#its displayed next to a moth i pinned

[plaguedoctormemes]

Nothing will baffle me more than my current-roommate-then-pal brought me a pinned tarantula hawk, a tarantula hawk they fucking ignorantly picked up with their bare fucking hand and casually scooped into a baseball cap they wore just because they thought it looked neat and knew i’d like it. And it somehow didnt sting them

[crucifiedramblings]

liability — unsub!spencer x bau!reader (part one)

minors dni, adult content ahead. minors/ageless blogs will be blocked.

summary: after a year of being engaged, spencer reid left you behind and resigned from quantico. you haven’t heard from him since, and your life has finally returned to a somewhat normal state. you moved into your own place, got promoted to hotchner’s prior position, and started to heal. it’s been two years since that fateful day when you get an unexpected visitor at the office— and you’re all alone. 

warnings: heavy smut, implied dubcon, manipulation/gaslighting, sadistic themes, pet names, oral (f receiving), fingering, overstimulation if you squint, choking, spit, bruising/marking

word count: 2.4k

next part: n/a

notes: so, spencer being an unsub isn't really discussed (there isn't much talking at all, if we are being real), but he is one of their open cases when him and the reader, uh . . . reconnect. he is more dark-natured and resilient than he used to be. this is gonna be at least two parts, apologies for any leading on i may have done here!

you rubbed your eyes intensely, powering through the last few pages of reports that you had to proofread before faxing over to hotch. when you agreed to take over his job, celebrating his success in moving up the chain of command, you never expected it to be so draining. you rarely got to go home on time, spending most evenings in your office when everyone had long since hit the road. your fellow agents often offered to keep you company, but you refused. there was no good reason that multiple of you had to have a spoiled evening. it was very odd being the boss, but also endearing. you had to make frequent tough calls, some nearly impossible, but it was part of the charm. or, at least, that is what you told yourself to justify it. 

you sipped your coffee, staring at the brazen plate on your door with your name engraved into it. you went as far as to move into hotchner’s old office space, filling the cream-colored walls with frames of pressed flowers and pinned moths. you were a collector of your favorite people and experiences; you kept a dart board for jareau, a mockingjay print for gideon, a colorful puzzle collage for penelope, and— unfortunately— a chess board for spencer. you had other things too, but those were the main items on full display in your office. although, you kept a group photo of you, morgan and hotch on your desk. 

you used the armrests of your chair to push yourself to your feet, stretching and starting the walk to the kitchen area. you made a small snack and a fresh pot of coffee, running to the restroom before pouring a new cup. the steam curled up into the air, the aroma of the grounds filling your nose. as you tried to enjoy the earthy smell, you couldn’t help but feel as though you were being observed or studied, like an animal in its enclosure — analyzed. you turned slowly, greeted with an empty room and a door that was slightly ajar, although you could’ve sworn it was closed when you came in. it was getting late, nearing almost two in the morning by now. your memory has never proved to be the most reliable when deprived of much-needed rest. 

you slowly tugged your way back up the stairs to your office, the elevators being locked down after a certain time. rounding the corner, you narrowed your eyes, confused to find your office flooded in darkness. the lamp had shut off when you were gone. you didn’t like how this felt — you weren’t losing it, were you? this floor had frequent surges in random rooms, so it wasn’t entirely nerve-wracking. you sighed, blindly making your way to the lamp in the far corner and tugging the cord to turn it on. you allowed your eyes to adjust, making a disgruntled groan when you remembered the reports waiting for you. 

as you turned to sit back at your computer, you were met with a very familiar face — doctor spencer reid. he sat, nonchalantly occupying your chair with a hairpin curve of a smirk on his lips. he looked smug. you weren’t sure if it was because he had been able to sneak past security without detection, or because he was able to sneak past you. your face fell flat, dropping the mug of coffee you had been carrying. it shattered on the floor, hot coffee spilling all over your leather shoes. you didn’t even care, so stunned that you couldn’t bring yourself to speak. spencer picked up on that, standing from the chair in one swift motion and approaching your smaller frame. 

“you look wonderful,” his voice was melodious to your ears, even if it shouldn’t have been, “even better than the day i left.” spencer let a low chuckle bubble up from his chest, gently grasping your hands in his own. you ripped away from his touch furiously, stepping back as your eyes stung with prickling tears that collected in the corners. 

“you don’t—” you sniffled, swiping your hair out of your face, “you don’t get to fucking do that! you don’t get to drop everything, abandon the people you love, just to come back whenever you feel like it!” you raised your voice, determined to make him feel what you had, “get the fuck out.” you gestured to the door and shoved past him, sitting in your chair and starting up the report you had due. spencer lingered by the introductory door plate, reading it with a chuckle. 

“you really made something of yourself, huh, angel?” spencer’s voice adorned a soft and flirty lilt, “i’m so proud of you—” he approached your desk once more, leaning across and steadying his weight on his palms. “i don’t think you really want me to leave, do you, pup?” he circled your desk like he was a starving piranha, placing his hands on either side of your chair and forcing you to have nowhere else to go. he leaned in close, face dipping down to your neck as he left a trail of haphazard kisses along your jaw and throat. he occasionally pulled the tender skin between his teeth, sucking down hard and fast to see what kind of noise he could force from your perfect mouth. “i think you still need me, even if you don’t want to.” spencer hummed, tongue running a stripe of saliva along your collar. 

“stop,” you weakly whispered, only because your pride wouldn’t allow you to tell him what you truly wanted; him. spencer had been gone so long, you almost forgot how effortlessly good he made you feel. the wet patch on your panties tripled in size the longer he toyed with you, but everything aside, he hurt you. he abandoned you. yet, in this moment, no hurt he was responsible for mattered. you knew that if hotch were here, he would have talked some sense into you. unfortunately, spencer knew how to melt your brain right out of your cunt in the most devious ways. 

“am i making you nervous?” spencer danced his fingertips along your collarbones and released a content sigh, “i’m willing to bet that i am— the way your breath hitches when i touch you, clenching your teeth and trying to hide any sign of how turned on you’ve gotten from the lightest brush of my fingers—” he took a brief pause, gently sliding your blazer from your shoulders as you absent-mindedly parted your back from the chair to assist him. “the human body is so strange; you could be the best profiler in the bau, keeping your emotions under wraps with no error, and your silent cues would still give away everything i need to know.” spencer’s voice dipped into a low, sultry tone as he felt the newly exposed skin of your upper torso. 

“and—” you cleared your throat, straightening your posture as you locked eyes with the other in an attempt to assert yourself. “what do my silent cues tell you, doctor reid?” you narrowed your eyes, trying to persuade your inner, more sex-driven monologue to stop thinking about his hands on your—

“you’re torn,” spencer started, “part of you wants to kill me for leaving you— but you have to understand, sweetheart— you would have just gotten in the way. you weren’t ready for that kind of lifestyle.” you were confused, to say the least, and his patronizing tone only made you more pissed until he grasped your jaw and forced you to keep eye contact. “i’ve been very bad,” he grinned, “and i didn’t want to bring you down that road with me.” his expressions, his dialogue— all of it was reminiscent of the likable villain in a suspense film; although, in your line of work, there was rarely such a thing. 

“what about the other part?” you spoke up once his grip on your face has loosened, hands shoving into the pockets of his slacks. it was your turn to do the profiling, you thought, observing his pacing from the door to the window as he was almost lost in thought. spencer seemed uncomfortable in his clothes, as though he had avoided wearing business attire since the last time he worked in quantico. to you, it appeared as though he dressed up for this interaction, as though he wanted it to be memorable. he wore white socks, wanting to bring more attention to his shoes— brown leather oxfords, the same exact pair you bought him for his thirtieth birthday. 

his voice interrupted your long-winded hypothesis on his wardrobe choices, and you noticed that he was significantly closer than when you had gotten distracted. spencer was now behind your chair, hands gently caressing your shoulders and chuckling to himself. “the other part of you,” he dipped down to whisper in your ear, “wants me to bend you right over your own desk and show you how sorry i am for leaving you behind.” you silently froze, any words in response getting caught in your throat. you couldn’t bring yourself to make a sound, as if any noise would make him disappear. 

“why did you wait so long to come back?” you quietly asked, and he immediately spun your chair around to face him. spencer leaned in, pressing his lips to yours gently and moving fluidly with you at your chosen pace. he hummed, pulling away as he lapped up a bit of your spit from his lower lip. 

“derailing your life wasn’t my choice to make, my sweet girl.” spencer’s dark eyes grew soft, although you could tell it wasn’t as genuine as he wanted to sound. “i always stayed close, though.” his tone made you nervous, as though he were alluding to something. your eyes darted to the computer screen, reading a message from hotch that had just been sent through, until spencer ripped the cord from the wall and pushed the entire system onto the floor. 

before you could properly react, spencer was back onto you, lips attacking yours with a newfound desire and aggression. you melted into him, hands roaming anywhere and everywhere you could reach. his left hand snaked down to your thighs, pushing your skirt up and applying pressure against the front of your underwear. you shivered, a small gasp flooding from your throat as his middle finger effortlessly made a glide down your damp slit. he peeled your panties away from your body, making a comment about how your wetness had pooled slightly in the lower half of your chair. your face flushed with embarrassment as you quickly kicked off your heels and allowed your undergarments to fall to the floor. 

spencer took his time with your skirt, knowing it was one of your favorites. he assisted you to your feet, sliding the garment over the curves of your hips and drinking in the sight of your bare lower half. his erection had been slowly and steadily pitching a tent in his pants as the two of you took your time, savoring each other as long as possible. 

spencer pulled you flush against his torso and kissed you with unresolved pain and passion, letting his free hand dip between your thighs once more to rub circles into your clit. you let out a conflicted moan, burying your face into his chest and slightly rolling your hips into his touch. he chuckled, removing his fingers from your sweet spot and weaving them into your hair. he grabbed a fistful, tugging your head back in a swift, hard motion. you let out a subtle grunt, eyes staring at him in a way you could only describe as lovesick. 

“can i be rough with you?” spencer asked, voice low and hesitant. you were confused; he never wanted to be rough before, although you always hoped he would be. you nodded eagerly, practically begging. you wanted tonight to leave you bruised and exhausted, knowing you may not see him again. his eyes were dark, and he tossed you to the floor with a grin. you took a breath as you hit the ground, lying limp for him as you wondered what he had been waiting to do to you for so long. 

you watched with curious eyes as spencer swept his arm languidly across your desk and knocked everything onto the floor. he effortlessly hoisted you up and bent you over the polished wooden surface, smoothing his palms across your ass before striking your bare left cheek with no warning. you yelped, clutching the sides of the desk with white knuckles. he hit the other cheek a bit softer, humming before trying again when the previous hit’s reaction wasn’t to his liking. you let out a slightly strangled moan as he continued to land another blow, making your backside a rosy shade of pink. 

spencer wedged his shoe between your feet, forcefully spreading your legs. he ghosted his fingertips across your clit and you quietly begged. he tugged your hair, lifting you up to his level, “keep your fucking mouth shut and i’ll reward you.” spencer dropped you back onto the desk, making sure to keep his hand on your belly to lessen the impact on your ribs. you quietly gasped as he shoved his fingers into your wet cunt, curling them into you painfully slowly as you pushed back into him. his other hand firmly held your hips in place, warning you to keep still unless you wanted him to stop. 

