#crown office row

[sometimeslondon]

The arch on Crown Office Row separating Middle Temple and Inner Temple in the Inns of Court

[delicrieux]

—𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐯𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭, ch.3: sweet dreams, chicago

pairing—carmy berzatto x f!reader   genre—drama, romance, age gap, boss/employee relationship warnings for this chapter—anxiety, (+18) masturbation, mb one (1) allusion to a blowjob, swearing, excessive use of cigarettes  word count—3.6k

detailed instructions on how to fuck up your life in 30 seconds

author’s note: tremendously down bad, lonely, and socially inept? not talking abt u LOSER im talking abt carmen. my lil meow meow 

masterlist | buy me coffee☕ | eyvcte masterlist | < back. next >

important! some of the dialogue scenes are written as a script & dialogues that overlap are marked in [] <3  

tell them

not white, gray – the exact color of cigarette ash, the red ember a reflected streak of sunlight; these walls box him in, and it’s always a surprise that space can feel so vast and so confining all at once. the plastic chair he sits on is unforgiving on his back. his foot sounds a pattern on the tiled floor to impair the silence.

he’s aware of it, of everything: his pursed lips, trembling lashes, quick blinks, slight sniffle, flitting irises, the light coat of sweat forming by his hairline. the taunt flex of his muscles; twitch of fingers that have nothing to grasp onto but each other. the tapping. pulsing in his jaw and temple. the tapping.

tell them

he tries to stare ahead, keep straight – it’s not expected of him, but he wishes he could do it. wishes he could face the silhouette sat across, too close and too far.

“well?” she prompts – a prim woman with a kind face sunken from all the miseries she had collected over the years, “how are you, carmen?”

a sharp exhale through the nose, like a humorless snort; corner of his lips pinching into a grimace that could resemble a smile, if one was generous enough, “how am i?” he repeats, “how am i?”

tell them

tell them

tell them your

“chef?”

storage closet. he keeps his hand firmly on the handle and breathes, jaw tense, head bent, illuminated in the shitty buzzing lights. the containers are organized – did it himself. methodically set cans with no spaces between them, all in neat rows. one’s a bit too close to the edge, sticking out. someone had moved it. he rubs his chin before pushing it back.

his hand falls from the handle and settles on his hip as he sighs, looks up, feels a rush of air tinted with spices and the overwhelming noise of the kitchen pierce the coveted silence of his hiding place when the door cracks open. she pokes her head in and he doesn’t look, can’t look, can’t sleep, can’t–

“you good?”

kindness is always startling, even when it’s the standard. her words hold no weight of deep inquiry, only a shallow question mark. it’s enough. he lives on scraps. “yeah, uh, thanks,” his tips his chin in her direction and his eyes flit over the crown of her head. can’t look for long;  he’ll search for thank you and love you despite knowing they’re covered.

“i was just, uh, was just, needed to check,” he vaguely motions behind himself, and the knot in his throat tightens slightly, “something, s-so…” maybe she decides to take him out of his misery. maybe he’s the only one that notices he’s drowning.

“family’s up.” she informs him, offers a small smile that he thinks is pity. can’t be sure.

“yeah, yeah, o-okay, i’ll, uh, i’ll, i’ll join you in a,” the hasty spill of his words slows, quiets. he inhales, brows crinkled and eyes focused on the new streaks on the floor he’ll have to clean, “i’ll join you in a minute.”

“i’ll save you a seat.” not a proposition mentioned aimlessly and left to rot in his subconscious, but a statement. and she’ll always save a seat for him, because he’ll always be late, and in the rare occasions that he won’t, he’ll be too early. she’ll save him a seat by the table and pat the couch next to herself when the staff’ll huddle to watch a Bulls game; she’ll save a slot for him on her free day to come into his office and help sort through papers; she’ll save her hand from others so that he could hold it and she’ll save a pair lace panties the color of her eyes that’ll tear through the flower pattern because he’ll be too rough and because he’ll like the way they look on her.

she’ll save a cup that’ll shatter during one of their arguments, glue it back together. the cracks will show, and it’ll be blotched, but he’ll still use it, even if the edge’ll be chipped and he’ll cut his lip and she’ll be long gone by then.

he’s mostly himself when he joins everyone, if he even knows what that entails. tina’s explaining form to marcus, and sydney’s on her phone, and richie and neil are discussing something with too many theatrics, and the rest of the staff shares idle conversation punctuated by comfortable silence. there’s an empty spot for him, food set in a plastic container and cutlery placed trimly – must’ve been her. too even, she’s borderline about these things. he appreciates them, because he’s like that, too.

a smile eases the tension from his shoulders, if a bit. he pulls the chair back, takes a seat, and her head ticks to the side to acknowledge him. no big speech, no welcome back or you good again, just a slight curiosity that makes her teeth pull on her lip. he dares a glance that doesn’t linger.

"verdict?” he asks the table, feeling the familiar flutter of anxiety squeeze his throat.

sydney: ‘s good. real good richie: too fucking fancy [god] this the type of shit they serve up in yee-whole-fucking-new-of-the-fucking-york? her: wouldn’t expect you to recognize shit from food [fuck you] since your mouth is always full of it richie: oh ha ha [cousin] look at us folks [cousin] we got a fucking comedian with us tina: shut it [so/rry] both of you. not by the table richie: not by the fucking table, kid [fuck you] marcus: i like it

it’s kinda funny, it’s kinda familiar, it’s kinda comforting. he glances at her again, sees her holding up her knife like a sword aimed at richie on the other side of the table. they mimic one another – in movement, in tone, in smiles that are careful not to display too much. friends. carmen watched this happen in his peripherals, sometimes through the haze of cigarette smoke. observed the pointed jabs and nudges that were harder each time as if they were competing who could knock the other off of their feet first. stupid, amusing, the nascence of a friendship.

whatever. it’s not that, it’s just, just that carmen’s the way he is and someone could roll their eyes at him and kill and sydney, well, he got along with sydney instantly – she came at a confusing fucking time, a breath of fresh air, and really, for a while, he only had her to help him navigate the clusterfuck of a dynamic of his brother’s staff. she was new, he was new, and it was natural they stuck together to survive the nuclear winter of a chicagoan kitchen. till he was approved as one of them, and she was, too, but, and it’s nothing, it’s dumb, fucking idiotic, it’s like he’s six again all of a sudden and no one wants to play ball with him in the fucking playground.

he’s not even left out, and he still feels like he’s somehow forbidden to join, even if he doesn’t want to, even if he doesn’t know what to say. as if he’d break some sacred law and inspire a drastic butterfly affect that would ripple into something abhorrent. the other shoe. there’s no first one and he’s already waiting for the drop.

“cousin,” richie calls, “cousin, she’s trying to fucking murk me. pretty sure that violates some sorta fine print.”

“better sleep with one eye open in that case.” carmy mumbles, a faint smile pulling on the corner of his lips as he watches the exchange briefly before he returns to the food. melts in his mouth. holds a sweet, syrupy tang, and, fuck, this is noma, this has fucking noma written all over it, even the cinnamon zest blended with orange peel.

no noma on her resume; dad must’ve taught her, then. how to blend and cook all of this shit to make the chicken taste like butter. probably needed to scour the whole kitchen for leftover ingredients, open a few rusted drawers for pipettes to measure lemon drops. stay up again prepping. filming. not sleeping. don’t look.

needlessly complicated and missing some parsley. coincidentally, they ran out of it this morning.

he looks at her because she’s not looking at him and for a moment he takes in her profile – the slope of her nose and the dip leading to her cupid’s bow. “‘s good.” he says after a short pause, and as soon as she turns in his direction he’s back to his food. the taste, this time, is compounded by added discomfort, “where’d you learn this from, anyway? there are recipe?”

“my dad. sorta,” she explains, “he’s also a chef. and he used to make it for me when i came to visit, soooooo, since it was my first time cooking family ‘n all…i thought, why not? y’know? just to upset richie.”

“heard that, kid.”

he snorts, leaning back into his chair, head dipped and container held in hand. glances at her from under his lashes, and maybe direct eye contact is not as scary when he wants her to be looking back. that small smile of his is pulls on his lips again, “‘s good.” he repeats.

“you like it?” her voice can be soft, and so can her features.

“i like it,” he admits, “thank you, chef.”

she smiles and it’s like a fucking firework.

he tries not to look too hard, scared what he might find there. metronome. dull, almost, like the beating of his heart in his chest, yet it pulses through him, from the back of his head all the way to his feet. the tapping.

tell them

he rubs his faces with his hands, leans forward, as if the words are physically trying to get out. doesn’t want to say it; doesn’t want to admit that he can’t dress for the weather and that he’s wearing a gray woolen sweater which blends into these walls, that he blends in, that he’s invisible.

“i’ve, uh,” pinches the bridge of his nose, wanes the upcoming headache – too many cigarettes and not enough sleep, “i’ve been going through somethin’.”

like her pictures on a late monday night fresh out of the shower. the phone light catches damp hair falling in ringlets. the towel is still slung around his shoulders – white, clean, he’s done his laundry, it’s a fucking miracle. it was a notification that distracted him mid-way putting on a t-shirt, was like a beacon in the dark on his bedside table. bare feet padded to grasp it and here he stands, gaping like a fucking idiot with nothing but boxers on and cold water dripping down his back.

wasn’t supposed to look. made a promise, swore it in the mirror staring into clear blue eyes that held nothing. wasn’t his intention, either, it just happened. everything seems to just happen to him. she just seem to text him at 1 in the morning the recipe from a few days back, and he just seems to find her profile again because he just wants to look. no further reason. she just seems to follow him and he just seems to pretend not to notice because he’s not very good at this, he’s not really good at anything.

and there she is, confined in a little electronic device held in his hand, looking at the camera, looking at him, and he’s not really sure what to do with himself. text back, likely, but he can’t think of a response – thank you? thanks? thumbs up emoji? chef emoji? just to mix it up a bit. the mattress dips when he sits on the bed. where the fuck are his cigarettes?

never too far, and the lighter isn’t, either, so he stands, and his phone is still in his hand like the thing is fucking glued to it, and he cracks the window open to let the summer night in. chicago doesn’t sleep, and neither does she, it seems, but he doesn’t, either, and when his teeth have something to bite onto he feels like he found an anchor.

thank you and love you are objectively interesting detonators, but there are other rare gems. where she’s smiling. look taken off-guard and never by her personally, always by someone else: hugging a bottle in the midnight new york vista, nursing a to-go cappuccino by the bodega too early in the morning, holding up a plastic puka shell necklace in the backdrop of a souvenir shop somewhere in yucatan. hugging her mother wearing a tracksuit while the former’s poised in a neat blazer. they look similar. carmen looks like his mother, too.

she’s more approachable when her eyes crinkle and cheeks apple and lips stretch to reveal a crescent line in the corner. pretty. real pretty. too pretty. maybe that’s why he doesn’t know what to say. maybe she doesn’t expect him to say anything. maybe that’s why she sent the message.

