#i think about this line like. once a week. it haunts me in my sleep. i cannot carry this burden on my own any longer | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

selarina · 9 months

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continuation to this

so, that night gojo satoru leaves with no jacket and half a broken heart and for the first time since he was 12 years old, he takes a sip of alcohol as he slouches against his home bar.

it's bitter, and it tastes a bit too much like soy sauce for his liking but he sips and sips until he sees the engraved "S.G" inscription at the bottom of his glass.

"hello, husband," a voice comes from behind him, interrupting his sob fest.

and for a moment, for dumb little moment, he thinks it's you. the voice sounds nothing like you though, it's far too high-pitched, but he's dreamt of this far too much for him to imagine someone else calling him husband.

aya tsukino materialises next to him, and seats herself on a seat beside him. she moves with a certain a quiet sleekness that he barely caught her moving from behind him. or maybe, he's finally out of it. "excited for the wedding, then?" she deadpans as she pours herself a drink.

"thrilled," he parrots back, merely a barren echo of emotions.

there's more truth in this room than there's been in your shared room for weeks. because it's simple really— gojo doesn't want to marry her, and aya couldn't care less as long as she got the money his family had.

before they had even exchanged any words, it was clear that they had this silent agreement that the two of them had little to do with love and everything to do with societal expectations and status.

as gojo attempts to take another sip from his empty company, he can't help but replay the events of the evening in his mind. your anger, and the way you stood up for the love you believed in. it'll haunt him for the rest of his life.

he wonders if you'll genuinely come to understand that he did have you in mind when he left you. he doesn't want you to be a mistress, a dirty little secret. he's seen how it broke his mother apart. how could he wish the same fate upon you knowing how his mother's life ended?

you're strong, and he believes you will persist and he will see at the end of his life sleeping grey and old in his bed as he stares at the way the sunlight hits your laugh lines.

but he also remembers the way you cried in secret. he never brought it up, he never brings it up. he was just waiting for the day you'd be comfortable enough to cry in front of him but for now, he settles for meaningless presents he brings afterwards to wipe off the blue from your face.

he places his glass down with a clink, and he hears a resembling clink from aya. "i'll ask you this only once, gojo satoru," she speaks up. "do you want this marriage?"

"i never wanted this marriage," his reply is immediate.

"of course not," she says. "i meant, do you still want to go through with this?"

he doesn't respond. the both of them know the answer to that, it's written all too clearly on his soppy little face.

"what if i don't," he finally speaks. "what about your money? your status?"

"my money..." she feigns to ponder. "as someone who's always sought out money, i can tell you one thing about it. money, it comes and it goes. i'll find another way as i always do," she says. "i will be fine."

"your father—"

"—is a terrible man, who will go on his pissy campaign against me but i hope it's not presumptuous of me to expect you to come to defence when needed. you know, for all the trouble?"

he chuckles with no mirth. seems trouble is all he's capable of causing the past few days. "of course," he responds.

aya smiles, she supposes there's one benefit of having the strongest sorcerer as her ex-fiancé. she stands up, as she pulls her coat snug against her body as she prepares to leave. "besides, you're not the only rich high-status man in town, you know?"

"well, they're not all me," he replies. his smug demeanour returning to him like it's breathing a new life into him.

"wow, a bonus too," she chuckles.

"and who was that handsome man with you on friday? blonde, glasses, chiselled like a—"

"nanami kento," he replies with a grin.

"nanami kento. is he rich?"

"not as rich as you," he replies. it's true. he's rich, he worked on wall street after all and nanami is a smart man, he has so much in his savings account, it's enough to feed an entire nuclear family. why he saves up is something that's beyond gojo.

"well, he's handsome. tell mr. kento i said hello," she smiles facetiously.

"tsk, fine." he grins again. "get out of here."

it's been a week since you heard about the wedding falling apart. and since, you've been hearing about it daily, almost hourly if you're being honest. after all, you're at the centre of it. it only makes sense.

there's a whole slew of narratives running around, cheating, money laundering, even murder. but the most popular one was about how aya was the rosaline to your romeo and juliet. gojo's as romeo as he comes — handsome, influential and maybe a bit endearingly dumb but you fail to see how you're juliet. she was rich, influential, beautiful — everything you've been starkly reminded that you are not.

but everyone's talking about the romance of it all and you haven't heard from gojo himself so it's strange to take their words to mind or heart. you ignore them, forming a ready-made response sheet in your head to every possible question you encounter across the week. they become white noise, as you go through your day like a pre-programmed robot.

but that changes on a hot, dusty afternoon as you're sitting in a cafe, awaiting a man you were advised against seeing, and he's late. of course, he's fucking late. he broke up with you and he has the audac—

he walks in. he looks exhausted, lankier than usual, and there's a cruel part of you that likes it. to know he looks as miserable as you've been seeing. there's the other, familiar part of you that wants to run your fingers against his sensitive eyes as you feed him with the warmth of the diner's food.

but you do neither, you neither smile nor frown. you sit in place as you wait for him to come and sit opposite you.

"hey," his voice sounds gravelly. "i'm sorry i'm late."

"nothing i'm not used to," you reply with a glare as you cross your arms.

his hands reach for the menu as he plays with the edges of the paper. he always orders the same breakfast meal from this place. he must be nervous.

"i... i wanted to talk to you," he starts. "i want you back."

"excuse me? you can't just—"

"i'm willing to do anything. anything. if you want to take it slow, i understand. if you want to take your time, i understand. if you want me to get down on my knees and beg, i understa—"

"do it."

his eyes widen, you can tell — even though the black glasses are blocking his eyes, you can tell. it only lasts for a split second, because you blink with contempt and he's beside you. on his knees, as he stares up at you. he barely stares up at you — he's so tall, he's almost eye-to-eye with you. but even so he hunches his back, makes himself small.

"i'm sorry," he says again, as he takes off his glasses placing it onto the table in front of you. his eyes are alarmingly blood-red, and it takes every muscle in your body to hold back from running your fingers over his. "like i said, i'll do anything. just pleas— take me back."

you stare, and he stares back at you. you're too lost in the way he looks at you — at your mercy — that you miss the strange and baffled looks from people around you. and when you finally do, your cheeks flush with heat.

"okay," you say. " please, get up now."

"no, let me— let me stay," he says. pleads. "just let me stay until you take me back."

"fine," you sigh, as if there was any real objection from your side. "get up now."

"really?" his blood-red eyes gleam, you could almost see a tinge of the vibrant blue coming back to life.

"yes," you groan as your hand grip his elbow. "i was willing to be your fucking mistress. did you really thin— i would say— mmpph"

and just like that he's up, sliding next to you on your seat, as he kisses you. you're ashamed to admit that your first thought was the idea of getting kicked out for public indecency but your second thought was about how you think you could stay like this forever. despite the public gawking at you through mean and baffled stares.

"i'm serious about doing whatever it takes," he says, sincerity laced in his voice. "you shouldn't let me get away with this lightly."

you smile. "I hope you mean it," you reply. "and i won't. i’ll make you work for it, just a little."

he nods with a smile, "anything. i'll make it up to you."

"you have to do the chicken dance," you say, seriously and firmly.

"what?"

"you have to do the chicken dance. right now in the middle of the diner and i'm taking a video," you pull out your phone. "and... i'm sending it to nobara."

his eyes widen, almost like he's feeling actual fear. "not nobara," he gasps. "but she's so mean, baby."

"well, you said anything."

he sighs. gojo looks around the crowded diner, his tall frame rigid and tense. he glances at you, then at your phone, and finally resigns himself to the absurd request.

"fine," he mutters, standing up from the seat as he begins flapping his arms and doing a clumsy version of the chicken dance in the middle of the diner.

#the idea was to make gojo as pathetic as possible #but ya'll asked and i'm delivering #jujutsu kaisen drabbles #gojo satoru angst #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x y/n #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk angst #gojo satoru #gojo x reader angst #jjk x reader angst #jujutsu kaisen angst #jujutsu kaisen x reader angst

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abbyromanoff · 11 months

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CHOKEHOLD

PAIRINGS: Emily Prentiss x bsf’s child!reader

WORD COUNT: 2704

WARNINGS: smut, anal play, kinda dark Emily, manipulation, poorly written smut tbh, innocence kink, possessiveness, fingering, multiple orgasms, Mommy (E), squirting, cnc, somnophillia, R is JJ’s kid, think that’s all :)

NO ONE IS PERMITTED TO STEAL, COPY, OR REBLOG MY WORK AS THEIR OWN!!

“Love you, Mom. Bye, guys!” Emily watched as you kissed your mom goodbye, the sweet gesture causing her to grin. You waved to the group, walking through the glass door and heading towards the elevator. She knew it was now or never, this was her chance to make her move.

“Alright, I think it’s about time I get home. Why don’t you guys get an early night?” She was usually the last to leave, which is what confused the team. JJ furrowed her brows, spinning in her chair to face the older woman.

“You never go home early, not even on Friday nights.” She noted before a smirk took over her face. “Unless, Emily has somewhere to be.” She teased, causing Garcia to coo as she took a seat next to the blonde. She rolled her eyes, eyeing the clock as she estimated the time of your arrival.

“I didn’t sleep much last night, I’m tired.”

“And why didn’t you sleep much, hm? Were you too busy, say, entertaining other parties?” She flipped the woman off before disappearing past the doors, cursing herself for staying so late before rushing to her car. She started the engine in no time, instantly pulling out of her spot as she followed the coordinates. Her mind never once left you, and she started to worry if she absentmindedly blew a light or took a wrong turn. But she didn’t care, all she wanted was to get home to you.

Her fist came pounding on the wooden door, her gaze falling on every crack and seam that could be used as easy entry, she’d have to warn you about those.

“Em? I, uh, what are you doing here?�� You questioned, only to be silenced as she pushed you into your flat, shutting the door behind her while your back hit the cold wall.

“What the fuck, Em-” She cut you off quickly, placing her fingers atop your lips as your breaths became the only sound to fill the room.

“There’s someone after you, and I’m here to protect you.” You furrowed your brows together, kicking away her digit as she towered over you. Her gray hair framed her face, and every line only showed her experience.

“Wha- Why isn’t my mom here, then?” She bit her lip, causing you to repeat yourself. She knew she had to act fast before threatening your trust in her lie.

“They don’t know, okay? Look, you have to trust me-”

“No, I want to know what the fuck is going on.” You pushed, scoffing when she remained silent for far too long. She shoved your shoulders back, forcing you to remain still as she took a moment to admire your expressions in a time of such weakness.

“There’s someone from my past that- that the team doesn’t exactly know about, and when I parked here last week to give you back that sweater you forgot at your mom’s, I noticed his car and I saw him leave the moment he saw me. I- I can’t risk putting you in danger, and since I already have, I’m going to do everything in my power to protect you from it.” It wasn’t entirely false, there was a time in her life when she was haunted by her past, causing her arrival in Paris. But that was when you were so young, you wouldn’t remember a single thing, which she used to her advantage.

“You don’t need to believe me, but all I ask is that you let me stay here, and you let me protect you.” You bit back a snarl and sighed, brushing her off as you brought yourself to the couch.

“I don’t have a spare, you can take the bed.”

“No, this is your place, I’m not going to take that from you. I say we share but if that’s not what you want, then I’ll have the couch.” She debated, crossing her arms over her chest as she examined the building. She wanted it to seem like she was checking in fear of danger, but really she was trying to get a picture-perfect memorization over every inch. That way she could have a better view from beneath her blankets when her fingers were buried deep inside of her.

“Fine, we’ll share.” You mumbled, clicking through endless amounts of channels before losing hope and tossing the remote to the side.

“You don’t have to stand there like a brick wall, you know. We’ve known each other since I was little, you’re allowed to speak.” She took a breath before taking the spot next to you, adjusting her suit jacket before ruffling it off. Your eyes fell to the biceps threatening to break past the tight blouse, but looked away before she could spot you, little did you know she knew the entire time.

“So, you graduated correct?” You nodded, leaning on your hand as your elbow rested on the wooden frame of the sofa. “What was your major again? Psychology?”

“Yeah, I guess I just really wanted to follow down my Mom’s footsteps.” She mimicked your pose, letting the tightness in her muscles loosen with a sigh.

“Well, I think she’d be very proud of her little girl following her lead. In fact, JJ goes on and on about how lucky she is to have a child like you, and I agree, she is quite lucky.” She chuckled at your darkened cheeks, using her thumb to stroke the soft skin after brushing a hair out of the way. It felt right being with you like this, everything seemed to feel right with you. She didn’t know why, no brain she studied had ever given her a clear image as to what differed from hers. She just felt so protective over you, she didn’t want anyone else to get close to you. Knowing you were here, all alone, with no protection until she arrived, it scared her more than she could express.

“I don’t know about that,”

“I mean it! Anyone would be so happy to have someone like you in their life, not only are you such a hard worker, but you’re also the sweetest person I know. Just don’t tell your Mom I said that, she thinks she’s my favorite.” You laughed, slapping her chest lightly as you felt your chest warm. You instinctively shuffled closer, your feet digging under her legs to search for warmth while her hand rubbed your thigh softly to provide you heat.

“Now I feel bad for yelling at you by the door.” You admitted, bringing her to scoff playfully, showing that she wasn’t truly mad at you.

“Oh, don’t stress it, love, I would be pretty annoyed if someone came pounding at my door too.” You gave her a soft smile, letting the comforting silence embrace the both of you before you leaned your head onto her shoulder. She kissed the top of your head gently, getting a small whiff of your shampoo, making her hum in delight.

An hour later she found herself lying next to you, sighing as the comfort of the sheets embraced her. You were in the next room brushing your teeth, and she didn’t try to stop herself as she peeked under the short bottoms you wore.

“I’m keeping my gun nearby, I hope that’s alright with you.” You crawled next to her, tossing the covers over your frame as you shut off the small lamp. She did the same, frowning as your back turned to face her.

“Yeah, that’s okay.” She hesitated before wrapping her arms around your tired body, letting her face press into your neck with a soft smile. You stiffened but eventually relaxed in her hold. You let yourself fall into a slumber, a peaceful sensation falling over you as images flashed through your mind regularly.

Emily admired the softness in your small snores, she felt grateful to be let in, but she felt worried at how easily you let her pass by with a lie. Anyone could’ve made up something similar and got free entrance, she was just lucky you knew her well enough to trust her.

She knew there was no hope in holding back now, this is what she came to do, to make you hers. She didn’t care if you were her best friend's child, you were old enough to make your own decisions and she was going to lead you into making the right one.

“‘M sorry, baby girl, I promise I’ll make you enjoy it.” Her fingers trailed below your large shirt as they pinched your sore nipples, her breath coming out shallow as her eyes fluttered shut. She pressed her crotch into your backside, letting her false cock rut into you.

“You wouldn’t mind if I just,” She brought them lower, causing her palm to rub against your clit as she teased your tight hole. “Touch you right here, would ya’, baby?”

She wished you were as pure as she wanted you to be, she wanted to be your first but could easily tell that she wasn’t. Instead, she let herself picture it late at night when she was all alone. She’d draw her digits in-and-out of you while you clung onto her, begging her to let you cum for the first time. She hoped you thought about it too, but she doubted it. She could read anyone, but you were like a closed book someone forgot to pick up.

“Fuck, you’re so warm, I could stay like this forever.” She inhaled the residue of your perfume and lotion, they were fading but she basked in all of it. She could feel her wetness grow, biting her lip as she continued to grind into your backside. The strap teased her clit, bringing her great ounces of pleasure.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this.” She kissed down your shoulder blade as her mouth parted, a loud moan escaping her. You shuffled in your sleep, your eyes fluttering open as you adjusted to the dark room with minimal light coming from the window. You gasped, your hand falling to meet her touch. Her fingers were plunged deep inside of you, thrusting in and out as you gushed around her.

