#but perhaps someday idk

[boeing-787]

taur tristar when

on Tristaur Taursday of course ✈️

[thelaurenshippen]

desperate hollow

me / alan foster / dorothy / @vintagecowboy / saintseneca / squirrel flower / @julykings / me again

[mulders-too-large-shirt]

i do have a pitch for an episode of the x files where the agents are tasked with trying to solve a huge art theft. scully is convinced it was for normal art theft reasons (reduced sentencing for prisoners revealing their location, or perhaps the hubris of a very wealthy private collector) whereas mulder is convinced aliens are making a collection of earthly culture to enhance their understanding of the human species. i just haven't come up with the plot twist that makes them BOTH wrong yet!

[meowsticmarvels]

dont fuck with p5t fans theres like 5 of us

[original-character-championship]

yeah sorry guys i don't think this is continuing

i didn't want to make any announcements earlier because i kept feeling like i was going to come back to this, but with school starting and other stuff on top of it I'm now certain i won't

the real winners are all of us who got some art out of this, those who maybe met some new people, whether as direct competition or just someone who's oc they thought looked cool, those who made propaganda and of course the plethora of other, more specific oc tournaments this has spawned <3

may your ocs continue to prosper

[godsfavoritescientist]

Just got hit with the mental image of bill, post-betrayal, melodramatically performing "hit me baby one more time" with a lot of soulfully looking upwards and putting the back of his hand against his forehead and staring wistfully at photos of ford, with the henchmaniacs as backup dancers who are playing it completely straight and putting everything they've got into it

[quatregats]

Was reminded of the existence of this random Cricinfo comment my dad sent to me like three years ago and I needed to draw them

Stephen: Tea, beforenoon drink, afternoon drink, lunch, postlunch tea: definitely cricket is a luxury game invented by British people.

Jack: Quite so, old fruit. What's the rush, what?

[shorthaltsjester]

taliesin and laura remain truly so fantastic at making characters who… don’t necessarily have something extremely and inherently in common but do have experiences that were caused by similar sources and that lead them to have quite different opinions/ideas about things but in ways that are typically very reconcilable? which is a lot of qualifiers but it’s a through line of vex/percy with nobility, jester & cad with loneliness (and also god stuff but in a different post maybe someday i’ll talk about how actually their god stuff is intensely related to their different experiences of loneliness), and now imogen & ashton with being left behind.

like vex was this character who technically had a claim to nobility due to her blood but at the same time was burdened because of that same claim. and percy who was born into and raised by nobility but that nobility ended up making his family the targets of a massacre. and then vex who lets down her walls and Do I Look Like I Come From Money? and percy giving her the title grand mistress of the grey hunt because it has nothing to do with blood, or his love for her, or anything aside from the fact that it’s something she can prove herself worthy of simply by virtue of who she Is, not who someone makes her. and percy and vex’s conversation about forgiveness and it’s necessity for growth as probably two of the characters most inclined to hold grudges.

and caduceus clay who gets left behind with nothing but his Belief while his family goes off into the world. and jester lavorre who gets shut inside with no company except her Belief as her mother protects her from the world. and they both get the burden of loneliness and the understanding of love’s nonmalicious imperfection. and caduceus having a panic attack on a ship and jester telling him that the world is a lot bigger than his cemetery and that means he has to break out of his comfort zone to find his path. and caduceus telling jester that he doesn’t think she gets as much credit as she ought to and she deserves more pastries. and jester thanking caduceus for showing her how cool it is to actually heal people and caduceus asking if she wants to use his shield while he doesn’t need it.

and ashton who was left broken and dying on the ground and was given inescapable pain as their means of survival. and imogen who was left behind by the only person who could provide true understanding of the pain she’d one day come to feel. and ashton who’s a barbarian, who wields their rage casually and unapologetically and who sees the Shittiness of the world but is unrelenting in his version of optimism. and imogen who is weighed down by pessimism she doesn’t Want to have but hasn’t cracked how to undo and who doesn’t admit her anger until it comes up again and again and again and carries it like a burden or like guilt, who we only see really Grasp and feel Confidence about her anger being something good in front of others when she has those conversations with ashton. and like. ashton who looks at imogen and sees a superhero. imogen venturing through ashton’s mind and holding his bleeding and exhausted head and saying i’m sorry. i’m sorry. and imogen who looks at ashton and sees someone special. and fucking “we got him killed.” and “no, we didn’t. don’t you dare. […] we are not what fucking killed that man. […] we are his eventual victory. we are his fucking revenge.” and “i’ll be his revenge.” and “i have no fucking doubt.”