‘s not fair. he knows too much about her. knows her dad’s a renowned chef and her mother’s a business exec with a penthouse in brooklyn; knows she gets her tattoos in-house, on the couch, from some low-key junkie-looking artist that always wears a beanie;  knows she worked in an upscale restaurant in wallstreet. chef whites, neat, trimmed, fitting – nothing he can offer in his fucked joint. fuck is she doing in chicago, anyway? spent last summer backpacking across europe with a distinctly new york-looking art school dropouts that wore the latest sneakers and tiffany necklaces. rich kids, rich kid, what she gets now was likely her daily allowance.

all of that just because he’s noisy. just because he’s curious. just because she’s pretty and he’s too scared to actually talk to her.

shouldn’t talk to her about anything anyway. too awkward – can hardly form a coherent sentence without ripping his hair out in the first place. he’s her boss, she’d think he’s a fucking weirdo if she knew how much he had gathered about her already. just from looking. does sydney know? does richie know? that would be fucked. oddly insulting, even. but since carmen hasn’t heard richie calling her a spoiled brat yet, he supposes it’s safe to assume this information hasn’t reached him yet.

parasocial as shit. he feels on the verge of a panic attack by the way his heart is hammering in his chest. maybe it’s the 5th cigarette. maybe it’s because he’s been sleep deprived. maybe it’s because looking at her makes him lonely and this is fucked and just put the fucking phone down, carmen.

she's really hot, though. but he can’t say so, not out loud. not right now. not here. not in front of the bed, where the mattress sags when he sits, or in the window, where the wind rattles the glass ringing of common sense.

‘thanks for the recipe’ is a good start, ‘cool tats by the way’ is definitely a line that has crossed his mind, but can’t text that, either. too personal. too easy. too close. fuck did he look at them anyway, too busy staring at her tits. fuck.

she’d think he’s a creep because somehow, in the divine comedy of his life, he’d let it slip somehow, because he’s stupid. because thank you and love you slap at him on odd hours during the day. because he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

feels like he’s a teen again and a girl from school sent him her homework to copy. only the girl in a hot rich kid from nyc that works in his restaurant and is so far out of his league that she’s in a different fucking orbit.

the mattress dips again. he closes his eyes, exhales slowly, rubs his face with his free hand. can’t stop thinking. can’t stop looking. staring. wanting. get a fucking hold of yourself. doesn’t want to. too tired. too fucked. too alone.

she’s so pretty.

so smart.

so fucking pretty.

what is he doing? what the fuck is he doing?

he tries to swallow, but it feels like there's sand in his throat. can't think straight, every corner leads to her anyway in a comical gotcha moment. can't go back. can't go forward. can't do anything but sit here, stare at the phone, think the last threads of his fizzling mind will conceive a reply.

say something. say something.

she's so fucking pretty and his dick is so fucking hard.

inhales again, this time slowly. feels the first tremors of an erection ignored, the pulse in his neck, in his wrists.

his heart is pounding and he wants her to look at him, wants to look at her, wants to feel her touch him, wants to show her how much he wants her.

"fucking christ," he can hear the breathless crack in his voice. feel it, taste it.

his face burns and his hair falls over his forehead, already drying. there's sweat on his brow and a lump in his throat from the steady rise of panic, anticipation, desperation, whateverthefuck. the blood in his veins pounds through his chest – he can feel the vibration in his bones, and god, god god god, he’s so fucking horny.

can't move. can't breathe. can't think. can't stand being alone. can't stand the silence. can't stand not doing anything and can’t stand being like this because he’s not supposed to. not allowed, breach of contract, jesus, who does this shit in their spare time? a lot of people, probably, but carmen wouldn’t know.

"fuck."

he wants to close his eyes because she’s so cold on the screen but so warm in his mind. can’t do that. can't stop palming dick over his boxers, either – wants to pull them down, but that would mean looking at himself, so he stares at her picture instead.

he feels like a teenager again, vaguely wants to throw up. can't believe how hard he is. he's not supposed to be like this. this isn't going to end well.

he knows he's gonna fuck this up because he's already fucking it up. can't stop staring at her. can't stop touching himself. can't stop thinking about what she'd do if she knew he was sitting here ready to jerk off to her.

she'd probably freak the fuck out, and she'd have every right to. that doesn't stop that wandering hand of his from dipping below the elastic band anyway.

his breath scratches at his throat, stuck there as he feels his hand brush something warm. glances down, sees his middle finger pressing against the swollen tip. looks back at the phone, sees her smile, the hint of her teeth; his cock twitches at the sight of her like some deranged pavlovian response. his fingers curl around his shaft and go down in a nice, long stroke.

"fuck me," he hisses. eyes squeeze shut and hips push forward and head rolls back to release a small groan.

it's a slow slide of a rough palm, with just enough pressure to cause shivers. he thinks of her lips wrapped around his him. the way her tongue would tease him. the way her hair would tickle his thighs.

"so pretty," he breathes, but the words are lost in the rhythm of his hand, "fuck, sorry."

fingers and palm slide over the sensitive head, each pass adding more pressure until his hips buck and it feels like someone punched him in the gut and he sucks in a breath, the sound coming out more like a moan; squeeze, tighter this time, and he groans louder, caught somewhere between pain and pleasure. teeth clamp down on his lower lip and all the oxygen in his lungs leaves with that.

the hand with the hand pierced by a kitchen knife pumps faster, coating the creases and veins in warm, sticky pre-cum leaking from the tip and leaving a stain on his boxers. he's breathing heavily, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm that matches the throbbing of his cock.

he's so close already. so close he feels like he might actually lose his mind if he doesn't come soon.

"hm, fuck," he breathes out, eyes squeezing shut and fist tightening around the shaft as his hips jerk forward to meet the movement.

everything is swimming and spinning in the liquid dark around him, all the sensations coiled up into one chaotic bundle that's threatening to overwhelm him.

"yes," can't be his voice, can it? too raw, too desperate, too loud.

fist tightens even more and the throbbing is too much. feels like something is trying to get out of his body, like it's going to burst through his skin.

"oh fuck. oh fuck, oh fuck—"

everything is happening at once. everything is mounting to a small cry of her name.

he comes. coughs and huffs, head tipping back and hand still pumping. there's a low groan coming from his chest that sounds like it originated from some other person entirely.

then, it stills. his back hits the bed and he tries to gulp down air that stutters down his throat, the phone bouncing on the mattress beside him. the motions ripple in his spine, in tensed muscles that’ve gone lax. calm. outside the window, a siren howls first, then a dog.

he’s spent. feels good. cold air bites skin coated in sweat, like ice melting in the bed of a warm palm. “fuck.”

but the reality of the situation rips through the haze just as quick, and ignited by a sudden fucking unbearable anger, he grabs his phone and throws it across the room, “FUCK.”

ch.4: normal people

tags <3 @rexorangecouny - @astridyoo15 - @elliesbabygirl - @fortisfilia - @diorrfairy - @frequentnosebleeder - @eddiemunsonreader 

more notes: sum fun lil gemmie gems for my narrative lovin girlies in chat  1. timeline is worky asf, things flowing in an out perception - imagine it like moving frames of the show 2. carmy says “’s good” whilst he admires her silently - is he referring to her or the food? 3. who text their boss at 1am? rich kid explain 4. the swearing increases the more he’s distressed 5. major virgin alert, can u tell? 6. this is the only chapter so far where ive used caps lock

[violetpixiedust]

part 02 of this angsty piece. thank u sm for the support on the last part, i love u all. there will be one more part after this. steve harrington x sinclair!reader. no descriptions of hair, skin tone, or body type. up to interpretation. tw: slut shaming, public bullying, mean!steve.

part 01

౨ৎ

one day earlier

your nimble fingertips brush against the soft, polyester material of your little black dress, hugging each curve and ridge of your body up until the bottom of your bum. translucent nylons lick up the length of your legs, disappearing into a pair of onyx leather boots that cut off just beneath your knees. a wave of heat washes over your delicate face as you admire your reflection in the floor length mirror of your bedroom, the top row of your pearly teeth indenting against the plush flesh of your bottom lip.

you looked.. sultry.

huh, robin had been right.

the two of you had been finishing up the last bits of your partnered english essay on ‘the catcher in the rye’ the night before, when robin, in her nature, became distracted and started languidly recounting an outfit debbie harry had worn on tour in the ‘70s. the cerulean eyed girl had pulled the cosmopolitan magazine out of her backpack, laying stomach down beside you on the bed as you both stared at the hydrogen peroxide blonde rockstar in front of you. you shyly admitted that you had always wanted to dress like that just once.

it was no secret to the students at hawkins high that you were a sweetheart, a goody two-shoes. you would usually dress in gingham, floral, and lacy babydoll dresses in the summer, or bulky turtlenecks with short skirts and stockings in the wintertime. it’s what drew steve to you originally. your shy smile and innocent doe eyes, waving to him past his car windshield as your silky skin soaked up the summer sunlight, on your way to the flower shop across from the hawkins theatre, sat on top of your two speed yellow bicycle. it threw him for a loop. how much you had bloomed the summer before your junior year. however, your beauty was surprisingly paired with a quick wit and an unmatched sense of creativity. lucas and erica had clearly picked it up from somewhere.

so, after doing some recon on an old, black turtleneck dress that you had worn to a distant family member’s funeral years ago, robin and yourself had successfully designed a little black dress that perfectly melded debbie harry and pat cleveland into one.

you had to be discreet though. your mother, despite being the feminist powerhouse that she was, did not want to have to leave work to give you a change of clothes on the off chance that you were dress coded, which granted- had only happened once. however, despite kindly giving you the snide choice of a sheer cover up to wear when she arrived to that singular meeting, your mother had grilled the geriatric worm that was principal higgens into the scuffed tile of his office floor. at his audacity for making her leave her government job in the middle of the day- all because her fifteen year old daughter, she emphasized for the misogynistic, and terrified, man in front of her, was rightfully showing her shoulders in may.

so safe to say, the spineless principal did not want a repeat of that situation, so while your fashion choices hadn’t changed much, a lot less was said about it.

your mother was dressed in a red plaid pantsuit early that next morning before her shift at city hall, hair big and proud, in the middle of making a cup of coffee before she caught sight of you entering the kitchen. “wow, look at that paint and hair, pretty girl. how gorgeous.” a wave of appreciative embarrassment crept between the hems of your woollen overcoat as the elder woman kissed the crown of your head, smiling shyly as you gratefully accepted a cup of black tea from her manicured hands.

“so, is steve picking you up-?” your mother was cut off when the back door parallel to you two practically flew open, robin’s cheeks flushed with cherry red from the winter air as she dug into her backpack, not noticing your mother or her metal thermos of presumably coffee clanging onto the kitchen tile when it free fell from her bag. finally, your friend victoriously pulled out a half squished piece of banana bread wrapped in cellophane.

“aha! there you are. what’s up this morning-?” robin froze as she caught sight of your mother smirking from her place in front of the coffee machine, watching as the pale girl practically scrambled to pick her thermos up off the floor to avoid causing a bigger mess.

“good morning, robin.” your mother smirked from behind her cup of coffee, plum shaded lips spreading into an amused smile as you giggled at robin’s scarlet complexion.

“m-morning. sorry for the noise mrs. s.” the freckled girl winced in embarrassment at her absent-mindedness, only softening her tense expression when your mother held out of plate of toast, quietly offering her a piece.

“oh, robin. if i was concerned about noise, i would have sent lucas and erica to live with their grandmother a long time ago.” the three of you burst into giggles as one of the devils mentioned strutted into the kitchen, pink denim jeans swishing with every step she took.

“what choice words about your only daughter-“ erica shook her head in disappointment as she reached up onto her tippy toes for a piece of toast, nearly taking a bite before begrudgingly making her way to grab a plate due to the gentle warning glare she received from your mother.

“hey! i was here before you, you little brat-“

“sue me for thinking you were going to college in a year and a half. maybe i’ll stick with ‘your better daughter’-”

“mom! erica hid my walkie!” lucas entered the kitchen with a trail of fire lined after him, interrupting your snide remark back to erica. you and robin groaned with relief as the horn from barb’s mom’s old mini van sounded in front of the house, interrupting the argument for a second before it resumed in full force.