“F…fuck! Em, g-get off,” She chuckled, using her free hand to rid you of your bottoms completely. A slap came to your ass, eliciting a groan from your end.

“If you really wanted me to stop, you would’ve left by now.” You looked down, noticing she was no longer keeping you hostage in her hold. You still didn’t move, gulping as you settled in. Truth was, you had a crush on the older woman since your teen years. It was normal in the beginning, that was until you moved out and your loneliness grew. With the loneliness came a deep arousal that was unable to be removed, the only way to cure it was desperate women at the bar that reminded you of the woman. Your fingers were never enough, but you knew hers would be more than needed.

“Please, Emily-“ You chewed your lower lip, regretting the words the moment they left you. She smirked through a chuckle, sighing as she slowed her pace, bringing a high-pitched whine from past your lips.

“What was that? Please, what, Y/N?” When you came up unresponsive, she repeated her question, slowing even further until she was stilled completely.

“No- d-do that again, please,” Your hand lowered under your shirt as you palmed at your chest, shuddering as your sensitive nipples hardened to a peak.

“Mm, aren’t I already giving you what you want? I thought you wanted me to stop, so I stopped.” You couldn’t bear to face her, not in this moment, not in this level of heat.

“I…I want you to keep going, it feels really, really fucking good.” She hummed, and that’s when you felt the strap pressed into you. You were so consumed in the threshold of her long digits, you failed to notice what else she was planning.

“God, I want to fuck this ass so damn bad. You want that? You want Mommy to fuck your tight ass, yeah?” Her breath was ragged, her lips in a frenzy on your neck. You choked out a whimper, nodding your head slowly as you mumbled a small agreement.

“Would I be the first, hm? Is Mommy going to be the first to stretch out this little hole?” She lowered her pants, the fabric tight against her skin as they were a borrowed pair from you. You insisted she got out of the jeans she wore to work, even if they fit her body perfectly.

“You’re the first, Mommy.” That was all the permission she needed as she thrusted her hips forward, the tip teasing your hole in a rough, yet gentle manner. Her lips came close to your ear, her teeth sinking into the skin as you yelped in pain.

“Oh, don’t I love making you cry like a whiny little bitch.” She eased in the first few inches for what felt like years but only lasted a few minutes. It felt painful, as if there was a fire pooling inside of you. That was until it slowly started turning pleasant, causing a satisfying sensation to take over you. Her digits slid in and out of you slowly, her thumb taking to rub your clit in small circles, but it was enough to cause your brain to fog up. Your tongue peeked its way past your lips, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as your hips had a mind of your own, grinding against both penetrating objects.

“Such a good fucking girl, Mommy loves her little girl so much.” You cried out, gripping her arm tightly as you shoved your face into the pillow to muffle the noises she forced out of you.

“No, no, you’re going to let me hear every single moan and whimper and cry; I’m not letting you off that easily.” Her length was now more than halfway through the barrier you set. You followed her hand, feeling a small bulge touching the surface. You pushed yourself impossibly closer to her, letting out a weak whimper.

“Mommy, I,” Your legs shook as you clenched tightly around her, soaking her fingers in your sweet nectar.

“It’s okay, baby, make a mess all over me. That’s it, Mommy is so proud of you, sweetheart.” She drove her hips with a harsher pace, watching as your hole squeezed her until she could barely move. She didn’t stop her ministrations, making you twitch in excitement and pain.

“It’s t-too much, Mommy.” She rubbed your clit faster, her groan evident as your juices sprayed across the sheets. You wept loudly, not caring for the neighbor's complaints the next day, they already disliked you, there was no point in trying to amend that.

“No, it’s not. You can go back to sleep, dove, Mommy just wants to play for a little bit longer.” You both knew there was no possibility of you resting after this, you’d both be continuing until the sun rose.

“Your Mom is going to fucking kill me, but, God, I want to taste you so bad.” Your eyes widened as you remembered the plans you and your mother were having the next day. She was supposed to come over for lunch before the two of you would leave to go shopping as she insisted you needed decorations for your new apartment. Emily couldn’t be here when she arrived, she’d instantly get an understanding of who left the dark marks over your neck, anyone who saw you would easily be able to guess the activities that were to be had the night prior, but it didn’t help that it was her job to read people like books.

“I don’t care, just fuck me, Mommy…please?” The moment you spoke she knew she was going to fulfill whatever request you made, and your small, tired voice only proved that. She bit her tongue, leaning close as she placed her digits on your lower lip, dragging it down as you took the offering with a grateful sigh.

“Whatever my girl wants, they get.”

#emily prentiss x reader #emily prentiss x fem!reader #emily prentiss #emily prentiss fanfiction #emily prentiss x y/n #emily prentiss x you #emily prentiss x female reader #emily prentiss smut #Emily prentiss fluff #Emily prentiss angst #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #Emily prentiss x reader smut

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storiesofsvu · 1 month

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Decadent Desires Ch 15

Emily Prentiss x reader Warnings: language, smut eluded to/mentioned, mainly a filler chapter taking place in the days directly following the last chapter.

Rolling over Emily felt her body sink even deeper into your mattress, the blankets cocooned perfectly around her and she felt more relaxed than she had all week. She heard the all to familiar creak of your shower tap as it turned off and she let out a quiet groan, she’d forgotten it was Monday. With a reluctantly huff she pushed herself up to sitting, starting to change out of the pyjamas you’d leant her back into the clothes she’d tossed into a spare chair.

“You could’ve stayed sleeping.” Your voice quietly broke through the room as you re-entered it, clad in only your underwear as you stepped toward your closet.

“It’s fine.” She pinched at the bridge of her nose, “I’ve got a mountain of paperwork I need to get a start on.”

“My grocery order got delayed thanks to the weather, best I can offer you is a frozen waffle.”

“Don’t worry about it.” She chuckled, “I usually grab something on the way in anyways.”

“Good.” You turned to her with a grin, “cause I’m pretty sure they’re past the best by date.”

Emily laughed, shaking her head at you, her eyes lingering on your semi naked frame longer than she had originally intended. Your phone pinged and the hanger in your hand dropped to the bed as you picked up the device, your attention fully on it as you face her. It was then Emily noticed the deep purple nearly black bruise on your thigh and she was about to make a comment about your tennis skills until her eyes focused and she realized there was a clear line of teeth marks on the outer edge. Her mind thought back to the previous evening, the band-aid on your arm mixed with this was a clear sign you’d had some fun in Florida.

“Ugh.” You dropped your phone down on the nightstand, picking up the shirt and putting it on, “you think some people would have the decency to wait past eight a.m. to start planning a date.”

“Date?” Her brow raised in your direction and you let out a huff, stepping into a pencil skirt, quickly fixing your outfit before grabbing a pair of heels.

“Yeah. Heather needed specific support for a legislation and I got roped into going on a date with this congressman’s kid. You flirt a little and they’ll take it a whole other direction.”

She followed you down the stairs, beginning to wonder just how much fun you’d had in Florida, “that a regular occurrence?”

“Depends. Most of the time it’s only dinner or drinks with the added bragging rights of being seen together.” You shrugged, “you want a coffee to go?”

“Yeah, sure.”

It only took you a few seconds to pour her out a mug, fixing it perfectly to her liking before handing it to her.

“Thanks.” She smiled at you, her shoulders relaxing once again when you smiled right back at her.

“I’ll see you Wednesday?”

“Yeah, of course.” With another smile she turned back toward the door, collecting her coat and stepping into her shoes.

“And Emily?” You called out, poking your head around the corner.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t ever feel bad about calling or showing up, okay? I’d hate for you to be alone at home trapped with whatever haunting thoughts are running through your brain after a bad case.”

“Okay.” She laughed softly a warmth spreading through her cheeks.

“I mean it. And if you’re too dragged down or drunk to drive, I’ll knock down your door. I know it’s difficult being the boss, but you’ve gotta remember, you’re important too.”

“Thank you, really.” Stepping toward the door she pulled it open, grimacing at the view outside, “and you promise me you’re gonna drive safe, it looks like shit out here.”

“I will.”

Emily had been right, the roads were pretty terrible, making your commute longer and worse than you’d expected. You’d shot a text off to Heather about running late and she told you not to worry about it, she’d rather have you take your time and arrive in one piece than rush and risk something happening. You were stuck at a light you’d been waiting three rotations at already when your phone buzzed in the cupholder. Picking it up you assumed it was another text from Heather to find that it was your Venmo app, a hundred dollar payment received from Emily.

A weird sensation wormed its way into your stomach and for a moment you thought maybe you’d accidentally used spoiled milk in your coffee. The screen remained on your phone, glaring up at you in the low morning light, and you tugged your lip between your teeth as the wheels started turning in your brain. You knew what your agreement was, you’d signed and added to the contract after all, one hundred dollars for anything that was akin to a casual dinner or simple companionship. In your mind, that meant something like going out to a movie, having lunch during a relaxed weekend, running errands together so you didn’t have to do it alone. Your thumb hovered over the ‘refund’ button, it almost felt weird taking money from Emily for something like her needing comfort, she’d needed a friend or something more in that moment, not a client. Right as you were about to make an impulsive decision, the light changed and the car behind you laid on their horn, causing you to drop your phone back into the cupholder and forget about it for the time being.

Thankfully the rest of the way to the office was relatively clear and you managed to make record time, collecting your things and making your way inside. You thought it was time for a quiet morning, not a lot of people around the building, but right as you passed Heather’s office her voice called out.

“Hey!”

Freezing in your step, you winced, slowly backtracking to her door, “sorry, I did my best.”

“Sweetheart with the quality of work you do I couldn’t give a fuck if you were late.” She opened a drawer of her desk, pulling out a couple of things, “c’mere.” You almost hesitantly entered her office, crossing the space to her desk as she grinned up at you, extending a sealed envelope, “from Rob.”

“Oh, perfect.” You tucked it into your bag.

“You alright?” She asked, surveying you for a minute.

“Yeah, drive just frazzled me a little bit.”

“Okay.” She glanced down to your purse, “are you going to open that?”

“It’s basically only for my peace of mind anyways. I’ll let you know if there’s any wildly shocking results.”

“Better hope you’re not pregnant, I’m not raising another one.”

“God you are such a comedian, and at this hour of the morning. Just how do you do it?”

“Anymore sass and you’re not getting the other thing I have in here for you.”

“Oh?”

She chuckled softly, pulling out a small box from the drawer and handing it to you, “good job in Florida. You really upped your game.”

“Thank you.”

“On the contrary, I should be thanking you.”

“Isn’t that what this is?” You gestured to the gift box.

“That’s for last week.”

“Then…what are you thanking me for?”

“Keeping the appropriate kind of secrets from me at the appropriate time.” She smiled, “Now go on,” she shooed you away, “you’ve got more important things to do than stand around gossiping.”

Despite not calling the team in until Wednesday, Emily found herself back at the office midday Monday, working through as much as she could to make sure every report she handed off to Bailey had an excruciating amount of detail with all the I’s dotted and t’s crossed.

Tuesday she stayed stationed at her desk the entire day, working well into the evening, thanking the desk clerk for bringing up multiple rounds of take out so she wasn’t surviving on coffee alone. It was a heavy paperwork week, there were a handful of invoices still sitting in her inbox she needed to explain what were for and sign off on before sending them up the chain, payroll needed to be completed and her inventory needed to be double checked and sent off. With the team coming back in tomorrow she was hoping she could get most of it done by noon considering once their paperwork was done she needed to sign off on it before it went up the chain and there was always the chance of them catching another case. She was starting to wish she’d pushed them coming back until Thursday at this point.

Her phone buzzed on her desk and she glanced up, honestly welcome for the intrusion as she blinked her eyes a few times, pushing her glasses up onto her head as she dropped her pen, flexing her hand in an attempt to relieve the cramp. Picking up her phone she was surprised to see Heather’s name flash across the screen and she quickly swiped open the message.

‘Sorry to bother you, I know you’re likely busy as all hell but I would love to get your professional opinion on something sometime this week.’

‘Yeah, of course. What are your office hours looking like this week? I’m probably going to be swamped tomorrow but could manage to disappear for a midday so called lunch.’

‘I was thinking more along the lines of after hours. Any chance you think you could swing by my place Thursday around eight? I promise you’ll be sent home with a to go plate from dinner and a bottle of Macallan.’

‘Oh well, twist my rubber arm why don’t you.’ Emilylaughed softly, ‘send me the address again, I know you’re Chevy Chase but can’t remember much past that.’

‘You’re a gem. Thank you.’ ‘3301 Fessenden St NW’

Emily put down the phone, picking up the pen to scribble the address into her desk calendar, chewing on her thumbnail as she looked through all the notes written down. Her eyes landed on the green ink on Wednesday evening and she let out a small huff before picking up her phone again, selecting your contact.

‘Hey, I know we scheduled for Wednesday but do you think there’s any chance we can push it to the weekend, Saturday even? It’s payroll week and quarterly end and I didn’t quite realize how much I’d let pile up.’

She waited a few minutes, taking the opportunity to continue with her break, scrolling through a few apps and replying to another couple of personal text messages in the meantime before her phone buzzed once again.

‘Fucking hell I forgot about fucking payroll.’ ‘Yeah the weekend is totally fine. And don’t stress about making a reservation or anything yet, if you’re too wiped when the time comes we can just wait til next week, I won’t be offended.’

‘Alright.’ She laughed softly, ‘I’ll pencil you in for Saturday then?’

‘Sounds perfect.’

‘Why are you worrying about payroll?’

‘Heather’s PA is on vacation; I’ve been covering the more complicated duties while she’s gone.’

‘Pain the ass, hey?’

‘Absolutely. When you’re a kid you think being the boss is gonna be the coolest thing, turns out it’s all paperwork.’

‘Tell me about it.’

She let out a small laugh, placing her phone back down on the desk as she let out a small sigh and slid her glasses back on. If she was going to keep adding to her week, she better pick up right where she left off.

The sound of the doorbell echoed through the Dunbar household on Thursday evening and Rob was the one who got to there first, pulling it open to enthusiastically greet Emily.

“Hey, come in, come in.” He gestured, swinging the door shut behind her, “it’s been a while.”

“It really has.” She laughed softly, accepting the brief one armed hug while he offered to take her coat and she was able to toe off her snow coated shoes.

“How’s the bureau? Heat tells me you’ve moved up to Section Chief?”

“Oh, entirely too much paperwork and definitely not enough fun.”

“Sounds like you need a vacation.” He half teased before calling down the hall, “Heat, you’ve got company.”

It only took a couple of seconds before Heather had rounded a corner down the long hall, actively wiping her hands off on a dish towel as she approached them.

“Thank you so much for coming.” Leaning in she pressed a kiss to her cheek, “there’s straight liquor and wine upstairs but we’ve got mojito and negroni’s going in the kitchen if you prefer.”

“Wine is fine.” Emily assured and Heather turned to her husband, passing off the dish towel.

“Would you make sure you pack up a nice container from dinner for her, and don’t skimp! Lord knows she’s been living off small town takeout.”

“Double portions of everything, got it.” Rob replied with a small salute to his wife before disappearing down the same hall.

Heather’s hand quickly pressed on the small of Emily’s back, directing her up the stairs, “sorry it’s a bit chaotic in here tonight.” She commented, no doubt addressing the amount of noise bouncing around through the house. “You’d think two kids coming home for dinner would mean just that and maybe some laundry but Jordan’s taken over the basement entertainment system with a group of his friends, Becca’s got a mock Jeopardy battle going on to help study for winter exams and Rob’s entertaining one of the biggest hospital owners in the State.”

“Sounds like none of you Dunbar’s know how to rest.” Emily teased, following Heather into her home office.

“I would say the work ethic’s in the genes but I’m pretty sure the boys are playing Grand Theft Auto downstairs.” She turned back around, handing off a hefty glass of wine to the other woman, “how about you? Have things calmed down at all?”