. . .

hotch groaned, dialing your phone once again. he was anxiously pacing his livingroom, trying not to wake jack as he started to feel the panic set in. he found his eyes tracing the whiteboard again, the old one he had decided to lug out of his garage because he was always better at connecting the missing parts if he could visualize them. hotch had several photos taped up, lines connecting them between scenes and witness statements. there were only two things he knew for sure about this unsub; one— the suspect at large had experience in the field of law enforcement, and two— the suspect had an abnormally high iq. coupling those together with the timeline of events, hotch had made a break; the unsub they had been searching for was spencer reid. 

all of his victims had looked a bit too much like you for it to be coincidental, and were all stalked and referred to as pet names for weeks before their confirmed deaths. hotch had been trying to reach you for the last hour, a strong suspicion arising that spencer was going to visit you at the bureau, and— if he didn’t hurry— would make you his final victim. 

in a worried haze, hotch clipped on his belt, securing his gun in his holster before taking off full speed towards the only place he knew you would be— his old office.

[zeraaachan]

i wanna be your slave modern au! genshin men x yandere! reader

summary:  in which the reader kidnapped the genshin men, not knowing that they enjoy the chains and the feeling of being their captive. character(s): il dottore, childe, albedo content warning(s): dark content, yandere behavior on both the reader and genshin characters' side, mentions of blood and violence, kidnapping, animal cruelty; they/them pronouns used for reader author's note: got lazy on childe's part. send me some asks plk.

il dottore il dottore is such a strange boy. he sits alone on his corner in the classroom, fiddling with another of his small experiments on his cramped and messy desk. with a crazed grin, he pins different varieties of bugs on his little boards. sometimes it won't even be little bugs. sometimes it will be bigger, a huge mariposa or a particularly large moth. but there are also times where they'll see him pinning something living other than bloodless insects. at times it will be frogs, who'll croak as he pin it alive to one of his flat boards. at days it will be birds, innocent and harmless, yet got their wings clipped by the blue-haired boys maniacal fingers. and at some days, it will be nothing. his board will be empty, void of a poor soul, as his nails rest on his pale palm and he eyes one of their classmates. a mad grin will always settle on the strange kid's half-covered face as his eyes rest on one of their classmates, as his fingers caress his board delicately and murmur something. like a maniac, he look at another human being as if controlling a desire to pin them like one of his poor subjects.

but that is when his eyes are not on them.

il dottore is that strange classmate of them. who wears a mask that covers half of his face and hoods whatever emotion his face displays. they can't even see what color their eyes are.

il dottore is a weird kid, and it's not a personal sentiment that only they have. a lot of their classmates do. what a weird teen that often gets his stomach kicked in the hallways. the blue-hair weirdo who only laughs and shields himself with his arms as some particularly nasty schoolmates assault his body. but strangely enough, the same kids becomes missing the next day if not lose a limb. one even got a hole on their palm as if someone drove a nail on it. huh, strange.

il dottore is a strange kid, a weird classmate, but an interesting one.

when they're feeling particularly intrigued, they'll peek their head over his shoulder as his hands commit crimes against nature. curiously, they'll ask intellectual questions about his pinned subjects and wonder for his purpose on his experiments. does he see it as an aesthetic? is it for a scientific purpose? or does il dottore merely enjoys the sight of a squirming living being, struggling to live and free its bound limbs? more often than not, il dottore doesn't answer… but he murmurs something under his breath, too quiet and even disturbing to be heard by anyone.

once, they felt rather nice, elated by a certain situation that now they forgot. in their good mood, they even decided to interrupt the assault on il dottore's poor body and lend him a hand. ah, he look particularly pretty with that nosebleed. perhaps they should've ignored it for a little more while to see more. but when dottore accepted their hand, his lips contorted into something that is neither a smile or frown, with a line of blood trailing from his nose down to his chin, they thought it was worth it. especially when they saw his crazed eyes on them. it's a beautiful red.

what a lovely addition he is… to their collection of beautiful things.

they're unsure whether the blue-haired boy is simply naïve or careless. he even failed to notice that someone already tampered with his drink. not that they will care if he actually noticed. all that matters is that il dottore is like a butterfly that got caught in their web. now, all for them to take. a blue butterfly for them to pin.

they watched as il dottore slowly wakes up from his unconscious state. as his red eyes takes on his surroundings. a ribbon loosely tied to his neck. more ribbon tied to each of his wrists, binding him to the armchairs of his throne. ah, il dotttore look quite beautiful with mere laces tying him. with easy to be ripped ribbons holding him together, like a present for them. a twisted one.

yes, il dottore looks captivating. but with his mask blocking his face, how can they see his beautiful red eyes?

and so they stepped closer to their lovely subject. they can feel his gaze as they watch them. but whatever emotions brew behind those beautiful ruby eyes of him that hides behind his mask, feels far from a prey. they cannot see it but il dottore's glare feels as if a predator eyeing another predator.

"how pretty." they finally murmured when their hands touch the material of his mask and lifted it from his pale face. how pretty. how beautiful. as the mask that became a part of their weird classmate was finally removed revealing something that is truly worth being displayed underneath. a giddy smiled slowly crawled to their lips as they stand in front of the seated and bound dottore. they watch over him, looking at him in the eye as a pair of ruby stare back at them.

il dottore have that crazed look in his eyes, the same one that glistens when he pins his tiny subjects on their board.

however, this time it is uncertain whether it is them he wants to pin… or it is him that aches to be pinned.

childe childe is dumb, a loud dumbass.

that tall, popular basketball player who is the literal star of the team. who practically shines as he place his hands on his knees to catch his breath as sweat glistens his body. childe, that rich, popular varsity player, who always get the loudest scream when he scores on the court. who sends a playful wink to their direction whenever he successfully made a shot. who more often than not got hit in the face with a ball for being too distracted looking at them. childe, that dumb and loud dumbass, who'll always run to them like a puppy whenever the game ends. who'll present them with a huge happy grin as he takes the bottle of water and towel on their hands.

childe, that loveable but loud dimwit, who'll bend to their height so they can feed him with his favorite snack that they offered.

he's that ginger who'll take a bite from the snack they prepared for him, chew for a moment, before grinning brightly again. as usual, he'll say in his happy-go-lucky tone. "you really know what I like!"

childe, handsome but loud, charming but naïve, popular but dumb. too naïve to even notice the dark look in their eyes and the smirk on their lips as he mindlessly drink the water from the bottle they gave him. too dumb in fact, that he even failed to realize the sinister trap laid for him. what a naïve and dumb ginger.

and since childe is so dumb, they ought to protect him. he's too naïve. innocent. he doesn't know what those flock of girls can do to him. they better protect him… and hide him from everyone.

but where's the naïve and innocent part in the man before them? where's that seemingly carefree ginger on the court? how can the childe they always see at school be the same ginger in front of them, tied with blood trickling down his nose yet he only chuckles. who only laughed louder and more maniacally when they slapped him. who only cooed when they told him that they'll ever let him escape. who now doesn't look at them with innocence and a huge grin but with dazed eyes and a bloody smirk.

where's the naïve and innocent childe? where's that dumb, dumb childe?

but it doesn't really matter, doesn't it? as long as he's theirs. as long as he's tied for them to selfishly play with. as long as he's a captive protected by them.

"i think I'll be keeping you here." they murmured as they straddle his stomach, the leash of the collar on his neck tightly held by them.

but they only got the same reply. a breathy laugh, one that is hard to distinguish between a moan and a chuckle. "you really know what i like." albedo

"how smart are you?"

once, they asked the golden boy, albedo. and it's not an overstatement to call him a 'golden boy'. he practically shines, especially when he sits on the classroom's window, his sketchpad on his knee, as the sound of pencil dancing on paper fills the air. he practically shines when the sunlight grace his light locks and the sun ray kiss his pale, pristine skin. as the wind blows his light hair and he tucks a stray lock behind his ears. ah, albedo, the golden boy. he makes a picturesque scene just by sitting on the window and holding the sun's spotlight.

but albedo is more than just a pretty face. when the heavens rained talent on mortals, albedo is on the cloud, the one  who makes the rain. a talented pretty boy, who's smart enough to advance many grades but strangely enough stayed on their class.

and it made them ask their question. "how smart are you?"

albedo looked at them with his azure eyes, the cunning and beautiful eyes that hides a certain intelligence behind them. not that it is a secret that the man is practically a genius.

"smart enough," he answers them, "to get what I want."

and it made them giddy. albedo is a pretty boy, a smart lad, an interesting kid. and the last matters more than the first two.

that's why albedo shouldn't have found it strange when he felt a hard smack behind his head. the golden boy shouldn't have been surprised when as he walk home on his favorite dark, secluded road, something hard harshly slapped the back of his head. he shouldn't be shocked when he just found himself chained on a chair, in the middle of an unfamiliar room. not that albedo looks shocked in the least. he looks placid, as if he belongs there and is not taken against his will.

and they failed to noticed it.

an euphoric laugh escaped their lips, giddy on the ecstasy of having tevyat academy's golden child in their basement.

"do you want to escape~?" they cooed at albedo, the key to the locks on his chains in their hand. the key, albedo's sole hope to escape, follows their hand movements as they wave it maniacally. "then escape! that is if you're actually smart enough to do so~"

albedo watched them with careful eyes, taking on their high form as they laugh in hysteria. they laugh in triumph as they got him at their mercy, his whole body bound by cold, heavy chains. they laugh in success as finally, they got albedo.

and albedo joined them in their laughter… for this is also his victory.

finally, the days of being interesting paid enough. the many hours of sitting by the window to look particularly captivating, the way he stayed in their class when he could've advanced, the dark, lonely path he takes purposefully to go home… all of it finally paid off.

apparently, albedo is smart enough to get what he wants… chained and a captive of them.

[fuctacles]

Road to El Dorado but Steddie?

Only a blorbo for @batboysxprompts Friday 13th event bc I'm running on fumes

"You seem awfully lucky today."

Eddie turned away from his loot, eyeing the man that approached him. The handsome face was distracting enough he almost missed the uniform. Almost.

He put on his most charming smile.

"What, is it a crime to be Lady Luck's favorite, now?"

"No, of course not," the man smiled back, and oh shit, Eddie's charm was being overpowered tenfold. The man leaned his arms (so, so toned) on the bar next to him. "It is a crime though to use weighted dice."

Eddie's eyes widened in scandalized shock.

"One must have no honor to do such a thing!" he exclaimed.

"Indeed," the man nodded. "Only spineless thieves use them."

"Ah, the worst kind of man," Eddie nodded along, trying to eye his exits but the man was leaning close and focusing on him like he was pinning a moth onto a display.