and in general rp wise they both tend to make some of my favourite characters (also typically the ones i find most frustrating) because they both tend to make flaws that are easy to hate and they make those flaws very central to their characters but i think that’s also what makes their character interactions so deeply compelling because so frequently it’s like. yes yes these two characters have like. a helix of things they have in common but also things they deeply disagree on but they’re going to spider-man point at the things that are the same and they’re going to honour their differences while doing so. and it’s just. i always enjoy it so much and i was psyched when i heard about an imogen and ashton side pit stop in last nights episode and i was not let down when i watched the episode today.

[wizardofgoodfortune]

Ooh, 42 for the Spotify Wrapped fic? :D

i have been unspeakably excited about this one, just because the song is so tooth-rottingly sweet!!! so here, have vignettes of a happy dreamling's life. i wanted to write more but i'm so sleepy and i'm afraid it's getting way too long as it is.

--

"Dream," came Hob's voice, deep and drowsy with sleep, "I can feel you, you know."

Dream didn't have much to do when Hob went to sleep. But Hob complained every time Dream tried to get out of bed to do something else, saying it was much easier to sleep with him around. So Dream stayed. And it's not as if he didn't want to stay beside him either.

Most times, Dream let his physical form stay in the Waking, while he took care of business in the Dreaming from within. Sometimes, if time allowed, he visited Hob in his dreams.

But rarely, when there was no business in the Dreaming, and when he could leave Hob alone in it, Dream allowed himself the pleasure of mapping out his lover's face.

He would trace over every curve and every line: from his aquiline nose, to his crow's feet, from his M-shaped hairline, to the silver strands at his temples, from his cupid's bow, to his cleft chin. Dream's favorite time to do this was dawn, when he could watch the sunlight cast dancing shadows on Hob's face, as if they were celebrating him, too.

Usually, he was careful to keep his touch light so as not to wake Hob, but he must have gotten carried away this time.

"My apologies, my love," said Dream, letting his wandering hand settle on the sheets. "I have awoken you. I can put you back to sleep, if you wish."

Hob opened his eyes. There were crusts of dream sand in them. "That's quite alright, darling," he said, yawning and stretching.

As much as Dream liked watching him sleep, he was a wonder to watch awake, as well. Hob would usually stretch until every bone in his body popped and every muscle woke up. Then he would go to the bathroom for a few minutes, then go to fix the both of them some breakfast. He would usually ask what Dream has been up to, or telling Dream about his upcoming day.

But not today, it seemed like.

"What were you doing, anyway?" Hob asked, rubbing the sand out of his eyes. "Counting my white hair or something?"

"Perhaps," Dream said. He knew exactly how many there were. And it was interesting to think how they would be frozen at that number until Hob chose otherwise.

"That was meant to be a joke," Hob said, now fully awake. He was smiling at Dream.

Dream doesn't think he could ever grow tired of seeing Hob smile.

"Alright then, prove it," Hob reached over and tapped Dream quickly on the nose, "how many white hairs do I have?"

"Two thousand, eight hundred and sixty-one," Dream said.

Hob started chuckling, which grew into a full-bodied laugh. It shook the bed beneath them. Dream was certain they could hear him downstairs in the New Inn.

"Are you quite done?" asked Dream, who, to his own surprise, felt a bit embarrassed.

Hob wiped a tear from his eye. "Oh, my love, darling, sweetheart," he said, a bit breathless, holding the side of Dream's face, "I am so lucky to have you."

Then Hob kissed him, washing away any shame, and something inside Dream swelled full, threatening to burst.

No, Dream thought, as he reveled in Hob's freely-given and abundant love, I am the one fortunate to have you.

--

"Can you not have this delivered to your home?" Dream asked.

They were at the supermarket, restocking on food and various items that Hob apparently needed.

"Yes, but I like seeing the produce myself. Can never trust them for that," muttered Hob, who was in the middle of picking between two packs of tomatoes that looked entirely similar to Dream.

"I would rather we spent our time wiser," Dream said, putting his hand on Hob's back, trailing it down, "on more important, more pleasurable things."

"Dream," Hob yelped. "Careful, love, we don't know which old lady we'll scar this time."

So Dream put his hand on the small of Hob's back instead, and tried to not look too disappointed.