“In the sense of field work, I guess. But the paperwork never stops and it’s just so dull.” She groaned, “I really don’t know how you keep up with your workload.”

“I’ve got a rather large and very talented and committed team, most of whom I raised from the ground up.”

Emily nodded, her ears picking up the sound of stilettos on the hardwood, almost like they were pacing up and down the hallway, another dinner companion that seemed to be on the phone, little hums and huffs every so often until your voice hit her ears. She could just make it out over the small talk her and Heather continued to have before diving into things. You were using a sickeningly sweet yet also a completely dominating voice that Emily had never heard before. There was a husk to it, but it also sounded like utter silk and she was practically melting, her attention drifting from Heather’s voice more than she meant it to.

You’d been approaching Heather’s office to use to finish up your private conversation but once you made it a foot from the door you realized that she had company. Trying both not to interrupt and also not be clearly overheard depending on her guest, you lingered in the doorway as you talked.

“Ohohoho..” you let out a low laugh, “come on now Frank, you know Ms. Dunbar needs this done by the end of the week, I’m sure you have even the tiniest sliver of time to squeeze us in. How about I get us a table at Palm Court? You know I’ll be sure to have the Wagyu flown in from Kagoshima, just like you like it.” You barely let a beat pass, “don’t you worry about Claire, I’ll keep her nice and busy, it’s been a while since we’ve met up and lord knows I need a fresh manicure.”

Feeling cocky enough that you’d sealed the deal you made the slow steps towards Heather’s door, keeping your voice quiet enough to not disturb her conversation.

“That’s what I thought. Thank you.”

Heather glanced up at the sound of success in your voice as you stepped into the office and small smirk overtook her lips. Emily watched as you dropped the façade, your body relaxing though you still absolute exuded power and confidence. Rather than a cute little skirt and top, she figured it was the weather that made you opt for the very form fitting pant suit, white tank blouse dipping just below your collarbone to leave enough for imagination but entice everyone, blazer likely strewn somewhere else in the house. You crossed the room, tossing Heather’s work cell down onto her desk.

“Underwood will meet you at two on Friday.”

“I—What?” It was Emily’s voice that cut in first and you glanced toward her with a grin on your cheeks.

“What?”

“You’re on first name basis with The President?”

“Part of the job.” You shrugged, “besides, his wife always has the best gossip.”

Emily practically gaped, looking between you and Heather, watching the other woman chuckle softly.

“See what I mean? She wasn’t even supposed to be here tonight, showed up to finish this deal for me because I wasn’t answering my phone.”

“Yeah…” She nodded, still a little dumbfounded by the entire thing. She knew you were well intermingled with varying levels of politicians but she hadn’t expected something of this magnitude. Then again, when her eyes surveyed over you once more, she could see the sheer amount of power just drifting off you, the only time she’d seen you in work mode before was the very first day she met you and she was starting to realize why Heather had teased her for drooling.

You cast her a smile before turning back to your boss now that she had sat behind her desk “I’ve done by due diligence tonight, but I’m finished babysitting. Becca’s gonna ace her exams, Rob’s sweeping the floor at poker, but your other kid’s an idiot, they’re daring each other to a bellyflop competition.”

“They took the cover off the pool?” Heather groaned, pinching at the bridge of her nose.

“Yeah. A hundred bucks says the hot tub’s next.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Good thing there’s a slew of doctors in the house.” You teased and Heather rolled her eyes as you turned to Emily, squeezing at her elbow with a bright smile, “good to see you. I love that colour.” Your fingers toyed with the lapel of her blazer and a glinting in the low light caught her eye, an absolutely stunning cluster of diamonds and yellow gold on your wrist, “it looks phenomenal on you.”

“Thanks.” She smiled, her breath nearly catching in her throat as she glanced up at you and you smiled, turning back to Heather.

“You owe me, big.”

“What? Twenty three grand wasn’t enough?” She asked with a tease and you rolled your eyes as you started to make your way out of the room.

“I refuse to pawn gifts, you know that.” You called over your shoulder, “so don’t you dare make me work Christmas.”

“You don’t even celebrate the holidays.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t like bonus time off,” you turned, resting your hand on the doorframe, bracelet sparkling, “maybe even a few days at one of the plethora of vacation bundles you have stocks in?”

“Thought you said you were done working and thus, done bothering me? Sometimes I regret giving you your own key!”

Heather raised a brow, laughing when all you did in return was flip her off and disappear from her view. Emily chuckled, finally taking a sip of her wine, though her eyes lingered on the doorway as if she could still see the diamonds glinting.

“Something catch your eye?” Heather asked with a smirk and she finally turned back to her, gently dropping into a chair.

“Uh, guess I hadn’t seen her in work mode in a while.” She admitted, feeling her cheeks heat, “didn’t realize she accessorized so well.”

“You like the bracelet?”

“Yeah, it’s stunning.”

“Harry Winston.”

“Damn.” Emily’s eyes widened, “they don’t even list the prices on the website, you’ve got to go in.”

Heather shrugged, “she worked hard for it. Florida certainly earned her a little extra winter bonus.”

“Huh…” Emily nodded, going to take another sip of her wine right as everything managed to click together like puzzle pieces. She quickly masked herself before her eyes could widen again, sucking back more wine as a distraction. A strange sensation began to twist in her lower stomach, one that she didn’t really like at all but it continued to grow as she thought about the woman across the desk from her buried between your legs.

Heather surveyed her for a moment as she took a sip of her own bourbon and she could have sworn she saw the tiniest hint of green flash through her dark eyes. Her head tilted slightly, the sudden way Emily was picking at her thumbnail was speaking pretty clearly but now she was wondering if you had shown up on purpose, flaunting the jewelry. You’d mentioned something to her earlier in the week about Emily cancelling a date, perhaps the grey haired woman wasn’t the only one with green in her eyes.

“Anway,” Heather interrupted with a huff, “I wanted to talk to you.”

“Oh, right.” Emily snapped out of it, glancing up towards her with a smile, “what’s up?”

“Have you heard of an Officer Patterson, out of DC Metro?”

“I—uh..” Emily nearly tensed, briefly remembering the very early phone call in your kitchen a few months prior, “heard of him…”

“He was the one that arrested my son.”

“You.. know about that?”

Heather chuckled, “Jordan’s an idiot, neither he nor his friends can keep a secret very long.” She sighed, “I did a look through the papers, this guy’s a prick. I thought he was just preying on the rich and somewhat famous but he does the same shit with people who can’t afford a good attorney. I want his badge.”

“Don’t you have a lot more power than I do when it comes to that kind of stuff?”

“Potentially.” She took a swig of her drink, “I just figured you might have some contacts at Metro PD who had their own stories or opinions, I know the blue doesn’t like to turn on their own but there has to be a reason this guy’s still a rookie after all these years. Thought you might be able to pull his jacket, take a look through it?”

“You really don’t let people fuck with your family, huh?” Emily asked and Heather nearly snorted.

“Jordan deserved what he got,” she laughed, “he’s damn lucky he wasn’t behind the wheel of a car. I don’t want his arrest expunged or shoved under the rug; I could have done that myself. But I do want to look into this Patterson and see what can be done about it.”

“I’ve got a couple of friends and Metro, and I can see what I can pull up from my database.”

“Thank you.” Heather smiled warmly, her eyes darting up when there was a knock on the doorframe.

“Bad news, I’ve gotta take one of Jordan’s friends in.” Rob said.

“Oh god, what now?”

“They tried to use the diving board without wiping the slush off.” He explained and Heather groaned.

“For fuck’s sake.” She drained her drink, “let me guess, slipped and broke something?”

“Ankle.” Rob replied, then glanced towards their guest, “Emily the bag on the kitchen island is for you, wouldn’t want you to forget it.”

“Oh, thank you so much.”

Rob disappeared from the doorway as Emily finished her drink, following Heather’s lead to standing and moving from the office down the stairs.

“Thank you for coming, and for now I’d like if this could be kept as off the record as possible.”

“Of course.” Emily nodded with a smile as she accepted the bag that definitely had more than one portion of food in it before finally making her way out of the house.

When the weekend rolled around you and Emily ended up swapping your date night over to Friday instead, and Emily was honestly glad that you did. She got a call halfway through her work day that a pipe had burst in the basement of her apartment, no water would be available for the next twenty four hours. There had been yet another surprise snowfall and even though it wasn’t that big the roads were terrible and the last thing you wanted was to drive all the way home after work.

This was why it was lucky Emily still had her standing reservation at The Waldorf.

You caught up a bit over dinner and drinks, Emily curious to know more about how often you were in close quarters with the President and First Lady. You rattled on about a couple of things, shared the stories you knew you could, flashed your fresh manicure and shared some gossip you’d gotten from Claire that afternoon. In turn Emily delved a little bit into how her week had been now that she’d finally caught up on paperwork, she had stories about the team she’d never even thought of telling you, the entire evening seeming a little more casual and open than any prior. However that didn’t change the circumstances when you got upstairs, clothes quickly falling to the floor as you dropped onto the bed and became a mess of sweaty tangled limbs.

Emily lay half wrapped around you, her head on your chest as you were propped up on the pillows, a mid nineties rom com playing on the late night television. Your hand was gently playing with her hair, soothingly scratching at her scalp as you did so.

“You okay?” You asked, pressing a gentle kiss to her head.

“Yeah.” Her lips brushed against your collarbone before a tiny yawn escaped them, “it’s just been a long week.”

“Want me to dig into Bailey or anyone?”

“No.” She laughed, “I mean, yeah he’s being a total ass about the last case, but it’ll blow over.”

“Okay.” Your hand trailed up and down her back softly before returning to play with her hair.

“Thank you though.”

“Anytime.” You replied, leaving another kiss on the top of her head.

The next morning you were gone before she woke up, you’d warned her about that the night before, you had brunch plans with Tony and if you bailed on them again you had no doubt he would track your location and show up wherever you were. It did give her the chance to sleep in far later than she thought she would, it was almost noon by the time her eyes opened. She wasn’t used to that, usually have to set an alarm in hotels to make sure housekeeping wasn’t trying to kick her out already.

She ordered room service for breakfast, including a couple of extra meals for the rest of the day and took a very long, luxurious shower. Picking at the leftovers of her first meal while she was wrapped in the cozy warm hotel robe she let the tv play some mindless shows for a couple of hours before she finally gained the energy to start the trek home.

Downstairs she passed off her valet ticket at the concierge and started to flip through some brochures and ads while she waited.

“Anything I can help you with ma’am?” A clerk asked her.

“Uh…” her eyes lingered on the resort in Monarch Beach, the wheels turning in her brain, though that location would be far too chilly to really enjoy this time of year. “You guys have properties all around the world, right?”

“We sure do.” They replied with a bright smile, turning to grab a couple of binders, “thinking about a last minute Christmas getaway? We’ve got quite a few resorts that specialize in the festivities, lots of stuff for the family and kids to take part in.”

“Oh, no.” She shook her head, “not Christmas, definitely no kids, but definitely somewhere warm. Probably tropical, super fancy… a little exclusive… you got anything like that?”

They grinned across at her, pulling out a smaller binder, “I think you’ll find our private resort in the Maldives right up your alley.”

____________________

@mickey-gomez @momlifebehard @daddy-heather-dunbar @maybe-a-humanbean @rustyzebra @leftoverenvy @kades95 @dextur @supercriminalbean @emilyprentisssluvr @lex13cm @zizzlekwum @emobabeyy @riveramorylunar @scorpsik @onmykneesformarvel @inlovewithemilyprentiss @regalmilfs4me @ara-a-bird @inlovewithmiddleagewomen @kmc1989 @irishavengersassemble @hopedoesntknow @venromanova @waitaminuteashh @noahrex @imlike-so-gaydude @wittygutsy @cx-emerald-cx @momily @nilaues @borinxnovak @Soverign @v3nusxsky @mccdreamys-writes @l4yne @obsessedwjill @scarletwitcher97 @asolitaryrose3 @lisqueen @mrs-prentiss @whitewinewithice @d33pd3sire-blog @daffodil-heart @maximoffcarter @i-lovefandom @chimnlex @moonlightjxuregui @chestnutninny @gamma-rae-bursts @just-moondust @idkifimasub @gaydragonwitch @dowsedwithbleach @divergentalwaysandforever-blog

#emily prentiss #emily prentiss x reader #decadent desires #criminal minds #house of cards #emily prentiss x fem!reader

149 notes · View notes

sameschmidtdiffname · 7 months

Note

heyyyy can I pls req something where Mike tries to make it up to the reader after he says something wrong in their 1st fight as a couple? like “I don’t want to lose you” as an apology and they get back together or something along those lines? tysm I really enjoy ur work :))

But of course!!!

Wanting, Waiting

Mike Schmidt x Gender Neutral! Reader

Summery: Overworked and underfed, you'll go to sleep once some decent work is complete. However, a late night turns into a day long fight.

Tags: No use of Y/N, no gender specific pronouns for Reader, pre-established relationship, argument, cursing, Reader and Mike both got some shit going on, hints of an eating disorder, overworking, hurt/comfort, crying, mentions of: suicide/death, depression, drugging, and kidnapping. Vulnerability is gross.

Notes: 'Slip' walked so this could run full speed into a brick wall. I feel as though I may have redeemed myself.

▪︎◇{¤♧■♧¤}◇▪︎

This page is mocking me.

The hour is late. I stopped checking the clock around 2:00 A.M., and there's a cup of cold coffee right next to me on this table, several rings on the inside from where the coffee had been left sitting far too long. It's cheap, the flavor sticking to my teeth in a way that settles my lips into a slight grimace as I try to convince my hand to move my pen across the just as cheap notebook paper that has been sitting in front of me since I came home.

Come on. It's words. What the fuck is hard about this?

'It's not hard if you can actually get your head out of your ass and do something,' I think to myself. Not helping.

I have an irritating collection of drafts. Oh yes, I can start them and I can certainly plan out the works before me. But actually writing is somehow impossible, and even though I can feel how thick the block is in my mind, preventing me from communicating my feelings properly, I just can't get break myself out of it.

Come on. Finish one draft. Then everything will click together for the rest.

For the past few weeks it's been just like this. Come home, sit down with projects, and try. But no matter what I do, I just can't focus. It's as though my head simply won't allow it. And this house, quite frankly, isn't helping. It's admittedly unsettling atmosphere, the loud noises born from nothing. It's as though I can feel the weight of the dead that used to sit at the same glass table as I watching me over my shoulder, pressing their non-existent weight against me, making my chest tight with pressure I cannot voice because that's not fair to the ones still here truly haunted by their presence. I'm just a guest who overextends their stay, quite frankly.

Just a page. Just write a page and you can get up for a moment. Ignore how loud the fridge is at something clunks inside of it.

A page. Get a page. Come on, you imbecile, how hard is a fucking pa-

"I thought we talked about this."

It's a testament to my mental state how high I manage to jump in my chair, my tired and over-caffinated heart set off to make me dizzy with over exertion from fear, turning to see who has come to voice their thoughts and damn us both with them.

"Mike," I sigh. I place a hand on my chest, rubbing slightly at the spot where I feel my heart pounding against my sore ribs. "Don't do that."

"Have you slept at all?" Mike asks disapprovingly. His arms are crossed against his chest, heavy bags under his eyes from another night of restless dreams. He can't sleep, I won't sleep. If he'd allow it, we could actually get shit done this time of day.

"A little," I lie. He's just worried. About everything. He always is, which at first was something I loved about him. And usually I still do. It's an admirable trait, to care about someone and love them so much it's only natural to fret over them, to check and make sure they're taken care of properly.

Except it makes me feel guilty.

"Oh yeah? What time?" He asks, narrowing his sleep swollen eyes at me.

Details. Fuck.

"Ah, uh- I don't know, I wasn't looking at the clock," I say sheepishly, trying to flash a disarming smile and make my own bags look like ones of bare minimum rest instead of self neglect. Mike's jaw tightens slightly.