“barb’s picking us up.” you mentioned to your mother, answering her previous question as she half nodded to you in acknowledgment, attempting to break up the ever scaling argument between your younger siblings. “good luck.” you bid her an apologetic goodbye, your mother only huffing as she wished both you and robin a good day.

you were on cloud nine as you walked around the halls at school that morning. it was nearly fourth period, and you hadn’t seen steve in the halls yet unfortunately, but his absence only put a slight damper on your mood. you had gotten so many compliments from the girls in your class and above. nancy wheeler, barb, robin (even though she had practically designed the outfit with you, she had basically screeched in the middle of the arts hall when you finally put your jacket in your locker), chrissy cunningham, tammy thompson, and even anna jacobi!

in the fifteen minute break between third and fourth period, you were taking your time exchanging your calculus textbook out for your history text, knowing that your next class was only down the hall and to the left. however, you felt a large, calloused hand touch the exposed skin between your shoulder blades, jumping as you quickly turned around, nervously gaining the courage to tell off whoever was unrightfully touching you, before you made eye contact with steve.

instantly, you felt a soft beacon of light spread throughout your belly, heart fluttering as you took in the soft chestnut locks that curled beneath the nape of his neck, balancing against the laws of physics atop his head. almond toned eyes, his rigid nose, primrose shaded lips. a breathtaking smile spread across your glossy pout as you giggled excitedly, going in to hug your boyfriend before his unusually stoic face hardened when his eyes raked across your outfit. your outstretched arms slowly fell to your sides as your glittery smile faded, suddenly concerned at the way steve chuckled humorously, his bass tone careless and sinister.

unlike him. with you especially.

you nervously toed your boots into the ground as your manicured nails started fiddling with one another on their own accord, shrinking as he continued to stare you down.

“now i know why billy hargrove asked me if you were free use earlier this morning.” you swallowed harshly, not believing that those words had just come out of your boyfriend’s mouth until you heard the acidic cackles of tommy and carol behind you two. steve however, was not amused. “what in the hell were you thinking when you decided to wear this?” his voice only got louder, catching the attention of a few students passing in the hallways. you fought back the bitter response that was fighting it’s way out of your throat, instead whispering honestly.

“i thought you would have liked it-“

“you thought i would have liked you looking like the freaks groupie?” suddenly, a few band kids instruments stopped their cacophony of tuning and practicing at steve’s semi-booming remark, a few other members of the student body stopping to watch as they caught wind of his comment, both cautiously and minorly entertained.

you felt your doe eyes burn with oncoming tears at steve’s remarks, humiliation running deep throughout your veins as you suddenly felt like you were clad in a cheap halloween costume instead of one of your own designs. your body wrapped your own arms around itself, a self preservation tactic you weren’t aware you were doing until carol laughed.

“you were right steve. she is quite meek, hm?” your glossy eyes whipped up to the boy in front of you for confirmation at the redhead’s poisonous remark, his gaze pointedly wandering away from you as the firm line of his lip wobbled ever so slightly. a reaction so minuscule you would have missed it had you not been searching for any ounce of clarity regarding his behaviour. why suddenly his mean boy persona broke the barriers between you and it.

“you’re being mean, stevie.” you suddenly found your voice, but the soprano tone didn’t sound like it was coming from you, your own trembling voice miles away as you confronted steve. something you hated doing. “i like this outfit, and i don’t appreciate you saying those things-“

“oh, so you think it’s okay that the entire school thinks you’re a slut?” gasps and scoffed out laughs ripped throughout the quickly growing crowd, tommy and carol’s laughter seeming the loudest. your manicured nails dug into the skin of your palms unconsciously, crescent moons slowly pulling blood up to the surface as you tried not to cry.

don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.

you coughed on salty held back tears as they dripped down the back of your tense throat, deciding you were going to walk away and go home before you could be humiliated any further. you felt hurt. you felt betrayed. you felt embarrassed. how could steve, the boy who goofily serenaded you with elvis lyrics into the handle of a baseball bat to make you laugh, who snuck into your bedroom window after curfew to cuddle and kiss you senseless because he missed you. who held doors open for you and left cute little smiley faces and your joint initials in a heart on the corners of your homework papers, just to see you smile. how could-?

“jeez steve, you’d think for a frigid little virgin she wouldn’t put out for the whole school.” your jaw dropped as the crowd around you burst into whispers, remarks, and exaggerated reactions, meeting steve’s eyes that were now half filled with regret, attempting to save face as his expression stoned once more, spitting.

“yeah, you’d think.” you missed the way steve’s eyes widened as tears began to slip down your face, leaving trails of gritty mascara in their wake. the elder boy felt his stomach flip upside down once he surveyed the crowd, once he realized how many people had heard that. something he had promised to never tell anyone.

“‘oh stevie, i’m scared it’ll hurt’ ‘i don’t think i’m ready’ ‘could we just kiss a little more?’ too bad for you, there are girls in this town that aren’t afraid of a little pain.” steve felt his breath shorten at carol’s suggestive comment, however it proved hilarious for the crowd around them. he couldn’t register what was going on, why everyone had suddenly crowded around you two, why he had kept going with his verbal assaults, why he had listened to tommy and carol and billy of all people in the first place, and why he had any nerve to confront you about an outfit that made him insecure and jealous when you were clearly happy-

“carol- shut up-“ steve finally found his voice, dominating and rough with an undertone of fear. he didn’t want this. you were his girlfriend for christ sake. what was wrong with him?

carol however shrugged carelessly, smirking as you quickly turned towards your locker to gather your belongings, mind on overdrive. “look at that, it’s even backless.“

“baby-“ steve whispered towards you frantically, catching sight of your bloody palms from where your nails had bit into them. he felt his heart break when you smacked his large hand away as it attempted to soothe you, sniffling as the crowd behind you oohed in amusement. you felt like you were under a microscope. you wanted to disappear.

“oh look. it’s the freak now. i’m sure you won’t have trouble gagging on his dick like you did with steve’s.” your leather bag slipped from your trembling hands at that comment, it’s contents spreading across the floor as the crowd cackled like hyenas. suddenly, the aroma of cigarettes, woodlands, and something akin to laundry soap filled your senses. hesitantly, you turned your watery gaze onto eddie, who was kneeled in front of you as he quickly packed your belongings back into your bag. you couldn’t help but feel sorry for him that he experienced this kind of torment on a daily basis from tommy, carol, and steve, but was still decent enough to help you through it. he was quick as he packed your things you noticed. steady, quiet, careful-

trained almost.

tommy scoffed at the sight in front of him as eddie wordlessly handed you your bag, his large bambi eyes intently asking are you okay? before you could lie and nod, tommy chuckled. “jeez, munson. i guess now you can finally fuck something other than your right hand. i wouldn’t push your luck though-“

in a second, steve pulled tommy against the row of lockers opposite to yours, a deafening crash echoing above the crowd as his calloused hands wrapped themselves within the crisp white collar of the shorter boy’s t-shirt. “don’t ever” steve emphasized with a push of tommy’s body to the metal doors behind him. you felt yourself clam up with nausea at the potent verbal and physical violence around you, “fucking talk to her like that again, hagan-“

the dark haired boy forcefully pushed steve back into the middle of the hallway, the crowd beginning to chant as you watched in horror when tommy threw the first punch. robin fought through the barriers of the crowd immediately once she heard you and carol screech, narrowly dodging the pair of boys rolling along the gritty school floors just past her worn out converse. the freckled girl attempted to figure out what happened as she made her way to your left side, soothingly wiping away your tears as her cerulean gaze went wild. she had left you alone for ten minutes. soon, two of the senior boys on the basketball team were pulling the pair apart from each other, most likely fearing their suspension with the championship game coming up after winter break.

tommy spat a wad of blood from his lip onto the floor as he shot a loathing glare towards steve. carol’s snide expression morphed into concern for her boyfriend as he panted, before her features pinched with a bitter scowl towards the man of the hour. “don’t look so sad, harrington. now you can actually get your dick wet with some other slut. after all, that’s all you really wanted from her, wasn’t it?”

the crowd erupted into quiet whispers as steve’s wide eyes turned to your frail silhouette, now gone slack with disbelief. his king steve persona had shattered at that moment, bloody lip trembling as he crossed the hallway towards you, however you weakly pushed him away from your bubble with your palms to his chest. “i hate you, steve harrington.” it was the first time in ten minutes that the crowd had gone completely silent, watching intently as you spat emotionlessly, basking in a hatred so unlike you it appeared as though you were possessed. with eddie beside you, those rumours would spread like wildfire, no doubt. steve’s expression fell into agony for every second that passed, watching in almost slow motion as you promised. “never speak to me ever again. we’re done.”

robin quickly led you away after that, shaking her head at steve with disgust as she pushed through the dispersing crowd for you. eddie quickly slammed your locker closed, but not without adding fuel to the fire as he huffed. “it didn’t look like it to me, but i hope that was worth it, harrington.”

and steve harrington, was now, above all else, alone.

just like he was destined to be.

[kitkat-the-muffin]

I thought Cabanela was gonna be a bad guy who was secretly behind everything or at least some creep who flirts with girls half his age but NO! He’s a genuine good guy who takes his job seriously and cares about his friends! He’ll break protocol and drag an escaped prisoner to the freakin justice minister’s office just to keep him off death row an hour longer! He’ll forgo his job and his own life to save someone!

I am so sorry I doubted you king, here you dropped your crown 👑-

[skateboardtotheheart]

list of wilmon headcanons ft. the boys being casually protective and besotted with each other

both of them are just like,, obsessed with anything the other does. like when simon has a choir solo wille is going full “that’s my BOYFRIEND” bragging and when wille has to give a speech, simon is constantly talking about how proud of wille he is to the point that their friends tell him to stfu already

simon remains anti-monarchy and will debate with wille endlessly over certain topics (read: rant at wille because his boyfriend knows he’s right and isn’t fighting back) but he is the FIRST to defend wille if anyone ever says anything negative about him as the crown prince. like he will throw hands if necessary

now that wille got what he needed removing august from power, he is not afraid to hold a grudge over the way vincent was/is treating simon. he talks back during rowing, glares at him at lunch, and will step in immediately if he says something mean to simon

one of the crown’s rules for them to be public is that they had to keep pda to a minimum. they completely s u c k at following this rule. they are constantly holding hands, wille loves hugging simon from behind, there’s kisses traded in the hallways. they are nauseatingly THAT couple. there is at least one phone call a week from the royal press office telling them to calm tf down

it’s not uncommon to see simon absolutely transfixed on wille during workies. everyone knows that wille has a staring habit but simon is just as bad. he’ll completely space out of a conversation, trailing off in the middle of sentences, because he caught sight of wille across the room and is just,,, entranced

both of them have a habit of staking subtle (at least they think it’s subtle) claim on each other via putting the other in their clothes. simon constantly comes to school in wille’s sweaters and wille has practically claimed ownership to simon’s purple sweatshirt. the rest of the student body has moved past commenting

simon hates the way wille shuts down after phone calls with his mother. he gets this sad look and gets quiet and he’s watched wille have a few too many panic attacks. he counteracts this by showing wille as much affection as humanly possible, reminding him that his mother is wrong about whatever she said about him, and distracting him by singing 

on the matter of singing, one of simon’s new passtimes is writing little songs, jingles, whatever about wille. it’s a fantastic way to make his boyfriend smile, and he also just loves to see how long it takes wille to realize what he’s singing is actually about him

it takes a little while for rosh and ayub to warm back up to wille, both of them worried that the prince was just going to hurt him or break his heart again. eventually, simon convinces them to at least hang out with him once, and they change their minds when they see how happy simon looks with him and how much the prince makes him laugh, and how wille looks at simon like he hung all the stars in the sky

“i love you” is like,, an hourly affirmation for them both. they cannot go without saying it at least five times a day. part of it is because they just love saying and hearing it, and the other part of it is that neither of them thought they’d ever get a relationship like this (or that they’re relationship would ever be public) so they need the reminder that this is real and they have each other for real

this is all i’ve got for the moment, but if anyone ever has any headcanon requests, feel free to send them my way

[predakings-den]

Chapter 1: The Lab-grown Experiments

Word count: [1426]

Content Warning: [None]

He had revealed his form, a choice he believed wise in order to be taken seriously by these Decepticons. No longer is he stuck as a draconic being of metal and circuits, shrieking with his mandibles outstretched and large wings reeled back as a means to threaten. His new form is just as formidable, with a crown of horns protruding from his helm and a sharp, weary faceplate that made him come across as older than he felt. Predaking was met with surprised expressions from his superiors, crippling trepidation and dread from that pathetic Air Commander, and a sudden new sense of commitment as he realized the intention of this specific site.