Hob kissed him on the forehead. "We have all the time in the world. And you could always help me pick out the vegetables. Can't you see which has tiny worms in them or something?"

Dream rolled his eyes. "This is beneath my office."

Hob chuckled. "Look at it like this: if you help me, we'll get home faster. If we can get home faster, we can get to bed faster, and I'll do that thing you like with the tongue—"

Dream pointed at the pack in Hob's right hand. "That one is the one you want."

Hob laughed, and tossed the chosen pack of tomatoes into the cart.

--

"You really couldn't have waited until we got home," Hob said. It was meant to be a question, Dream guessed.

"No," answered Dream.

They were in Hob's car, in the parking lot of the supermarket. While they were putting away the groceries in the backseat, Dream had pushed Hob down, slammed the door behind them, and straddled him. Some of the items had fallen out of their paper bags and onto the car floor.

"Can we at least turn on the car?" Hob asked, his hands settling on Dream's thighs. They felt like hot, hot fire. "It's freezing in here."

Dream smirked down at him. "Not for much longer."

A short laugh came out of Hob, as if he couldn't believe what was happening. "Thank god I got those windows tinted, eh?"

Dream allowed himself a moment to look upon his lover, cheeks flushed, breaths shallow, heart galloping. The yellow fluorescent lights from outside cast soft shadows on his face, and put a warm glint in his eyes.

"Well, Dream?" Hob asked. "You got me. Now what'll you do with me?"

"I thought I was the impatient one," Dream said, smiling into Hob's lips.

--

"I did not know you played any instruments, Hob Gadling," Dream said.

Hob jumped from his couch, clutching the guitar in his arms. "Christ on a fucking stick," he exclaimed, a hand on his chest.

Dream stepped around the couch and into Hob's view. He couldn't help but surprise Hob; it was entertaining to see which expletive he would come up with each time.

After a breath or two, Hob sat back down, gesturing to the seat beside him. "Darling, I think you're enjoying this a bit too much."

Dream sat beside Hob, putting a hand on his back. "My apologies," he said.

"Yeah, you say that, but you're still smiling," Hob said, giving him a suspicious look.

Dream couldn't help but chuckle. He leaned forward and kissed his lover on the cheek. "I could not resist. Forgive me. Now please," he gestured to the guitar. "I would enjoy listening to you play."

"Changing the subject. You're fond of that, aren't you?" There was no ounce of venom in his voice. Instead, Hob wore a smile, like he was enjoying this, too. "King of Dreams, Ruler of Nightmares, Lord of the Dreaming, would enjoy listening to me play? Are you sure you wouldn't rather scare me to death again?"

"Do not be foolish. You cannot die," Dream said.

"Just like you can't be mature," Hob said. "Remind me, love, how old are you again?"

Dream glared at him. But he suspected its intentions might be curtailed by the smile he couldn't keep off his face.

--

"Hang on, let me get something," Hob said, rushing off the bed.

Dream propped himself up by his elbows, curious as to what was more important than kissing a very needy, very horny Dream. They haven't seen each other for what must have been more than a month now, what with all the pressing concerns in the Dreaming and Hob's increasing workload in the university.

"Hob," Dream called, not without a tone of threat.

"Be a second, darling," Hob called back. Surely enough, he was back within a few seconds, now with a guitar in his hands.

Hob sat on the edge of the bed, propping up the guitar on his lap. Dream crawled beside him, his interest in Hob's new hobby overpowering his sexual need.

"Been practicing for this," Hob said under his breath. His brows were furrowed in concentration as his fingers formed the proper chords.

"For what?" Dream asked.

Hob smiled at him. "Our anniversary, dearest."

Oh. The constant reminders, the movie Hob let him pick out, the candlelit dinner, the flowers...

And now this.

Hob cleared his throat. He was going to sing. While he played the guitar. For him.

Dream would remember this until the end of time, would remember how the strings bent to Hob's will as he moved from chord to chord, would remember Hob's voice rough and hoarse from countless lectures. Something inside him ached at the memory of his son with his lyre and his voice, and something inside him burst at the sight of Hob with his guitar and his voice.

"Oh, don't cry darling," Hob said, stopping mid-song, thumb wiping away a tear on Dream's cheek.

"I am not," Dream said, as he felt a familiar stinging in his eyes. There was a lump in his throat.

"Oh, sweeting." Hob set aside his guitar, and pulled Dream into his arms. "I didn't mean to make you cry. I thought you would like it."

