, who had been blinded by an accident when he was ten years old, and who won University honors in spite of his blindness, had won a beautiful bride, though he had never looked upon her face. A little while before his marriage, he submitted to a course of treatment by experts, and the climax came on the day of his wedding.

The day came, and the presents, and guests. There were present cabinet ministers and generals arid bishops and learned men and women. The bridegroom, dressed for the wedding, his eyes still shrouded in linen, drove to the church with his father, and the famous oculist met them in the vestry.

The bride, entered the church on the arm of her white-haired father. So moved was she that she could hardly speak. Was her lover at last to see her face that others admired, but which he knew only through his delicate finger tips?

As she neared the altar, while the soft strains of the wedding march floated through the church, her eyes fell on a strange group.

The father stood there with his son. Before the latter was the great oculist in the act of cutting away the last bandage. The bridegroom took a step forward, with the spasmodic uncertainty of one who cannot believe that he is awake. A beam of rose-colored light from a pane in the chancel window fell across his face, but he did not seem to see it.

Did he see anything? Yes! Recovering in an instant his steadiness of mien, and with a dignity and joy never before seen in his face, he went forward to meet his bride. They looked into each other’s eyes, and one would have thought that his eyes would never wander from her face.

"At last!" she said. "At last!" he echoed solemnly, bowing his head. That was a scene of great dramatic power, and no doubt of great joy, and is but a mere suggestion of what will actually take place in Heaven when the Christian who has been walking through this world of trial and sorrow, shall see Him face to face. -- Selected

"Just a-wearying for you,

Jesus, Lord, beloved and true;

Wishing for you, wondering when

You’ll be coming back again,

Under all I say and do,

Just a-wearying for you.

"Some glad day, all watching past,

You will come for me at last;

Then I’ll see you, hear your voice,

Be with you, with you rejoice;

How the sweet hope thrills me through,

Sets me wearying for you."

Copyright Statement This material is considered in the public domain.

[lindajenni]

apr 2

when we see Him face to face "His mouth is most sweet, yes, He is altogether lovely.  this is my beloved, and this is my friend, o daughters of jerusalem!" sos 5:16 and now, a story; a true story. ------- a remarkable incident occurred recently at a wedding in england.  a young man of large wealth and high social position, who had been blinded by an accident when he was ten years old, and who won university honors in spite of his blindness, had won a beautiful bride, though he had never looked upon her face.  a little while before his marriage, he submitted to a course of treatment by experts, and the climax came on the day of his wedding. the day came, and the presents, and guests.  there were present cabinet ministers and generals arid bishops and learned men and women.  the bridegroom, dressed for the wedding, his eyes still shrouded in linen, drove to the church with his father, and the famous oculist (eye doctor) met them in the vestry. the bride, entered the church on the arm of her white-haired father.  so moved was she that she could hardly speak.  was her lover at last to see her face that others admired, but which he knew only through his delicate finger tips? as she neared the altar, while the soft strains of the wedding march floated through the church, her eyes fell on a strange group. the father stood there with his son.  before the latter was the great oculist in the act of cutting away the last bandage.  the bridegroom took a step forward, with the spasmodic uncertainty of one who cannot believe that he is awake.  a beam of rose-colored light from a pane in the chancel window fell across his face, but he did not seem to see it. did he see anything?  yes!  recovering in an instant his steadiness of mien, and with a dignity and joy never before seen in his face, he went forward to meet his bride.  they looked into each other’s eyes, and one would have thought that his eyes would never wander from her face. “at last!”  she said.  “at last!”  he echoed solemnly, bowing his head.  that was a scene of great dramatic power, and no doubt of great joy, and is but a mere suggestion of what will actually take place in heaven when the christian who has been walking through this world of trial and sorrow, shall see Him face to face. just a-wearying for you,Jesus, Lord, beloved and true;wishing for you, wondering whenYou’ll be coming back again,under all i say and do,just a-wearying for you. some glad day, all watching past,You will come for me at last;then i’ll see you, hear your voice,be with you, with you rejoice;how the sweet hope thrills me through,sets me wearying for you. public domain content taken from streams in the desert by mrs. charles cowman. ------- oh the joy that awaits those who long for His return; who long to gaze upon that beautiful One who gave His all to be reunited with us.  please tell me you feel the longing and excitement that fills my every waking moment.  our Lord comes!

[talesofpassingtime]

Astonishingly, this litany brought me to my senses. People were running up, it was inevitable. But I never for an instant dreamt of fleeing or lessening the scandal. On the contrary, I resolutely strode to the door and flung it open. What a spectacle, what joy! One can readily picture the cries of dismay, the desperate shrieks, the exaggerated threats of the parents entering the room! Criminal court, prison, the guillotine were evoked with fiery yells and spasmodic curses. Our friends themselves began howling and sobbing in a delirium of tearful screams; they sounded as if they had been set afire as live torches. Simone exulted with me.