Shockwave’s secondary laboratory, nestled in the caverns, now harbors the latest “pet project” as the others had liked to call it behind his back, or even in front of him, believing his intelligence to be that of a primitive creature. Predaking gazes upon the rows of test tubes decorating the underground lab in a hue of green lighting, with large cables connecting the tanks to a generator and a control panel where data is monitored, collected, and stored for Shockwave’s use.

Inside each containment chamber is a curled-up Predacon, growing and alive in their slumber. There’s a variety of what humans may recognize as mythical creatures thought to be in myths and legends. A plethora of beaks, wings, claws, and maws can be seen.

His large claws press gently against the warm glass. There was no outward response, but he could feel it, a pull on his EM field, albeit faint. The thought has crossed his processor every now and then when he was but a warhorse with no real designation. A question lingered: where were the rest of his people? And that knowledge has had the time to settle in his tanks like an endless pit. They were offline, decimated by either the radiation that had plagued Cybertron’s surface long ago in the Great Cataclysm where they starved underneath the shelter of dirt and rock, or driven mad stellar cycles ago.

Even now, these caverns strike a quiet unease with the Predacon, a fear of some sort or… Perhaps a memory from long ago, etched deep into the bones that Shockwave had cloned him from.

He could hardly believe such little beings, so vulnerable and exposed, can evolve to one of Cybertron’s greatest beasts of the past. How? They’re practically tiny bits of soft metal and exposed biolights, still developing their tough exterior.

He could be always be patient, until Shockwave's process is complete. He doesn't understand the exact science behind it, the cloning and accelerated growth procedure, but he trusted the Decepticon scientist to continue his work with the same chilling dedication.

"Would you like to feed them?"

Predaking perks up as he hears Shockwave's monotone vocalizer ending the silence between him and the Predacon pups. He takes a lingering glance at the science officer. "How so? Are they not sleeping?" It sure seems to be the case, as they have been quite unresponsive to the vast world around them. In Shockwave’s optic, Predaking taps the glass as if he were a youngling curious, although much larger in stature.

Shockwave walks over to a large crate of yellow vials. He hands him a few and Predaking cautiously sniffs. There appears to be no scent to this so-called meal that Shockwave is implying them to be. Regardless, the scientist continues droning on. "They absorb nutrients through the liquid they lie in, and every spark needs a certain amount to maintain a healthy core. It didn't take too long to develop a concoction similarly to the nutrients sparklings are provided naturally. All I needed were the correct ingredients, procured by those willing to aid in my research."

“I only considered the next logical step was to add… supplements of a sort. After all, I strive to improve in reference to previous works.”

Predaking chuffs and avoids his blaring optic. As if the ultimate being had imperfections. He is powerful in strength, his size indomitable, a Predacon in his prime and yet Shockwave finds flaws in his making?

He almost thinks to ask for the specifics, but Shockwave ignores his questions and leads him to the control panel, finding his personal inquiries asked to be of unimportance in the current moment or at any time really. "Now, insert five vials into these slots.”

The Predacon stares at the yellow vials, small in their little glass containers, so he feels fit to comment. “Five hardly seems enough for ten little ones.” And he nearly shrinks at the scientist’s stare. There is no emotion that can be read, but the feeling of… inadequacy stings at his spark for asking what the officer appears to see as menial queries.

Again, the scientist pays no mind to his observation and gestures to the control panel. “Each individual button is a labeled tank. The gray button is for fueling, the red is the release.”

Predaking follows along, inserting the vials, and then slowly presses the gray buttons with one large claw. In a few seconds, the green containment chambers turn a more vibrant yellow as nutrients start filtering inside.

The inhabitants do not move, but he understood that somehow, they are being properly cared and fed, even if it didn't seem as traditional as simply hunting and providing the meals for them.

And with feeding time underway, Predaking notices that many of the tanks do not have… names. Instead, there are numbers. It’s not entirely surprising when even Predaking had nothing, and sought to find him his own name. “Do they carry any designation? Like this one?” He gestures to a Predacon pup who is a mixture of yellow, teal, and purple, with two draconic helms and tails to match.

“#SW81617 is quite sufficient for the level of organization I require to properly assess Project Predacon. I do not plan on developing such a … familial connection with my experiments, that which I am starting to notice that you are starting to seek out. You yearn for something more than what I choose to provide.”

It renders the large Predacon quiet. Before anything more could be spoken between the two, the science officer gets a ping in his system. His red optic dims as he reads the short notification, Soundwave calling for his presence onboard the Nemesis warship. “It appears I have a meeting that I must tend to. I will reconvene with you later, but for now, you are granted a privilege of staying. Only, do not touch any of the mechanics until I arrive back onto the site.”

Shockwave could logically assume what this particular meeting could consist of. He wasn’t the only one who noticed how… fearful Megatron almost seemed, a mixture of that and shock, is not an acceptable state that their leader would approve being rendered to. Megatron has already shown his bouts of irrational, impulsive, and paranoid tendencies when confronted with something much grander than him… and the dangerous, chaotic beauty of Predacons is grand indeed.

Shockwave did not exhibit any signs of nervousness. His EM field of wall of cold indifference as usual. And Predaking didn’t question the sudden call away from the lab. Perhaps he should have at the time. Maybe it could have prevented… well, everything, but the Predacon who had only recently gained sentience did not yet know how to become a bit more astute in his observations.

Instead, he allows the officer to call for a ground bridge and thinks nothing of it. The large beast curls up next to the tanks, with a soft rumble sounding close to a yawn exiting his maw as he hunkers down for the evening.

He’s not that attached... he was simply curious at the prospect of new life, of not being alone anymore, of reviving his species once more. Everything… that was now his duty to protect and see through.

His moments spent in the lab were coming to an end though, and soon he’d be unable to look upon the tanks of Predacon pups as if he were stargazing at the brightest of constellations with such… completion in his spark. He would never have thought that displaying sentient thought and behavior would write their end, that despite any signs of loyalty towards the Decepticon cause, that Megatron was never going to allow them to simply exist.

It happened then, and it will once again.

Predacons cannot just exist…

A Cybertronian will not allow that to be the case, Decepticon or Autobot otherwise.

[whoops-im-obsessed]

Moments I loved in Newsies London

UKsies is a fansie's dream, every member of the cast is so in character even after the show ends and it leads to brilliant moments and interactions such as these:

*spoilers under the cut*

During 'Santa Fe (prologue)' there is fully a newsie undressing on the side of the stage, if you're sitting in the Bronx you'll get a lovely view

Zipline

Specs breaks up a fight between Race and Albert before 'Carrying the Banner' even starts

Crutchie has his own slingshot and shoots various members of the cast with varying degrees of accuracy

*steals apples from fruit cart, celebrates, gives one to a newsie sat alone*

Splasher jumps a skipping rope, he then proceeds to do a back flip in said skipping rope. You'll be hearing more about Splasher (Ross Dorrington) he is Something Else

Race actually smokes his cigar and blows the smoke in Morris' face

Splasher gets yeeted, cheerleader style

Oscar deliberately takes the paper from Davey's stack

Les makes sure to show his sad face to each side of the audience

Newsie fully asleep on the stairs on the side of the stage during 'The Bottom Line'

'Football? VIOLENT'

Davey tries to sell his last paper to the audience 'paper for you? Nope? Okay then :(

Les blows a bowery beauty a kiss and she gives him a feather, adorable

Couple of newsies watch Medda's show ('she's talking to me!' 'Nah, she's talking to me')

One of the newsies (?Race) nods his head along to all the knocks in 'Don't Come a-Knocking'

Bowery beauty kick line punctuated with 'woo!'s

Flirting 101 with Jack: 'the new york sun? I work for the world :D' *swings his legs and shows off his newsie bag proudly*

There is so much hugging in this show, this cast is so affectionate, its adorable

'AiNt wE tHe HoI PoLlOi'

'We got a ton of rotten fruit and perfect aim' *slingshots newspapers everywhere*

References to bway seize the day choreo in world will know

'Who wants Brooklyn?' (?race or tommy boy, couldn't see) *puts cap over face and plays dead*

Jack stays to talk to Katherine instead of going with the boys, Crutchie tries to get his attention - 'Jack come on! Oh for God's sake' and walks off. From where I was sat it sounded like ffs

The newsie wheeling Katherine's chair on stage for 'Watch What Happens' rides on it and goes 'woo!', she thanks them

side note: Matthew Duckett's Crutchie uses his crutch on the (technically) correct side, i.e. opposite side to injury, random but we love to see some medical accuracy in our shows lol

Crutchie initiates fighting the scabs and looks disappointed when he's stopped

Splasher doing no less than 10 box jumps in a row, possibly more

Splasher gets yeeted pt2

Les ascending

Crutchie using his crutch as a jousting pole

'They're slaughtering us!' *Splasher gets yeeted pt3*

Act 2

Cup clinkage

Driving the tables like cars around in kony - 'Zyoom!!!"

Ascension

Katherine's fork crown, apple orb and paper scepter

Crutchie breaking the forth wall and grinning conspiratorially at the audience in 'Letter from the Refuge'

Specs coming to get the letter from Crutchie and a refuge newsie helping him offstage

Jack putting les on his shoulders in 'Watch What Happens (reprise)'

Jack dusting himself off a seat in Pulitzer's office

The general reaction to Brooklyn

Jack hurriedly taking down his drawings when Katherine's there and hesitating before taking down a pic of (who I assume to be) Crutchie

'These kids put out a pretty good papeeerrrr' *runs away from pulitzer*

Roosevelt handshake fangirling

Spot intimidating Pulitzer

Crutchie wearing a police hat when he comes back in ('aint been the same without ya man!')

Crutchie holding his character and wincing to himself after getting his papers in the finale

'You already work for my father' - cue Crutchie breaking the 4th wall again to look directly at me and call Jack a numbnuts

Race greeting Wiesel with 'hey beautiful'

Spot to other newsies 'im not scary!' *hugs*

*standing ovation*

[hometoursandotherstuff]

This 1895 Queen Anne Victorian home in Apalachicola, Florida is absolutely breathtaking. It has 4bd., 4ba., and is listed at $1.750M.

Just look at the delicately etched glass on the entrance door.

This is not your usual Victorian- look at the wood walls. Isn’t this different and amazing?