"I did. I do," said Dream. Against his will, he felt a few more of his tears escape onto Hob's bare shoulder. He tried to concentrate on Hob's heartbeat, on the warmth of Hob's hand on his back, going round and round. "I apologize. I did not mean to ruin your performance, our anniversary."

"No, love. I can do that another time. And as for the anniversary, it isn't ruined at all. Don't be sorry," Hob said. "What matters most is you."

Dream buried his face in Hob's chest. This was foolish. He felt like a child again, crying for an absent father, an unloving mother. Except he wasn't a child, and he was crying for his dead son.

"You know," Hob started, providing Dream a welcome distraction from his thoughts, "Robyn was afraid of thunder and lightning. He would come running from his room into mine and Eleanor's and climb onto our bed. And I would hold him just like this, until he fell asleep. I... I miss him a lot. I still think of him. I carry him with me everyday."

After a quiet while, Dream said, "Thank you." He wasn't sure what it was for. Maybe it was for everything, from their first meeting as strangers centuries ago until now, as lovers. It might as well be.

"You're most welcome, my heart. Anytime."

--

Is it time? Dream had felt something inside him exploding like a dying star for the longest time. He had been pondering this for what seemed like an eternity, but it seemed like now was a good time as any other.

Dream held a velvet box in his hand that he had procured from a jeweler's dream, a few minutes before Hob woke. He had been keeping an eye on this one for a couple of years now.

"Hob Gadling," he started. "I have been careful in letting you set the pace. In the past, I have been... too eager with my lovers. Too insistent. You know not the strength I have had to muster to keep myself from asking this question."

"Dream," Hob breathed. For a moment, Dream was afraid Hob would ask him to stop, but it seemed like there was nothing but adoration in his lover's eyes.

"You said once that you were lucky to have me," Dream recalled. "However, I think it is I who is fortunate to have you, to be loved by you, to be cherished by you. With all my shortcomings, my temper, my childishness, I do not think it was easy. And so, if you would bestow upon me the honor, would you be my husband, for all eternity, with all that would entail?"

"Oh, Dream," Hob said, laughing a wet laugh. Tears were welling up in his eyes. They glittered like jewels in the dawn light; they put the ring in his box to shame. Then, Hob nodded, wordless. He held out his hand to Dream.

As he slipped the ring—ruby, gold, and a perfect fit—on Hob's finger, Dream felt close to tears, as well.

"'Til Death do us part," Hob said, kissing the corner of Dream's mouth.

Dream smiled. "You will be glad to know that she wishes to be my maid of honor."

[svtskneecaps]

listen in the grand scheme of things i'm glad i let myself get back into minecraft content for this. like i haven't touched a minecraft series since like 2014, on purpose, but i saw clips of qsmp in march 2023 and thought, screw it. maybe it's time. and i don't regret it yknow? i saw multilingual server and thought 'that looks AWESOME' and it certainly didn't disappoint. my only regret is that everything went crazy and people logged off RIGHT when everyone finally started relying on the live translations more, which was something i've been dreaming of for months lmfao. all in all, just happy to be here. this stuff gave me new reasons to use my blog.

hell if this is actually an end or even just a pause maybe i can FINALLY write my FUCKING TIME LOOP FIC JESUS FUCKING I'VE BEEN COOKING THAT STUPID FUCKING THING SINCE LIKE MAY LIKE I WAS ON THE FUCKING FIELD AT MY COLLEGE GRADUATION CEREMONY WAITING TO WALK THE STAGE AND GET MY DIPLOMA AND I WAS WRITING THE FIRST STUPID CHAPTER OF IT LIKE GENUINELY BUT I PUT IT ON HOLD BC THINGS KEPT HAPPENING AND I WAS LIKE I SHOULD UNDERSTAND THE BIG PICTURE SO I CAN ACTUALLY PLAY WITH IT PROPERLY BC THE MOST FUN I HAVE WITH TIME LOOP AUS COMES FROM KNOWING EVERYTHING AND MESSING WITH HOW SIMPLE ACTIONS CAN ALTER THE PROGRESSION OF EVENTS AND CHANGE CHARACTER CHOICES LOGICALLY BC THAT STUFF'S COOL BUT I DIDN'T KNOW LIKE THE MYSTERY OF THE FEDERATION OR WHATEVER AND I WANTED TO SEE WHERE THAT WAS GOING SO I COULD SEE WHETHER I WANTED TO TOSS IT OR ALTER IT OR KEEP IT AND SEE NOW I'LL KNOW YKNOW AND NOW I CAN JUSTIFY SHIT LIKE "OH HEY PURGATORY'S HAPPENING IN JUNE THIS TIME BC I WANT THE BREAKFAST TRIO TO EXIST FASTER AND FUCK YOU" WITHOUT IT FEELING TOO WEIRD AND ALSO STUFF LIKE CODE LORE AND ALL THIS OTHER NONSENSE LIKE DAMN WOULD BE PRETTY COOL I MEAN ONE SINGLE FUCKING INTERACTION BETWEEN SLIME AND MARIANA COULD SEND ME CAREENING DOWN A PATH PREVIOUSLY THOUGHT UNIMAGINABLE I COULD MAKE THIS FIC THAT'S BEEN SIMMERING SINCE LAST MAY A REALITY I COULD DO IT THIS COULD FIX ME. THIS COULD FIX ME