— Georges Bataille, Story of the Eye

[writer59january13]

Plagued with lifelong lower gastrointestinal Sturm und Drang

Ever since a young lad irritable bowel syndrome

in my humble pinion wracked

lower abdominal area gurgled and ballooned gastrointestinal tract (similar to following Colonoscopy preparation slated for January 24th, 2024 at Phoenixville Hospital)

posterior issuing vis a vis borborygmus crooning in tandem and/or subsequent expulsion

eliminates fecal waste witnessing sprinting to bathroom, this scribe

(against time) and jet propulsion

of sphincter muscles'

spasmodic desperately raced

unpleasant symptom of anxiety/ panic attack

twas a stranger to this rhyme stir,

who now finds himself barrack cay did, and held hostage, where thoughts

about mooning doth not crack a smile, or baring derriere tubby more exact me up - matter of fact

no source of laughter, nada one ha intact (despite usual presence of chuckles

from this fan of good humor) high jacked for what seems a maternity leave

from all mothers tub be

thus envision, a bevy of pregnant gals

aching with cramps he

ving (times square of the hippopotamus)

with cervix fully dilated key

ping alert, when mother nature ready

to pull up all stops (via umbilical cord) to deliver nee, sans bundle of joy, followed

in quick succession with after birth re:

placental sack, hence

said effort to expel newborn

the closest scenario

experience ill suited to dance afflicting this anxiety prone

lovely bones, an all expense paid (seat of the pants)

accursed bane of proletariat grants no truce to attend finds me

pampered asper this rants.

Germane generic geeky guy

about one twelfth (knight) enroute to complete lxv luxurious Earth orbits

experienced chronic, demonic, physiologically hegemonic...

irritable bowel syndrome

without shadow of a doubt,

yet aforementioned plight

the following lines of poetry will not be about

problematic posterior plague.

After contemplating discomfort

linkedin with said medical condition,

yours truly realized aftermath

of Hurricane Ian concerning

those who weathered category storm

suffered a fate much worse

subsequently, I took a brief hiatus

typing lines of impossible

to understand questionable verse

challenging proclivity of one

yawping wordsmith being terse

yeah right you probably think

crowning glory upon

mine nonestablishmentarian literary endeavors

hands down majority of anonymous readers

would immediately qualify

his swiftly tailored prolix harried style unquestionably, obviously, and irreverently

imposing expansive vocabulary as perverse,

no doubt hurling expletive donned curse

at me with every stinging breath they took.

The previous writing endeavor

attached catchy title

at outset intent to brook

unspoken protocols analogous to river,

which overflows banks swallowing

entire metropolitan areas

categorized as biblical flood

believed to occur once

every five hundred year

exhibiting impact greater

than storied facebook

(as personal side note,

said creation a markedly popular

social media platform)

influencing great swaths of populace

allowing, enabling, and providing

user trademark friendly look,

which ineluctably draws innocent naif

into webbed wide world,

where coders fashioned

innocuous virtual pitfalls

many a stalwart devout

online interoper figuratively snagged

courtesy tempting virtual,

lock, stock and withal ingenious scandalous tailhook.

[dangermousie]

I am reblogging my own addition because I actually have more thoughts, mainly because I started s3 of Brigerton and s2 of JoL at the same time and it really brought things into stark relief for me (don't worry, no JoL spoilers here.)

Unlike Brigerton, Joy Of Life is not a romance-centric show in any way. Romance is an incredibly minor part of the narrative, in fact. Fan Xian may love Lin Waner, but their interactions are a very small part of the story which is largely occupied with other things. Also, unlike Brigerton, JoL is not targeted largely to a female audience - it is targeted equally I'd imagine; finally, it is also a "prestige" project - think more GoT than Brigerton.

And yet, you know what comes to mind? The introduction of Fu Xinbo's character in second season. His intro is his stripping out of his armor into normal clothes and the camera dwells longingly and lovingly on his very very attractive shoulders and chest and arms. It is incredibly female-gazey in a way NOTHING in Brigerton s3 is - forget objectifying pans up ML's chest or w/e, we get to see the boobs of his threesome lady partners instead.

If you think about it, this is insane. This is objectively nuts. An American romance is less female gazey than a prestige, non-romance Chinese show. And I think the thing is, American shows can never feel truly comfortable in catering to female audience or comfortable with female desire, not even in productions ostensibly designed for them - it's like those 50 shades movies which instead of believably catering to female desire dwelled on the naked FL. I don't know if it's because it's viewed as lesser (sort of like making money but being low key ashamed of how you make it), because anything nonironic is "uncool" or because they've genuinely forgotten how to do this, but the fact remains.

And it's not just physical. As @renewedmotionforjudgment pointed out, they are afraid to emotionally commit too. Sex is great and fun but this isn't what love is. It can be part of love but is not the sum total or even majority of it. Yet shows don't spend enough time and bandwidth on showing emotional commitment. And even the scenes they give are at a certain remove as if they are a kid in school afraid to be uncool.

I am thinking of My Dearest, possibly my favorite kdrama of 2023 and also a prestige production though this time romance centric. The ML and FL of that one are smart and strong-willed and complicated. They snark and snarl. They aren't simple naifs. And yet they are allowed to be earnest in love, epic in feeling in a way no American show has given me in years. I think of the scene at the slave market, when he finds her again, and the way he climbs up and wails at her and then the way his hands spasmodically clutch at her hem as he's losing consciousness after being hit and she's being dragged away. I am trying to imagine an American show of recent vintage doing this and I cannot (OK, fine, Spartacus, but that is well over a decade ago, an eternity in TV terms, and even then it was an outlier.)

Or this scene in Kunning:

Honestly - most of romance in romance centric dramas would not fly in an American show, they would never commit and you need to commit for it to work.

Inspired my recent convo with @dangermousie

I think in general, American shows aren’t great at romance. They are great (especially in the era of streaming) at showing lust, but the swooping, swooning, longing looks between the OST while the OST plays dramatically in the background? So common in cdramas and kdramas? I can’t really think of an American show that has that.