"Oh?" He says in a dull voice that is not raised, yet managed to ring throughout the room nonetheless.

I hum affirmatively, pressing my lips together and fiddling with the cheap pen in my hands, glancing down at it in an attempt at trying not to give myself away.

"Yeah, I don't know. Just like, laid my head on the book and... y'know... drifted off for a couple hours," I try to say casually.

"Ah," he says as though that were enough, leaning now against the doorframe of the hallway, looking at the other wall as though the paint were interesting. "How long after I went to bed, do you think?"

Keep your breathing even. He can smell fear. "Like, a couple," I answer with a shrug.

"Or, like, not at all," he says, turning his head back to stare down at me with a glare.

"I slept," I insist.

"Bullshit. You give me unnecessary detail about your shits post mexican take-out, but you can't tell me what time you fell asleep?" He says accusingly.

"I was asleep! I'm sorry, do you want me to lie and give some time because you need it for some reason?" I ask evenly, shrugging as though to ask what he'd like me to say, blinking at him and adding a tired tinge of a croak to my voice to match his.

"I'm sorry?" He asks, eyes still in narrow slits yet somehow widening slightly, his leg uncrossing from over the other and planting firmly on the floor as he stands straight.

He's not that tall. Kinda short. But he looks much bigger when mad. Kinda like an iguana. I told him that one time and got bit. Jokingly, of course. It's not like he'd just reach over and sna- You know what? Irrelevant.

"I'm just saying," I say, starting to turn back to my notebook as though the conversation were finished.

"No-no, I'd like to hear that again," he says. I can hear his footsteps pad against the flat, tan carpet, my shoulders stiffening slightly as I train my decreasingly neutral eyes on the wrinkled, lined paper in front of me. "I liked the part where you made me sound like some insecure teenager for calling you out on your shit. Very original."

My lips press into a thin line, my grip on my pen tightening slightly.

"It's not that serious, Mikey-"

"Don't bullshit me, and don't use some cheap nickname as a cop out via sympathy," Mike snaps, standing now on the opposite side of the table, pressing his hands now against the glass surface that dirties so easily. Trust me, we've had to clean some prints off of it.

There's a line, and at some point I'm going to cross it. The problem is it's hidden under mental sand that makes me unclear of exactly where it is.

"Michael-"

"That's formal," he says, leaning forward on the table, his tone the same as an interrogating mother just waiting for the moment where no one will blame her for finally tearing you to shreds for what you've said to her outwardly innocent statements. A trap.

"I'm sorry, I thought you didn't like cheap nicknames?" I say, fighting the irritation in my voice, barely managing to remain even as I click my pen to begin writing.

"What's wrong with just Mike?" He asks. He reaches across the table, placing all five of his fingertips on my paper firmly and dragging it back across the table towards him, withholding it from me.

"Would you like me to use just Mike?" I ask.

"I'd like you to make eye contact while you lie through your fucken teeth," he says calmly, not moving as he continues to stare me down.

"Okay, Mike. And what exactly does my sleep schedule mean to you?" I ask slowly, trailing my eyes from his hand, slowly up his arm with pronounced veins and muscles, to the white cotton shirt that was two sizes too large and usually what he wore to sleep in, until I meet his dark and slightly hateful eyes.

"We had a conversation," he starts.

"A conversation," I repeat.

"About a month ago, do you remember?" He asks, cocking his head slightly in that way it does when we both know I'm not going to dare to answer with anything other than he wants.

"You ha-"

"I had a concern," he interrupts me, now looking down at the notebook and studying it as though it were a piece of fine art. "Which involved how absolutely awful your ability is to take care of yourself properly."

"Mike-"

"Shut. Up." Mike says with disturbing calmness. "I'm talking."

Fine.

"It's fucking rude."

Not saying it's not.

"Like your attitude when I try to just help you because clearly, you can't help yourself," he says, now slapping down the notebook to gesture at me as though it were obvious why he was concerned.

I could speak. I'd like to. And he gives me a long enough silence I could. But instead I decide I will simply give him the floor.

"No opinion on this?" He asks shortly.

"No," I say with a dismissive shrug. "You seem to have them for me."

Mike laughs at this statement, and if the sparkle in his eyes didn't seem to have the same dull shine as the glass table between us I'd feel a bit better about it. But I think there's a six foot hole in the backyard I just signed a lease on that makes his disturbingly convincing smile much more worrisome.

"You're funny," he says affectationately. "Get up."

"What?" I ask, blinking.

"Are you deaf now? Up," he says in irritation, beginning to cross back around the table. "This isn't a negotiation."

Before I can speak his hands dig in under my armpits, roughly pulling me to stand and bringing me close to his chest. I should have energy to fight back, I've only been sitting after all. But a physical confrontation would be too loud, first of all. Abby is asleep in her room, and I don't want to make a scene to wake the poor child. Number two, my bones are sore, my head is aching and I generally just do not feel well enough to protest. Physically.

"Put me down, you son of a bitch!"

Verbally, I'm fine.

"You're going to bed, that's final!"

"I have twelve drafts due that I have to get done or else this project-"

"You have four hours of sleep you can get before you have to take your candy ass to work in the fucken morning, or else I'm gonna beat it into you," he hisses directly in my ear, his breath cold and loud so close to me. Jesus, fuck. What did his parents feed him as a child? It shouldn't be this easy for him.

"Oh, I don't do what you want and now you threaten physical violence. Very mature," I mock, reaching out to grip the doorframe of Mike's bedroom, purely to piss him off.

"Save me the dramatics," he snaps in a whisper, wrapping one arm tighter around my waist and using the other to bat my hands away from the frame. I can tell he's genuinely trying not to hurt me, his grip on one wrist firm but careful.

"Just let me write one page," I try.

"That's what you said last night," he says, still trying to pull my hand away. My nails have dug into the frame, making it slightly harder. I can sense his irritation growing. "You got two hours of sleep."

"That's not going to kill me," I argue.

"You haven't slept for more than two hours in a week," he says.

One nail breaks against the frame, making me lose my grip and sending pain down my arm from the awkward angle at which the pressure had snapped it off. I wince slightly, which gives Mike slight pause as he checks my hand, but decides I'm alright before he begins dragging me towards the bed in earnest.

"Why is it so hard for you to just take care of yourself?" Mike asks in frustration.

"I take care of myself!" I say defensively. Mike drops me onto the bed, standing in front of me to prevent any new attempts at escape.

"No, you don't," he says, quiet but firm. "You sit and stare at your notebook and you don't do anything else if you can help it. You sleep for two hours, you go to work, you hardly eat, you don't have energy anymore." Mike's hands are planted firmly on his hips, his nostrils flailing as he tries to take collected, calm breaths. "I care about you. Why can't you?"

"Michael-"

"Stop!" Mike snaps, groaning and turning away from me with a sharp spin on his heel. He buries his hands in his hair in frustration, now pacing between the bed and the door, quietly shutting it so we can argue in peace.

"Why are you so upset?" I ask, genuinely confused.

"Because I don't want to see you live like this. I am concerned and every time I bring it up you dismiss me, you joke, you don't care and I hate that," Mike says, temporarily stopped in his tracks to point at me as he seethes. "I'm watching you waste away and you know what? I'm starting to think part of you likes it."

"Excuse me?" I say, astounded. I cross my arms in front of my chest, cocking my head at him in a way to say 'I dare you to repeat that.'

"You heard me," Mike says, taking a step towards me. "It's like you cannot for one iota of a second conceive of some world where taking care of yourself is a good use of your time. You work, and work until you've burned yourself out so horribly you rot in bed for a month. And unless you're staying here, I hear nothing from you. Not a call, not a fuck you or whatever. It's like you're punishing yourself."

"Now who's being dramatic?" I say.

"See? I can't even point this out without you getting defensive, which just shows you know you're in the wrong!" Mike turns away from me once more, resuming his path of restless walking.

"Why do you even care?" I ask genuinely. This makes him pause again, his glare once more returning to me as he mentally questions my intelligence.

"You know what, I don't know!" Mike snaps, his voice gaining volume. "You are insistent in this fucking- slow method suicide and I'm trying to help you, but you won't let me!"

"I never asked you to care," I scoff, rolling my eyes.

"I never asked to care!" Mike nearly shouts, leaning in close to my face and sneering at me.

This breaks the tension.

His face falls as soon as the words are out of his mouth, his eyes widening slightly like my own eyes. This comment shouldn't really sting. I shouldn't let it. But it does. And for a moment, I do. And he sees that clearly.

"... oh," I say softly, my arms relaxing and shoulders sagging ever so slightly as I drop his gaze, trying to shut off my emotions before they're obvious.

"I'm sorry," Mike says quickly, stumbling to his knees in front of me. "I didn't mean that-"

"It's fine," I say, trying to remain as blank as my pages on the kitchen table.

"I just said it to be hurtful," Mike says quickly, his hand reaching up to cup my face. I take it away, turning my head to the side slightly. There's a new chill in the air, one I can feel seizing my chest.

"You weren't," I say. "I'm going to sleep."

"Please, I don't want-"

"I'm going to sleep," I say forcefully, shoving him away and turning to begin undressing from my work clothes that I still wore. Mike is silent behind me, probably thinking, and I'm close to not being able to hold myself together anymore.

"Get out!" I snap, flinging my shirt at him in a rage and beginning to stand from the bed to chase him out. He doesn't need anymore prompt, quickly scurrying out from the room to wherever it is he'll sleep now. Probably on the couch even though there's another room down the hall. A self induced punishment. Knowing him he probably won't even allow himself a blanket or pillow, feeling the cold air fitting for his selfishness.

Good.

When I wake that morning, I can smell breakfast in the air. My stomach hurts from skipping meals, but I don't want to eat. First of all, I haven't worked for a meal. There's still plenty to be done with my drafts. And food is a good encouragement to keep working. Second, I didn't ask him to care. And he didn't ask for it either. There probably isn't enough for me, and if there is, he and Abby can debate between the two who will have it. I need to shower.

I take forever washing myself. If that's what you want to call it. It was moreso standing under hot water, letting it run cold until I couldn't stand it anymore and hoping my deodorant is able to do some heavy lifting today. I barely have enough time to get to work, passing silently by Mike and not turning when he calls my name, walking out the door as fast as I can without running.

He follows me outside, something shaking in a bag behind me. When I finally open my car door I'm forced to have my gaze in his direction, his body between the door frame and my car door, presenting me with a bag of lunch.

"Please eat," he begs, placing the bag in my lap unceremoniously and then quickly stepping away and shutting the door himself.

There's a small moment where he and I just share at each other through the glass, time slipping away without notice. He hasn't slept, he'll be late for work if he doesn't get dressed soon, and the bag on top of my thighs is warm. Fresh. A petty part of me wants to roll down my window and throw away the meal, back out of the drive way and let that fester in his mind out of hate. He thinks words can hurt? Actions are so much worse.

But there's something in his eyes. Defeated, resigned. Childlike is almost the word I could use. In front of my car is the 12 year old boy who tried to chase down his brother, the 18 year old who decided to sacrifice his life raising his little sister while saying goodbye to his parents, and the 27 year old man who's just trying to keep everything together.

I don't know what to say to this child. Or to the man.

So, with the turn of my key in the ignition, I don't.

It's late when I come home. When the manager had asked me to stay late I almost called Mike to break the silence and tell him this. But there was still a part of me that didn't care whether or not he knew. Really, I didn't have to return home tonight. I could go back to my apartment and just let him rot in bed the way he claims I do. How could he say such a thing, anyways? I rot in bed? What about the days I've walked into the house and he hasn't slept all week, where he's claiming he's trying to kick his medication and he'll get the hang of it soon. Where his sister is eating every meal almost burnt because he can't think straight enough to remember time. Where I've had to coax, beg, demand of him that he just takes a pill because he's laying on the side of the bed, small and curled in on himself, dead eyed and obviously tired but still not sleeping. One time I slipped it into his food. And I felt awful. Do not think for a moment I wanted to do that. There was a betrayel in his eyes when sleep began to overtake him. I hoped he wouldn't notice, but he must've. Some tell in the drugs effect that made him aware his rest was not voluntary. But I didn't care. I stroked his hair through the night, and I'll do it again. He could hate me however long he needed to, he just needed sleep first.

The irony still hasn't struck me when I walk through the door of his house, well past dinner, Abby in the bath. The door was left unlocked, which is unusual for this time of night. Mike jumps from the couch the minute I open the door, standing with his hands by his side anxiously pulling at the edge of his oversized sweater.

Everything's oversized with him. The thought occurs to me that his father was slightly bigger.

"Don't leave me," he says quietly, his voice small and pathetic like him. But I don't say that with hate.

"I just got home," I say. "Be a bit odd to leave again."

I try a smile, but it's artificial and we both know it's only for his comfort. It doesn't touch him, his eyes glassy and lips slightly parted the same way a child's is when they're trying to breathe as their sinuses spring to life in wake of forming tears.

"I didn't mean it," he says, still standing in the same place. If I was a better person I'd probably run to him. But I'm not.

If I were a better person, I'd say I believe him. But I don't. And suddenly my throat is swollen with hurt, my own bottom lip is sticking out and now we're both trying not to cry because this is so overly taxing. We're adults but emotions are hard. Vulnerability is hard. It is a damnation that we both detest, both avoid. In better states we would joke about this, would laugh and tease the other for not having the emotional capability to voice our thoughts. But we're not. So we don't. And now we're crying openly in the off-putting, attempted to look cozy living room that we can never fully relax in.

"I don't wanna lose you," he says between small hiccups, hands now balled into fists that he buries under opposite armpits, shifting his weight so that he doesn't look so small. His glances bounce between me and the hallway table, never fixing on either of us as he tries to state his mind like an adult. "I've barely had you."

In my heart there has been a constant ache, hurt flowing and pumping through my veins like the blood that ran cold last night at his hurtful words. His apologetic words make the ache somehow worse.

"I don't mean to be a burden to you," I say softly, feeling a small, stray tear break the fluid barrier of my waterline to race down my cheek, allowing a pathway to the fatter drops that threaten to quickly follow.

Mike's face shifts, stepping towards me and holding out his arms.

"No, never," he says just as soft, trying to comfort me. I freeze as he approaches, my body stiffening as I try to swallow the lump and convince myself that I can survive his touch. His touch that I normally crave the moment I'm around him, that I seek in the dark of night even when the bed is overheating, that I'd go insane without.

"I've never asked you to care," I say, voice breaking and tears rolling freely now.

"I know," he says into my neck, which is wetting as he shakes around me, his grasp firm and careless of whether or not it's too much.

"I don't mean to cause problems. I just...." I don't know what I mean, how I wish to finish the statement. If I was clever, I could. If I was clever, I wouldn't even be in this problem to begin with.

"I'm just scared," he chokes out, his breathing horrible as he struggles to keep his crying from being obvious. "You look sick all the time and I don't want that."

He's told me the story. His mother wasting away, thinning and slipping, starving and dying. How he'd returned home to a baby wailing in her crib as their mothers body lay in a pool of blood he never really got out of the carpet. He lied to me initially when I saw it the first time, said it was wine. It wasn't until we had a few glasses ourselves that his eyes glazed over and he told me. It was disturbing how neutral he kept himself to the subject. A habit he'd developed much too long ago to break.

"Mike-"

"I try, and I try and if something doesn't give soon I'm gonna fucking lose it," he sobs into my skin, arms tightening around me.

"If what doesn't give?" I ask softly, trying to pull him away to look into his eyes. But he doesn't budge, sobbing a little bit harder and gripping a little bit tighter. He doesn't respond, simply shaking as he breathes heavily against me through his mouth.

"Hey," I say softly, trying to wrap my arms around him, failing and giving up as I realize his grip is too tight. "I'm not going anywhere."

His mouth closes a little, quieting his breathing slightly as he sniffles.