"No, I think there are worse people."

Eddie licked his lips.

"Who would that be?"

"Con artists."

Someone sneezed.

It was a trigger that made them both jump into action.

Eddie snatched his wrist away from a sudden grip and pushed his drink to spill on the man while he ran. The guard had more than a face to offer though, his reflexes fast enough to snatch on Eddie's bag. He's been living this way for years though, so he slipped easily away with a practiced twist of his body.

He ran out of the tavern without looking back, ducking into alleys and doors he'd engraved into his brain through the years. He only stopped when he landed in a forgotten attic with only one point of entrance. Completely out of breath, he fell on the dusty floor. Finally he could bask in his treasure in peace. He scrambled to get his bag open, shuffled through it, then upended it on the floor. His notebook, a few rings and some fruit tumbled out but there was no sign of the thing he cheated so hard for.

The El Dorado map was gone.

***

Steve Harrington looked at the only thing left in his hands from the elusive con artist Edward Munson. It was a scroll which upon unfolding revealed a map. It was a lot less descriptive than the ones he was used to, and more rumpled, like not once in its existence has it been stored properly. He wondered if it was worth enough to lure the thief back. 

That led him to the local library and the only person he could trust enough with such a thing.

Robin studied the map and compared it to various texts and illustrations until the night settled around them and he finally got his answer in the form of excitement sparkling in his friend's eyes.

He smirked to himself.

"Guess Lady Luck isn't so fond of him after all."

[lacefuneral]

hi!!! i love for custom blog theme,, do you have a link to the code or creator 0:?

ya!

so my theme is actually a heavily modified version of redux edit #1 by lopezhummel (current url: holyaura). i always remind users that most tumblr themes are old and that you'll need to replace all instances of "http://" in the code with "https://" so tumblr will save the theme. i had to do it with this one

these are the modifications i made to the theme. i edited this theme over the course of at least a year or so and don't quite recall how i did all of these things. but to the best of my ability:

i moved the "left side img" to the right side of the screen. i also made this element "responsive" so the image will never get cropped when you resize your screen. this was a bitch and a half to figure out and i truthfully do not remember how i did it

i deleted the text in the drop-down navigation so it appears as a little line that is otherwise not noticeable. this type of theme, the "redux edit," used to be very popular because having a drop-down menu let you cram a bunch of links that lead to sub-pages on your blog. i've done away with my sub-pages, but i still like the format of the "redux style" tumblr theme, for its minimal UI and for its customization options.

i separated my mobile description from my web description for formatting reasons. basically, most elements in tumblr themes are connected to specific text fields and toggles. i simply went to the section that was connected to my blog description and deleted it. the web description has to be manually typed inside of the CSS/HTML editor when i want to change it. whereas my mobile description is whatever i type in the "description" box of the normal tumblr theme editors.

i added code someone else made ("NoPo" by drannex42 on GitHub) which allows you to hide posts with certain tags on them. i did this to hide my pinned post, as it looks bad on desktop.

i replaced the tiny pagination arrows at the bottom with images that literally say "next" and "back" because the arrows were far too small/illegible. i know they aren't centered in the container i'm not sure how to fix that lol

i added a cursor

i installed a working music box ("music player #3" by glenthemes), and then added music by uploading MP3 files to discord and then using the links of those files as the audio sources. iirc i also had to make this element responsive and i aligned it so it would sit on the left side of my screen. i made the "album art" for each one the same strawberry pixel art

the moth is just a PNG i added and then moved around so it was behind my sidebar using the options that came pre-packaged with the theme

if you want something like the strawberry shortcake decoration at the top (called "banner" in the theme) your best bet is to google "pixel divider"

theme didn't support favicon so i added that in so i could have a little heart

ALSO:

this theme is. really weird about backgrounds. any background that i have ever set for it, i've had to do weird shit in photoshop. like making the background HUGE, mirroring it, etc. - because it would crop the image weird, or there would be a gap where there was no image. idk man, it's haunted. i'm sure there's a way to fix this but i am NOT tech savvy enough. anyway, patterns are probably your best friend. and if you DO want something that isn't a pattern, it's going to take a lot of trial and error. but i love this theme so i deal with it 😭

the sidebar image and the floating image do not scale. if your image is 1000 pixels, it will display at 1000 pixels. you'll either have to edit the code so that the theme scales the image for you, or resize any images before you add them

my white whale of theme editing (aside from the Weird Background thing) is that i cannot get infinite scrolling to work. i have tried every code out there. all of them break my theme. it makes me sad because like. i have music there for a reason. the idea is that people would listen to it while they scroll. unfortunately, the way it's set up now, the music will stop every time someone clicks "next" or "back" 💀

anyway sorry for rambling but i hope you enjoy the the theme and customizing it in the way that you want to!

[kaylakat2]

Now that I've finally gotten around to finishing my saved for later projects, I would like to share my insect pinning magnum opus. A shadow box full of nearly every insect I've ever worked on!

(Close ups and image descriptions below the keep reading. Image description also includes all speculative ids that are present on the labels you can see in the photos, so if you're curious as to what something is check there!)

I started this when I was still super new at the hobby, so some specimens are better preserved than others, but it's nice to see my improvement with all of them together. It's also nice to see a sort of representation of all the insect life around me with them.

A lot of these are also in rough shape since I scavenge all of my specimens (usually dead or dying), or am given scavenged specimens, and very few of them were raised or captured for the purpose of pinning. I think this definitely adds to the fun of the hobby though, since each one has a pretty unique story about how it was found or acquired.

Most ID's are also still subject to change and some are still speculative, since I do all my own research for them and am definitely not perfect.

[Image ID: One wide shot image of a black board with various insects displayed on it, with small hand written labels next to, above, or below each specimen. 8 images follow as close ups of each group of specimens. The first displays a painted lady butterfly, scientific name cynthia, next to two tomato hornworm moths, scientific name Manduca quinquemaculata, with two june beetle, scientific name cotinis nitida, and ten striped june beetle, scientific name polyphylla decemlineata, underneath. The second displays a white lined sphinx moth, scientific name hyles lineata, next to a nevada buckmoth, scientific name hemileaca nevadensis, and a monarch butterfly, scientific name danaus plexippus. The third displays two clear winged grasshoppers, scientific name camnula pellucida. The fourth displays two california mantis, scientific name stagmomantis californica, one is displayed on its back, the other on its belly. The fifth and sixth display two views of two scorpions, both either yellow ground scorpions, scientific name Paravaejovis confusus, or arizona bark scorpions, scientific name centraroides sculpturatus. The seventh displays a common green darner dragonfly, scientific name anax junius, and a shed dragonfly nymph exoskeleton. The eighth displays the exoskeleton of a giant water bug, scientific name abedus indentatus, next to a digger bee, scientific name anthophora spp, with a yellow faced bumble bee, scientific name bombus vosnesenskii, next to the digger bee. Below these three specimen are two other bee specimen, a western carpenter bee, scientific name xylocopa californica, and a valley carpenter bee, scientific name xylocopa varipunctata, as well as a yellow legged mud dauber wasp, scientific name sceliphron caementarium. End ID]

[futuristic-coffinnails-x]

The skeletal leviathan of the Senkai Aquarium, draped in neon tears, loomed ominously over Tokyo Bay. Tonight, six figures materialized at its entrance, not your average thrill-seekers but digital spelunkers – explorers of the code underworld, fueled by curiosity and rebellion.

Leading the charge was Replicant_ninja, their face concealed by a flickering glitch-mask, their cybernetic eye glowing an electric blue. Their motley crew, each carrying their own burden of defiance and intrigue, included N0x911, the stoic cartographer, their augmented reality visor humming with holographic maps; Raccoonn_gurl69, the tech-savvy jester, fingers dancing across glowing keyboards; Ice9prime, the stoic climber, augmented muscles rippling beneath mud-caked overalls; P0150n, the historian, their AR glasses brimming with forgotten lore; and Jumbo_Tox1c, the quiet observer, eyes scanning the darkness with unnerving intensity.

No ghost hunters these, not in the traditional sense. They chased whispers, whispers of a faceless kappa guarding a forgotten data stream, of a spectral fisherman trapped in the tank's corrupted code, his moans echoing like distorted vinyl. Legends, some scoffed, but in Neo-Tokyo's neon labyrinth, these spelunkers knew even legends held secrets worth unearthing.

Descending into the tank's rusted maw, the air thick with a cloying mix of salt and forgotten dreams, they carried bioluminescent lamps, their meager light swallowed by the darkness. N0x911's visor flickered, anomalies in the code like phantoms dancing in the machine. Raccoonn_gurl69's fingers flew, deciphering the corrupted language, unraveling the digital map. Ice9prime scaled treacherous slopes with practiced ease, augmented muscles granting superhuman strength. P0150n whispered forgotten tales of the kappa and the fisherman, his words echoing eerily in the confined space. And Jumbo_Tox1c, silent and watchful, felt a prickling on their skin, a sense of unseen eyes fixed upon them.

Reaching the rooftop, exposed to the cold gaze of the moon, the weight of unseen eyes pressed down heavily. A weathered wooden mask, its blank eyes replaced by flickering code, tumbled from a broken display case. Fear, a primal instinct, coursed through them, but curiosity, a digital siren song, urged them onward.

Then, she materialized, a woman woven from moonlight and static, her yukata tattered like a moth-eaten flag. In her hand, a single white lily, its petals pulsating with an unnatural glow. Was she a lost soul, forever trapped in the digital purgatory of lost memories? Or something darker, a glitch in the very fabric of Neo-Tokyo's reality? Before they could react, she dissolved into a burst of static, leaving only a chilling silence and the ghost of a flower's scent on the wind.

They left at dawn, empty-handed but changed. No concrete proof, no captured ghost, just the chilling knowledge that even in the neon chaos of their city, whispers lingered, echoes of a forgotten past waiting to be discovered. Back in their hidden den, their makeshift projector flickering the story of their hunt – "Senkai Echoes" – onto a dusty sheet, they knew this was just the beginning. The city, a labyrinth of forgotten narratives, pulsed with untold stories. And the six spelunkers, their faces etched with the memory of the spectral woman, would be there, ready to chase the next whisper, the next glitch, in the ever-shifting reality of their digital sea.

List of Characters:

Replicant_ninja aka Rep aka Edgar V. Malcolm

Raccoonn_gurl69 aka Coon aka Chyenne Warnick

N0x911 aka Nox aka Lisa Breckinridge

Jumbo_Tox1c aka Toxic aka James “Jim” Travis

P0150n aka Pin aka Peter “Pete” I. Neumeyer

Ice9prime aka Nines aka Melony Drake

PLOT GENERATED BY AI

[thesightstoshowyou]

May I request a part 3 to ribbon and lace?

🥺👉🏾👈🏾

You got it, bby! Sorry this took me so long to update. I was really stuck for a bit with this one!

Wings

Asa Emory x AFAB Reader

Part 3

Read part 2 here

Summary: You’re attacked in your room and call for help.  