I don’t know if it’s a cultural issue (in some ways it is — half of the lines uttered by MLs in cdramas would be considered too “dramatic” or “cheesy” in American shows), and not necessarily an advocate for purity culture, but I do think the general restriction on sex scenes (heck, I remember the era of 2008 closed mouth kdrama kissing) in East Asian entertainment does mean the writers can’t use that as a shortcut. And actually does further the romance plot.

Like take this scene from 云之羽 (and arguably the romance isn’t even the show’s strongest suit)

You just wouldn’t see a line like that in a US-based show.

Obviously, it’s not mutually exclusive. A show can be very romantic and horny on main. However, I think a lot of US based shows are really afraid of coming off as cheesy? Earnest? Cringe? And romance is earnest. At least IMO a good romance is.

[dianneking]

Hiii👋 not sure if youre taking requests but I just had to send one!! Im inlove your fics 🫠 can I request Larissa/reader based on she by dodie wt a happy ending please 👉👈🥺 its alright if youre not accepting requests, just wanna shoot my shot :-))

Hi! I wanted to thank you for this request, because it made me discover this song that I didn't know, and it filled me with all the angst necessary to make this fic happen, so I hope you enjoy!

Tags: Angst and Feelings, Angst with a happy ending, Break-up, age difference, Boss/Employee relationship, hidden relationship, pining.

AO3 link in title, if you prefer reading it there!

She - Larissa/Reader Angsty Songfic

 Am I allowed to look at her like that Could it be wrong when she's just so nice to look at

  The light streamed through the window panes, silhouetting Larissa in sharp contrast against it. Her hair refracted the sun and for a moment it looked as if she was wearing a halo. Like a painting of a saint, or a goddess of old. And you, you, as always were her worshipper, blessed by the honor of drinking in her figure like that.

You were standing at the center of the room, the book you held in your hand forgotten by your side, so mesmerized by her beauty that you forgot to notice the tight curve of her shoulders, the way her hands gripped spasmodically the windowsill. You would remember all these details of course, but only later.

Too late.

And she smells like lemongrass and sleep She tastes like apple juice and peach Oh, you would find her in a polaroid picture And she means everything to me

  “I’m sorry, I don’t think this is going to work.”

She chose not to look at you as she said this, her eyes roaming the grounds of Nevermore from behind the glass of her window. Not even sparing you a glance as she broke up with you. You felt all the air leave your lungs at that, and yet all that could be heard in the suddenly silent room was a soft, pained Oh.

(Oh)

“I can’t give you what you want. You need to build a future for yourself and I…I need to be able to concentrate on Nevermore without any distractions.”

A distraction. That’s all you boiled down to. What for you had been the happiest period of your life was little more than a nuisance to her. You tried to swallow around the pain that this caused you. Was that what she had been thinking through all of your time together? The nights curled up in front of the fire, the stolen dates hiking through the woods around Nevermore, the way her fingers curled around yours when no one was watching? Nothing but a distraction?

  “I… should probably go, then.”

Larissa’s head whipped back towards you as soon as the words left your mouth, but she didn’t say anything for what felt like an infinite stretch of time. Still, you waited, standing in the middle of her office like a misbehaving student. You always waited for her. Of course you did, you loved her. Was that part of what made you such a bother to her?

“Is that all you’re going to say?”

“Was there anything you wanted me to say?”

I'd never tell No I'd never say a word And oh it aches But it feels oddly good to hurt.

“…I guess not.”

“I’ll leave you to your work then.”

You clamped down on the instinct to say I’m sorry because you weren’t. You were grateful for the time she had given you. And if she wasn’t going to apologize for breaking up with you, then neither were you going to apologize for making her feel like she had to choose between you and her work. You turned on your heel, walking away from the room, leaving your heart behind with someone you thought would cherish it forever. After all, that had been your mistake, not hers, right?

You had been the one to fall for her, madly, deeply. You had looked at her and seen everything you could ever wish for. You wanted to shout her joy from the tallest tower of Nevermore to the deepest ravine in the woods. You wanted to court her, to hold her hand, to dine with her in the candlelight.

She had been more reserved with her affection. You are my employee. It wouldn’t be proper for people to know about us. And then there was the age difference. It had always disturbed her more than it did you (although she hadn’t seemed so disturbed by it when your head was buried deep between her thighs). What is a young thing like you doing with an old woman like myself? You should go find someone to build a family with, she had told you multiple times. And every time you told her that Nevermore was all the family you needed, and that she was everything you wanted. Had that been annoying? It was the truth.

She smells like lemongrass and sleep She tastes like apple juice and peach Oh, you would find her in a polaroid picture And she means everything to me

  Going back to your usual work routine was unsettling. You went through the motions of your life as if you were sleepwalking, trapped in a bad dream. Re-shelving books, sending out emails, helping both students and fellow staff-members in their researches. The weekly meetings of the book club. They all felt familiar, and yet you couldn’t find comfort in any of those activities, that you used to love so much. It was as if you had left with her all of your ability to love anything else as well. And yet you powered through, with the determination of a machine that was only there to get its work done. Because anything else was now lost to her. How could you walk through the woods and not think of her carefree smile? How can you enjoy a sip of apple juice without remembering how it tasted on her lips?