It has the 2 sitting rooms that most Victorians have, but I don’t quite know how to define their styles. The home has been reno’d, but it’s a combination of old and new. Notice how simply restored the fireplace is.

It has more of a crisp, formal look.

The gorgeous crown molding is intact.

Instead of the flowery Victorian wallpaper, they opted for neutral colors and added features like a row of niches in the dining room.

Look at the burled wood of this molding.

Beautiful home office. 

Stylishly vintage shower room. 

Love the pantry.

The wood in the hallways is just so beautiful.

The everyday dining area is so pretty- not only a built-in, but a fireplace, too. 

No expense was spared on the kitchen cabinetry- it’s gorgeous. 

And, how cute is the vintage pantry?

Check out the niches along the stairs. What a fabulous staircase.

Isn’t this amazing?

This bd. and its vintage bath are wonderful. 

The bds. are stunning.

And, this is the ladder to the Widow’s Watch. 

The main bd. is especially beautiful and also has its own porch.

And, look at the main bath. This is so pretty.

Now, this is a vanity area.

And, check out this shower.

Amazing walk-in closet is actually a room.

Cozy back porch.

Original photo of the house. 

Lovely gardens.

The garage is cool, too- it has a lift.

What a great garage.

Those must be the old toilets! They actually saved them.

The house is right near Lafayette Park &  Apalachicola Bay.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/163-Avenue-B-Apalachicola-FL-32320/44752344_zpid/

[lwfics]

Bailando (Javier Peña x Female reader)

Summary: You have to deliver a speech tomorrow and you are nervous. Javi comforts you.

Word count: 1623.

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Tags: Emotional hurt/comfort, Sweet, First Kiss.

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

I learned about this challenge a few days ago, but I read I could submit a story by the end of the month, so here it is my fic for the Pickled Peña Writing Challenge @pickled-pena

I hope you enjoy it! :-)

English is not my first language (it's Spanish) so I apologize for any mistakes. I've included some verses from the song Maníaca by Abraham Mateo. The original song is Maniac by Michael Sembello.

Bailando

You were more nervous than you wanted to admit.

Tomorrow you would be attending the annual general meeting. You didn’t like being the center of attention, and it was the first time you would deliver a speech in the presence of The Chief Executive Officer, who had a reputation for making people cry.

The tension level was higher every time the CEO was around. It was easier to make careless mistakes when people couldn’t keep a level head. Some employees took it out on others, saying things like:

"You stand there and accuse me, but where were you at the time?"

But you didn’t need to worry. You had made a to-do list to make sure you had everything under control:

Memorizing the speech   ✔

Making sure the USB drive works and the PowerPoint slides are readable from the last row   ✔

Making a list of likely questions you might be asked after the speech  ✔

Writing well-thought answers to those questions  ✔

Learning how to look relaxed and confident ✔

Your list was flawless, or so you hoped.

Perhaps I should read the speech once more, you thought.

Your phone buzzled before you could grab your notes.

A message from Javi:

Ready for the party? ;)

A friend of him was throwing a huge party tonight. You didn’t know his friend, but Javi told you that his friend wanted his guests to bring their own friends. “The more people, the better.”

You’d told Javi that you’d go to the party with him. You wanted to be like your female friends, who were eager to put on a dress and dance until their legs felt like jelly.

Going to a party with Javi had always been a pleasant experience. He was playful and sweet, and he always got you on the dance floor. You wished you could forget about the annual general meeting, if only for a couple of hours. Seize the moment. Have some fun.

It wasn’t that easy.

You tried to picture yourself dancing with Javi. You hadn’t seen him since last weekend. You exchanged text messages almost every day, but nothing could beat the face-to-face conversation. You missed the way his eyes light up whenever he said or hear something amusing, and the warmth of his smiles, and his touch. A hand on your back, on your arm, on the crown of your head. A hug every time he greeted you. He had never gone any further, but you’d imagined several times how it would feel to kiss him. You had never kissed anyone. You had never felt the desire to do so until you grew closer to Javi.

He didn’t know you were in love with him. What if you told him and he didn’t feel the same and became distant from you? What if he stopped being friends with you?

Your phone buzzled again:

“Something wrong?”

He could see that you’ve read his message. He must be wondering what it was taking you so long to reply.

“Hey, I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can attend the party. Tomorrow is the annual general meeting.”

You had told him about the business meeting. You had admitted it made you a little anxious, and he’d told you there was nothing to worry about and you would leave everyone impressed with your speech.

He replied right away:

“I know < 3 That’s why you need to take your mind off it. I promise I’ll drive you home early. You won’t miss out on sleep.”

You smiled.

“You’re very sweet, but I don’t think I can have fun tonight.”

“Tell me what’s troubling you,” he typed out.

You trusted him. He would never mock you. He also told you the things that made him afraid or sad or angry. He told you when he had a bad day at work or when he’d had trouble sleeping.

You typed out:

“What if I forget my speech or the file becomes corrupted?”

His answer was short and quick:

“I’m on my way to your house.”

That meant he wouldn’t arrive on time for the party.

“No, please, I’m alright <3  I’ll watch a sitcom episode, eat something light and go to bed. We shall hung out tomorrow if you’re not too tired after the party : )”

“Too late. I’m coming.”

Your phone buzzled again, and a second message showed up on your screen:

“That sounded creepy. Sorry.”

He hadadded a sheepish grin emoticon.You couldn’t help but giggle:

“Don’t apologize. I appreciate what you’re doing.”

“Is it working?”

Now you were smiling like and idiot. “Yes.”

“Good. Don’t eat anything. We’ll have our own party.”

*

Javi showed up at your door shortly after your text conversation. He was wearing a dark grey suit and a tie. His smile was so warm. He didn’t look disappointed in the slightest.

Your heart quickened. “Hi.”

Your hands touched when you took the cool bag. You placed it on a table and looked back at him. The smile was still on his face. He took a step forward and held you in a warm embrace.

“Hi,” he murmured against your heart.

The hug slowed down your heart rate and quelled your mind. Was it selfish to be glad that he was here?

Sometimes his kindness made your heart ache in a way that scared you. You shouldn’t hope for things that weren’t likely to happen.

“You look very elegant,” you told him after he pulled away.

Javi let out a small laugh. Suddenly he looked a little shy. “I wanted to look good for our private party,” he confessed. He stroked your arm. “How are you feeling?”

“Better. I’m glad you are here, but I’m sorry I cancelled the plan at the last minute.”

“Don’t be sorry. There will be other huge parties waiting for us, and if I’m being totally honest, I wouldn’t rather be anywhere else.”

You smiled. “Okay.”

“But I stand by my words. You need to take your mind off the business meeting, and dancing is a great way to relieve stress. Besides, I think I have just found out the perfect cover song.”

Your heart fluttered in anticipation. “Which one?”

He winked at you. “First, help me set the table.”

*

He had brought a jar of pickles, a fruit salad and smoked salmon and sandwiches.

“You said you wanted a light dinner,” he said.

“It’s perfect. Thank you.” You were going to say something else, but you finally decided against it.

Javi noticed your hesitation. He grinned. “You were going to ask me to play the song, but you didn’t want to sound impatient.”

“Yes,” you admitted, giggling a little.

“I know you well. And I’m not going to say no. I cannot wait to dance with you.”

You smiled. Your cheeks felt warm, but you didn’t try to hide your face. “I cannot wait to dance with you too, Javi.”

As soon as the music started playing, you recognized the song, although you had never danced to it.

“Maniac. I love this song! It’s so upbeat and catchy!”

He grinned. “This is a Spanish version. The lyrics are a little different, but I shall translate it for you later.”

“I’d like that.”

“Great. Now, show me how you move.” He came to you and started singing the lyrics.

Salió descontrolada.

Llegó.

Quemó la sala.

La vi

con la mirada

de una loca enamorada.

Javi nudged you. His face was so bright, and there were crinkles around his eyes. He loosened his tie and wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you closer.

You giggled and threw your arms over his shoulders. You shook your hips, and he nodded with enthusiasm.

“That’s my girl.”

Fue inevitable acercarme

Y le tuve que decir

Es que me mata todo de ti

Maníaca

Maníaca bailando.

Y lo baila como nunca antes bailó.

Your chest brushed against his. He stopped singing for a moment, and the way he looked at you took your breath away.

Y aunque no quiera siento que me domina.

Cada paso es mi dosis de dopamina.

“Lower your pelvis closer to the floor,” he said suddenly. The intensity in his gaze was gone, and now there was a hint of mischief.

“What?”

“Let’s see who gets closer to the floor without falling on their ass.”

“Oh my.” You laughed.

Adicta al dembow.

También reggaeton.

La tengo bailando en el suelo.

Neither of you could maintain your balance. Thankfully, you didn’t injury yourselves.

You lay on the floor, bursting into laughter, and you continued laughing until the song ended.

Later, when you both caught your breath, Javi propped himself on one elbow and smiled at you.

You returned his smile, resisting the urge to stroke his hair. He looked so handsome like this. You wished he hadn’t agreed that you shouldn’t miss out on sleep.  

He reached forward and touched your cheek. “Feeling better?”

“Yes. Thank you for everything.”

His eyes fell upon your lips. Was he thinking the same?

He met your gaze, letting you see the repressed hunger in his eyes, the same hunger you’d been trying to hide for months now.

“Can I kiss you?” he whispered.

“Yes.”

He pressed his mouth to yours. His hand moved to your hip, and he kept it there as his lips moved against yours. His touch was familiar and comforting, making it easier to get lost in the kiss. His tongue touched yours, igniting something in you.

You weren’t afraid of your feelings for him anymore.

It was liberating to give in. It was wonderful to see that he wanted this.

He had asked for permission to kiss you. Maybe now it was your turn to ask for more.  

[elancholia]

Motti Seligson, a spokesperson for Chabad, said a "group of extremist students" had secretly broken through the walls of vacant building behind the headquarters, creating an underground passage beneath a row of office buildings and lecture halls that eventually connected to the synagogue. [...] "Those efforts [to seal the tunnel] were disrupted by the extremists who broke through the wall to the synagogue, vandalizing the sanctuary, in an effort to preserve their unauthorized access," Seligson said.

Posted because a lot of the news coverage and posting around the subject doesn't explain why a religious dispute translated into a secret tunneling project, of all things.

[zweetpea]

The blue roses adorning his eyes (TBRAHE) Chapter 1 The Anniversary 

Content warning: pg13 Swear words, talking about groping (once), infidelity, arranged marriages, read at your own risk

Let me know if I missed anything

The sun shone brightly through your window, as a knock on the door sounds throughout the room. “Your highness! Are you up? You have a lot of work to do today!” 

“Come in Addie!” You shout. A nice lady about 18 or so comes in. She has short blonde curly bob, parted at her left, and dark blue eyes. 

“How are you today your highness?” Addison smiled at you, as she brought you a tray of tarts. 

“You can be casual with me Addie. The past 2 decades haven’t changed; we’re still friends and we always will be.” You snack on the tarts. 

“I know, it’s just a bit awkward to call you by your nickname ever since you became queen.” 

“That was two years ago. If the others in the palace can’t get it through their thick skulls that you’re special to me then they’re not worth the effort to explain it.” 

“What if the king says something?” 

“Then I’ll pick him up and throw him into the wall with my cursed technique.” 

“What?! You can’t do that! He’ll have your head on a platter if you do that!” 

“He’d have to get a blade through my neck to do that though.” You smirk knowingly at her. “So, what should I wear today, Addie?” 

“How about the dress your father bought you recently?” 

“The blue one?” You grimaced. 

“Well, it is your 2 year anniversary; and it would match your husband.” 