"I'm an idiot, but I'm not suicidal," I say softly, trying again for a joke. He doesn't laugh, but he does pull away slightly to look at my face, lips swollen and quivering as he blinks at me.

"You scare me," he says quietly, not quite meeting my eyes. He's watching my lips, but I think that's because that's the closest he can get to making eye contact.

"I scare you?" I ask, furrowing my brows. I lick my dry, cracked lips for comfort. "Why?"

"Because I love you," he says shakily, sighing as though it were exhausting to admit while still holding that nervous flicker in his eyes. "Because when I think about not being with you the house seems colder. And I can't go back to hating this house."

I open my mouth to respond, but there's more.

"Because I love your stupid smile when you're excited, or how you do that cricket leg thing when you're falling asleep. Or how if you want my attention you'll bury your head in my chest and pretend you're doing it in your sleep even though I won't judge you for doing it while you're awake."

"I don't-"

"I love how defensive you get over things like that," he says, bringing one hand to cup my cheek, resting his thumb that smells like the creamy lavender handsoap next to the bathroom sink on my lips. "I love how you look waking up next to me, how you play with Abby. And for a really long time I didn't see myself ever having kids, but when I see you curling her hair at the kitchen table I think maybe it wouldn't be so bad if I just took up another job and saved money so that we could-"

"Mike-"

"Stop cutting me off," he says gently, his eyes finally meeting mine with just the smallest smile. "It's rude."

At that I do stop, my body finally relaxing into his grasp as I lean into him and his touch.

"I want things I haven't wanted since before Garret went missing," he says, stroking my lip. "And I want them with you."

Dinner was just as delicious as lunch, even if it was late. And the bed is soft like our voices as we make plans for years down the line. And after a week long break, the pages are finally filled once again.

Just like us.

¤▪︎{♧}▪︎¤

Literally had a come to Jesus moment while writing this that not only do I fear being vulnerable irl, but in writing too. Nearly threw up while writing this. Book aable feet.

Taglist:

@cassiecasluciluce @gh0u1ishly @joshhutchersons-slut @schmidtsbimbo @sugarevans @wompwompwomp57 @jhutchissupercool . Thank you for your support pookies!!! <3

•▪︎Masterlist▪︎•

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azfellandco · 1 year

Note

Hi friend this ask is a request for you to wax lyrical about Crowley slowly dying of a poisonous dose of laudanum, because it seems That Scene is still on all our minds. <3

Godbless (they said agnostically). This is going to be a mess of a response because I have been working a lot of overtime and am pretty sleep deprived, and also because there are a lot of angles to this.

First off: you're so correct to point out that laudanum is an analgesic and not literally a poison, because I think this slots in so nicely with the pattern of stuff we see Aziraphale consume and why (food and wine, for sensual pleasure) and stuff we see Crowley consume and why (alcohol for numbing and six shots of espresso to brace himself, and now laudanum, a medical grade numbing agent, at a dosage that would have killed Elspeth had he not intervened).

To really get into this I'm going to have to talk a little about something I have a lot of approximate knowledge about: Victorian era medicine. Why I find poison sexy (maybe compelling is a better word here) is partially tied up in the Victorian era and this exact subset of knowledge, which I am going to disclaim right now as not very precise. I research stuff primarily to regurgitate it in fiction, and not for complete factual accuracy.

First off, let's take a moment to admire Crowley's prognosticative abilities once again.

Antiseptic is 25 years off, germ theory is held in disdain by the western world, but here's Anthony "that went down like a lead balloon" Crowley just trying to be helpful to this guy covered in blood.

Antiseptic was not in common medical and surgical use until the 1850s. It was pioneered by Joseph Lister, who actually worked at the University of Edinburgh, which was kind of the place to be in terms of medical breakthroughs of this time period. Before the advent of washing your hands and sterilizing surgical equipment, something like 2/3rds of surgical patients died either on the operating table or of infection afterwards. Medicine during this time period was difficult, dangerous work with a high risk of complications, and surgery was haunted by death and disease. Dr. Darymple would have administered laudanum to a patient and then strapped their limbs down and put something in their mouth so they didn't bite through their tongue before cutting into them, and even if he was a good surgeon they might have died a week later from gangrene or sepsis anyway.

It's in this world that laudanum and opium more generally got romanticized by literature and poetry. The Victorians loved opium, but the symbolism of the poppy, from which opium is derived, has been sleep and death since the classical world. My go-to example of the blending of these themes (poppies as sleep and death symbolism and this time period's interest in the classical world) is The Garden of Proserpine by Algernon Charles Swinburne, of which I will include an excerpt below:

No growth of moor or coppice, No heather-flower or vine, But bloomless buds of poppies, Green grapes of Proserpine, Pale beds of blowing rushes Where no leaf blooms or blushes Save this whereout she crushes For dead men deadly wine.

The symbolic connection between opium (and thus laudanum) and sleep and death is my strongest association with either drug. The poppies = death association is used all the time even in the modern day. See this song, Flowers, from the musical Hadestown:

Lily white and poppy red I trembled when he laid me out "You won't feel a thing," he said, "When you go down" Nothing gonna wake you up now

Poppy symbolism is doing a lot of work in this song, actually, drawing a line between virginity and death, and the flower imagery standing in for both Euridyce's sexual relationship with Hades as well as her death but I disgress.

This is my personal context for laudanum and opium. I think it's encouraged to read the sleep and death connection into both of these medicines, both by the artistic tradition that arose contemporaneously with their use and by continued references back to it in the modern day. I am thinking of the scene in Inception where the opium den they visit is full of people who go to be drugged in order to dream their lives away as just one of many other modern day examples. Opium is sleep and sleep is death.

So while the laudanum is not literally poison, I think there is cultural context in which it is possible to read it as symbolically poison, regardless of whether Crowley's not-actually-human body should be able to withstand it. I think that it is compelling to read it as such, given the above-mentioned pattern of Crowley's habits of consumption.

I've seen a lot of posts about how the next time Aziraphale and Crowley see each other after this flashback is the time Crowley asks Aziraphale to bring him holy water and Aziraphale refuses on the grounds that he won't provide Crowley with a suicide pill. While I think this says more about Aziraphale than it does about Crowley (Crowley has never struck me, by behavior or attitude, to be the kind of person who would kill themself, whereas for Aziraphale one of the worst things that could happen would be losing Crowley) there is something there, something in that tartan thermos, something in the idea that Crowley would drink his death.

There is one more angle to this, and this is going to be a bit of a reach. I once read an analysis post in another fandom about the symbolism of poison as a choice of weapon. This line will haunt me until my grave: "a man stabs, a woman poisons". Just as a sword is a phallic symbol, poison (to me) is a feminine coded way to kill another person. For more context, please read The Laboratory by Robert Browning, a poem about a woman procuring a poison to kill her husband's lover, written by another Victorian poet. Crowley dying being discorporated by self-administered poison compels me for all the reasons mentioned above but also for gender reasons. Nonbinary icon.

Crowley dying being discorporated by self-administered poison feels like it is in conversation with two events that happen chronologically later but narratively earlier: the "suicide pill" conversation and Crowley trying to wait out the apocalypse in the bar after the bookshop burned. For all intents and purposes he seems to have given up at that point and only pulls himself together because Aziraphale appears to him and proves he isn't gone gone. It makes sense as an exploration of Aziraphale's anxieties (the suicide pill convo), and the extent to which they might be justified (Crowley drinking as the world ends). It's interesting it's compelling it's symbolically rich it's consistent with characterization choices in the show.

I think realistically Crowley would keep from Aziraphale that he was in pain until he physically couldn't do so, because it would threaten the wall they've had to erect to keep each other safe to do otherwise, but in a scenario where Crowley was hurt, properly hurt, Aziraphale would find a way to excuse them because he would not stand for Crowley suffering.

Just...

The idea of Aziraphale gathering Crowley close in the dark graveyard, feeling him stumble, Crowley who is so bright and brave and beautiful reduced to clutching to Aziraphale and the pair of them trying to will him back to health the way they can choose to sober up, and failing... Crowley because by this point he's too weak, he waited too long putting up a front for Aziraphale, Aziraphale because of conflicting magic or because he's too anxious, his own personal moment of the gun shaking in Crowley's hands during the bullet catch, where he knows what he has to do but he can't do it, can't trust himself not to make it worse.

And then Crowley's body going cold, Aziraphale holding it and crying because despite knowing it's just a body and that Crowley can get another one, he failed to protect him. Crowley died for someone and Aziraphale couldn't prevent it. And the things they don't say to each other, all rushing in to fill the silence left by Crowley's stopped breath. Aziraphale whispering to him, kissing his temple, part of him wondering if he'd ever be able to do this if he wasn't already gone.

It would just be really good, okay. It would be really good.

#the resurrectionist #good omens #meta #i stayed up way too late to write this and now i am going to sleep #tw suicide #tw death

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muzzlemouths · 2 years

Text

Returning the Favor

Moon has a habit of helping you to bed. It's only fair that you return the favor.

Moon centric // Wordcount: 5714 // AO3 Vers.

The first time you think about it is the day you catch him dozing.

It isn't unusual for Moon to be listless during a shift. Despite having a fair share of sporadic moments where his energy rivaled Sun's, it was more common to see him lazily milling about. Moseying along the ceiling beams, meandering through the vents, taking his sweet time to stroll or lounge about. Not that he had any reason to rush, it isn't like they paid him by the hour - or at all.

This was different. You passed him just outside the Daycare, sprawled carelessly across one of the unlit light fixtures and seemingly unaware (or indifferent to) the concept of you illuminating it just to be an ass.

And, well, you were an ass. You readied a smart remark at the tip of your tongue for his inevitable outburst and reach for the light switch—

But you hesitate.

On closer look, he isn’t just lounging for the sake of it. His chest rose and fell with a tempo slower than you were used to seeing, even at his laziest. No red glow met you — his arm draped idly over the eyes in a manner most akin to something very human.

He was sleeping.

At least, you can only assume that's what it was, because before you have a chance to investigate further he's shifting and pulling himself into a sit, eyes fixating on you without a word.

Your hand sheepishly retreats from the light switch. Had he been watching?

His arms lift above his head, angling into a stretch that cracks and pops the mechanic joints holding his spine together. "Hasn't anyone ever taught you it's rude to stare?"

"Were you sleeping?"

His eyes narrow, and he answers you with a heave, arms falling to his side, "Don't ignore my question," he says, "I asked first." His legs swing over the light fixture and hang casually there, where he seems content to stay.

"I asked second," you reply with a sneer, "and it's hard not to stare at someone taking a fat nap next to the ceiling."

He tsks, "Wasn't sleeping."

"No?" Your arms cross your chest, "What would you call it, then?"

"Resting the eyes."

"You don't need to do that — there's nothing about robots with sleepy eye syndrome in the mechanic’s handbook."

"Maybe you just missed it," says Moon, "don't need to, no. Doesn't mean I can't."

You roll your neck in an effort to relieve the pressure with how it's craned. Having a conversation like this isn't at all conducive to correct posture. "Well, don't let me stop you. I'll let you get back to 'resting your eyes'," then, with a smug look, "I know you need your beauty sleep more than anyone."

His eyes further squint, the red a thin line against his dark faceplate. Unlike his usual self, he says nothing to correct you, no clever retort or sass. Instead, he returns to the position on his back, arms tucking behind his head, and lets his 'breathing' even out again, evidently deciding the conversation is over.

Fine. You had work to do anyway.

The thought haunts you, still. Was he sleeping? And if so, what for, and how? You had certainly never watched Sun doze into slumber (and heaven knows he needed a nap the most out of everyone). That said, what was the point? Did they actually gain anything meaningful from it — or was it as Moon said, just a rest of the eyes?

You had to know more. -

The second time you bring it up is at the height of your shift, two weeks out from the last time you touched on the subject. An all-nighter the previous night meant that you were lagging on your duties a fair amount. Enough so that Moon took it upon himself to point it out.

“You should sleep,” he asserts, following at your heel as you do your routine on auto-pilot, “Nighty night. Beddy-Bye. Come on.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you wave him off dismissively and reach for the handle of the cart, “I’ll sleep once I’m home. I’ve got stuff to do.”

“Won’t get anything done like this.” He cuts off your path, ducking beneath your arm and coming to stand between you and the cart, “Nap first. Then you can work.”

“It’s the middle of my shift, Moon,” you tell him - albeit with a long, obvious yawn, “I can’t afford to do something like that. Besides, weren’t you nagging at me about falling asleep on the job just last week?”s

“Changed my mind,” He says, ignoring the narrow-eyed expression you serve him, “You’re stumbling into things, ignoring steps, you’ll hurt yourself like this.”

You shove a hand between his arm and hip, successfully finding purchase on the cart’s handle, “Awe, are you worried about me?” you coo at him, “I’ll be fine.”

“Worried you’ll make my job harder, yes,” he shoots back, “take a nap.” He reaches for your wrist, intent on prying you away from the cart by force.

Your free hand catches his before he has a chance and suddenly you’re trapped in a game of twister. “It’s not happening, earthshine. Let me work.”

He softens at the name — if only a little. You face off in complete silence with neither of you willing to change your mind. Then, when he pulls back from the cart and it looks like he’s finally going to relent, you breathe a sigh of relief.

It’s too soon.

He bends at the waist, and your feet leave the ground.

“Wh—HEY!” You’re up and over his shoulder before you fully process what just happened. There’s little to grab at from this angle, so it’s all you can do to slam your fists into the sturdy shell of his backplate and kick at his front, both assaults resulting in awful throbs after tasting metal. Your bones aren’t meant to compete with that.

“Nap time,” he repeats with a coo of his own, already parading you across the Daycare to god-knows-where.

“It absolutely is not nap time, you annoying little—oof—” You’re tossed haphazardly into the small section of daycare taken up by plush mats and vinyl coated foam shapes. It isn’t the worst place to take a nap, granted, but you didn’t want one to begin with.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says to your pout, “Stay here. I’ll find a blanket.”

“And if I get up?”

His faceplate turns a full 180 to meet you, “Don’t.” He reiterates, then turns back around to head towards the storage bins where the spare blankets are kept.

Full credit, you give it a minute of thought — which is generous, given your usual choice of ignoring everything he says — but his threats still aren’t enough to persuade you. Right now, you’re more worried about losing this job than your life.

…Yeesh. You’ll take a look at your priorities at a later point.

You peek over a foam triangle before making a break for it on tip-toes, and for a minute, after ducking behind one of the jungle gym corners, it looks like you might be home free. Unfortunately, he’s the master of hide and seek.

Your streak of defiance is short lived. When he’s caught up to you it’s with a rolled blanket in one hand and a pillow in the other, and he spends no time berating you, rather, he simply pulls you under his arm and — quite literally — drags you back to the foam mats.

You’re carried like a lap dog, and you find it too humiliating to put up much of a fight this time, deciding instead to spend the time sulking.

When he drops you onto the mats again it’s with less chariness. Evidently, your escape attempt has only proved to further sour his mood. The blanket is tossed beside you. The pillow makes a direct hit to your face.

You crossly take the pillow as it falls into your lap and take a minute to blow the hair out of your eyes. You’re not any happier with him than he is with you, but this time, you do stay put. “Why are you so insistent about this?”

“It’s my job.” He answers like it’s obvious.

“I thought that was security?”

“Also my job.” He takes the pillow from you and tosses it a foot behind. One hand cradles the back of your neck, the other presses to your chest, and together he lowers you onto your back with only a hint of fight on your end. The rest of your energy is spent trying to keep the heat off your face.

Regretfully, the set-up is comfy. The pillow is soft, the blanket warm as he tucks it around you (making a point to ignore your fussing about doing it yourself). It’s impossible to deny how snug you are like this, and before you know it, your eyes are drooping.