Oh, oh

The meetings were the most difficult part of all. The first ones were staff meetings, and you somehow managed to get through those by sitting in the furthermost corner from her, letting your eyes roam all over her figure whenever she wasn’t looking in your direction. She looked perfect, as always. She was poised and attentive to her colleagues, ready to discuss the decisions that involved them and the school, always taking constructive criticism in stride, diplomatically mediating between arguing teachers with the ease of a natural leader.

Oh, oh

Had it been slipping when the two of you were together? Were the secret smiles that danced in her eyes when they met yours a sign of distraction, a weakness that would have been exploited in the long run?

She didn’t look any different in how she ran the school now.

The few meetings the two of you had to have together were painful. You stuttered through your reports, and forget to ask half of the things you needed to. After a while she just stopped inviting you for in-person meetings and asked you to submit the reports per email.

You retreated even more than usual into your reign, the library, and watched the seasons change from behind its stained glass windows.

And I'll be okay Admiring from afar Cause even when she's next to me We could not be more far apart

  “Happy birthday.”

She looked awkward, looming in the darkened library door without entering, her gaze suddenly shy, and that felt wrong. She’d never been shy. Not even when you were first together, she had always been the one to initiate contact. She had held your hand first, she had kissed you first. She had been the one to ask if you wanted to move your relationship further.

And she had been the one to put an end to it.

And now she was here, on the evening of your birthday, invading the one space that was safely yours, holding a small tray with a slice of peach cobbler from the Weathervane in her hand, as an offering. Your favorite. The fact that she remembered hurt you somewhat more. So whatever you had had not been completely erased from her memory. Did she remember all the other things, too? The things you whispered to her when she held you in the darkness if her room? Did she, and she managed to go on with her life as if nothing major had changed? As if it had been nothing more than a parenthesis in a novel. By then, you were used to the pain, and you let it wrap around you, like a dear friend who was becoming more familiar to you than her voice.

Cause she tastes like birthday cake, and storytime, and fall But to her I taste of nothing at all

  “Thanks.”

“Aren’t you going to celebrate?”

The small talk was painfully stilted, and you wondered why she was so adamant in pursuing it.

“Not much to celebrate, I’d rather stay here with my book.”

“We don’t see much of you outside of the library anymore.”

“I wonder why that is.”

A whiff of her perfume reached your nostrils and you almost keeled under the onslaught of memories. There had been a time when the faint undertones of lemongrass had clung to your clothes, so much so that you had enjoyed the illusion of bringing a piece of her with you all through the day. An illusion, like everything else.

And she smells like lemongrass and sleep She tastes like apple juice and peach You would find her in a polaroid picture

“Why are you here, principal Weems?”

She seemed to recoil from her title, and seeing that didn’t give you any of the vengeful satisfaction you had hoped for. You didn’t like seeing her in pain. You never wanted to be the cause of her pain.

You knew all too well how it felt to be hurt by the one you love.

Except she didn’t love you.

You were starting to think she never did. It had probably been lust, the sense of adventure, the thrill of the forbidden. A younger body to press herself into. Maybe some sort of affection, too. But not love. You had made peace with that.

  “I miss you.”

And she means everything to me

  “I…beg your pardon?”

“I know I don’t have any right to say so. Not after I…I ended things between us. But I do. I miss you. I miss our time together, I miss having you reading on my couch as I wrap up the last emails in the evening. I miss asking for your opinion, I miss raising my eyes from my laptop and finding yours on me, since I don’t know how long. I’m sorry.”

Yes she means everything to me

“I’m not. Sorry, that is.”

You saw her close her eyes, resignation and sadness warring on her beautiful, kind face. She’d always been kind, even when she had hurt you. That’s why it was so important for her to understand.

“You chose Nevermore. I get it. It should have never been a choice you should have had to make, but I am grateful for the affection you have showed me in the time we were together. It made me feel alive in a way I never did. I understand it wasn’t the same for you and really, it is okay. It was probably foolish of me, but I did give you my all, and I don’t blame you for not knowing what to do with it. It was my choice, and I would do it again. I still love you but it’s alright. I made peace with it.”

She means everything to me.

“You still…love me?”

You nodded, unable to speak anymore. She looked soft, and her gaze didn’t hold the pity you were afraid of seeing, not the annoyance you dreaded. In her eyes you could only read an overwhelming wonder, as she looked at you as if you had just performed a miracle in front of her. “But don’t you want someone else? Someone younger, freer, more like yourself? Someone that hasn’t hurt you?”

“I don’t want anyone else. You mean everything to me. Whether or not you like me back, apparently. Whether or not I am a distraction.”

“Darling I…” the words caught up in her throat as she cupped your cheek with her hand. You had almost forgotten her touch, too. And at the same time, it was as if she’d never left.

  “I love you too. The gods help me, I love you more than Nevermore.”

-

liked it? you can find more of my writings linked on my fanfiction masterlist

[scotianostra]

5th January 1867 saw the death near Edinburgh of Alexander Smith, a Scottish poet who is best remembered for some of the prose he wrote.

Smith was born in a thatched house in Kilmarnock, his father, John Smith, was a Lowlander who worked as a designer of lace, calico prints, paisley patterns, and muslin. His mother Christina Murray Smith was of Highland extraction and, together with a Highland servant girl, first introduced him to Gaelic songs and Scottish legends.

Being too poor to send him to college, his parents placed him in a linen factory in Glasgow to follow his father’s trade of a pattern designer.Smith was termed as one of the spasmodic poets, a group of British poets of the Victorian era. The term was coined by William Edmonstoune Aytoun with some derogatory as well as humorous intention. The epithet itself is attributed, by Thomas Carlyle, to Lord Byron.