“That’s what I’m apprehensive about.” You said as you grabbed the dress from your wardrobe and walked into the bathroom to get ready. 

After a bath and Addison helping to tie up your hair in a bun you exited your room in your new dress. White sleeves, a sapphire blue low cut bodice corset, a white skirt and a matching blue waist cape belt. “Y/n, wait! You forgot your jewelry.” Addison clipped a sapphire necklace, with silver flowers, on you; and finally placed a gold crown embedded with rows of sapphires throughout. “Cheer up, Y/n. I hear your husband has a surprise in the works for today.” 

“If he has a surprise ready, it can’t be anything good.” 

“I know that he’s a bit of an… eccentric man, but please, for the sake of the whole kingdom, try to trust him.” 

“Okay.” You wouldn’t admit it to Addison but you’d try to get along with the boar that was your husband if it’s for her happiness. 

You walked through the halls to your office and did some paperwork until noon. Noon was tea time and that’s when you’d be hosting a party for your anniversary. All of your and Satoru’s friends would be there. 

“Y/n, It’s nearly time to go.” Addison reminded you. 

“Addie… would you do me a huge favor?” 

“Of course, your highness.”

“No, not as an order. I’m asking as a friend.” 

“What do you need of me?” 

“Could you accompany me to the party?” 

“But, there’ll be so many nobles there! I’m just a simple maid, I can’t be a guest at your party! Plus I don’t have anything to wear, and I won’t know what to do or say.” 

“I won’t know anyone else, there. You don’t have to dress up, but please come with me.” 

“What if I embarrass you?” 

“You could never embarrass me. You’re the most wonderful person in the entire palace. If I had you there it’d be a lot more fun.” 

“Okay, if it makes you happy, I’ll go.” You smiled, hugging her while squealing your thanks to her over and over.

The garden was beautiful. A floral arch opened the garden, fountains on all four corners, every kind of rose lined the wall (a personal touch of your), and in the middle was several circular tables. At the table in the middle sat Shoko and Suguru. You and Addison walked over. “Is this where the king and queen plus company sits?” You asked. Shoko nodded inwhile Suguru rolled his eyes. You smiled politely at the two and sat down with Addison next to you. There was one more open chair next to her and you were grateful you wouldn’t have to sit next to your husband. Honestly if he didn’t insist on bringing his two lackeys everywhere then you probably wouldn’t even remember their names. 

A little while into the party a woman came over to the table. She was in a short cyan mermaid dress with poofy sleeves. She had long blonde hair and gray eyes. “Excuse me, you’re in my seat.” She said to Addison. 

“Huh?” Addison asked. 

“This is my spot, it’s next to the king. Move. Now.” 

You shot out of your seat. “Excuse me? How dare you speak to Addie like that!” 

“Why is a stupid maid even at this party? It’s for important people… oh yeah, and the queen.” 

“You insolent tramp! Don’t you insult the queen!” Addison spoke up. 

“Do not raise your voice against me! Do you know who I am? I can have you drawn and quartered for your disrespect.” 

“Have you gone mad? I am the queen and Addie here is my honored guest. Guards! Take this wench to the dungeon!” 

“Hah! Like they’ll listen to you!” She mocked. 

“Sorry ma’am but we can’t do that.” 

“Why not? I am the queen!” 

“Why is the harpy shouting?” The king entered the garden and several of the nobles snickered at his comment about you. 

“Babe!” The floozy ran over to the king, jumped into his arms and kissed him right on the lips. “The queen is being so mean to me.” She pouted faking distress. 

“Satoru, what is this?” 

“She is my lover Marrisa. How could you be so heartless as to hurt her?” 

“How could I? HOW COULD I?! YOU BROUGHT HOME A WHORE ON OUR WEDDING ANNIVERSARY!! Do you have any idea how humiliating this is for me?! Here! Take the stupid seat! Take mine too! Addie and I aren’t going to watch two sluts grope each other while the rest of us try to eat!” 

“Your majesty, you disgust me. I hope and pray that these buffoons come to their senses and leave as well.” Addison remarks to everyone around and wrapped a protective arm around your shoulder. 

Back inside your bedroom you sobbed into your pillow. “What am I going to do now Addie?” 

“I don’t know; but I know that whatever happens I’ll be right next to you. We’ll get through this together.” 

“Thank you for always being there for me. That’s one of the many things I love about you, Addie.” 

“Thank you, your highness. I care very deeply for you and your wellbeing.” 

[rotworld]

7: Metamorphosis

(previous)

the girl goes home. you visit an old friend.

->sexually suggestive. contains mild gore, ear penetration, terato, mentions of drugging, mentions of child trafficking and child abuse.

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.

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The last leg of the journey is always a thing of wonder. You unfold your crumpled, egg-stained map and marvel at the neatness of the reality, the momentary certainty of things. This is the understanding you carved out in a corner of the world. This is how far you’ve come. The Drift is mercurial. It won’t last. These cities will have scattered again, these roads you thought you knew winding in strange, new ways. But for now, for just a moment, you bask in a sense of wearied accomplishment. You are still here, despite everything. 

There were tears this morning. Albie drew a map of his own depicting his family’s corner of Verlinda, landmarks painstakingly rendered in colored pencils scribbles and labeled with shaky letters. A little cottage in the forest, surrounded by trees, bordered by a stream and many smiling animals, is labeled “MY HOUSE.” He wanted to make sure the girl would be able to find her way back someday. She has it on her lap, neatly folded, clutched in her small hands. 

“It’s close,” you tell her. 

She watches the scenery with rapt attention, memorizing every detail. “Close,” she agrees, glancing at you in surprise. “How know?” 

“See the dirt? It’s kind of a reddish color. And that spicy-sweet smell is from the mulberry gardens.” The sign is just over the hill, exactly as you remember it; a metal slab suspended between old wooden posts, bearing elegant lettering and a curling ribbon design. “Welcome to Compass Hill,” it says, and your heart beats faster in recognition, anticipation and dread. “I grew up here,” you add softly. 

[NOW PLAYING ON THE RADIO: HOW YOU REMEMBER BY AZURE RAY]

Roads into Compass Hill are long, decorated promenades of flattened cobblestone and stately scenery. Here is the visitor’s center, glass-paneled and flower-filled like a Victorian greenhouse. There is a lakeside sculpture garden with abstract figures and lanterns dotting the winding footpath. In the distance, the city’s crown jewel, a sprawling campus of red brick cathedrals—the head office and processing factory of Compass Hill Textiles.

“This used to be an awful place,” you say. “Someone might tell you the story later. Not to scare you, but because you should know. People would bring children of the road here because the company would pay them for it.”

You slow as you drive past the textiles building. They’ve kept it maintained, you notice, maybe to avoid suspicion. The lawn is trimmed, the hedges bordering the path up to the front steps neatly manicured. There’s a water fountain with an angel perched on top. The plaque set into the stone commemorates an ancient patriarch of the Dewitt family, a name emblazoned all over town. It was the Dewitts who built the mill, after all, a dynasty of textile magnates made wealthy by the harvest and refinement of exquisite silks. 

You point to the factory. “I used to live there. It looks nice from outside, but most of the space is for machinery. Rows and rows of rattling, whirring things that took up whole rooms. The kids who couldn’t weave slept in the cramped, overheated basement, right under all the noise. Eventually, we’d get our license and start delivering silk.” The girl studies the building with a small frown. “It’s different now,” you assure her. “The factory’s closed. Nobody has to sleep on a concrete floor anymore.”

There’s a gate just beyond the factory. Curling wrought iron arches form symmetrical shapes where they meet, an insectoid body with large, sweeping wings. You can hear something just faintly; a buzzing hum. A faraway melody. The gates pull apart with a loud metallic clattering, welcoming you inside. In your rearview mirror, you see a large shape on the roof of the old textile factory. It crouches, spreads its wings, and flits away. The girl sits up sharply, startled and curious. 

“Probably went to tell everyone we’re here,” you say.

“Everyone?” she asks. Something catches her eye and she turns back towards the window, her eyes widening.

“Everyone. You’re home.” 

Beyond the gate is the true, new Compass Hill, built on the bones of the old. Structures are soft and rounded rather than angular, wispy, cloud-like material woven across the city skyline. Gossamer threads sparkle in dazzling neon shades and subdued earth tones alike. The schoolhouse is a powdery blue dome with rocks and flowers woven around the entrance, while the open air marketplace is adorned with rippling canopy shades and decorative arches. Everything is silk as only Compass Hill knows it, exquisite color and unbelievably versatile texture. 

But the girl isn’t looking at the buildings. She’s looking at the people. Peering through honeycomb windows and ambling into the street, a crowd gathers, curiously chittering, all around your car. You stop in the middle of the road to let them see her, and for her to see them. Scaled skin and shimmering carapaces, wings and claws and softly clicking mandibles, bristle-thin hairs and thick, curly manes. The people of Compass Hill are as varied as the silk they spin. A child with slender vespid wings and gangly, striped arms comes right up to the window and the girl stares back at her with tears filling her four eyes. 

“Home!” she wails. “Home! Home!” You unlock the door and she tumbles into the waiting arms of family she has only dreamed of. A woman, pale pink and violet with a mantis’ tapered abdomen and sharp, hooked fingers, gently works the knots from the girl’s hair. The hum rises, louder now, a gentle, rolling melody of a thousand voices harmonizing. It’s the Song, welcoming you both. When you step out of the car, you’re swarmed with gentle touches and fond nuzzling. 

“You’re back.”  There’s a pleased purring beside your ear as four soft, lightly furred arms encircle you from behind. You recognize her quiet, higher-pitched notes before you see her. Chiffon is one of the oldest weavers in Compass Hill, her great wings as thick and heavy as a blanket. She slips in front of you, taking each of your hands in hers, the other two free to cup your face. Her four eyes arch in worry. “Where have you been? And where are you going?” 

“I’ll have to show you my map. It’s been a long trip,” you say. Chiffon chitters with laughter, a sound echoed all the way down the street as she passes the joke through the Song. “And I don’t know where I’m going yet. I was in a hurry to get here before the next shift.” 

“Your hand…” She’s gentle with it, fingers worrying the skin all around your bandages. “I’ll have a look at this later. You’ll stay the night. Rest. He’ll be so happy to see you.” Your smile wanes. Chiffon squeezes your hands, reassuring but also pleading. “Please,” she sings softer. “Please go see him.”

You hear a delighted warble, the melody rising. The girl looks startled, clutching a wad of fresh, glistening silk in her hand, small string still connected to her mouth. The color is like a sunrise, a blue ombre glinting with strands of gold. One of the old weavers bends down and shows her how to braid it, tying off the ends so it doesn’t fray. “That’s hopesilk,” he says, pausing his singing so she can understand him. “Very strong, and very pretty. Someone believes in you very much.” 

You wipe at your eyes and nod at Chiffon. The crowd parts for the two of you as a slow, undulating note enters the Song, a bittersweet melody. They’ve missed you. They wish you’d stay. 

The Dewitt estate is at the very edge of town. Similar grand manors and luxurious homes dot the hills but the others are old, fallen into disrepair. The fences have crumbled, the stately brickwork has eroded, and mulberry branches snake out of the broken windows. They are Verlinda’s by right but remain, dilapidated and unoccupied, out of respect for the children of Compass Hill and everything they have endured.

It is only the Dewitt estate, all the way at the top of the hill, that is still maintained. Someone cuts the grass and trims the hedges. Someone fixes the roof when it leaks. Someone leaves food at the door. As you get closer, you hear a piercing scream from somewhere inside. “How is he?” you ask. 