“There,” Moon tuts, voice soft now in stark comparison to the impatient tune it carried earlier. He brushes the hair from your eyes with a touch so careful, so featherlight, it’s barely there at all. His neck bends, faceplate turning to meet you—

He stops just short of you. A breath away. And he pulls back, apparently changing his mind.

A whine stirs in your throat. You make no attempt to hide your disappointment, imagining that the only thing left for him to do in that position was a kiss. Any other day you might have been shy about outright asking for something like that but to be teased, and then denied, was just plain cruel.

So you get bold. You get daring. “What’s wrong, earthshine~?” You prop yourself onto your wrists, eating up the look he gives you, “No goodnight kiss?”

“Would you like one?” His answer is prompt. It knocks the courage from your words in one fell swoop, immediately serving as a reminder for why you don’t tempt fate like this. Moon is a professional at returning the favor ten fold.

As though looking to prove your point, he lowers himself again to a level you can reach and purrs the most dreaded sentence to hit your ears, “You’ll have to ask politely.”

Ohhh, you wanted to deck him. “Remind me to leave a screw missing next time I fix you up,” you roll your eyes, stubborn scowl hiding the otherwise blatant evidence that the blush this time is too broad to hide.

He picks up on this. He must have. There’s no other reason for him to edge ever closer, close enough to lower you down to your elbows, and sit himself right where you wanted him. “Is that a no?” He hums, “you can ask nicely, can’t you? Just a please—”

“Can I please have a goodnight kiss.”

It isn’t a question so much as an appeal spat out in flustered haste. A show of adamant desperation. If you didn’t get it out in one mouthful you weren’t going to say it at all.

Your blush reaches your ears and shoulders, dipping into your chest with a warmth that makes you want to dive under the blanket and hide there forever.

He’s quiet, eyes blown wide.

“Well?”

“I didn’t—” he shifts, visibly processing, then the grin returns, “I didn’t think you really would,” he admits, “I would have just given it to you,” his voice is half a pitch off from laughter, and you’ve never felt more exposed, “I just wanted to see the face you made.”

You can’t possibly get any redder. Your cheeks are hot with embarrassment and fury, “That’s mean,” you whine, and you’re now contemplating getting under that blanket for real. It’s looking awfully inviting. “You can’t get someone riled up like that and then not even—”

His hand shifts, sliding against your chest and driving you back into the mats with a touch gentler than expected but still firm enough to cut you off. Your breath stills in your chest when his face connects with yours.

You feel the quietest tap to your forehead. Not quite a bonk, nothing clumsy like you might have expected, but a whisper of touch that felt akin to — if not exactly like — a kiss. Undeniably so.

His right arm props itself above your head so he isn't putting weight on you and, evidently, so he can take his sweet time. He remains pressed there until the sweetest of noises is drawn from you, and only then does he rise to the sight of you warm and dazed.

"Better?" He murmurs.

You nod — slowly at first, then with great ambition. You can’t bring yourself to words for fear that they’ll be a squeak or a whine or betray you in some other way. But he can tell, surely, by the blush crossing miles of your skin, just how easily he’d wooed you.

If you squint, looking past his stubborn, stoic exterior, you might even say the act had flustered him just as much. Not that he’d ever admit to it.

“Good. Time for that nap, now.”

Your voice is a good deal quieter when you find it again, a contented mumble, a pliant hum, “I guess that’s only fair.” It has him smiling down at you with an expression that makes you dizzy. “Will you stay?”

He was already on his way out. It’s here that he pauses, bent at the knees, halfway to his feet again, and contemplates. Then, nodding, he returns to a sit; criss-cross applesauce. “I’ll stay,” he agrees, “Keep the boogeyman away.”

You can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of your throat. “Thanks, but I don’t think the boogeyman can get me here.”

“That’s because I’m keeping him away.” He bends forward enough that he can replace the blanket over you again, taking care to ensure it’s thoroughly tucked at your shoulders and sides.

“Right, right,” you wave your hand from beneath the blanket. “Are you really only going to sit there?”

His hand pauses where it’s at, “What had you been expecting?”

“Well…” you think back to a few weeks ago, when you’d caught him dozing on the lights, “I thought maybe you would want some sleep, too.”

“Don’t sleep,” Moon straightens his back, folding his hands into his lap, “remember?”

Another yawn escapes you, his eyes following it like a dog trained to hunt. “What about the other day, by the ceiling? Weren’t you sleeping then?”

“Just closing my eyes,” he repeats, “not actually sleeping.”

“What’s the difference?”

His hands bind together and casually flex over his head, resulting in another of those rigid pop-pop-pop sounds emitting from his spine — or where the spine ought to be. He releases the built tension with a low exhale. Only then does his gaze return, and still, he’s adamantly silent.

“Come on,” you ask ever so sweetly, “Humor me. Then I’ll sleep,” your pinky peaks out from under the blanket, “promise.”

He stares narrowly for a moment, thinking it over. You think maybe he’s deciding between playing along and just letting you tire yourself out so he doesn’t have to answer. But sure enough, he stretches a hand out and shakes your pinky in a gentle grip.

“Dozing off has nothing to do with the power supply,” he answers, “Don’t actually sleep. I can’t charge that way, and I don’t shut down. It’s more like…” he hesitates for a moment, fingers tapping together, grasping for the words to explain it in a way you can relate to, “...like daydreaming. Not asleep, not entirely alert, either.”

“Do you like it?” You’re not sure what possessed you to shoot for that as your first question. There were hundreds of others on your mind; did he do it just for kicks? Was it built in intentionally, or was the habit learned? How long had he been able to do it?

Did he dream?

“It’s comfortable,” he answers truthfully, “I didn’t use to do it, before…” pausing, his gaze slides to the left, evidently rethinking his wording, “I only sleep when Sun is out. When we charge. But I realized I could do this, and it’s kind of like sleeping. I like it enough.”

Your curiosity is the one thing keeping you from drifting to sleep yourself. You prop yourself onto one arm, only for him to reach out and promptly shove you back against the mat again. Fine. Point taken.

“What about real sleep, then?” You ask, “Can you only sleep when you aren’t ‘out’?”

“I don’t sleep any other way.”

“I know you don’t, but can you?”

He goes silent, head tilting to the side as if he’s trying to suss out what your intention is. “You’re awfully nosy tonight,” he mumbles.

“Well, I’m not going to sleep until you answer me, so—”

“Yes. I can sleep here.” Oh, that was easy, “But I don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Always with the questions,” he growls, “aren’t you tired?”

“Nope!”

“Liar.” He stares sideways at you, and you stare back, stubborn to a fault. He breaks with a heavy sigh. “I don’t like the way it feels,” he avoids your eye, still, and fiddles with the hem of his pant leg instead, “I get antsy. Restless. Haven’t been able to since…” his fingers still, “...well, it’s been a while.”

You don’t need him to go into detail. You can figure the rest out.

Slowly, your body betrays you. He looks up just in time to see you yawn. “Bed time,” he says, spoken soft and just under his breath as though saying it any louder will shatter the moment you’re having.

You’re on borrowed time; warm in the bed he’s made for you, your eyes are heavy with sleep, struggling to remain open, and your mind has you convinced that the soundless lull pulling you deeper into unconsciousness has the best intentions.

“Mh, would you like to try it again?” You mumble around another yawn, “Sleeping out here, I mean.”

He reaches for you, palm gently colliding with your temple, cold fingers combing through your hair, “Maybe one day,” he murmurs, “Now sleep.”

You lack the energy to fight him on it any longer, so you don’t, and instead allow the sweet tug to pull you under. -

Another week passes, and you’ve already all but forgotten about the interaction and the many, many questions attached up until something jogs your memory; Moon, caught in the act of a yawn.

Not that you can blame him. Sun worked overtime in the Daycare that day, managing his usual hours along with two birthday parties and a sleepover. It was no surprise when he didn’t fight the changing lights, allowing Moon to take over without a hitch.

Unfortunately, sharing a body came with many cons, one of which being that the soreness didn’t leave when Sun did. That day’s events remained in the crevices of their joints and the low whir of a fan that’s been hard at work all day. Moon looked about ready to succumb to sleep himself when you arrived on the scene for your shift.

This time, you were determined to do something about it.

You knew he could sleep, just that he didn’t — not out here, anyway — the hard part was figuring out how to convince him that he needed more than some daydreaming before his body would find itself in functioning order again.

How unlucky for both of you, then, that he’s just as stubborn as you are.

You find him, initially, face down in the ballpit. The toys support his massive weight well enough and provide you with the image of him partially submerged, arms spread out in T-Pose position, seemingly unconscious among them.

He’s not, though. You know that by the steady rise and fall of his torso which moves faster than when he’s dozing. Which meant he was simply…laying there, fully conscious, taking in the sweet smell of plastic, children’s feet, and cleaner.

“You alive in there?” You make your way over and settle down on the edge, dipping your feet into the pit. He doesn’t answer. “Are there no better places around here to wipe out? I imagine that ballpit doesn’t smell the best.”

“It’s comfy here.” You can hardly understand him with his face pushed into the pit like that, “Go away.”

And that’s when you see it; the slight lift of his head as his fan whirs louder for a spare moment; a yawn - or something similar.

You hum, kick your feet a little, and reach beside you for the can of fizzyfaz. It opens with an audible click-shhh that has Moon’s head snapping upward, a number of balls scattering in the process.

“No open drinks in the Daycare,” he says without missing a beat, “you’ll get it everywhere. Or worse, get Sun’s attention.”

Another hum, this one more of a jeer, “Come and take it from me then.”

He squints, clearly not having the energy today to deal with your shenanigans. That is, until you outstretch your arm to hold the can above the ball pit and prop it in a way like you’re going to start pouring. He’s wading through the pit with haste, then, and you manage to just barely get up and out of said pit before he’s climbing after you.

This was simultaneously the best (and worst) part; the chase. Something about prompting a massive hunk of metal with a predator complex into pursuing you was, admittedly, a little thrilling, but only until the point where he caught you. Then came the collision, the bruises.

Luckily, your destination isn’t far. You manage to outrun him if only by a couple of steps and when you land, it’s into the plush, welcoming arms of foam mats. The same mats he’d tucked you into but a short time ago.

He’s practically on top of you and reaching for the can in your hand before you fully hit the mats — but he stops, freezing in place, arm outstretched and hand wrapped around aluminum — to the sight of a readied blanket and pillow set-up.

And he scowls at you with nothing short of exasperation.

“Look, I know you aren’t interested in getting some rest, but—”

He snatches the can from you and stands, turning immediately to leave.

“Wait!” You grab his wrist and hold him near, “I just think it’s a little uncanny that the bedtime robot won’t take a little nap every once in a while. Sun’s been running overtime this whole week which has obviously left you equally bent out of shape. Aren’t you tired?” He doesn’t answer, “You sure look tired. You look exhausted, actually, and that’s saying something coming from me.”

“Not interested,” he mumbles, “Let me go.”

“No.” You insist, attempting to make yourself sound firm this time, “Come on, is it really so bad?” Again, he responds with nothing. You decide to switch tactics. “You don’t actually have to sleep. You can just relax with me, lie down for a bit. That’s all.”

He glowers at you, full well knowing what you were doing, “Taking a page out of my own book, hm?” He muses, “That won’t work on me, starshine. I know those tactics by the back of my hand.”

“C’mon, Moon,” Your bottom lip sticks out, eyes pleading, “Ten minutes, that’s all I’m asking. You don’t have to sleep — I mean it, I won’t force you to — but I need you to try…please.”

“Can’t,” he repeats, looking strained about it, “I told you already. Too restless.”

You smile to yourself, having already thought this part through. “Well, let’s fix that, then! We’re going to make you un-restless.”

He finally sags with resignation, apparently tired of arguing, and allows you to drag him into the depths of foam blocks without any more of a fight — save for some grumbling under his breath.

The area isn’t as lavish as before. You found a couple of blankets, no pillows (where does he hide those?) and no plushies for him to snuggle with. But that’s okay. You were a plush enough replacement, if need be.

Retrieving your phone from its pocket, you spend a brief moment running through several playlists before selecting one made as recent as the night before. Moon watches over your shoulder, curious but silent.

That is, until the song begins to play.

It’s a music box — several of them making up an hour’s worth — and his reaction is immediate. First a glare, like he thinks you’re making fun of him. Then the expression softens into something…different. Something kinder.

You settle against one of the foam blocks and gently pat the spot beside you.

He stares it down like it’s enemy number one, refusing to budge.

“Come on, Moon,” you try again, “Isn’t this music relaxing? Doesn’t it make you want to snuggle under the covers and doze off?” You lift one side of the blanket pile temptingly, “I brought them all the way from the laundry room just for you.”

You’ve piqued his interest with that. There’s no reason to be anywhere near the laundry room when he had a perfectly good pile of blankets on-hand right here. Which could only mean…

Slowly, tentatively, he comes to your side. The adjustment is awkward at best; he shimmies into the spot beside you and tucks gangly legs up to his chest, hunching like an animal trying to go bipedal for the first time.

Pointedly, you stifle your laughter in your throat. As funny as it looked you knew he was making an effort here, and you weren’t about to sabotage that by making fun of him.

You try not to think about the before; how easy it was for him to settle down. How effortlessly he went about rest and relaxation, with the kids and himself alike. How naturally the calm came to him. Actually, now that you think about it, the lazy meandering you complained about so often was probably the closest thing to his natural state. He was clinging to it in the only way he knew how to anymore.

The thought makes your chest heavy, providing fuel to your fiery determination.

As soon as he’s within reach you pull the blankets over his lap and tuck them around his hips. It’d be more efficient were he laying down, but that’s a battle for later.

Moon’s body sags as he’s enveloped, going limp at the waist, “They’re…warm,” he murmurs, and you catch him burrowing further into the cloth, eyes drooping ever so faintly. Success.

“Mhm!” You try not to look so proud of yourself, “You’re always complaining about being cold. I don’t know if you were only joking, but you always feel cold, so I thought you might enjoy this. I left them in the dryer for a while before bringing them over here. They aren’t as warm as they were right out of the dryer, but—”

“They’re perfect.” His voice is a whisper. He brings the blanket to his cheek and nestles into it, eyes falling shut. For the very first time, before your eyes, he looks entirely comfortable. Not a restless bone — ahem, gear — in his body.

You wonder, briefly, if this is how he looked before. Content. Serene. At ease.

“How does that nap sound now?”

His gaze draws to you. The blanket moves through his fingers, then falls back to his lap with a soundless thump. “Why are you doing this?” He asks, and there isn’t a hint of his normal attitude remaining. No cheek behind his words.

You reach for him — hesitate — then your hand touches his arm and ambles down to his hand, “Well, this may come as a surprise, but I happen to care about you,” your smile is quiet, “and I hate seeing you stressed out like this,” his fingers curl around yours without a word. You squeeze them gently. “So…let me try to help. Please?”

He’s reluctant. That much is obvious. “I have security to do,” he states.

“Already took care of it. Called in a favor, security is doubled tonight.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll stay here, with you,” your voice soothes, “to keep the boogeyman away.”

He gives it some thought. But you’ve worn him down (or warmed him up, technically) and to your surprise, eventually he reciprocates with a nod, slow and shy. “I’ll try,” he croaks, “that’s all I can promise.”

“It’s enough,” you reassure him.

Another nod, and he goes to lie down where he’s at beside you, but you stop him halfway - an idea occurring. “Wait, not there,” you say.

He watches you with a quiet crooked eyebrow as you readjust your position against the blocks, then spread your arms wide, welcoming him right into your lap. You don’t have the courage to look him directly in the eye and choose to stare at his chest, instead, the invitation alone already taking all of your courage, so you can only hope he isn’t looking at you with disgust.

The lack of an immediate response makes you worry. He says nothing, does nothing for the longest time, and you do your best not to let your disappointment show.

Then it happens. From the corner of your eye you watch him shift into view and clamber with careful movements into the space before you, reclining clumsily into your lap. The only way he’ll fit is against your chest, his head positioned just below your chin. The fabric of his hat tickles your nose.