He wrote abouthis life in the linen factory in his 1857 poem, called A Boy’s Poem, which described the hardships of such an environment and the joy to be had from the annual two-week break when the family would take a paddle steamer up the River Clyde to a pleasant resort far from the noise and smells of factory life. All the while though he was teaching himself to write poetry, really with a view to bettering himself. He became the first secretary of the newly formed Glasgow Addisonian Literary Society. He and other young men met once a week, above a coffee house, between the years 1847 and 1852.

He was married in 1857 to Flora Macdonald, an ancestor of the lady of the same name who aided Bonnie Prince Charlie’s escape from the Isle of Skye. They married on the island but went to live in Edinburgh, only returning to Skye for holidays. Smith was not to know that he only had a few more years of life left to him but it is believed that he produced his best work during this time. A good example of this was the long poem A Life Drama which brought him much praise in London literary circles. Some even compared his work to that of Tennyson and Arnold. Here is an extract from it:

The third and fourth lines of the above extract appeared to Smith’s premonition of an early death. His health was not good in his later years, quite likely as a result of severe financial worries. He was working hard to make a living for his wife and four children from writing but it was a constant struggle.

In November 1866 he fell ill with diphtheria which was rapidly followed by typhus. He died on this dayy 1867 aged just 37.

[missfalcon]

I never planned to have you on my mind this often

pairing: Alma Peregrine x reader

summary: Alma returns to the letter from you, her lover.

warnings: mention of death

words: 1k

request: @darlingimlostwithout This sunshine asked for a fic where Alma and the reader were friends/lovers in their youth. This inspired me to write this.

a/n: I must have looked rediculous crying in class making "notes". It was supposed to be fluff at first, but I got lost on the way.

I almost forgot, I opened the tag list so if you want to be added please write to me.

Alma never thought she would be in this place, in this situation. There was no longer the same woman in front of the tombstone, but the wreckage of a human with broken heart, who was tormented by remorse. Despite her serious expression on everyday life, her eyes always shone with a joy that was gone now. It disappeared just like you.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

"Hello, my dear. You wanted to talk." Alma entered the academy garden, you wanted privacy.

"Yes, thank you for coming." The woman sat on the bench next to you, god, she didn't make it any easier. When she was around you couldn't think straight, and now you wanted to gather your thoughts and choose your words.

"Why are you so nervous. Did something happen?" There was sincere concern on her face, the woman was worried about you, she always will be. It was hard to hide something from her, Alma knew you like no one else. Your heart always started racing when she remembered little things and noticed small changes in your behavior. You were grateful to her for that because she could see that something was wrong.

"Yes. I mean no. I mean..." You paused to breathe and she gave you a break looking at you with her soft eyes." I have to tell you something very important, but I'm really afraid of your reaction, not like you ever hurt me..." In this moment, you started to get confused again.

"Eassy, take your time. I can see it is difficult for you which causes my concern. Listen, whatever you say it won't change anything between us.” There was the point, you wanted to change something.

"You are the dearest person to me and I misereble that you are leaving, even though I knew it would happen someday. Each of us will leave and crate own loop, and we may not seing each other that often. I know it's our duty and what we're doing is right, but it bothers me."

As slow she dared, Alma let her hand slip into yours. From the corner of her eyes, she spotted the slight uptick of your mouth.

"You are not a person easy to forget, my bird. I understand your nervousness and please believe me, it's painful for me to leave and..." She looked up at you again and smiled reassuringly rubbing your hand. "Tell me what's going on." She pressed your hand to her lips.

"I can't obscure this anymore. The more I hide my feelings for you. The more I fall for you, Alma. I... I love you."

Alma froze. Although her heart sang at your words, a chilling coldness settled over her body.

At that moment, Alma understood the feelings she had for you, which she couldn't name up to that point. Love.

There was a look in your eyes, one she only knew so well. She never knew what to call it, but now she did.

"It's okay. You don't have to say anything. I just... I needed you to know."

She just looked at you and not know what to say, and it terrified her. It terrified her that her feelings for you prevented her from choosing her words.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Alma found herself crying when a tear fell on the two envelopes. She wiped her eyes trying to regain her reserved look.

With gently trembling hands, she pulled a sheet of paper from an already open envelope. Some time after your parting, you wrote to her, she kept this letter

Dear Alma,

I feel obligated to write to you after our last encounter. I owe you an apology, I didn't want to put you in such a situation, but I assured you of the truthfulness of my words.

I was wondering what you thought about me on the day you left, you didn't say a word to me. That's why I waited so long with this letter, I didn't know if you want talk with me.

I know you love me, but you don't love the way I love you. I don't know which one is worse.

But if one day... I'll always wait for you. Until then, I pushed everyone else away because they weren't you. I wonder if you ever just stop and think about me. I hope you will come back to me. Even if all we'll ever be is just friends, I'll still take that.

Always yours,

Y/N.

If only she had been a little more brave.

Then maybe Alma would have told you how she felt. Because if she's ever regretted anything, it was not saying those words back to you.

Her gaze shifted to an envelope addressed to you, she never sent her reply. She hated herself for it, she will never forgive herself for it.

My lovely Y/N,

I didn't say anything that day because stay silence was easier than saying how I feel about you.

You are worried that I have stopped thinking about you. I guess you should know that when I visited the academy, Miss Avocet asked me if this place remind me of you. I laughet becauce, well, everything does. I never planned to have you on my mind this often.