but yeah i'm glad i allowed myself to get invested in this server. i think y'all are cool, and i think the admins did amazing with everything they were given even though they shouldn't have been given it the way they were, and the ccs were cool and i'm glad everything happened yknow. maybe things will keep happening and maybe not but yknow what. i became All Powerful. i started watching as someone who knew english and some french and now i am someone who knows english (100%), slightly more french (like 70%), a workable understanding of spanish (like 40%) and a slightly less workable understanding of portuguese (like 20%) they added german to nerf me specifically. they knew i was getting too powerful. yeah, i spent some time as a kpoppie, i have a tiny miniscule understanding of korean (5%) german i have 0 experience with they added german to nerf me and then this happened to nerf me further. make no mistake they cannot stop me. i will become all powerful.

like cmon. if it ends here it was never all bad. i don't even have to use google translate to understand roier shittalking in the chat. i can just read it. i couldn't do that before :D and i can make my chilean friend keysmash bc she's not used to me knowing any spanish at all

we've grown strong over the year, haven't we? i hope we will continue to, no matter what :D

[cerealmonster15]

ive been watching sooo many vids of people doing doll restorations and doll customizations... making me both fight off the desperate urge to attempt New Hobby just because it Looks Fun and also resisting the urge to repurchase the fave barbie i had as a kid on ebay,,,,

[bloomxng-per4wxnkle]

I know everything about Stormbringer is just irrevocably sad but like, the epilogue, the epilogue fills my heart with so much grief every single time.

Like where should I start from? The scene where Rimbaud apologizes to Verlaine, Verlaine begs him to not disappear, and his repeated apologies, all of it fills my heart with so much grief...

But the last nail in the coffin is definitely the scene where chuuya sees his parents, but chooses to not approach them, that scene just...kills me..

[tricksterlatte]

Chase the Joker

Chapters: 7/7 (Complete) Rating: Mature Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence Fandom: Persona 5 Pairing: Akeshu (Goro Akechi/Akira Kurusu) Additional Tags: Post-Canon, Established Relationship, Abduction, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Angst, Obsessive Behavior, Akechi Goro Lives, Akechi Goro is Bad at Feelings, Akechi Goro Needs Therapy, Especially After This Oops, Romance, Blood and Violence, Mild Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Suspense, POV Akechi Goro, Angst with a Happy Ending, Trauma, Persona 5 Protagonist Has Bad Parents, Torture, Girl help the anime man is waxing poetic about murder

Some notes regarding this fic:

Goro Akechi goes on a violent revenge and rescue quest to save Akira, but is wholly unprepared for the consequences.

There are cute flashbacks, but they honestly make the present day segments more gut-wrenching.

Akira’s version of events is in the WIP stages, so keep an eye out for that second part of the series eventually.

[irregularbillcipher]

i go back and forth with how i feel about flatterland. i didn't finish it because i wasn't having a good time with it, and i felt like stewart didn't understand some of the satire, (flatland had progressed far too fast far too quickly imo and it bothered me,) but i do like some of the concepts. like i mentioned starchildren in my last few fic chapters because i thought that was a solid piece of worldbuilding from stewart that really fit my irregularity/disability theming, but man... i wish i liked other stuff in the book better

[anthrofreshtodeath]

THE CONJURING RIZZLES AU 😧 how is every au idea outta your head a straight banger damn (esp after reading your vampire au i know you’d do it so much justice omgg)

Sigh… yes 😭. I haven’t touched it in three years and I’m sad about it because I feel like it could be really good. However, I have too many other, more fleshed out ideas to finish before I get to it. I’ll post the bit I did complete here:

Maura Isles had to use the bathroom.