Warnings: Heavy gore, blood, violence, manipulation

 ~~

             Your shrill scream pierces the silence of the room, disturbing the thing standing in the doorway. It’s a person, mostly, a man. His lower jaw has been cut in half and bent outward, a morbid imitation of pincers. His tongue hangs useless against his throat, dried blood and gore staining everything from his neck down. He’s naked and stumbling, eyes wide and wild.

             He focuses on you shrieking in horror on the bed. An awful gurgle bubbles up from the hole that was his mouth. The man ambles forward, arms outstretched, reaching for you.

             You scramble backward, nearly tumbling off the other side of the bed. The man gurgles again, spitting blood and drool from his useless mouth. You ease around the edge of the bed and try to dart around him but he surprises you with a sudden burst of speed.

             He pins you to the wall with shocking strength. He’s trembling violently, his hands frigid. Looking in his eyes scares you more than the sight of his mangled face; pupil completely eclipses iris. There’s nothing behind them, no soul. He’s just a wild animal.

             You scream and thrash as blood splatters onto your face and chest when the man leans over you. He tears at your lacy undergarments, groaning and choking on the gore pouring from his face. You don’t know what he’s doing; he needs help, but there’s nothing you can do for him. You can’t think, the blood rushing in your ears distracting from any logical train of thought. Only one thing comes to mind, one plan of action.

            “ASA!” You scream as loud as you can, praying he’s still in the building, praying he hears you. You shove against the man’s bare chest, your hands slipping in blood. He’s unmovable, tenacious, nothing but raw, animalistic power. “ASA!”

            Movement out of the corner of your eye startles you. The man shrieks, spraying you with a fresh coating of blood when Asa shoves a knife between his ribs. You’re released, stumbling away to cower in the corner as Asa sinks the blade into the man’s neck.

            Arterial spray paints the wall when the blade is ripped free from flesh. The man slumps, mouth hole bubbling with a few more labored breaths. He tips over sideways and sprawls out on the floor with a heavy thud. He doesn’t move.

            You stare at the body, vision narrowing to one of his hands. The nails are missing. How much pain he must have been in.

            You’re moving, you realize belatedly. Slowly, your head swivels and you stare into the broad chest covered by a black sweater. Asa is carrying you. You blink slowly, focusing on his pristine shirt. He didn’t get a speck of blood on him….

             Asa weaves quickly through the building, past traps, through a huge room full of glass display cases. You don’t focus too hard on what’s inside. You don’t get long to look anyway before you’re whisked through another door on the right side of the room.        

             A cool, smooth surface meets your bare thighs. You open your eyes, not realizing you had closed them. You’re in a little office, walls decorated with framed insects, papers stacked neatly on an antique, wooden desk. You’re perched on a counter, Asa busy at the sink next to you.

             Warm, damp cloth scrubs against your skin. You glance down, watching as Asa dabs at the blood and gore staining the front of you. He wipes, flips the rag, wipes again, returns to the sink to rinse, repeat. You let him work and allow your eyes to go out of focus, your mind mercifully blank.

             Movement in the corner makes you refocus. Two dogs, his German Shepherds, sit politely in the corner, side by side. You’ve seen them before, briefly, but still have yet to learn their names.

             When Asa returns to the sink, you slip off the counter and approach the animals, slowly. Two tails wag when you reach them, two sets of ears flattening when you stroke the tops of their warm heads. It’s grounding, feeling their rough tongues licking the crimson from your hands.

             The man…the dead one. Asa had done that to him, butchered his face and pumped him full of drugs until he forgot he was human. You should be feeling so many things; anger, grief, horror, disgust, but the only thing you’re feeling is guilt. Guilt for not feeling anything at all.

             “You saved me,” you murmur, scratching one of the dogs behind its ears. The other waits patiently, scooting closer to you in an effort to remind you his ears need attention too. Asa says nothing, and when you glance up, he’s watching you, leaning against the sink, bloody rag in hand.

             “I’m tired,” you say dully, tears welling up in your eyes. Asa sets the rag on the counter, turning and quickly striding from the room. The door closes with a quiet click behind him.

*

             When he returns, you’re asleep against the wall, two warm dogs piled in your lap. Quietly, Asa seats himself at the desk, steepling his fingers and leaning back in the chair to watch the steady rise and fall of your bloody chest.

             Things are progressing as they should. The death of the Mantis had been unfortunate, but necessary. He feels a tinge of regret; he’d been proud of how that one had turned out, but the important thing is you had reacted as you should. You’re reliant on him now, indebted, maybe even thankful.

             Asa frowns, stroking his bottom lip with a thumb. Still, you puzzle him. Drugged, you’d told him to kiss you. He wonders at your motives, wonders why you would say such a thing. He can see the hate in your two-toned eyes when he looks at you.

             The Collector turns in his chair, gaze falling on the contraption on the other side of the room. Delicate twin blades, designed to carve and strip flesh on two different areas of the body, one side a perfect mirror to the other. He’d been preparing it in your new room last night when he’d tied you up so beautifully. He would have used it on you, given you a lovely set of mismatched wings to complement your mismatched eyes.

             That is what the Rohypnol had been for, of course. He didn’t want you squirming, ruining the finicky design. He didn’t need to drug you to tie you up. You, who are so perfectly submissive when you’re awake.

             So perfect, and so infuriating. He’d second guessed himself. You had made him hesitate, a dangerous thing to do in this profession. Every move must be purposeful, every step controlled, but you’d made him weak.

             He should kill you. He can’t afford to be weak, not now, not when everything goes so smoothly. Just slit your throat and be done with it.

             Asa reaches for the knife in his pocket. A dog whines and you stir, head tipping in the opposite direction. Your eyes remain closed.

             Unbidden, the memory of when he first saw you floats to the forefront of his mind. You’d been hurrying to class, half-zipped backpack bouncing against your back as you jogged. Asa had noticed your hair first; how angelic you’d looked framed by the early morning sun pouring through the leaves.

             You’d stopped abruptly, bending low to examine something on the sidewalk. You extended your fingers, palm up, urging the caterpillar onto your hand before gently cradling it to your chest and hurrying to place it safely in a nearby tree. It was a curious thing to do when you were already late for class.

             Asa had followed you, took note of what class you were attending, then searched for you on a coworker’s computer. Your student ID picture had stunned him for a moment. Heterochromia, one brown eye, one green. Immediately, he’d known you needed wings, moth wings to match the future wings of the caterpillar you’d saved.

             But, once he’d gotten his hands on you, discovered how maddeningly irresistible you were…. Asa grits his teeth. He is not comfortable with being this unsure.

             He sits back in the chair again. Stay the course. He’s put too much time and work into you to kill you now. He just needs one more thing from you before he can move you.

 @little-lily-w @quiveringdeer

[longitudinalwaveme]

Longitudinalwaveme Reviews More Old Comics (and One New One), Part 1

I’m going to be doing these reviews in chronological order, starting with the oldest of the bunch. 

Batman #292: “The Testimony of the Riddler” 

This issue is actually the second part of a four-part story, “Where Were You On the Night Batman Was Killed?” Basically, everyone thinks Batman is dead, and a bunch of his villains are coming forward to claim the honor of being his killer. Catwoman’s claim was dismissed last issue; now it’s Riddler’s turn. 

The mock trial that the villains have set up to determine the identity of the killer is amazing. Ra’s al Ghul is the judge, Two-Face is the prosecutor, and the jury is composed of the Mad Hatter, Poison Ivy, Mr. Freeze before B:TAS gave him a good costume, Scarecrow, the Signalman (*snicker*) and the Spook, who I only know as the D-Lister beheaded by Damian Wayne. 

The Riddler begins his testimony, regaling everyone with riddles (some of which seem more like jokes, but whatever), and telling them about a crazy criminal caper he launched, during which time he posed as Bruce Wayne in order to steal a ridiculous jeweled typewriter ( “made of gold, platinum, and ivory...its keys studded with diamonds and rubies...its ribbon made from a Ming Dynasty robe....and its case encrusted with emeralds!”). 

Amusingly, since Riddler doesn’t know Bruce Wayne is Batman, his Batman is not at all surprised to come across “Bruce Wayne” at the party. Batman ends up following the Riddler’s clues to find the Riddler and the ridiculously fancy typewriter in a quarry, whereupon the Riddler uses a knife he has to cut a rope that was holding some rock slabs. According to Riddler, the slabs fell on Batman, pinning him. Riddler then blew him up with dynamite (which he set off using a latern’s flames).

As soon as he finishes his testimony, Two-Face calls him a liar; gets permission to take the entire court outside, sets up a deathtrap using the dynamite Riddler claims he used to kill the Batman, and orders the bailiffs to tie Riddler to the trap and light it all on fire. 

They do, and the Riddler promptly passes out. Two-Face then walks onto the trap himself, and nothing happens. As Two-Face explains, “dynamite does not explode in fire! It can be lighted only by electric spark or percussion!” 

Riddler is eliminated as a potential candidate and escorted from the courtroom (with an apparent $25,000 fine for the dynamite display). 

Several other claimants retract their claims, and Ra’s adjourns the court for the day. 

Also, Bronze Age Riddler makes a surprisingly convincing Bruce Wayne, all things considered (this was back when he still had black hair; rather than red). 

Batman #293, “Luthor’s Testimony”

This issue takes up immediately where the last one left off, with Lex Luthor of all people taking the stand in the costume you can see in the picture above. It’s...certainly something, all right. 

Cluemaster, Killer Moth, the Cavalier, and some random gangsters are also at the trial. Most are impressed by Luthor’s amazing(ly hilarious) new outfit, which I’m pretty sure he only ever wore once (for this trial).

Luthor does his usual grandstanding before launching into the story of his latest plot to kill Superman. 

Said plot involved a fake robbery to lure Batman into a trap that would allow Luthor to put Superman’s mind into Batman’s body. 

Luthor then punched Superman-in-Batman’s-body to death and launched the body into space. Luthor says that now he’s leaving to go back to Metropolis, where he’ll put his own mind into Superman’s body so that he may become Super-Luthor. 

Two-Face proceeds to demolish Luthor’s story, first by calling in one of Luthor’s goons to reveal that Batman had infiltrated Luthor’s gang by posing as a henchman, and then calling in Superman himself to prove that, in fact, Superman’s mind is still in its body.  Superman just dressed up as Batman and pretended to be Superman-in-Batman’s-body to fool Luthor. 

Exposed as a liar, Luthor storms out of the room, but not before yelling at Two-Face for “colluding with Superman” and insulting the criminal pretensions of everyone in the room. 

Also, Two-Face somehow managed to convince Superman to grant every villain in the courtroom amnesty. (Although if I’m remembering the fourth part of the story properly, I think “Two-Face” is really Batman in disguise, explaining why he was so easily able to get into contact with Superman and probably making the amnesty fake.)

The comic ends with the Joker’s signature laughter; he’ll be the last villain to give testimony in front of the kangaroo court. Sadly, I don’t have that issue, so I won’t be reviewing it here. 