I am at fault, you deserve my apologies. Please forgive me.

I love you the same way, I hope you still love me.

Always loving you,

Alma.

A scream full of distress escaped from her mouth and spasmodic sobs enveloped her body.

Knees buckled under her. She was kneeling on the ground, weeping, with the letters pressed against her chest, and pain showed on her face.

"I love you, Y/N. My little bird, I do. I won't forgive myself for never telling you that."

[lifblogs]

Whumpay 2021: Day 9 - Gentle / Brutal

A Fool's Hope

read on ao3 1412 words star wars, rebels, ezra bridger, grand admiral thrawn, graphic depictions of violence, torture, interrogation, beating, shock collar, force suppressor

“I’ve never had a Jedi captive before,” Grand Admiral Thrawn mused as he looked Ezra up and down.

It was difficult to read the expression on his face, and Ezra knew trying to sense him through the Force would be useless, thanks to the shock collar he’d had put on him moments ago. Thrawn had explained its uses, and right away, Ezra had tested that, and he was still recovering. Muscles throbbing, skin around his neck burning, he made himself meet the red gaze that stared him down.

“Yeah? Well don’t get used to it.”

The big Chiss man had a hint of a smile on that all-too passive face now, clearly amused. Ezra met it by baring his teeth.

“I don’t think you’re in any position to tell me what I should or shouldn’t be used to.” Then, Thrawn put up a hand and gestured backwards at the two stormtroopers guarding the entrance to Ezra’s cell. “Leave us.”

Ezra thought about trying to make a break for it when the doors opened, but with the confidence in which Thrawn moved, he had a feeling he didn’t want to mess with him. Instead, he found himself stepping back, legs hitting the bunk, and he lost his balance. As the guards left, he fell.

The light from the hall was cut out with the door closing once more, and the grand admiral closed in on him.

“What do you want?” Ezra challenged, despite backing himself into the corner. (Come on, really? The corner? Stupid move. Nowhere to go to now.)

Thrawn reached out a hand to him, and as it drew closer, Ezra grimaced, trying to flinch back from it.

“Uh… what?”

He ran a hand through his short hair.

“Pity. I liked the longer hair on you. We’ll have to get a new holo for the wanted posters.”

“Hey, can you not?”

Thrawn drew back. He smiled (uh oh). “My apologies.”

Suddenly, his head was forced back, and he was kneed right in the gut. His air left him, and his lungs and diaphragm didn’t seem to know how to suck more in. Ezra nearly toppled over at the great, throbbing pain, but Thrawn held him steady with just one hand. Karabast!

“Now, tell me, where is your Rebel base?”

Ezra coughed, and then got out, “What… What makes you think we have one?”

Thrawn simply sighed, and Ezra waited for another blow. It came, this time by the hand holding his head, slamming it back against the duracrete. His skin split open at the sharp contact, and as blood rushed over his scalp, he saw stars in his vision.

Great, not like he needed his head to be intact or anything.

“Do you think me a fool, Ezra Bridger?”

Ezra tried to smirk at him through the pain to get his answer across.

Grand Admiral Thrawn withdrew and began to slowly pace, hands behind his back, as poised as ever. Meanwhile, it took all of Ezra’s strength to not topple over. Without thinking, he reached out for the Force, sensing it around him, willing it to lend him strength.

The shock collar was engaged.

He collapsed, body thrashing, pain searing his nerves. His muscles spasmed so violently he fell to the durasteel grating of the floor. The impact hurt, and made his world spin, but it didn’t hurt nearly as much as the shock had.

Sometime during all of that he’d stopped trying to reach out for the Force, and his body was released from its torment.

“I’m not here to play games with you.”

Ezra’s mouth was filling with blood. Apparently he’d bit his tongue. He spat the thick, metallic liquid out, and tried to hold himself up, despite how weak he was.

“Good. You’d probably lose.”

That earned him a hard kick to the ribs, and he cried out, hugging his arms to himself and trying to roll away from him.

“I could just as easily acquire another member of your crew. Perhaps… Sabine Wren? Or your master, Kanan Jarrus?”

Ezra fought back tears at the thought of this monster having them, face scrunching up in distress. But he wouldn’t say anything. He couldn’t. He couldn’t let Grand Admiral Thrawn know more about his weaknesses.

A gentle hand that had harmed him mere minutes ago was on his shoulder, and was helping him sit up. Ezra tried struggling, but Thrawn’s grip was firm, albeit still… soft. A shiver ran down his spine, and he did his best to not think of the Seventh Sister. Not all these Imperials were creeps like that, were they? He remembered how much she’d touched him. Mostly his face, but still.

He was sitting up now, Thrawn crouching before him. He seemed weary, but his brows had lowered, noticing something. He caressed Ezra’s face, and despite wanting to draw back from it, there was simply nowhere to go.

“Interesting. This frightens you more.”

“Kind of used to the whole pain thing,” Ezra said. Can we get back to that? he silently hoped, though had almost said out loud. The taunt wouldn’t do much, just dig this hole he was in deeper and deeper.

“Did one of the Inquisitors mistreat you, boy?”

“How did you—? I mean, no. No. Definitely not. Completely friendly. Went straight to dueling me with those sick lightsabers, you know?”

“Hmm… You do fear brutality though, don’t you? Just not in the quantity I need. I admit, your master has trained you well.”

Thrawn ran his fingers along the shock collar, as if letting Ezra know he wasn’t at all afraid of the pain such a device could inflict. Or perhaps he did as just a… sense of ownership. Ezra didn’t even want to think about it.