She’d felt the pangs in her bladder for almost an hour now. Unfortunately, there was still at least another hour until the sun came up, and while that was the case, she found herself unable to move, unable to even open her eyes. The darkness had been oppressive these past few months, preying on her exhaustion and squashing her empirical rationality.

She whimpered into the cavernous expanse of the bedroom, besieged by fear she had started to loathe, frustrated by her inability to conquer this irrational terror. Her pulse quickened and her spine turned cold, all the while her need grew. Time slowed and her senses grew heightened, as though in collusion with whatever force sought to torture her. Stars pulsated behind her eyelids. The sheets clung to her body in swampy humidity, daring her to squirm, to move.

And she heard the tick-tock of the clock in the bathroom just a few short steps away. 3:07. It was pure cacophony when she’d gotten no sleep and something in the nighttime air had taken to terrorizing her. She tried, as she crossed her legs ever so slowly, to convince herself that it was something within: that it was her brain that waged war against her. Certainly, with all that had transpired, a certain amount of hysteria was warranted, and she even considered post traumatic stress as a cause.

But she feared what she might hear when the clock was done sounding. She feared that if she really concentrated, she would hear whispers dark enough to curdle every part of her. She knew not what the whispers would say, how they would sound.

She thought she knew who would be doing the whispering, thought, and she wasn’t ready for that yet. So, she slid her hand under the pillow on the other side of her bed, grabbed the rosary she never dared to look at in the daytime, and willed herself to get up with internal explanations of the rarity of disembodied voices, the effect of anxiety on the senses, the paranoia that would inevitably follow the agony of the invasion she had experienced only a few weeks prior.

The fall air bit at her skin as she rose, her silk, short, barely there black and white chemise more of an affront to the cold than a guard against it, but she dared not look into the corner of the room where her robe, a comfort against the chill, laid against a chair. Shadows took advantage of dark corners. And, Maura knew, though she would not have been able to explain how if asked, that the stench that had started to bubble up in the room was coming from that corner.

It smelled like death.

It smelled... offensive, and she clutched the rosary so hard it pricked her skin and spread her metacarpals. She trotted the last few steps to the bathroom and slammed the door so that she could turn the light on. She tried to grasp at an elusive and thin relief as she rested her back against the door, willing her thudding heart to calm before she walked to the toilet. She spread her fingers against her chest as if that would work, as if the beads of the necklace and the cross at its end could suck the fear out of her.

She gulped and pushed away from the door, finally deciding that her bladder could take no more abuse. She relieved herself, hyper aware of the vulnerability of her position, stuck until she finished, at the mercy of her body and its functions. The din of the overhead fan served as obscurity, but even that made her nervous - she didn’t want to be heard, she didn’t want to hear, but the sensory deprivation scared her almost as much as what she might discover in the dark.

She shrieked when a furious pounding shook the bathroom door.

The knocks were regular, but so frenzied in force and speed that they could not have been human. Maura crouched behind the half-wall next to the toilet and actually prayed.

“Maura?” rasped a voice from the other side of the door. Maura opened her eyes, relief and suspicion warring within her thundering heart. She said nothing for fear of being duped by whatever hunted her. The voice said her name again, this time a little more sure, a little more real. “Maura?”

“Jane?” Maura’s own voice was quiet, hoarse, small.

“Yeah, babe,” was the response in Jane’s unmistakable timbre. “You alright in there?” the question was hesitant and slow, as if Jane knew the answer to it and hoped that Maura wouldn’t lie.

“I’m, I’m ok,” Maura said on a shaky breath. She smoothed the silk over her thighs in a calming swipe, rising and walking toward the sink. She turned on the water more to muffle the sound of her own shame than to drown out Jane. She went through the scientist’s routine of wetting, soaping, scrubbing, and rewetting her hands for twenty uninterrupted seconds. For a moment she wondered if she hallucinated Jane calling out to her from the bedroom.

“I thought I heard you yelling,” said kind Jane in reply, infusing her response with doubt to buy Maura some dignity, some deniability. “Maybe I dreamt it.”