Chiffon feels your worry. She chirps a Song of one, fluttering and bird-like. “He’s…better, I think. He spends less and less time here.” She stops when you reach the front porch of the manor. Her wings are drooping, the larger ones folded around her like a shawl. “But he’s still…well. It’s rather shocking inside.” 

You march up the steps before you can lose your nerve. There’s another scream—fearful, but also furious. You thought it was just mindless shrieking before but now you can make out words, “wretched” and “ungrateful” and “horrible, abominable thing.” The door is cracked open. The foyer is a mess of broken glass and overturned furniture, old blood stains crusted into the carpet and stuck to the wallpaper. A silver platter has been flung against the wall, shattering a plate and splattering mashed potatoes and a chunk of cooked meat. 

There is a man standing in the middle of the foyer, chest heaving and red in the face, screaming at something in the corner. You recognize Mr. Dewitt. He looks more sickly than you recall, sweat shining on his gaunt face. You’ve caught him in the middle of a tirade not unlike the ones you remember from childhood. He was always short-tempered, liable to fly into a rage at the slightest inconvenience. “I want to see my son! You can’t keep him from me! Just you wait, just you wait until they hear about this down at the factory!”

He whirls around at the sound of your footsteps and his wide, bloodshot eyes brighten. “Oh! Oh, it’s you!” he calls, grinning deliriously. His eyes are hazy and he’s not quite looking at you. He wobbles forward, looking inebriated. “You’ve come at the perfect time! I need to get a message down to the factory. Good practice for a courier, hm? Some incompetent let one of the weavers cocoon itself and now we’re stuck with this.” He gestures to the corner, the thing looming there silently. “It’s making demands. Can you tell them to send someone?” 

You hesitate just a second too long and he’s screaming again, berating you, calling you a stupid, useless road-mongrel. The thing in the corner lunges forward then, faster than you can see it move. There’s a rush of air and a flash of movement. It lands heavily on top of the man, slamming his head into the floor. It’s your friend, the boy who grew up in this awful place with you. Older now, much bigger, casting a wide shadow with his wings outstretched. You see him tangle his claws in the man’s thinning hair, yanking his head higher. You see him lean in, proboscis unfurling. 

“Hello,” he sings. Four eyes peer at you beneath stark white fringe. In adulthood, the silver ones have also turned deep, inky black. “Hello again. I was just thinking of you.”

His proboscis plunges forward like a needle and there’s a sickening crunch and a spurt of blood as it pierces Dewitt’s ear. He shakes and flails uncontrollably, mouth stretched open in a horrified, silent scream, but your friend holds him still; one hand on his head, one on his shoulder, the others easily keeping him pinned beneath the weight of his enormous body. Your friend, the Singer of Compass Hill, vibrates with a welcoming melody, his wings flapping in contentment. His proboscis goes taut and there’s a sick, slurping sound, another gush of blood dribbling down Dewitt’s face and neck.

“Why…is he…?” You swallow your revulsion. The Singer tilts his head slightly, the change in angle churning and squishing wetly against something in Dewitt’s head. The vibration of the song drones just louder than the gurgling screams Dewitt makes.

“He’s drugged. Not certain where or when he is. It’s the same thing he used to give me and all the others.” The Singer’s primary eyes are focused on feeding, but the smaller secondary ones rotate, fixed on you. “You don’t feel bad for him, do you?”

“I’m worried about you.” 

The Singer drops Dewitt, proboscis yanking loose with a wet, ripping sound and slithering back into his mouth. He came out of his cocoon differently than all the others. No one else has emerged quite so large. His frilled antenna scrape the high ceiling, his legs bend strangely, and he has six long arms. A ring of thick, white fur circles his neck and drapes over his shoulders. There’s similar patches of fuzz all the way down his body, thinning out across his belly and limbs. His fingers are long and dexterous, warm when they reach out and graze your cheek. 

His eyes have changed the least. There are mandibles on either side of his jaw, pearl-white and flexible, a proboscis curled up inside his mouth, but you’ll always recognize his eyes, no matter the color. 

“Is he dead?” you say quietly, staring at the body lying limp and face-down on the carpet. 

“No. I won’t let him die yet.” The Singer takes your hand in three of his. He turns it over, letting out a low hum in concern at the sight of bandages, the missing finger. “I’ll keep him here, just like I was kept. Except he has the luxury of a house when all I had was that cramped cell in the mountage wing of the factory, a bedroom shaped like a coffin. I’ll use him as he used me, without remorse. He can die when I have nothing to gain from him anymore.” 

You tug on his arm, pulling him down to kneel in front of you, and embrace him. The Singer rests his chin and mandibles on your shoulders. His hands all knead the front of your shirt, just like when he was a boy. “I came here to complete a delivery,” you admit. “It’s a child. This is her home.” 

The Singer hums appreciatively, nuzzling against your neck. “Yes. Good. I heard the Song. She’ll be safe here. She’ll decide what to do with her own silk. No one will keep her from cocooning and growing up.” His proboscis darts out, tasting the sweat on your throat. “Hope…savory. She grazed on this. You fed her well. There’s more hope here, as much as she could ever want.”

You rub his mandibles and he purrs. “You can have some, if you want. Hope, and whatever else I have.” You feel the vibration of the Song gone slow and deep with interest. He flicks one of his mandibles against your lips, tempted. “You have to eat something other than grudges,” you say gently. 

“I can’t stomach much else. But…” He crouches further, pulling you into his lap. You’re settled on one of his thighs, half-turned away from him. He brushes your hair out of the way and caresses the shell of your ear, stroking the lobe with his thumb. “I’ll go very slow. Very gentle. It’s been a long time.” 

Now that you’re actually here, clutching the fur on his upper chest, your stomach is flipping nervously. He’s right, it has been a long time. You haven’t fed him since you were both younger, shortly after the change came—he, young and clumsy and still figuring out his new, enormous body, and you, just old enough to drive the Drift. One more time, you’d agreed, before you left town. He couldn’t make silk anymore but it didn’t matter. He just needed to remember how you tasted.

“Hold onto me,” he sings gently. “It’s alright. Hold on tight. You won’t hurt me.” You don’t want to pull on his fur but he pushes your hands more firmly against his chest, encouraging you to dig your fingers in. He clutches your shoulders, your waist, your hips—his grip firm but not bruising. He tries to relax you. He nuzzles against you, splays his mandibles and leaves little kisses along your chin and cheek. His proboscis darts out and flicks against your lips, teasing. He trails higher, following the curve of your jaw. 

Your breath hitches when he reaches your ear. He kisses it. His proboscis traces the shell, explores its shallow dips and grooves. Slowly, he lick his way closer to the hole and you let out an involuntary shiver. His hands squeeze all at once in reassurance and hold you still.

“Will you give me something sweet? Something light and airy?” One of the hands on your hip moves inward. Long, graceful fingers slip into your pants and settle on your heated sex. He traces one fingertip slowly up and down, faint and featherlight. Your hips chase the friction. That’s the moment he’s waiting for. You feel his proboscis, cold and smooth, slip easily into your ear canal. 

True to his word, he’s slow and gentle. The penetration is a gradual slide, navigating impossibly small spaces to lap at something not entirely physical, nestled at the intersection of thought, feeling and memory. You feel it like the wet slide of a tongue against some place sensitive and you stiffen, eyes rolling back in your head. It’s too much—too much something. Not quite pain or pleasure, not quite anything you can name. But it’s too much. Explosive heat and sandpaper on your nerves, an avalanche of overstimulation. 

The hand between your legs barely moves. It’s just two fingers, slender and nimble, rubbing so, so slowly. Up and down. Up and down. Your underwear is damp with your own want and he collects it on his fingertips, uses it to lubricate his steady rhythm. He strokes you right to the edge of madness, crooning softly. You feel the Song behind your eyes, in your brain. You feel all the love it carries.

Your hips jolt and your flinch violently in his grasp. You gasp, or maybe you scream. Your throat is raw when you drift back down into awareness, feeling his proboscis snaking back out and exit with a faint, wet pop. Soothing liquid dribbles out of your ear in his wake, something to numb soreness. You sag against him and catch your breath. He trills, smoothing his palms up and down your body. The hand between your legs comes out of your clothes glistening and sticky.

“What was it?” you asked. Your words are slurred, your tongue still clumsy. “Wh—what’d you taste?” 

He wipes the excess fluid from your chin, pressing one last kiss to your ear. It’s starting to tingle. “Nostalgia. Exhaustion. Hope. And…” He pauses, turning your face towards him. “You’ve been having nightmares.”

He lets you avoid the subject and bury your face in his fur. He Sings, swaying gently. You shut your eyes and left your mind drift. Tomorrow, you’ll be leaving. Maybe you can deliver silk, just like the old days—but this silk will be better than Dewitt’s ever was. Made by children who are happy, woven by adults who care about them. Tomorrow, you and the girl will have to say your goodbyes, and you know she’ll ask you about home because she’s kind. And you will smile and lie or maybe say nothing at all, happy for her but stinging with agonizing envy. 

“You could stay,” goes the Song, every time you hear it. “Make this home.”

You don’t answer. You never do. The Singer holds you while he still has the chance.

(next)

[josefavomjaaga]

Yet ANOTHER fiction snippet

But this will be the last, I hope. And it's only because it's the 200. anniversary of Eugène's death today. The text below is in fact translated from my very first story set in the napoleonic era, after hearing about Eugène had sparked my interest. It's the longest story I ever wrote, and one of the few I finished and even self-published. I've also shortened it a bit because I tend to be blabbering too much.

The scene takes place in Milan in early June 1805. Napoleon has turned the Italian republic into the Kingdom of Italy and now is searching a monarch for it. But his brothers, to whom he turns, all refuse. After having discussed his brothers and the reason why they refused at length with Caulaincourt (yes, I know, him of all people. No, I do not know why he would do that other the fact Caulaincourt happened to be in the room. Listen, this was my first story, okay? 😋), he resumes:

"All right, so my brothers are letting me down one by one. I have to take the crown myself, but I can't rule France and Italy at the same time without risking trouble with Austria. I must at least appoint someone to act as my governor in Italy. Any suggestions?" "Well, for the sake of argument, I must point out to Your Majesty that Prince Jérôme was not even asked whether he would accept the kingship of Italy." "I was thinking of serious suggestions, Caulaincourt. Jérôme can't command a rowing boat without help. If he gets his act together for a few months, gives up his American wife and submits to my command, we can consider elevating him to higher honours. Not before that. Who else do we have?"

"The most obvious candidate for the office would be your current Vice President of the Italian Republic, Francesco Melzi d'Eril." "Melzi? No, no. As vice president, he was a simple civil servant. This guy won't go any higher than that. I definitely don't want an Italian as viceroy. Fickle people, only pursuing their own interests. I need someone I can rely on here, a Frenchman, preferably someone from my family." "Well, both Prince Joachim Murat and Her Imperial Highness Princess Caroline Murat have repeatedly expressed their willingness, indeed their hope, to be considered for the posts in Italy."

"Did I not make myself clear, Caulaincourt? I said: I need someone I can rely on. - Murat!" He fervently motioned with his hand through the air. "Have you forgotten the ways he managed here as governor during the revolutionary wars? The Italians haven't, you can bet your life they haven't! [...] Pauline's husband is Italian, so he's out of the question, especially as the Lombards wouldn't accept a Roman as their ruler. And Elisa's Baciocchi? I'd rather pick a random oaf off the street to crown him! - Which reminds me ..." He wheeled round, stormed to the door and tore it open. "Duroc!" he shouted out into the anteroom. "Where's our little cutie?" Grand Court Marshal Duroc, busy sorting through some papers, seemed to have to think for a moment. "He's invited some officers from his chasseurs regiment to breakfast, if I'm informed correctly."