Batman #296, “The Sinister Straws of the Scarecrow” 

Scarecrow has henchmen he calls “Strawmen”. They have weird costumes and exist to give him someone to deliver all his lectures to and test his fear gas on. As usual, his speeches to his underlings sound...well...like simplified college psychology lectures. 

Otto the burly henchman’s deepest fear is Batman. What a surprise. 

Phobias namedropped by the Scarecrow (and narration boxes): phobophobia (the fear of fear), pyrophobia (fear of fire), algophobia (fear of pain), pathophobia (fear of illness), taphephobia (the fear of being buried alive), inutilophobia (the fear of not being able to carry on one’s work) and “chiropterhomopobia”. The last is especially interesting since it’s not actually a real word; it’s a fictional one that manages to effectively follow the formula used for naming phobias. “Chiropterophobia” is the fear of bats. “Homophobia”, in this case, is the fear of men (homo referring to our species name, homo sapiens); therefore chiropterhomophobia would be the fear of bat-men. Good work with conjugation there, writer! 

Anyway, the Scarecrow uses a crook named Skibo’s taphephobia to convince him to give them the location of the turnpike bond money he stole from Gotham City’s National Bank several months ago.

The next day at the bank, the money is returned, puzzling Bruce Wayne. Wayne goes to interrogate a crook who talks in confusing criminal slang, who tells him that Skibo was the one who fenced the stolen bonds. 

Batman tracks Skibo down...and finds him being assaulted by the Scarecrow, who believes that the bonds he returned to the bank were counterfeit. This is problematic for the Scarecrow because it suggests that Skibo was able to withstand his fear of the Scarecrow and disobey his orders, which would interefere with his ability to intercept criminals who are obeying his orders to return stolent money and take the money for himself. 

Batman, Skibo, Scarecrow, and his goons get into a free-for-all that ends up causing an explosion. In the chaos, Scarecrow and the goons escape and Batman gets information out of Skibo about the Scarecrow’s plans. 

Scarecrow and his goons then go after a thief who stole a valuable Gutenberg Bible, but before they can use the fear toxin on him, Batman shows up and they use it on him instead. It affects Batman, but he shakes it off and manages to defeat the Scarecrow and his goons as well as capture the thief who stole the Guetenberg Bible. 

The story ends with Batman telling Commissioner Gordon that he found the case exhilarating. 

All-in-all, a pretty standard Scarecrow story. 

Batman #308, “There’ll Be a Cold Time in the Old Town Tonight” 

Some guy named Jacob Riker has betrayed Mr. Freeze. The man in question is promptly murdered by Freeze and his henchmen. 

In this issue, Mr. Freeze is wearing an outfit that’s reminiscent of Captain Cold’s, but with a bubble-helmet and pink shades. 

Catwoman shows up in Bruce Wayne’s office to tell him that she’s reformed and wants to invest money in Wayne Enterprises. Bruce agrees, and also agrees to meet her for dinner at some point next week. She also brings a cat with her to this meeting, because of course she does. 

Lucius Fox introduces Bruce Wayne to his daughter, Tiffany, who works in a drug rehabilitation program sponsored by the Wayne Foundation. After exchanging pleasantries, Bruce tells Lucius to give him a complete rundown on what Selina’s been up to, presumably so that he can know if she’s on the level. 

He moons over Catwoman for a bit before getting called into action by the Batsignal, and he subsequently arrives at the scene of Riker’s murder. The guy is frozen solid and very dead. 

Some rich guy name Mr. McVee comes to Mr. Freeze; he’s exchanging all his wealth in exchange for the promise of immortality. 

Unfortunately, the process turns the man into a Popsicle zombie. His body is alive, but his brain is dead. 

Also, Mr. Freeze has a girlfriend named Hildy, whom he loves and is planning to make immortal (as he himself effectively is). Unfortunately for him, she does not reciprocate his feelings and is using him solely as a means of staying young forever. Interestingly, she’s blonde, just like Nora usually is (Nora, of course, didn’t exist at the time this was written). 

Meanwhile, at STAR labs, a medical treatment goes wrong and kills somebody. 

Batman finds and breaks into Mr. Freeze’s hideout...and is promptly attacked by Mr. Freeze and his Popsicle zombies. Mr. Freeze dubs them his “Ice Pack”. 

Mr. Freeze manages to take Batman out of the fight by freezing his legs, which causes him to fall to the floor. This allows him to be captured by the Popsicle Zombies and put inside Mr. Freeze’s immortality machine. 

Batman is apparently turned into another mindless Popsicle zombie as Mr. Freeze exposits about how lonely his life is and how much he loves Hindy. 

Mr. Freeze leaves Hildy in the room with the Popsicle zombies, at which point Hildy starts to talk to Batman about how she thinks he’s cute and she’d rather be immortal with him rather than with Freeze (who she’s planning to kill in any case).

Unfortunately for her, Mr. Freeze overhears her and is predictably furious, pointing his Freeze Ray directly at her face. 

Batman saves her from an icy fate by attacking Mr. Freeze, revealing as he does so that he had only pretended to be frozen by the machine (having disconnected several of the building’s extra power lines). Cue another fight with Freeze and the Popsicle Zombies. 

Batman uses a piece of ice to break Freeze’s bubble helmet; preventing him from giving any more orders to the Popsicle Zombies. He then fights Freeze some more. The Freeze Ray goes flying and gets grabbed by Hildy, who plans to kill both of them. Unfortunately, the gun backfires on her and she’s killed instead. Mr. Freeze is arrested. 

Meanwhile, we learn that the dead guy was the Blockbuster, Mark Desmond, and that he isn’t quite as dead as the people at STAR Labs think. 

Justice League of America #167, “The League That Defeated Itself!”

The splash page is of Superman punching Hal Jordan Green Lantern in the face.

The explanation is pretty quickly forthcoming: the Secret Society of Super-Villains has swapped bodies with the Justice League. The Wizard from Earth-2 is in Superman’s body, Professor Zoom the Reverse-Flash is in Green Lantern’s body, Plant-Master is in Wonder Woman’s body (ew), Star Sapphire is in Zatanna’s body, and Blockbuster is in Batman’s body.

The real Justice League are trapped in the bodies of the villains and locked in a cube-shaped cell. Superman guides Hal into using his new super-speed to help them break free of the cube.

The Joker stars in a Hostess Fruit pie ad!

The villains have left for Earth, leaving the heroes (who are trapped in their bodies) alone on the JLA Satellite, along with an unconscious Red Tornado, whom they promptly wake up.

Naturally unaware of the switch, the Tornado attacks them and they fight. Zatanna manages to bring the tornado down using Star Sapphire’s powers, and the JLA go off to find their bodies on Earth, with Batman telling Zatanna that she’ll have to reverse the spell as their only magician.

Green Lantern gets some information out of Hijack (who I think is a member of the Royal Flush Gang) by pretending to be Reverse-Flash. The information helps them locate the Society’s HQ.

As soon as they break into the building, however...they’re promptly incapacitated by Green Arrow (except for Zatanna, who remained outside). Green Arrow is suspicious of the way Superman is behaving and decides to keep an eye on him and the others who “located” the HQ of the Secret Society.

Justice League of America #168, “The Last Great Switcheroo”

This issue picks up where the last issue left off. Ollie and Hawkman are supsicous about the behavior of their allies, while Black Canary ad the Elongated Man don’t think anything unusual is going on.

Eobard traps the “villains” in a diamond cell, and then the Wizard chucks the diamond into another dimension!  

The Wizard covers for himself by claiming that the “villains” have been put into “time-stasis” by “Green Lantern”’s ring. “I just tossed the diamond into an orbit around the solar system! They’ll remain there until science perfects criminal rehabilitation.” For some reason, everyone except Green Arrow immediately accepts this excuse.

Red Tornado breaks free of the trap Zatanna-in-Star-Sapphire’s-Body had to put him in last issue and criticizes the decisions he made in the fight with them.

Zatanna then arrives on the satellite and convinces Red Tornado of the swap that’s taken place.

Meanwhile, in Mexico, the Secret Society and the remaining members of the Justice League are, at least allegedly, guarding some jewels for the Mexican government. Elongated Man, Hawkman, and the Flash are also becoming suspicious of their supposed allies.

And then Eobard ruins everything in the most Eobard way possible: forcing a kiss onto Black Canary!

The real Justice Leaguers fight and defeat the impostors (except for the Wizard, who left to “patrol the city”)...but before he can step in to salvage his plan, Superman uses the Wizard’s own magic to take his body down.

Zatanna reverses the mind-swap, and the day is saved.

Was it this story that later got retconned to include more mindwiping thanks Identity Crisis, or am I thinking of a different storyline?

Flash #275, “The Last Dance” 

In this issue, Iris Allen dies! 

The story starts with Barry in the grip of a teenaged girl with ESP powers (no, really. Cary Bates, the issue’s writer, really liked the paranormal). His marriage with his wife Iris has been struggling, and she fears that he might be cheating on her. 

She’s also spying on him by bugging his costume rings with “micro-mini homing signal devices”, which just goes to show that literally anyone in the DCU can invent amazing technology at the drop of a hat. 

Stalking the stalker is Clive Yorkin, a character from the plot thread that’s been building up to this issue. He’s kind of based off of the brainwashing scene in A Clockwork Orange and hates the Flash and Barry Allen. 

The teenager uses her mental powers to force the Flash to meet her at a motel and take off his mask, which he does. She’s apparently disappointed by the results, complaining that there’s nothing remarkable about him, and promptly storms out. 

Iris arrives in her car just as the girl storms out, and discovers that she’s coming from the room that her tracker has Barry in. She storms inside and accuses Barry of cheating on her, then runs out in tears.

Also, right before she storms out, Barry looks at himself in the mirror and thinks “ “Ordinary”? What in blazes is that supposed to mean? I may not be Robert Redford...but I always thought I was sort of sexy...at least, that’s what Iris told me.” It’s mildly hilarious. 

Iris promptly gets into a car wreck with a tanker truck. Barry manages to save both her and the two truck drivers from the massive explosion that this causes. 

Barry convinces Iris that he wasn’t cheating and the two promptly make  up. 

Meanwhile, Mysterious Shadowy Man on the Phone tells someone to kill Barry Allen at a philanthropist’s upcoming costume party for all of the employees of Central City’s government (e.g., police officers, firefighters, etc.) The Mysterious Shadowy Man on the Phone will eventually be revealed to be the corrupt police chief of Central City, Chief Paulson.  

Iris and Barry decide they want to have kids, then kiss. D’awww! 

Iris’ costume for the party arrives; she’s going as Batgirl. Barry was planning to rent a Batman outfit, but it was already rented, so Barry ends up going to the costume ball dressed as himself (that is, the Flash).

Clyde Yorkin is still stalking both of them. 

Barry’s friend from work, Frank Curtis, arrives to pick the couple up. Hilariously, he’s also dressed as the Flash. 