Your heartbeat quickens, and you feel no need to hide it. You know if his sensors don’t pick up on it, he feels it personally, back to your ribs. And mutually, you feel him.

The most vulnerable you’ve ever been.

The most vulnerable he’s ever been.

He makes a noise in the back of his throat, something guttural and odd, and it takes you a minute to realize he’s pretending to snore. You playfully bat at the top of his head. He grins, eyes remaining shut. “Just trying to be helpful,” he supplies.

“No pretending,” you tuck your arms around him, peering down, “you’re supposed to be giving this whole sleeping thing a real chance, remember?”

“I am, I am.”

Silence fills the room. It’s welcomed. It’s comfortable. You work under its embrace to wrap the blankets around him fully, up to his shoulders. Then, moving slow, you reach for his hat.

Only then does he remember his voice.

“Don’t,” he mumbles, and your fingers still around the fabric, “I look silly without it.”

“Don’t worry, I think you look perfectly silly with it on, too,” you say, delighting in the halfhearted glare he sends your way, “just for today? I promise you can have it back when you wake up.”

“I won’t be able to sleep,” he reminds you, sighing, “but fine.”

You offer him another gentle squeeze in thanks and ease the hat from its place, carefully moving it off to the side for now. His faceplate beneath isn’t as shiny as you’d been expecting; not the sight of a bald man’s head, but rather, it was somewhat dented and scuffed — a result of never allowing the hat to be removed, even during maintenance, if you had to guess. You make a mental note to give it some extra love next time you manage you persuade him down to parts and services.

“What’s wrong?” He startles you from your thoughts, bringing you back to the present just on time to hear your own words cast back at you, “No goodnight kiss?”

Your cheeks flush completely. This time, you take pride in their warmth. You don’t keep him waiting.

“All you had to do was ask.”

Your hand fits beneath his chin and tilts it to face you, meeting your lips, pressed warmly, tenderly, against his forehead. His fan begins to whine. You feel him stiffen, then relax, going pliant in your arms.

Your hands begin to move. You gently encircle the joints and push carefully against the places where his lines met and pieces came together. His body, unlike yours, had no give to it, and there was no way of knowing whether this soothed him in the way it would a human, but you proceeded regardless, hopeful that it did. That this felt nice. That it felt good.

The breathy noises coming from him told you it did. If you listened close, you could hear the faint exhale of another fan somewhere deep within his inner system’s workings, exhaling stress with each deliberate touch of your fingers. You rubbed delicately, working him until the last of the tension finally gave way, and his shoulders slumped, and his body dipped heavier against you. He exhaled — a genuine, breathy sigh — only then did your hands fall again into a hug around him.

“Nighty night,” you whisper against his temple.

He smiles fondly, not bothering to hide it behind seven layers of gall, “Funny,” he murmurs, “Goodnight, starlight.”

You return his endearment, tucking him even closer, and resist the urge to rock from side to side. That might be overstepping. Instead you find yourself humming, adjacent to the music box that plays a foot away, and you spend some time staring up at the daycare ceiling where a thousand plastic stars illuminate the room.

At the ten minute mark you bow your head, and plant another small kiss to his, “Alright, Moon, a deal’s a deal. I’ve kept you long enough,” you mumble, “you’re relieved of naptime duties.”

He doesn’t respond.

Instead, his weight shifts atop you, legs tucking further into his chest, as if he’s tuned out your voice entirely. The fan in his chest moves in quiet, soothed rhythm, and it dawns on you.

He’s asleep.

Not dozing. Not daydreaming. Really, truly, asleep. His chest rises and falls with the barest motion, his body heavy against yours.

You don’t wake him. You would be crazy to, a waste of your efforts having actually paid off. Instead you relish in the breathy noises that stir in his chest — the occasional jolt in his frame which reveals he does, in fact, dream — and find a comfortable position to settle in for the next few hours.

“Sleep well, earthshine,” you whisper, forehead braced against his own, “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

#drabbles #fnaf moon #moondrop #moon x reader #I had to run this through my allo beta to make sure it was as gushy as intended #so it's allo approved 👍

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notbecauseofvictories · 11 months

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Halloween Week of Horror (Games)

It’s that most horrible time of year, and I've decided to explore the spooky world of text-based games. My list of games is cribbed from this post and this post.

GAMEIFY HORROR // DAY 1 // DAY 2

DAY 3: singing from the far side of the hill, leave house, contrition, familiar, jagged bone

singing from the far side of the hill

about a trans woman, homeless after a bad breakup, who rents a stranger’s spare room. it’s a decision she comes to regret.

Yet another game with no images, just red-and-white text, that nevertheless managed to be hyper-realized---I could practically see the slightly shabby, nevertheless neatly kept house, the old-fashioned door, the disconnected telephone, the medicine cabinet stuffed with empty pill bottles. I loved that it ended with the protagonist running from the law who won’t understand, something she can’t even properly explain.

Also, (spoilers!) the image of Kathleen deepthroating the doorknob---which is perhaps the closest she can get to abusing her beleaguered daughter, who did not want to be a son---will stay with me a long, long time.

SPOOKY LEVEL: 5/10, it trips into the bizarre and surreal and horrific, but isn't particularly frightening

OVERALL GRADE: B+

leave house

Unfortunately, I had to give up on this one. A very cool concept—you enter an empty, abandoned house, poke around----but after 5 minutes stuck on the stairs with no clear route forward, I gave up. In theory I approve? A haunted house you are literally trapped in, running up and down stairs, trying to escape the loop, is a cool concept. In actuality, it felt frustrating and sudden and somehow still muted.

SPOOKY LEVEL: 0/10

OVERALL GRADE: C

contrition

As a priest, it’s your job to listen to your parishioners’ darkest secrets and absolve their guilt. But when a sinister stranger comes to the confessional one Halloween night, you realize it’s your soul on the line.

I'm sure everyone reading this will be shocked to learn that nothing gets me where I live quite like the nexus of Catholicism and horror---and this game exploited that mercilessly. Is the stranger who turns up in the confessional an infernal agent? Is he the devil himself? Or is he just a malicious sort of manipulator, quintessentially human, hiding behind the confessional screen?

(Are you saved? Are you damned? Will you ever know?)

Since I'm the target audience for this kind of story, it landed beautifully. I do think that nature of the sin shared was something of a misstep---though the way the priest reacts, how he covers up the sin once discovered and the harm he does to protect himself, was much more compelling. Also, I liked the ambient noises, and thought they were well-utilized.

SPOOKY LEVEL: 3/10, uncanny but not horrific

OVERALL GRADE: A-

familiar

You are a familiar. Your mistress has some requests for you. Help her complete her ritual, or pay the price of failure.

This game is simple, even straightforward: fetch what your witch-mistress asks of you, even if it requires violence. It's an interesting premise, with lots of room to sprawl out, and the places/people you encounter---the sleeping town, the lovers in the restless woods, the old woman on the mountain---are lovely to imagine.

That said, it felt underdeveloped. An intriguing concept and a couple different paths, but largely static; not as immersive as I wanted the game to be. I did like that, if you refuse to bring the witch what she asks for, the story ends with you ripping her heart, and gaining your freedom. A little touch of righteous violence.

SPOOKY LEVEL: 2/10, exclusively for the violence

OVERALL GRADE: B-

jagged bone

A branching choose-your-own-adventure horror game about transformation and perspective.

I found this one a little difficult to immerse myself in; I made the mistake of choosing the wrong "path" from the outset, and so was on my back foot when it came to understanding what was going on. That said, I did genuinely like it—a mix of inexplicable horror, family, and house-as-locus that worked for me. I played through a couple different narratives (the game made it easy for that end) and all of them were horrible and effective, if not quite as incisive as I wanted.

(Though the monster at the heart of the story is deliciously imagined---say whatever you like, but I'm always weak for a fucked up deer.)

A very respectable effort, even if I wanted more from it.

SPOOKY LEVEL: 3/10, and then mostly for the scenes where you have to fight the monster you encounter

OVERALL GRADE: B

#GAMEIFY HORROR #the oldest and strongest emotion of mankind

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selene-tempest · 11 months

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It's the 28th of October, which means it's the hubby's birthday!

When faced with the inevitable question of "what do you want to do for your birthday?" he once again just shrugged, said he didn't want to do anything special and left. Freakin' typical. Now I was stuck trying to come up with something that he'll love as well as not expect and therefore be unable to ban me from organising it before it's too late to cancel.

I had to come up with something, and fast.

But, I am nothing but a determined wifey, and so I dragged up his online calendar (OK, I admit I got EOS to do it, sue me) and stared at it for a few minutes waiting for inspiration to strike. Spoiler, it did not. There was no lightning bolt blessing from Zeus, there was no glorious angelic chorus as an idea bloomed into perfect form in my noggin. But, as I watched, a new entry popped up, a request for a guest lecture spot at the University of Manchester to talk to their new intakes on their Space Science and Astrophysics degree. This I could work with…

TO THE GOOGLE!

Since hubby is the hubby, and in being the hubby that means he likes to go places that are mentally stimulating as well as pleasing to the eyeballs, I once again had my work cut out for me.

But a half hour of frantic internet searching later and I'd finally settled on the very historic (so happy hubby) and the very spooky (so happy me) city of York that was near enough to Manchester that we could have ourselves a little mini-break and I could finally adopt a cute little ghost! Yay!

I ran to the bestie (who cares that he was busy halfway up One's nose cone at the time?) and screamed up at him that I was formally requesting time off but not to tell John.

After he recovered from the shock of being yelled at while so high up (he was on a line, don't stress) he mumbled an assurance that he'd "make it work" which is Scott speak for "OK, I'll sort it if you just go away and leave me in peace". Job done!

All I had to do was book train tickets, a beautiful but quiet hotel (preferably haunted but not a requirement) and look up some things to do. I got this shit.

Cut to a week and a half later, and one very successful (like there was ever any doubt) lecture done and dusted, we were on the train and speeding away for a midweek break of fun.

Since this weekend was a surprise, John had only packed enough for two days away, and knowing how conservatively he packs I knew that we'd never be able to make it stretch. I tried to pack more for him in my case but he got suspicious (damn him and his ability to observe everything so closely) and I gave up, packed my own stuff and vowed to buy him new clothes as part of his birthday present. I've learned to work with what I have.

Wrestling him onto the train was harder than I had expected. He didn't believe my "oh wouldn't it be so fun and romantic to just not go home yet and be spontaneous?" bullshit and I was forced to admit that it was indeed a birthday treat and that it was already booked, everything was taken care of, we would have somewhere to sleep that night and Scott was aware and to not even think about checking in on Five you shit!

He was grumpy, but that was to be expected. You don't blindside the man who organises everything and not get some backlash. But that's easily remedied with kisses and promises of all the fun, but educational, things we'll be doing, then you pull up an itemised schedule for him to peruse and he's fine.

The first thing we did was find our hotel and drop off our bags. I'd picked one that was nice and old, but also had modern amenities (we like that blend) but near enough to the city centre to be able to walk most places. John loves to walk, which is probably due to him spending so much time on Five and knowing the island like the back of his hand. If we get off island for anything he'll be dragging me off on a walk somewhere to explore.

Our hotel, Dean Court, boasts its famous "Mad Maid" ghost who is often seen roaming the halls, cleaning supplies in tow, grimacing and grumping. Honestly, I don't blame her, imagine spending your life cleaning and then have to do it in your afterlife too? Kinda sucks, I'd definitely be asking for an upgrade, not just slamming doors, giving people a cold chill and occasionally sitting on them. This was gonna go one of two ways, John would wake up in the middle of the night to find me chatting to the ghost like a paranormal therapist (again) or the ghost would recognise my ability to kick her out and leave us the hell alone. Only time would tell but I hoped for his sake it was the latter, he needs the rest.

Conveniently the hotel was pretty much next door to York Minster, a beautiful and gothic cathedral with stained glass to die for and lots of history which was lovely to wander around. So after checking into our room we made the most of the remaining time before dinner to check it out as well as the museum in the basement, called the Undercroft, where we saw the remains of the Roman fortress the minster was built on, as well as illuminated manuscripts, and artefacts found around the area. We also checked out the library, because John is as drawn to books as I am to spooky things and this was his birthday trip, so I let him get lost in there for a while. But I did steal a little kiss at one point which a kind person managed to snap a picture of and send to me.

Dinner was lovely, nice and relaxed in a quiet little pub style restaurant which will always be our go-to over a fancy place where we have to get dressed up. We want wholesome, home cooked food (that isn't Grandma's), with big portions so we can try each other's food and to be able to easily relocate to a snug area for drinks around the fire.

As it turned out, our first night in the hotel was a quiet one, no ghosts, no noisy neighbours (not like that one time in Cambridge where we were next door to a couple that seemed to think arguing was the only acceptable form of foreplay and liked to scream at the top of their lungs in two ways). The bed was squishy soft, there were enough pillows that I didn't have to raid reception and it was cosy enough that we didn't need to sleep in thick pyjamas (always a worry in England after an extended period on the Island). Hubby was asleep the second his head hit the pillow and I read quietly for half an hour before snuggling up, stealing his warmth, and drifting off myself.

The next morning provided an all you can eat breakfast buffet. So with full bellies and a happy me, we were fully fueled for our next adventure… ghost shopping!

I'd heard about the beautifully old street named the Shambles, rumoured to have been the inspiration for Harry Potter's Diagon Alley, and I knew they had a little shop there called the York Ghost Merchants where you could buy a handmade "lucky ghost". Did I buy just one? Of course not! We are coming home with ghosts for everyone! Mine was this adorable little purple thing with drippy black eyes like it's been crying and I fell in love straight away. John got a plain little ghost in white, very traditional. I named them Brad and Janet, which he rolled his eyes at but knew better than to try to convince me otherwise.

As we were wandering the shambles (and I was filling my bag with souvenirs as I am nothing but British) I remembered that hubby was in need of clothes since I'd basically kidnapped him. I dragged him into the Edinburgh wool mill, because he gets chilly and needs the good shit. That and I happen to think he looks delicious in librarian chic and so tweed was the way to go. He blames this on the fact that I'm currently rewatching Buffy the Vampire Slayer for the 8th time and that Giles has inspired me, but if I was inspired by Buffy he'd have bleached blond hair and a leather jacket by now.

He agreed to the clothing because he's getting more and more requests for lectures and appearances in academic settings and since we got married people keep uploading pictures of him and even he worries that they will work out that he only has two jackets and start to comment on it. Sometimes I worry that I'm having too much of an influence on him, then I remember that I'm awesome and that any influence could only be a good thing.

We also found a wool and cashmere shop and a little vintage shop where I picked up a few things for my growing hippie collection and a gorgeous shawl that I can't stop stroking. A generic brand shop provided essential underwear and socks for the fussy hubby and we were off, dumping our spoils at the hotel before heading out again.

The afternoon was spent in a quiet little reading cafe where you could drink coffee and curl up with a book. One thing I love about John is that he knows the value of silence, even when he thinks I don't. I might be loud and proud a lot of the time, the social butterfly to his grumpy caterpillar, but even I find too much peopling draining and need to recharge. He is always happy to have me squished up against him but not paying him the slightest bit of attention (unless, like today, I happen to read a particularly interesting spicy scene and feel the need to shove it in his face and waggle my eyebrows at him until he gets the message). I love that he never questions how much I adore him and doesn't equate me giving him my full attention all day every day with my devotion level. He's fine with me ignoring him and I'm fine (mostly) with him doing the same.

For some reason (probably a John specific one relating to his desire to be in control of almost every situation) he decided that he would not be the only one surprised on this trip and waved tickets for a ghostly bus tour under my nose at dinner. An old fashioned double decker bus, a chilly evening, a beautiful city and a knowledgeable guide made it one of the best parts of the trip. I like ghosts, he likes the history, we blend.