"Get him over here right away! His guests can have their coffee without him." He slammed the door shut again, folded his arms behind his back and continued to walk up and down, trapped in gloomy brooding. Grand Stable Master Caulaincourt, who knew his emperor, was careful not to disturb this contemplation. A few minutes passed in complete silence before the Grand Marshal entered in person to announce Prince Eugène Beauharnais. »At last!" Napoleon hastened across the room towards Eugène. "Listen, Prince, I have a task for you. If you've already packed for your journey back to Paris, go unpack straight away. You will stay in Milan. I hereby appoint you Viceroy of Italy."

"P-Pardon?" stuttered the young man, and both the grand marshal and the grand equerry shouted in disbelief: "Eugène?" "Yes." The emperor beamed and slipped a hand inside his unbuttoned vest. "What's wrong with that, gentlemen? The boy is not stupid and he has been in need of something meaningful to do for a long time. Besides, with him I can be certain that he will at least try to do what I tell him. An ideal solution. I'm very pleased with myself; the best idea I've had for a long time." "But sire," the young man objected. "I'm only twenty-three. And a soldier. I mean, I haven't learnt anything else. I don't speak Italian. I have no idea about portfolios and budgets and taxes and accounts…"

"Well, at least you realise that there are such things. With that, you're probably ahead of quite a few of my civil servants." His tone changed abruptly, he stepped next to his stepson and put his hand on his shoulder. "Listen, my boy, I know I'm throwing you in at the deep end. But you can do it, I'm sure of it. You don't need to worry about important things anyway, I'll decide those myself. What I want you to take care of here is the day-to-day business. Parliamentary sessions, submissions, petitions, promotions. [...] You'll have a lot to do. Italy has almost no army and what it has is in a terrible state. You will have to rebuild everything from scratch; reorganise the existing regiments, streamline the administration, build barracks, bolster fortifications, establish officer schools ... now don't look at me so fearfully. I'll write it all down for you. You'll see, it's not witchcraft. It's important that you don't allow them to steal your thunder. You have to show the Italians who's boss. Don't be too soft, don't be too kind-hearted. [...] Don't let anyone read my letters, not even Méjan or Melzi! Preside over the parliamentary sessions, meet your ministers once a week for reports, and learn Italian. Don't pretend to know more about things than you really do; nobody will believe you anyway. Don't let the Italians fool you and beware of flattery. Don't trust anyone! Above all," he added in a suddenly changed tone, "never sit on my throne! The only exception: you have to represent me in an important matter and I have expressly ordered you to do so. And if you do, hang a picture of me behind the throne so that it is clear that you are only representing me and speaking on my behalf. Otherwise, you are to sit on a chair next to or in front of the throne. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sire." Eugène nodded, having grown increasingly pale over the course of the speech. "At your command, Sire." "Very well. Then I will shortly present you to the parliament. Go and say goodbye to your mother in time; I think the Empress and I will return to France soon." "The Empress won't be at all pleased to see her son stay behind in Italy," Grand Court Marshal Duroc dared to remark. Napoleon dismissed the objection. "She will have to get used to the fact that he can no longer cling to her apron-strings all the time. And you, Caulaincourt, why are you looking so gloomy?" "If I may be so bold as to say so, Sire: the appointment of Prince Beauharnais will undoubtedly cause discord in the imperial family." "Yes," Napoleon Bonaparte beamed. "That's what I like best about my plan. I can't wait to see which of my dear siblings will be most annoyed."

[thealexandrianroyals]

Palace releases never before seen pictures for Princess Eliana and Kaleb Watson's 5 year wedding anniversary

Ashington Palace (home of Princess Eliana The Princess Imperial, Marchioness of Aellyn and Kaleb Watson The Marquis of Aellyn) released never before seen photos from their wedding. The pictures show the new Marquis and Marchioness of Aellyn with their families in the throne room of Ashington Palace which has been the Princess' official home and office since she came of age.

back row L-R HIM The Dowager Empress, HIM The High King, HIM The High Queen, HIH The Marchioness of Aellyn, The Most Honorable The Marquis of Aellyn, Mrs. Lucille Watson (groom's mother), Mr. Byron Watson (grooms father), Miss Leanna Watson (grooms sister) Front Row: HIH Crown Prince Reginald

Kaleb Watson who has chosen not to use the title Marquis of Aellyn unless accompanying his wife on her official duties has continued to work as a lawyer and was just recently made partner at the law firm he has worked for since before meeting the Princess. The couple does share one son His Royal Highness Prince Kaidan.

(Eliana and Kaleb have their own blog! Check it out @theaellyns)

[shacklesburst]

???

The Chabad-Lubavitch world headquarters, located in Brooklyn’s Crown Heights neighborhood in New York City, was in chaos on Tuesday as Jewish leaders and police faced off against what Rabbi Motti Seligson, a spokesperson for the Chabad, called a “group of extremist students”.

????

Seligson said the rebel students from within the movement had “secretly broken through the walls of vacant building behind the headquarters, creating an underground passage beneath a row of office buildings and lecture halls that eventually connected to the synagogue”. A construction crew was brought in on Monday to fix the damaged walls but was met with protests from the students who had created the tunnel.

??????????

The reason for the tunnel’s creation remains undisclosed.

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I mean what else is there to say to that than

Source: https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2024/jan/09/brooklyn-synagogue-secret-tunnel-dispute-arrests, 2024-01-09

[iveneverdoneanythingwrong]

So I have the day off today, and I marked the entirety of it down to watch Red, White, and Royal Blue. This was a good decision as I've had to pause three times and I'm 3 min and 40 seconds into the movie. I just get so

and I have to stop and calm down. So I'm blogging when I have to pause.

Such a fanfic set up - Enemies to Lovers, royalty AU, slow burn, 400k.

I'm at the after-wedding party and the cake is SO BIG I KNOW WHATS COMING I CAAAAAN'T

IT'S LOOMING LIKE ITS READY TO ATTACK

ALEX IS DRUNK ALEX STOP ALEX YOU ARE AT A WORK FUNCTION AAAAALEEEEEEXXXXX

OH NO OH NOOO DRUNK!ALEX HAS SPOTTED HIS NEMESIS HARRY IN FRONT OF THE FERAL CAKE

The cake has chosen a victim. To be fair, Alex attacked it first, so I can't blame the cake…

This is the funniest face, I don't know why but I can't stop laughing at Alex's reaction to icing. You'd think it was cum

THE CAKE HAS ATTAAAAAACKED . Alex FAFOd. RIP Alex.

I love how this whole thing is basically Alex's fault, but the crown prince blames Henry. Family tension, yay!

I also love how Alex is called on the carpet in the oval office and it's ALL WOMEN IN THERE. He's cracking jokes, and they're talking trade negotiations and polling numbers around him.

Zahra is my favorite person ever. GET HIM!

Ok, Alex, sweetheart, honey, you are FIXATED on Henry being 6'2''…. do you have a, shall we say, issue? "Making it was one of the most depressing moments of my career - and I once saw Mitch McConnell eating a banana." Thank you for your service, ma'am.

Smile, boys. I SAID SMILE.

"Alex has very strong opinions. And he shares them. Loudly." 🤣 He's just American, Henry. 🤣🤣🤣 This is our Get-Along-Press Conference.

OK, so my friend who is also watching says her first unbelievable moment was the wedding gown without sleeves. I don't know enough about fashion or royalty to argue, but MY first unbelievable moment is shots fired at a hospital and they're NOT in the US? DOUBT.

Active shooter and Henry is more focused on how Alex smells and why Alex doesn't like him. "Makes sense." "What do you mean by THAT?" "It means you have good taste, Alex."

Oh wow, Henry is showing some emotional intelligence here.

Nevermind, I take it back. Henry! Don't be a douche! Ok, I take it back take it back. Thanks for being vulnerable, Henry.

Fireworks. OK, that makes more sense.

I also love Alex's bodyguard.

"Kill me and I won't have to go." Hey writers, this is more relatable than making him talk about how expensive the cake is. Same, Henry, same.

My god, Alex's eyelashes are insane. Why. Why does he need those? To flirt with men?? Oh wait, yeah, I guess he does.

Oh my god, they actually POINTED OUT HIS EYELASHES. This movie was made for me. Is that guy flirting? Back off, man!

Henry is an amazing texter. I love the way they fit social media into the movie format.

Can I have another two or three hours of them just hanging out and snarking at each other please? kthx.

Alex's NYE party - is this the first time Henry has been underdressed for an event? *gasp* the mutual "oh no he's hot" moment.

aaaand already Henry has been bit by the little green monster. Pugsley. That was fast.

EEEEEE the kiss. Alex is like, I'm not touching I'm not touching I'mnottouchingIswear.

"The first fifty rows of a Gaga concert." 🤣🤣🤣 The women in the movie are On Fire.

"He grabbed my hair in a way that made me understand the difference between rugby and football" WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?????

"He can't ignore me all night. Can he?" Oh honey....

LUNCH BREAK - I started this at 8:30 am, it is now 11:30. I am 37:45 into this movie. 🤣

Why is Miguel coming off as skeezy to me? I want him to go awa-ALEX, your literal prince has ariiiiived.

Henry, sweetheart, you are not fooling anyone.

Damn Alex, *fans self* So... this was the "fade to black" of a sex scene. I mean, I wasn't expecting this movie to be subtle, but c'mon!

Henry: I just don't want you to fall in love with me. Me: How's that clown makeup feel?

Well now I gotta know. How many/which famous men have you shagged. Henry? Henry, COME BACK HERE!

"I'm so not playing this cool right now." Don't worry Alex, you guys are dork4dork.

I KNEW MIGUEL WAS A SCUMBAG

Ugh, Dickbag alert! Ah, jealolus dickbag alert!

Alex!! You've broken Zahra!! Zahra my loooooveee!! Put these boys in their place! That ENTIRE scene was AMAZING. This movie was worth it just for that.

HAHAHAHAH they didn't even get through the whole gag set up "I'm definitely not doing karao-*singing karaoke*

It's taking me forever to get through the floating dock/Alex confession scene. The whole "rope attached to my chest" is real Jane Eyre vibes. Henry, you need to say something. Communication is key, my dude. Or drown yourself, that's valid.

Oh you are NOT just sneaking out. No. I forbid it. Ugh, men.

"What happened in Texas?" "I ended things with Alex" NO YOU FUCKING WELL DIDN'T, YOU DICK.

Of course there's thunder for the big romantic confrontation scene. It has to be raining! For reasons!

oh, that is some grade-A projection there, Henry.

Mr never had a key has a key....

Damn, Alex, you have game.

"When they write the history of my life I want it to include you" Damn, Henry, you have game, too.

Ok, the most unrealistic thing in this movie - these motherfuckers don't move in their sleep??! The covers are always immaculate when they wake up. FAKE. FALSE. THIS DOES NOT HAPPEN.

DOUCHE DOUCHE DOUCHE DOUCHE DOUCHE DOUCHE

Zahra is so done. Go ahead, Zahra, smack him with a pillow again, I know you want to. You've earned it! "mooning over the prince like a cow in labor" 🤣🤣🤣 Marry me, Zahra!!

Stephen Fry playing a homophobe?? He really stretched his acting chops for that. "Take the American with you." Thanks gramps.

Do you think anyone noticed??

Final tally: It took me 5 hours to watch this, not including the hour lunch break.