The theme of the party is “Dress as Your Favorite Super-Character”. Iris comments “it’ll be interesting to see whether we get more heroes or villains!”...which raises a question: Namely, why is everyone totally okay with people dressing up as people who are, in their world, real costumed criminals? That’s always seemed odd to me. 

Clive Yorkin sneaks into the trunk of Curtis’ car and slips out as the other three head for the party.

Inside the mansion, we see a huge number of people dressed up as famous DC characters, including Hawkgirl, the Calculator, Heat Wave, two Green Lanterns, Zatanna, Aquaman, Green Arrow, two Black Canaries, Abra Kadabra, Batman, Wonder Woman, Professor Zoom the Reverse-Flash, Star Sapphire, Supergirl, Pied Piper, Poison Ivy, Captain Cold, the Golden Glider, the Top, mustachioed Superman, some guy in a purple costume I can’t ID, Mirror Master, the Golden Age Sandman, and Captain Boomerang. 

The Golden Age Sandman is actually an assassin in disguise; he was hired by Chief Paulson to get rid of Barry Allen before he discovered his corruption; he drugs Barry by “shooting” him with his Sandman gun. One of the Green Lanterns is actually Hal Jordan, who pops up to say hi to Barry and Iris. A later story will reveal that the Captain Boomerang in this issue was the real Captain Boomerang, and that some of the other Rogues were also actually at the party so they could, quote, “party and pick pockets”. Yet another subsequent issue will reveal that the Reverse-Flash at the party was in fact the real Eobard. So...which of the other Rogues do we think were at the party? We know that the Captain Cold isn’t real; he’s “Phil from Vice”.  That means that the Golden Glider alongside him is probably not the real one either, and it seems unlikely that the Top here is the real one, since he was dead at this point. So that leaves the Pied Piper, Mirror Master, and Heat Wave as possible candidates. 

Chief Paulson calls Barry to meet him in his office at 9 AM the next day; Barry agrees but notes that the man seems oddly tense. 

Curtis, still dressed as the Flash, goes outside for a smoke break and gets jumped by Yorkin, who mistakenly believes him to be Barry (until he rips his mask off, at which point he just throws him off the balcony.)

Barry sees a Green Lantern making the moves on Iris and gets upset until Hal reveals that he’s the real Green Lantern and congratulates them on their plan to become parents. He then flies out the window, and somehow all the party goers are fully convinced that it’s just a really elaborate costume. Huh?

Iris tempts fate by saying that “this might be the happiest moment of my life!” The two go off together to get some privacy...but then Barry begins to feel dizzy, as though he’s been drugged. Iris goes into the bathroom to get him some water...and then Barry hears her screaming! He bursts into the bathroom to see Iris on the floor, with Yorkin standing over her. Yorkin then jumps out a window as Barry runs to his wife. 

A bunch of the guests, including Mustachioed Superman, burst into the room to see what the commotion is, and Barry passes out. Curtis bursts in a few seconds later to learn that one of his friends needs a hospital....and that the other is dead! It’s a very effective cliffhanger. 

[staticscreenwriting]

Wonderful tonight // F.M.

Synopsis: Reader is Pope’s sister and her and Frankie have been dancing around each other for years. Now Pope is getting married and emotions are running high and Frankie and Reader are both single at the same time for the first time ever. It’s all about the longing, the yearning. 

A/N: This entire thing was inspired by that picture of Pedro in the header and how handsome he is. This is my first time writing for this fandom and I rewrote this story about 5 million times. If you like it let me know if you don’t then you can also let me know if you want. I did run this through spellcheck but it’s not really edited. I don’t have the time, honestly. Just ignore mistakes, please and thank you. Hope you enjoy.

[additional note: I am German. Sometimes I get the tense wrong or make mistakes. I am useless when it comes to punctuation. Go easy on me, please.]

“ One day I’m gonna stand right over there. I’m gonna wear an expensive suit and shiny shoes. I’m gonna get my hair done real nice, and probably have a flower pinned to my jacket. My hands will be clammy and my heart will be racing. There will be flowers, lots of them, all over the garden. We'll have a musician playing acoustic guitar. All my friends will be there, and — and our entire crazy family. And I’m gonna get married to the love of my life. Right here. And things will be good. People will be happy.” 

“ Mom will probably be crying. “ 

“ Oh for sure. “ 

As she steps out into the garden, (Y/N) can’t help but let her mind wander back to that one summer night a long time ago. Pope was fresh out of high school then, about to move out and start the rest of his life, away from home. Nights like these, sitting in the garden of their childhood home and sharing silly stories and hopes and fears, were numbered. That’s the thing about having siblings, it really only occurs to you how important they are to you when you’re faced with the idea of a life without them. So they sat there, on the steps of the porch, ice-cold cans of coke in hand and hearts open and vulnerable. Pope had never shared any of his dreams with her, not like this at least. But maybe him leaving home made him feel nostalgic too. 

Her eyes meet his across the aisle and he smiles at her with his signature Santiago Garcia smile, the one that’s gotten him out of so much trouble when he was younger, the one that looks so much like their mother’s. An ocean of flowers surrounds him, just like he said it would. And their entire crazy family has taken their seats, ready to watch him get married to the love of his life. (Y/N) has always been proud of her brother's achievements, in and outside of the army. But she’s never been more proud than today. 

Will softly links his arm with her’s as they walk down the aisle to take their respective places as bridesmaid and groomsman. The air is filled with the soft melodic strumming of an acoustic guitar and the perpetual scent of peonies. The rational part of (Y/N)’s brain knows that life isn’t like the movies but maybe, she thinks, sometimes life grants us a little moment in which we get to relish in a bit of that magic that makes those films so enchanting. 

Just as she’s predicted all those years ago, her mother is crying. Big happy tears roll down her blushed cheeks. If we’re being entirely honest, neither (Y/N) nor their mother had really believed they’d ever see Pope up there, wearing an expensive suit and shiny shoes and waiting for the love of his life to walk down the aisle so he can marry her and start their happily ever after. Then again, ever since he was little Pope always found a way to get the things he wanted if he only set his mind to it. The sky was and still is the limit for her brother and that is something (Y/N) is infinitely envious of and wonderfully amazed by at the same time.

As they reach the front, Will lets go of her arm and walks right to stand with Pope and the groomsmen and she walks to the left stepping up beside the maid of honor.

It all goes so fast from then on, one more bridesmaid and groomsman, the flower girls, then the bride. She looks gorgeous and she’s smiling the biggest smile. It’s one that just radiates with pure unfiltered joy. And there’s love in her eyes. So much love. The way she looks at Pope leaves no doubt about her feelings for him. It���s the most basic of all human emotions and yet the most complex to grasp though at that moment, in her eyes and his, it’s so clear to see and so easy to understand. 

(Y/N) feels her heart do a little stutter as she allows herself, for the first time that day, to let her eyes wander towards the row of groomsmen. This is, by all accounts, a bad decision that’s only gonna hurt. Self-destructive behavior is something she’s pretty good at though.

Frankie stands next to Pope like a rock, sturdy and determined and ready to catch him if he were to stumble or fall. That is something so enigmatic about Frankie. As flimsy and unpredictable he can be when it comes to himself, he’s incredibly loyal towards his friends and loved ones. He does not falter, does not shake. Not for his loved ones, never.

The dark blue suit looks good on him, it fits him like a glove and it must’ve been expensive. Though (Y/N) can’t help but feel like something is missing. This isn’t the Frankie she knows. The one she —. Granted, it’s been years but still, there’s something funny and peculiar about Frankie in a fancy suit. 

His lips are pulled up in a small, gentle smile. One that makes a comfortable warmth settle in (Y/N)’s heart. This man is both so familiar and yet so complicated. He’s been a constant in (Y/N)’s life for a long while now, ever since the first time Pope brought him around for dinner. Even without any blood relation, those two are brothers through and through. Will and Benny too. Those four, forever bound to one another by the horrors they’ve seen, the pain they’ve felt, and the family that developed along the way. 

(Y/N) loves those boys, they are as much a part of her family now as they are of Pope's and yet, something about Frankie always felt different. From the first moment, their eyes met, the air filled with a strong magnetic pull. Invisible but palpable. It was always special. Always. Frankie is the kind of guy one can call at 3 am because you’ve heard a scary sound and don’t feel safe and he’ll jump into his car and come check it out for you and protect you, no questions asked. And he never wants anything in return. He just gives because that’s what his heart tells him too. The world, (Y/N) thinks, needs more people like Frankie.

He’s not without his issues, far from it really, and (Y/N) can acknowledge that. But the sum of his faults does not undo the size of his heart. Somewhere along the way of their friendship things changed. It was a gradual change, slow and steady like water down a stream. Glances lingered, hands kept brushing more frequently and the air held a perpetual sizzle of static. Though neither of them ever admitted it, they both knew it was there. Hell, even the boys, foolish and naive as they could be, noticed. It was a well-known secret.

If life really was a movie, the two of them would’ve gotten a happily ever after by now. A dance on a rooftop, a kiss in the rain, a soft indie song leading them into the end credits. A gentle epilogue to a slow burn romance.

But life really isn’t a movie. Everything seems to be working against them. Mostly time and cultural conventions. This man is her brother’s friend. Her brother’s brother. You don’t date your brother's friends, that’s like an unwritten rule. But time is probably the worst of their enemies. It never seems to be on their side. They’ve never been single at the same time. Frankie went through several more or less serious relationships and while (Y/N) hasn’t found anyone to settle down with permanently, there’d been men she lent her heart to.

Last year, just a few weeks before Pope swept his band of merry men off on their suicide mission to Colombia, (Y/N) moved back home after ending a 3-year relationship. Dave was — he was nice. Nice and secure and stable and boring. Something about him felt too squeaky clean. That night, looking at old pictures of herself and the boys that were proudly displayed on the fireplace in her parent’s living room, it became abundantly clear to her that Dave wasn’t the problem. The problem was that Dave wasn’t Francisco. She’d really set her mind to it then, to pull herself together and muster up the courage to finally seek a conversation with him about the elephant in the room they both had refused to acknowledge for so long. She’d been determined. Then Pope dropped a bomb on her.

“So Frankie and his girl are having a baby.” 

And from that moment on she refused to let herself entertain any thought of her and him having any kind of future that went beyond being friends. It hurt, god it hurt like hell. But dreaming of things that could never be wasn’t doing her any good either.

Seeing him now, looking all snazzy in his suit and smiling, it sends a familiar shive through her body and makes the moths in her stomach go crazy. If only life was a movie. If only.

The ceremony passes in the blink of an eye. There’s happy tears, lots of them but love shines brightly through it all. Every glance, every touch, every word spoken. As her brother and his new wife make their way down the aisle, (Y/N) dares to take another glance towards Frankie and, for the first time that day, he’s looking back.

The world doesn’t shift or shake right then, doesn’t spin out of its axis. Nothing fundamentally changes but the air feels different. The electricity is back. The magnetic pull. The undeniable attraction. Just like that, they are both thrown back into this everlasting limbo of what-ifs.