Maura sighed. She wiped her hands dry and then ran one through her sleep-mussed hair. Objectively, she looked beautiful, skin rosy with rest and nightwear salaciously short, a gold pendant the perfect accent to the smattering of freckles across her chest like a constellation. In actuality, she was a mess. Nerves were shot, eyes were bleary - but the perfect antidote for her woes, at least in this moment, was waiting just a room away.

All she had to do was open the door, so she did. “No, you heard correctly.” she said, her hazel eyes bashful, downcast.

At least it allowed her to survey Jane from the toes up. Jane Rizzoli was planted firmly on the floor, and Maura adored the way the skin over her long feet, runner’s feet, provided dark contrast to the bathroom carpet’s light. Maura adored Jane’s slim ankles, her open stance, her defined quadriceps poking out through a pair of short basketball shorts she wore to bed. She adored Jane’s cocked hips, as though ready to fire, she adored the torso that went on forever and the arms open for her already.

More than any of those things, however, she adored Jane’s handsome features knotted up in sleep and concern. Dark and wild eyes glossed over with worry and the harsh lines of her cheeks bunched forward in a sympathetic grimace. Her mouth was a hard, closed line. “C’mere,” it finally said, and Maura collapsed into the hug waiting for her. She wanted to cry, and figured that if Jane’s face was buried in her hair, maybe she could without being seen.

Jane was warm, she was soft, and her unruly black hair provided the perfect shield to the outside world. Perception was failing Maura and up until very recently, Maura relied completely on perception to process her surroundings. The only truths were the ones she could see, hear, smell, taste, touch. The only things that existed were the provable ones, and what other way to prove them but by sensing them?

Now there were very clearly things that existed which could not be explained by natural processes. There were things that assaulted her senses, manipulated them, but operated completely outside the realm of them. And, just thinking about all of it ratcheted up her anxiety again - she clawed at the back of Jane’s t-shirt and inhaled as much of her as possible. “I’m sorry I woke you,” she said against Jane’s sternum.

“It’s ok. You grabbed my rosary and I think I started waking up then. You know, eventually you’re gonna have to tell me what happened at the Theriault house,” Jane whispered against Maura’s temple.

For fifteen days she had actively avoided speaking about the Theriault house in rural Maine. She actively avoided even thinking about it. Days one through four were spent in a self-imposed isolation in this very bedroom, and when she broke it to find Jane in the kitchen one morning, making coffee, she had said nothing, only wrapped her arms around Jane from behind and sobbed into the t-shirt stretched across a broad Italian back. “I… I know,” she said, a monumental acquiescence, “but for now, I want to go back to sleep.”

Jane sighed. “Then let’s do that,” she said. They labored through the cold back under the covers, and when Maura burrowed against Jane’s front, her face at the conjunction of Jane’s chest and throat, she finally felt herself fall back into a fitful sleep.

___

Maura, in a high-waisted plum skirt, a multi-colored, purple-tinged sleeveless blouse, looked nothing like the scared woman hiding in the bathroom only a few hours before. Her heels made her nearly as tall as a barefoot Jane when she stepped into the kitchen. Sun poured in through the expanse of windows on either side of the fireplace, and the light accentuated all of the wisps of light brown around the crown of Jane’s black hair. Jane was all brightness in light gray suit pants and a pastel yellow t-shirt, and together they looked immaculate.

“You hate the espresso machine,” Maura teased, her eyebrows knitted tight with her smirking mouth. She spread her fingers over Jane’s outspread ones when the portafilter clattered to the counter and grounds splattered across the granite.

“Shit,” Jane popped her pointer finger in her mouth; it smarted with the pressure of the uncooperative portafilter. “Well, I thought I’d surprise your mother.”

Maura laughed and her cheeks tinged red with pleasure. “You refuse to learn for me for years - my mother stays for one night and suddenly you’re interested?”

“I feel like I need to get on her good side,” Jane shrugged, “we didn’t start off so smooth.”

“You were defending me when she had neglected to put me on the list of an event that she invited me to,” Maura reasoned, “she respects you for that.”

[mawenskiblue]

👁️ 👁️ what is this “nmg au”? Tell me more?

🧍‍♂️🧍‍♂️🧍‍♂️💦💦💦 hides snippet under the cut (rambles in tags)

... It’s hard to tell what they’re feeling at times. Still, they shook his hand and introduced their name.

N.

A simple, one-lettered nickname. Unlike his, clearly inspired by his appearance; but he’s not complaining. Nightmare gave him a better nickname than what the multiverse did. ...