Another peaceful night with no noisy neighbours or ghostly visitors meant that we were (for once) both fully charged and not in the slightest bit tired for our last full day.

We went out for breakfast even though the hotel provided a good one but we stuck close to the hotel in the morning and checked out the Treasures house, which was near the Minster. Beautiful house, beautiful gardens, and a Roman soldier ghost that waved at me from over a wall. What's not to love?

After a midmorning snack we hopped into a taxi and went to York Castle Museum. I love castles (tell me anyone who doesn't have the urge to pretend they are royal now and then and I'll call bullshit). I love the feel of the energy in the bricks and the items inside. We got to see the cell in which Dick Turpin had been kept and a recreation of a 1918 street complete with actors dressed up and things to buy (of which I bought many). Living history is something I really vibe with, it's so good to see it being played out in front of you rather than just seeing pictures or reading about it in books.

There was supposed to be an Edwardian ghost in there but it was either his day off or he had had enough of crowds and wasn't in the mood to socialise. John said he understood that more than he should and that we'd obviously been married too long if he was now identifying with ghosts. Can't say he's wrong.

Dropped back at our hotel by another taxi, we found ourselves at a loose end and asked the receptionist to recommend something to do that night. She gave us many good recommendations, and John made notes on things we'd try if we came back (which I'm planning on) but eventually settled on a relaxing floodlit river cruise on the Ouse.

York is a gorgeous city by day but it becomes truly magical at night. The lights of the buildings sparkled on the water and there is just something truly special about seeing such historic buildings, surrounded by trees and river banks, as the sun sets and twilight blankets the world before full darkness sets in. We took so many pictures that we know Virgil is gonna steal to paint. There was no guide on this cruise, just us and a few other passengers dotted here and there so we could sit quietly on our own and talk without bothering anyone while soaking in the atmosphere and the sights.

Another meal in a little old pub where a lone guy and his guitar helped create a cosy atmosphere, and it was back to the hotel. I made sure to yell into the hallway that I would not be accepting any ghostly visitors that night either and if Miss Grumpy Maid was around she listened and left us in peace. Feeling less tired and more relaxed than normal meant a nightcap from the minibar and said squishy bed were enjoyed for more than sleeping (eyebrow wiggles and book shoving for the win!)

We had a few hours to kill before our train the next day and I selflessly didn't dive straight into the chakra therapy centre by the train station. Instead, we opted to leave our bags in a locker at the station, grab some lunch to act as a picnic and check out the nearby Yorkshire museum and gardens.

Autumn was the vibe of the day and I have to say I couldn't have planned it better. Chilly sunshine, red, gold, and orange dressed trees, and Roman ruins make my little heathen heart sing.

On the trip back to London I had a cheerfully chilled hubby who had had so much history in such a short space of time that he couldn't stop flicking through the photos and smiling, which was all I wanted. I'm doing the same as I snapped so many pictures of him when he wasn't looking that I've got phone backgrounds for the next year!

John often needs a break more than anyone as he's not confined to flight hours and mandatory breaks, if we let him he'd keep going until he drops. So I take my job as wife and nagger very seriously, he's learned to live with it and sometimes, just occasionally, it means we get to enjoy times like these which will provide us with many wonderful memories to keep us going during the busy times, the not seeing each other enough times and probably when we're too old and tired to do it again.

Making the most of time together is always important but, while this was definitely supposed to be a birthday trip for him, I got a lot out of it too. I got to see him relax, sleep deeply, eat well and laugh lots, even if he does suspect that I may have had an ulterior motive of turning this into a dark academia photoshoot…

Happy birthday, baby! @i-t-guy-in-the-sky . Love you always!

(close ups of pictures available on request because I know he's freaking gorgeous!)

#john tracy #thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds 2015 #thunderbirds fandom #thunderbirds fanfiction #selene tempest #healthy relationships #witchy #york #ghost

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karliahs · 2 months

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1 & 10 & 22 !!

from the weird writer questions asks

ty anon!!!

What font do you write in? Do you actually care or is that just the default setting?

i have never once changed the font from whatever the default is, so currently i write in (checks google docs) arial

i do always think that i should try the comic sans trick next time i am stuck. and then never remember that exists when i am actually stuck

10. Has a piece of writing ever “haunted” you? Has your own writing haunted you? What does that mean to you?

oh man. all the time.

for other people's writing: my primary hauntings are sadie by courtney summers and idaho by emily ruskovich. i kind of don't want to even say anymore bc i think everyone should read those books while knowing as little as possible about them (minus content warnings bc there are some extremely heavy ones). if you're not gonna read them: the fates of some characters are left ambiguous in both, and both absolutely haunt me. i think about them all the time

i am definitely haunted by other people's fics also. scenes/lines will become part of how i think about that character and will play on repeat when i am walking around listening to music having my character thoughts

with my own writing: also big yes!! some fics haunt me as i am writing them. sometimes scenes are so vivid it feels like they are writing themselves inside my head. ten of swords felt so much like a haunting. i was mentally writing it as i was falling asleep and then i woke up in the middle of the night and it truly just carried on as though nothing had happened.

things i've written can also haunt me after they are written. i reread my own fics a lot and sometimes i get kind of...stuck...on a particular work. there were weeks when i read the same fic like....10 times? at least? sometimes specific paragraphs even. there was a period where i just kept rereading this one bit of repeat:

Don’t tell him that you’re tired too – not of him, not from lack of sleep, just bone-deep tired of every good thing being so fragile and temporary. Tired of running on a wheel every day, every day, and knowing you can lose these kids anyway. Suspect that he’s noticed anyway, since he’s visibly trying to find a non-impertinent way to ask if you’re alright. Every year they’re kinder and more breakable.

i think it happens when there is something buried in a thing i've written that i don't fully understand yet. or don't understand why it's hitting me the way it is.

i like it. i'm in favour of being haunted

22. How organized are you with your writing? Describe to me your organization method, if it exists. What tools do you use? Notebooks? Binders? Apps? The Cloud?

ha. not organised at all. it's me and 50 google docs against the world. which is mostly fine because i don't write particularly long things, or have long projects to keep track of.

about the only organisational things i do are putting a . at the front of file names if that fic posted to help me mentally skip past it in the list, and putting the fandom in square brackets at the beginning...sometimes. very inconsistently. it's most useful for fandoms where i'm not currently writing for them, so again it's helpful to mentally skip over those

it's funny bc i worked admin for a long time so one of my like work skills is organisation, and i think that makes me less inclined to do that with hobby stuff. being organised is for when i am being paid to do it

#asks #ty for the questions anon!!

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nostalgicamerica · 1 year

Photo

True story:

Shortly after my folks moved to Northen Michigan I fell in love with fishing. It is a love affair that still haunts me today as an old man.

Not far from the house we called home, there was a small pond. If it was more than fifty yards wide I’d be shocked, and maybe it was twice as long. One end of the green jewel was so overgrown with bull rushes and lily pads it was unfishable.

On the other side was a dilapidated dock that someone had constructed years before. It was falling apart and riddled with broken or missing boards, rusty nails, and it was perfect for 8 or 9 year old anglers.

A coffee can full of worms, a couple of rods outfitted with Zebco reels (which were like as not filled with 20 pound test line), and all the misplaced enthusiasm in the world were all we needed.

I can assure you the Pumpkin Seeds and Blue Gills and Sunfish we caught were not of any appreciable size - maybe the size of my palm which was considerably smaller than it is now. It didn’t matter.

There was joy in watching that bobber do a little dance before disappearing under the algae-covered surface. There was joy in reeling in the line and just knowing the catch was going to be a record. There was joy as boys learned to become men.

Who knows how many fish we caught. The Good Lord knows I don’t, but by the time we headed home we had probably 75 - 100 fish in a five gallon bucket.

Don’t ask why we kept them, or what we were going to do with them. I have no idea what our intent was now, and I sure didn’t then. They were too small to eat and we didn’t know how to clean them. I don’t recall being overly fond of eating fish anyway.

I do recall hearing Dad laughing through the window from the kitchen after he told us we’d have to clean them without his help.

What we did was fill a plastic wading pool with a hose and dump the impromptu school of fish into the heavily chlorinated water and then admired the flashing green and blue and red swarm splash around until dinner time.

I like to think we were just protecting them from possible predators - cats, maybe, or neighborhood kids, but who knows. When Mom called us in to wash up for dinner, we slid the pool into the garage behind Mom’s car, and pulled down the door, confident our slowly dying fish were safe.

I don’t know if all 8 and 9 year-olds are brain dead, but my brother and I were.

The following morning dear old Mom and Dad piled us all into the camper and rolled out for a trip to some part of the American West. Two weeks of seeing new things, eating bad food and puking, getting car sick and puking, and sleeping in sleeping bags and puking. And sometimes, just puking for the sake of puking.

I don’t recall thinking even once of our pool full of fish the entire two weeks we were gone.

When the camper pulled into the driveway at home and the dirty, sweaty, stinking mess of us poured out of the tenement on wheels, Dad opened the garage door and darn near fell over from the nastiest stench I have ever smelled before or since. It was so strong I could almost taste it.

After collecting himself, Dad made my brother and I look at the stew we had created. The blues and greens and reds were no longer. A thick, black and brown congealed soup filled the wading pool. I like to think I imagined the occasional glazed eyeball staring blankly up at the rafters.

I puked.

He made us drag the pool out of the garage and dump the mess in the field behind the house and clean the plastic shell with the hose. No amount of hosing was going to salvage that pool and, to my knowledge, it was never again used to cool off toddlers or anything else for that matter.

Mom had been pretty stoic about the whole episode until she went to use her car. The garage and everything in it smelled like the fetid bowels of hell.

My brother and I spent days cleaning and scrubbing the inside of her car. Scouring and sprinkling baking soda and vacuuming and letting it air out helped a little, but I promise you I could still smell that horrid blackness two months later when Mom made Dad take it down and trade it in for something else.

I have fished some fantastic waters since that summer, and have caught some magnificent fish, most of which I return to the water.

And yes, I still feel that same joy I felt as a boy watching my bobber.

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thinplacesradio · 1 year

Photo

an orange-pink-purple sunset. on the right, a jetbridge extending out into an empty airport runway, lights on the horizon. the image is distorted by VCR static. white text reads:

[019] THE APARTMENTS. A CALLER LOOKS FOR A CONNECTION. THE HOST WAITS FOR DEPARTURE.

listen here, or anywhere you find your podcasts. transcript under the cut:

[static, radio tuning]

[Traveling Sales Rep: Don’t touch that dial! We’ll be right back, after these short messages.] [static, radio tuning]

[click]

Hello and welcome to Thin Places Radio. I’m your host,

and it is the middle of the night. But don’t worry. You’re not alone.

[Thin Places theme]

I’m coming to you in transit from my studio, which is what I like to call this abandoned corner of this airport terminal, all the screens blinking that blank, forgetful blue. [background hum] It’s floor-to-ceiling dark through the windows, and the light above me keeps flickering in and out. I can see people passing this gate every once in a while, their tired steps, faces contorted in yawns and sneezes and the blur of motion. No one sits down. Why would they? This isn’t their gate. It doesn’t mean anything at all to them.

So… what is Thin Places Radio? Well, you can call in about anything strange that you’ve got going on in your life - feelings, omens, premonitions, hauntings.

Is someone following you and your friends around?

Is your home connected to someone else’s? Metaphysically?

Are you out looking for sea monsters?

When the veil between worlds is thin, we get closer than ever to the strange and the unexplained - but also to each other. Call in, get it off your chest. Lines are open.

[click] [You have: 2 new messages.] [click]

Hi, um - I was scrolling through TikTok earlier, like the 20-something I am, um, and I came across this video that... was... of the two rooms that were shown, it had the exact same ground plan, exact same floor plan, as, as my apartment. And, it, it freaked me out. Um. And I don’t know if they, you know, they’re my neighbors or, y’know, just the same architect reused the floor plan. But it - the fact that it came across me and had the same - looked the same - it was weird. Um. Yeah.

[click]

Hi, um - me again. I just woke up so this - last night, I was, yknow, messing around on my phone and whatever, right before I went to bed, just trying to get tired enough to go to sleep, and then - all of a sudden I saw these, these headlights, outside my window, which would be normal, except that I live on the second floor, and my room doesn’t face the street, it faces - actually, the opposite way from the street. And I didn't hear any sort of car, and I - I checked the weather, and it was completely clear, it couldn’t have been lightning, but I - I swear it was headlights, even though... I don’t know. It was strange. I just hope you might be able to offer some insight. Thanks.

[click]

Hi, caller - I know you meant these as two separate questions, a week and a day apart from each other, but I think that they might actually be the same one. Two questions opening a door to the same location, interconnected with one another. Is the place I live connected to another, different place? The headlights coming in another window, in another apartment, onto your wall, the same shape as the wall in that apartment, the same rooms beside one another, the same kitchen and the same appliances and wall moulding and floor ridging.

[searching music]

The same house in two separate places, occupied by two separate groups of people, living their lives right on top of each other without ever knowing. Do you feel them, sometimes, when you’re both in the same place at the same time? Two hands turning on the shower, or the stove, or sliding the lock into the door? A sense of deja vu but for someone else entirely?

In the end, it just... is. It’s just true that all of us are connected to each other in a thousand different ways. You have the same water bottle as the person across the quad from you. You have a mole in the same spot on your cheek as someone else does on the other side of the planet. You have the same taste for dark chocolate. You wear the same clothes somebody else donated, in a different way than they used to. There is no universal experience, no emotion that everyone feels the same way, no situation that every person goes through all at once. But any two people will have something in common. Any two people, if you look close enough at them, and at yourself, have some small - or large - human overlap, a small mirror reflecting back and forth and back and forth and back.

[click]

[dot-dash-dash dot-dot-dot-dot dot dot-dash-dot dot / dot-dash dot-dash-dot dot / dash-dot-dash-dash dash-dash-dash dot-dot-dash]

I, Ir - I don’t know. I don’t ever know. I don’t -

[dot-dash-dash dot-dot-dot-dot dot dot-dash-dot dot / dot-dash dot-dash-dot dot / dash-dot-dash-dash dash-dash-dash dot-dot-dash]

[click] [low background chatter]

I don’t have a suitcase, like everyone else, a backpack, any kind of duffel or cross-body purse or plastic shopping bag or tote. I think this is my gate, though. I’ve got a boarding pass here in my pocket, but when I fish it out, I can’t read the five or six letters of my name on it, the barcode, the arrival or the departure airport. But the door ahead of me is opening, now, into nothing. And the only thing to do is to see what other place it’s connected to [humming] - whose apartment is on the other side. I can’t stay here. That isn’t what an airport’s for. The only thing to do is to walk into the dark to see what happens next.

[click]

Thank you for listening, callers, and thank you for calling, listeners. I hope you feel a little bit lighter. I know I do. As always, our number is 717.382.8093. That’s 717.382.8093. Until next time. I’ll be somewhere.

[static] [Traveling Sales Rep: visit us at the - diner just off -] [Various Garbled Voices: the - road - provides - the - road - provides -]

Thin Places Radio is a podcast written by Kristen O’Neal and produced by Kaitlin Bruder. The voice of Your Host is Kristen O’Neal.

Tonight’s voicemails were left for us by Kaia. Editing and sound design are by Kaitlin Bruder, and the music tracks you heard in tonight’s episode are: the Thin Places theme, by Miles Morkri, and Umeed by RANA. If you have a question to ask, a story to tell, or a suggestion for the host, give us a call at ‪(717) 382-8093‬. The lines are always open.

[Thin Places Theme outro]

[dot-dash-dash dot-dot-dot-dot dot dot-dash-dot dot / dot-dash dot-dash-dot dot / dash-dot-dash-dash dash-dash-dash dot-dot-dash]

#episodes #019 #the apartments #codes #thin places radio #tpr #liminal #caller: kaia #surreal #thin places

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