(Y/N) looks away before her heart can break further, knowing what could’ve been and what can never be.

Weddings have this strange side effect of making you think about your own romantic entanglements. It’s not necessarily a bad thing or a sad thing. It’s just a fact. Seeing other people’s love being displayed so prominently, being celebrated, it makes you wonder. Will I ever find this kind of love? 

“ You know, I think you and I gotta have a talk.” Pope’s voice holds a certain edge to it, a teasing tone she’s heard so many times growing up.

“ About what? Shouldn’t you be dancing with your wife right now? “

“ Ah, she got caught up in a conversation with her aunt, something about corgis. Once that woman starts going there’s no stopping her. It’s — it’s a lot.” 

“ And you left your wife behind to fend for herself? What a way to start life as a married couple.” 

Pope gives her a chuckle and their silly banter makes (Y/N) feel like a kid again.

“ So I’m gonna need you to talk to Fish. “ 

“ Huh? “

“ Oh don’t play dumb. I’ve known you your whole life, kiddo. I know when something’s going on with you and something is definitely going on.” 

“ What’s my emotional turmoil got to do with Frankie?” 

Her older brother raises his eyebrow in mock offense. As if to say “you really think I’m that dumb?” 

“ You two have been throwing looks at each other all day whenever you think the other isn’t looking. Subtlety really isn’t either of you's strong suit. “ 

That, (Y/N) thinks, must be absolute nonsense. Frankie’s got a girl and a baby, there’s no reason for him to sneak glances at her. Clearly he’s gotten his happily ever after already and it doesn’t involve her. Pope must be delusional. Must have a head filled with cotton candy and all things rose-colored.

“ You’re on a wedding high, my guy. There have been no looks. “ 

Her words are met by Pope shaking his head in frustration. “ Look, I just — just please go talk to him. This dancing around each other is very high school drama and I love you both which is why I can’t watch this going on any longer. “ 

“ What are you saying?” 

“ That if there’s something there worth um — worth exploring, you don’t have to worry about me or my opinion on it. “

If anyone had ever told her those words would ever leave her brother’s lips, she would've called that person crazy. Not that they change anything, he’s still got a woman at home and a baby. But still — it’s nice to know that if things had worked out differently, Pope would approve.

“ Are you saying that if I wanted to date Frankie — which I don’t, but like let’s pretend I did. Hypothetically. You’d be okay with that? “ 

“ (Y/N), “ Pope says and his voice dips lower as his expression grows more serious “ I love both of you. I just want you guys to be happy. “ 

Before either of them can continue the conversation, the bride steps up beside them, throwing her arms around Pope’s middle and facing (Y/N) with a big, radiant smile on her face.

“ Sorry I had to interrupt but I needed to get away from aunt Lisa and her Corgie stories.”

“ Nah it’s okay, don’t worry I uh — I gotta go talk to someone. “

Pope smiles at her in return and a silent understanding passes between the two. Maybe the story wasn't all that hypothetical after all.

Much to (Y/N)’s delight, Frankie sits alone at the table. His suit jacket is lazily thrown over the back of the chair and the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to his elbows. This looks more like the Frankie she knows. The one she loves. Effortlessly cool and yet so undeniably charming. 

Sliding onto the chair next to his, she can feel her heart speed up with anxiety. She shouldn’t feel this way around him. Underneath all the feelings, this is still her Frankie, one of her best friends, a member of her little family of misfits.

“ Hey, you. “ her words are soft, delicate, almost as if she’s afraid of saying them. And maybe she is. A little bit at least.

“ Hey, stranger. Long time no see.”

His voice is dark and soothing but there’s an edge to it, a hint of teasing. 

“ Mmh. It’s been a while. “

“ Yeah, and with the way you’ve been avoiding me all day today, it makes me wonder if I did anything wrong. “ 

Oh god.

“ Dude, what’s it with everyone thinking I’m avoiding you? I’m not. “ 

“ You sure about that? “ Frankie asks and raises his eyebrow in question.

“ Yup. Just been a — a busy day. I’d never avoid you, I missed you. “ 

At least the last part of that statement is factual. She’s missed him terribly. 

“ I missed you too “.

There’s a truth in his eyes, a grounding honesty that is so hard to come by in people. Whatever words fall from his lips they are deliberate and he means them 100%. It’s something (Y/N) has always admired and appreciated about him. 

“ Sooo … I was hoping you’d bring a plus 1 today. “ 

“ Huh? “

“ The baby ! “ 

“ Oh. Oh, I think it’s way past her bedtime by now. She’s uh — she’s with her mom. “ 

“ Do you have a picture? “ 

Frankie scoffs, “ One? I got a bunch of ‘em. How much time have you got? “ 

As he pulls out his old battered leather wallet, (Y/N) can’t help but let a smile take over her face. It’s so fitting that he would carry the pictures around in his wallet instead of having them saved on a phone. Frankie was never the guy to get all obsessed with having the newest technological gadgets. Though he was smart as hell and good at navigating any and all electronic devices, he never felt the desire to own a smartphone himself only having caved and bought one a year ago when his old phone died on him. 

“ That’s her. Just celebrated her first birthday. “ 

The girl in the picture is undeniably Frankie’s daughter. She’s grinning up at the camera with his exact smile only she’s missing a few teeth still. Her eyes are the same soothing shade of brown and are rimmed by the same thick black eyelashes. She’s gorgeous and something about seeing her sends a pang straight to (Y/N)’s heart. What if …

It was one thing knowing that he was a dad but actually seeing his baby and realizing that’s his new reality, it’s strange. And while (Y/N) is happy for him, a part of her has a hard time coping with that realization. What if things had worked out differently, could that have been her life too?

“ She’s adorable. “ 

“ Yeaaah, “ Frankie replies and shrugs his shoulder casually, “ guess I did a pretty good job there. ‘s the first time in my life. Only thing I ever did right. “ 

Though he tries to shake it off and veil his words with a tone of mockery, (Y/N) can see right through him. The self-depreciation has always been a point of contention to her. How he can not see how wonderful he is, how loyal and sweet and loving, is beyond her.

“ Shut up, Frankie. Except for my brother, you’re the only guy I know that would drop everything to help me paint my kitchen at 1 am on a Tuesday. You’re so sweet and funny and I have not a single doubt in my mind that you’re an amazing dad. Stop selling yourself short. “ 

For a moment a quiet settles upon them that is neither comfortable nor awkward. It just is. And then Frankie looks into her eyes again and the moths are back going haywire. If only her future lay in those eyes, oh how wonderful yet foolish of a thought. 

“ Ah, I don’t know. Her mom doesn’t seem to think so. Left just before her first birthday. I mean — “ he sighs and takes a sip from his bottle of beer “ things between us hadn’t been good for a while and a breakup was inevitable. It’s just that I wish I could see the kid more. She’s my heart. She’s my everything. I want to be good enough for her, you know? So one day she can be like that’s my dad and he’s a pretty alright guy. Not that’s my dad, the ex-addict unemployed pilot. “ 

“ Frankie. That kid's gonna love you so much, now and forever. Because you love her. That’s all that matters. When you think about your childhood, do you think about your parents’ jobs? No. You think about how much they loved you and the good memories you had with them. “ 

Frankie stays silent for a moment, just looks at her with his big brown eyes, and then — then he smiles. 

“ Can I tell you something? “ 

“ Always.” 

“ When she was born. When the doctor let me see her and hold her for the first time. I wanted to call you. You’re the first person I wanted to talk to about her. I was so fucking terrified at that moment because she was so tiny and the world is so big and scary and I don’t know how to not fuck things up for her and how to protect her from it all. And you, when I’m with you I never felt scared, ever. You’re so good at making me feel like I can do everything and at making me forget about my own shortcomings. I wanted to call you so bad. “ 

“ Then why didn’t you? “

He averts his gaze for a moment, as if it’s a secret that weighs heavy on his heart. One he hasn’t told anyone before. One he isn’t sure he’s ready to share.

“ Didn’t wanna bother you. “ 

That’s not the truth. She can tell immediately. Frankie is a lot of things but he’s not a very good liar, at least not to the people that know him very well. Though she doesn’t push the situation any further. 

“ Pffsh. Bother me …” 

“ Didn’t think your boyfriend was gonna be okay with me calling you in the middle of the night. “ 

“ Well fuck him. “ 

Frankie raises his eyebrows in surprise. “ Huh “

“ Yup. “ 

“ Didn’t work out? “

“ Nope. “ 

“ Why’s that? “ 

Cause he isn’t you. That’s what she wants to say. That’s what rests on the tip of her tongue just waiting to be spoken. She doesn’t say it though, doesn’t have the guts. There’s an overwhelming sadness about getting your heart broken at a wedding and it’s not something she wants to experience today.

“ Just didn’t work out. Realized he wasn’t who I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. “ 

“ So you’re not gonna be the next one inviting me to a wedding and making me wear a stupid fancy-ass suit? “ 

“ No way. First of all, you look hot in this suit and you know it. Second of all, nah. I feel like this isn’t in the cards for me. I want —  I want a guy that I can call at 3 am to get chocolate chip pancakes at the diner and that will run through the garden sprinkler with me when it’s hot outside and that will ask me to slow dance at a wedding even though the song that’s playing is super cheesy and overplayed. Dave was sweet and he was secure but I always felt like something was missing. I loved him but we were never friends. I think that’s what I was missing. “ 

Their eyes meet again and a shiver runs down her spine. There’s a tension in the air so thick one could cut it with a knife. And for a moment, just a fleeting moment, one that passes in the blink of an eye, there’s the courage she’s been looking for for so long. The one that helps her push the words from the tip of her tongue and speak them. For the first time. Finally.

“ Frankie, he wasn’t y— “ 

“ (Y/N), Darling. It’s time for your speech. “ 

At that moment she wants to strangle her own mother. That courage? It’s never gonna come back. This was her one chance and it’s not gonna come back ever. Oh god, what is Frankie gonna think? What’s gonna happen to their friendship ?! 

“ Yeah. Yeah, okay. I’ll just. Okay yeah. I’m coming. “ 

She doesn’t dare even as much as glance back at Frankie. Though before she makes her way over to her seat where the mic is already waiting for her and the speech she’s so meticulously planned, she hears him call out to her.

“ (Y/N)! “ 

“ Hmm…? “ 

“ I lied. I didn’t call you when the baby was born because I thought It was extremely inappropriate to call the woman I’m in love with while the mother of my child is recovering from giving birth. “

The moths in her stomach are gone now. There are bats now. Maybe a swarm of birds. Something bigger than moths for sure. Her whole body feels like it’s on fire and simultaneously being splashed with ice-cold water. Her heart is beating faster and her hands are clammy and all she can do is stare and get lost in his eyes and his smile and this moment that seems unreal.

“ Honey? “ 

Her mother’s words break the spell and (Y/N) follows her to take her place at the table. The mic feels heavy in her hand though everything else feels weightless. Maybe, she thinks, this is what love should feel like. Weightless. Easy. Magical.