“Yeah, uh… you’re not my type.”

To Ezra’s great surprise, Grand Admiral Thrawn stood and started laughing. Laughing! What in the…?

“Don’t worry. I’m not at all thinking about you like that. You humans are all alike, aren’t you? Someone is gentle to them, or shows an interest of some sort, and they think, Oh, perhaps they find me attractive. Well, news flash, boy, the galaxy doesn’t revolve around you.”

“Oh, and I suppose it revolves around you,” Ezra shot back.

“On the contrary, it revolves around our great Emperor. Now, I take no joy in politics, but his reign is final.”

“Did Darth Vader tell you that?” he challenged, wondering if the “grand” admiral had indeed even met Darth Vader. Though, speaking his name, even with him surely parsecs and parsecs away, left Ezra feeling cold inside.

To his surprise, Thrawn froze, back going ramrod straight.

“Darth Vader wants you dead.”

“Then kill me.”

“No, I think not. There’s still a use for you, even if I can’t get you to talk.”

“Maybe if you torture me a little more…?” Ezra hedged, not wanting Thrawn to go back to previous ideas.

But it was too late. His thoughts were clearly already set in motion.

“I hope you enjoy your stay here,” Thrawn said. “I’ll be sure to send your friends by to say hello.”

“Wait, no, no!” Ezra pleaded, suddenly up on his hands and knees and scrabbling after him as he made to leave the cell.

With a harsh turn, Thrawn kicked him, and Ezra was sent sprawling across the floor. Before he could even think about getting up, too dazed from the blow, his face was being grabbed, the grip fierce now. His jaw felt as if it was about to crack beneath those strong fingers.

“Your lack of desire to cooperate gives me little choice. So tell me where the base is, or Kanan will be here within the hour.”

Quickly, Ezra thought of a lie, one he hoped would work well. He gave him the name of a random system, and Thrawn let out a growl before throwing him back down.

He didn’t thank him, or say anything to let him know if he believed him or not. As he left the cell, letting Ezra contemplate his pains and failures, he somehow knew he didn’t believe him. And he was now bait. Kanan would come to rescue him, and there’d be no hope then.

No, he couldn’t think like that!

But the dichotomy of gentleness and brutality he’d faced left him with nothing to hope for. Ezra, knowing it was a fool’s hope, tried reaching out for Kanan. All that greeted him was the burning, spasmodic shock of electricity.

[basenji18]

Unmasked

A GI Joe: Renegades fic. Baroness manages to remove the mask Cobra Commander forced on McCullen. Celebrations turn squishy and nuzzly. He could get more power and a better angle if he had both arms, but she likes to hold hands, and that's fine with him. He'll hold hands with her forever. Especially when she's letting him six inches inside her.

Her glasses are off, which is different. Usually she makes love with them on, which surprised him, but which he quite likes. The day she first took off everything else for him but left on those black frames was the day his own unrealized fetish hit him in the groin like a heat-seeking missile.

But tonight he wants nothing, absolutely nothing between them. The raw, new skin on his jaw is pressed against her sweaty hair, her hot breath harsh and fast against his ear. Their hands are clasped, fingers intertwined on the pillow beside her head, and when he hits a spot she thrashes and moans, bites and licks at his knuckles.

He almost loses it right there. He's close, but he's going to bring her to completion first. It's a point of pride and honor with him, and he loves the feel as she convulses around him.

(If he can manage, she'll finish first and third. A beautiful woman is like a glorious repeating rifle.)

Ana huffs deep and throaty against his ear, then pulls her hand free and wraps both arms around his back, burying her face in his neck.

James takes his now free arm and slides it under her, supporting them, takes his right arm that's been holding her to him and snakes it between them, sliding his thumb into the slippery cleft above where he's thrusting. Ana yells and holds him tighter.

He loves every single part of her. She looks so small and delicate, but it's the elegant beauty of steel, a lean form of muscle and bone and controlled, animal fury. She's much stronger, heavier, more solid than she looks. He loves it about her. Especially now as he's trying to pound her spine-first through the bed to the old castle floor.

She gives the high, pitiful whimper he's come to know means she's close, and he rolls his hips and works his thumb faster. She yowls and stiffens and he slows but doesn't stop as her breathing turns to moans like sobs and a ring of muscles deep within her clenches and pulses spasmodically.

He waits for her breathing to approach normal and picks up his own pace. She braces her heels and pushes up to meet him, grinding her hips in a way he appreciates. Her dark eyes drowsy and heavy-lidded, she mutters something in Russian.

"What...was that?"

"I said I love it when you finish inside me."

Mark that down as his favorite thing he's ever heard. He obliges her almost immediately, and the feel of her nails in his scalp is the only thing keeping him from passing out in bliss.

Sweat runs down the both of them. Puffing, still out of breath, he licks their mingled salt from her hairline, kisses her hot brow and her eyelids. Runs the line of his nose down her smaller one, nuzzles the shell of her ear, and nibbles the sweep of her jaw up to her mouth to kiss her properly.

Then he gets his thumb back in there.

She comes again, harder, faster. Shorter, but more intense, like her second one always is. She bucks more rapidly against him and makes shorter, machine gun-like noises - ah-ah-AH! - rather than the long, breathy sounds she makes the first time through. She ends with a little yelp and a flinch, like her body is surprised at what happened to it.

He stays inside her, because that's what she likes, and he likes it too. She laces her hands behind his head and they stay there, getting their breath back and grinning at each other.

There are tears on her cheeks, but she's smiling, so it's okay right now. Somewhere deep in her inner workings is the button that releases all the emotions she holds back in the rest of her life, the genuine joy and the sorrow. It's a privilege to him to be the one to massage it, to work it out of her. Early in their physical relationship she'd scared the hell out of him mid-romp, sighs and moans turning to sobs. When she'd finally got ahold of herself, she told him between embarrassed hiccups that he was the first person she felt she'd ever made love to and not simply had sex with.

He forgave her the scare instantly.

Ana reaches up and wipes drops from his own eyes which he had not noticed. With a sigh, she slides him out of her and pushes up on the mattress so they're eye to eye. She kisses him.

Six hours ago, she'd arrived at Castle McCullen with a package and a catlike grin.

"A gift," was all she'd say. "One you should open in private."

He'd had hope of where this was going, but no idea how far. In the privacy of the master suite, she presents him a fine leather case. Unrolling it, he finds a toothbrush, toothpaste, a boar bristle hairbrush, and a fine silver shaving kit, complete with aftershave lotion in the scent he knows she prefers his cologne.

He looks at her with dim comprehension, not wanting to hope. She reaches into her pocket and brings out something that looks like a corkscrew designed by one of his munitions engineers.

"Mindbender won't miss it." Her grin fades at the edges. "It's going to sting."

He kneels before her.

"Do it."

Sting is an understatement. Ana is gentle as she can be, wincing at every turn of the screws like they’re digging into her own skull, until he gently takes the device from her hands and finishes undoing them himself.

He starts to lift the mask off, but stops.Her eyes are shining dark jewels, fixated on him. He cups her chin, strokes her porcelain cheek.

"Wait here. Make yourself comfortable."

He retreats to the bathroom before peeling off the mask. The sensation of air against his skin makes him weak at the knees.What stares back at him in the mirror around haunted blue eyes is a red wolfman plastered with sweat. While not as bad as he'd feared (he'd figured some time ago that there was something in the mask, nanobots or a special coating, which kept him from suffocating in his own sweat and hair growth), he’s glad Anastasia cannot see him like this.

He showers first, scouring at his face and scalp, somehow both numb and yet hyper sensitive from so long under the mask, letting the heat and steam open his pores and soften his hair. Afterward he shaves using the kit she brought him, and cleans his teeth with the brush. Of course he has all these things from before, but these are from her.

At first he thinks it’s the mint in the toothpaste making his eyes water, but it’s not menthol causing his vision to blur. He puts the toothbrush down, buries his face in his hands, and weeps.

After he washes his face, and comes out to meet her wearing nothing but the towel around his waist and a fresh, somewhat raw smile. His hair is a little long, but not much he can do for that right now. Maybe it makes him look rugged.

Ana rolls off the bed, hair half flattened and glasses askew where she's fallen asleep waiting. She’s most beautiful thing he's ever seen. As she wakes enough to register him, a smile spreads over her face. He cocks an eyebrow at her.

"Ye're still dressed?"

"I thought you'd like to unwrap all your presents."

She reaches out and takes his hand.

[vannahfanfics]

Heart/Heartbeat

Odontophobia (Hawks & Mirko; My Hero Academia): “Keigo’s leg spasmodically jumped up and down at insane speeds, making the plush loveseat he was seated in vibrate against the ornate rug placed beneath its stubby wooden legs. His heart thrummed in his chest, his heartbeat hammering his bones so hard he could hear it pounding in his eardrums.”

Garden of Shadows (Marluxia & Naminé; Kingdom Hearts): ““The Hero of… Light,” she echoed quietly. She clasped her hands over her heart as she similarly stared into the nothingness. Marluxia’s rose-pink strands of hair brushed into her pale white strands as he nodded encouragingly.” 

“The girl gasped; her blank mind did not recognize the name, but her heart did. Marluxia crooned, pleased that he was finally getting somewhere with his hapless captive.”

““He will be here very soon… He has heard the call from your heart, how lonely you are, and followed you here.” With a low whimper, Naminé pressed her hands into her chest as if it would ease the dull ache of her fledgling emotions.”

Untitled Hawks/Fuyumi (My Hero Academia): “The thought of Fuyumi's face morphing through rapid emotions- confusion, shock, sheer unbridled joy- made Keigo's heart flutter like the first flappings of his fledgling crimson wings.”

Cherry-Orange Blossoms Chapter 6 (Ochako/Bakugo; My Hero Academia): “ Katsuki jerked as she began to wildly misconstrue his intentions, and he was damned if his heart didn’t clench at how disgusted with herself she sounded. “I know… It’s so silly… Everyone else is having a breeze with it… Gosh, I’m so pathe—””

“His hands hung over the edge of the structure, fingers twitching as his brain and his heart competed for dominance over his decision.”

“His eyes flickered to his peripheries to see her smiling sweetly, bashfully, with her hand curled over her heart. “I know it’s a pain, but you’re actually the first one I thought of.” Katsuki’s heart slammed against his ribcage, and he swore she could hear it bang down against the smooth enamel-like coating of the desk, but apparently not.”

““Fine,” he relinquished, keeping his tone matter-of-fact though his heart was trying its best to spring out of his chest and scream, “Here! I’m here! Let me be yours!””

“Each syllable was a stab to his already fragile, scarred heart, opening fresh wounds that bled invisible blood, draining it from his face.“