There’s a piece of paper in her sparkly clutch with a long and sentimental speech written on it all about love and finding your soulmate and all that stuff that, until today, she always felt like she didn’t really know anything about except for what they tell you in the lovesongs on the radio or the rom-coms on tv. And yeah maybe it’s still too early to feel like the world is an entirely different place now but those words he said, she’s been waiting for those words for over a decade. If there was ever a moment to romanticize her own life, to relish in the feeling of being loved, and to celebrate her own successes, it’s today.

The pre-written speech stays in the purse. Instead (Y/N) takes the mic and starts talking. Straight from the heart.

Across the room, her eyes meet Frankie’s and all she can do is smile, for it’s the first time in a long time where her future isn’t so scary. It’s exciting. Maybe everything else that came before was just the prologue and her story is just now about to really begin.

“ Hi. I’m (Y/N), I’m Santiago’s sister, and uh — I wanna talk to you about love. “ 

Weddings are hectic and busy affairs. There’s something going on at all times and it’s impossible for (Y/N) to find even a second to have a proper conversation with Frankie about — well everything. So much time had been wasted between them, on keeping their feelings locked up and trying to find the right moment. Now the moment is here and the conversation doesn’t seem so scary no more. Now the only thing that stands between them is this wedding. There are speeches then food then cake then more speeches then a picture slide-show one of the bridesmaids put together then then then. It’s never-ending and though it’s fun and (Y/N) enjoys celebrating her brother’s love, she wishes time would pass quicker right then. If only for once, time could be on their side. 

Only when the newlyweds have left the venue to spend their wedding night at a fancy hotel nearby and most of the guests have cleared too, (Y/N) finally finds time to sit down and just relax for a moment. No speeches to listen to, no uncles who insist on getting one dance with her, no bride who needs help holding up her dress while she pees. Just calm and quiet and —

“ Can I have this dance? “ 

His hand is reaching out to her and there’s a nervous smile playing on his lips. There’s something quite intoxicating about it all now that she knows he feels the same. All the anxiety is gone and replaced with hopes and dreams of a future that now seems like it might actually happen. One that’s been a “What-if” for so long.

“ It would be my pleasure. “ 

Neither of them is a particularly good dancer but it doesn’t matter right then. All that matters is that they get to exist together at that moment and in their little bubble. That they get to be close and sway left and right as Eric Clapton’s “Wonderful tonight” echoes through the room.

“ That song is so cheesy and overplayed, “ (Y/N) exclaims, “ I love it. “ 

Frankie places a soft kiss on the top of her head and it sends her heart into overdrive. Is this what the lovers in a Jane Austen novel felt like when their hands locked for the first time, just a fleeting whisper of a touch?

It feels exhilarating and (Y/N) feels alive and like nothing is missing. Everything and everyone is right where they’re supposed to be.

“ You ever thought Pope was gonna end up actually getting married? I didn’t see that one coming to be honest. “ 

(Y/N) leans her cheek against his chest as they keep softly swaying to the song. A tiny content smile settles on her lips.

“ Actually, yeah. It was always part of his plan and you know him, if he sets his mind to something he usually ends up succeeding. “ 

Frankie nods in response. “ Talking about your brother, we had a uh — a conversation earlier.” 

“ Now why in the world would you do such a thing? “ she jokes though not for a second does she lift her head off of his chest. He’s warm and soft and she can just about make out his heartbeat. This feels too comfortable to disrupt it for even a second.

“ He kinda implied that he wouldn’t mind if you and I — “ 

He stops, considers his words, rearranges them. 

“ If we what? “ 

“ Started dating? That sounds wrong, that makes us sound like teenagers. “ 

“ You know, it’s funny because he implied something awfully similar when I talked to him earlier. “ 

“ Huh. weird. “ 

“ Ya think that maybe this, “ she says and gestures between the two of them “ is also part of his plan? “ 

Frankie shrugs and moves his hand to her jaw, softly stroking her cheek with his thumb.

“ He always gets what he wants, guess we can’t break the chain, huh? “ 

“ Guess not. “ 

They’re so close. So unfathomably close. His warm breath falls onto her skin and he can smell the flowery scent of her perfume. The air around them sizzles with electric anticipation. 

Back when she was a kid, (Y/N) was obsessed with the Disney Cinderella movie. Everything about it felt so magical and wonderful and life held the sweet bliss of childlike wonder and innocence. And then she grew up and witnessed her heart breaking over and over again. 

Now that she’s standing here, in the arms of the man she’s loved for so much longer than she can remember, she thinks that maybe the movie wasn’t all wrong. Yeah, maybe it’s an overly sugar-coated fairytale where happy endings are guaranteed and things get fixed with a song and the help of some critter sidekicks. But the underlying message of them all, the most fundamental truth of them all is that love is worth believing in even when life gives you so many chances to lose hope. 

Just like the fairy godmother has said: Even miracles take a little time.

This kiss, warm and gentle and passionate, is a miracle in itself. If only for the fact that it has taken over a decade for it to finally happen. His lips meet hers and the world spins faster and slower all at once. If this was a movie, they’d probably show a montage of all their happy memories throughout their years of friendship, all the longing glances, and flirty touches. But this isn’t a movie. This is real life. She’s really dancing with him. He’s really kissing her. 

She doesn’t have to imagine any of it anymore because it’s happening right here and right now and life is so much better than any movie or romance novel or cheesy pop song. They can never live up to the real thing.

Neither of them wants to pull away though eventually their lungs demand oxygen and they reluctantly detach their lips. 

“ You think we should, give this thing a chance? “ 

Once again there he goes being so casual. As if this is not a decision that’s been in the making for such a long time now. An accumulation of years of longing and wishing and hoping and constantly missing the right moments and bottling up feelings.

“ Francisco Morales, I’ve loved you for a long ass time now. I am not letting you go anytime soon. Ain’t no getting rid of me, buddy. “ 

“ Good, I’m not planning on it. And I love you too, by the way.“ 

They seal it with a kiss and life feels like it always did only — better. Everything feels so damn right. The what-ifs are gone and in their place now stands a future worth looking forward to. One filled with adventure and happiness and love.

“ Hey, (Y/N)? “ 

“ Hmmm ? “ 

“ You wanna go get pancakes at the diner around the corner? “ 

“ With chocolate chips? “

Frankie scoffs “ Duh. What a question. “ 

There’s a lot of comfort to be found in romantic media though as they walk outside the venue, hand in hand and matching smiles on their faces, (Y/N) thinks that every once in awhile life itself makes for the best movie, the most magical moments and the greatest love stories. 

[bgyulix]

— just another edgy teen rom com

-> pairing: min yoongi x reader

-> genre: bad boy!au, high school!au, slightly inspired by the end of the f***ing world

-> tags/warnings: domestic abuse, child abuse, underage drinking, implications of drug use, also they smoke some weed but only a little, smut in future chapters, suicidal thoughts, despite all these its rather soft and yoongi is whipped

-> word count: 2,896

-> summary: min yoongi is typically someone you’d avoid, and definitely not someone you’d want to run away from home with. OR: having an existential crisis together on a bus stop bench in the middle of the night was not exactly the meet-cute you’d always dreamed of.

-> a/n: here it is!! i hope you guys like it, and if you want to be on the tag list just ask! im thinking there’ll be three parts, but there might end up being four, we’ll see lmao

-> chapter: 1 | 2 | 3

You’d been hit one too many times that night. It was inevitable that it would happen eventually; that a perfectly angled slap or shove against the wall would knock something loose, and you’d end up lying on a bus stop bench like a homeless person letting your wounds fester in traffic fumes.

The cold metal of the dirty bench bit into your thighs and the part of your shoulders where your jacket had ridden down. It registered somewhere in the back of your mind that you could just adjust your jacket and maybe shimmy your shorts down a bit, but you ignored it. You were perfectly happy lying here freezing to death.

Somebody had stuck some gum in the corner of the roof. Maybe you should take it and chew it and get a disease or something. That might be interesting.

Two buses came and went. The night grew longer, and colder. Less and less cars went past. Your shitty little neighbourhood had never been the busiest, and eventually the streets fell quiet and empty, with only the sounds of traffic in the distance and a moth buzzing around a streetlight to keep you company.

The pain of the cut on your lip and your black eye dulled down to a steady throb. It almost felt separate from you, the part of you that cared and the part of you that didn’t two different people arguing with each other while you listened in.

You heard footsteps, trudging up the street through sludgy puddles. They reached the bus stop and hesitated, like everybody else had when they saw your depressed beat up ass suntanning in the dinky fluorescent light. The part of you that didn’t care won out yet again and you didn’t even bother to look up.

They came and sat at the other end of the bench, by your head. You could see a tuft of shaggy bleach blonde hair in your peripheral vision. They shifted and grunted, their voice surprisingly deep. A sigh, and then they simply sat next to you in silence, and you absently wondered if they were waiting for a bus, or if they were going to mug you, or if they were having as bad of a day as you were.

“Rough night?”

You finally managed to move, arching your neck and looking at them upside down. It was a guy, maybe your age, with a nasty scrape on his cheekbone, in a camo jacket smirking around a split lip. He looked vaguely familiar, like you’d seen him around before.

Stranger danger! the little voice in your head that was still sane yelled at you. You ignored it.

“Yep,” you said.

“Yeah,” the guy muttered, “me too.”

He thumbed at his lip. It was bleeding a little.

“What happened to your face?” he asked.

“I got punched, I guess. What happened to yours?”

He snorted. “I got punched, I guess.”

“Welcome to the club, then.”

You settled back down, staring at the roof again. Your butt hurt.

“So, what brings you to my bus stop?” he said, his voice smug. You prickled at his tone.

“Your bus stop? This is my bus stop.”

“Nope, sorry. Definitely mine.”

“I was here first!”

“I’ve been having mental breakdowns here long before you have, sweetheart.”

You scoffed, sitting up to glare at him, your cold, tired bones groaning in protest. You noticed now the bruises on his knuckles, and the dirt stains - or what you hoped were dirt stains - on his shirt. His eyes were dark and catlike, watching you intently with something like amusement.

“I am not…” you grumbled, feeling suddenly pinned down by his gaze, “I am not having a mental breakdown.”

He quirked a brow.

“You’re lying in a bus stop in the middle of the night.”

“And you’re sitting in a bus stop in the middle of the night. You can’t talk.”

He chuckled, pointing at you. “Touché.”

A car went past. You sat side by side, hyper aware of his presence and the way his choppy blond bangs fell across his face and the way he was twisting the ring on his finger in his lap.

“You come here often then?” you said, casually.

“Occasionally,” he replied, casually. Just like you were talking about the weather. “Yourself?”

“Nah. I was just walking past, thought I might go somewhere.”

“But… you didn’t?”

“Don’t have the guts, I guess.”

“I get it,” he rasped, nodding sagely, “I always come here thinking I’ll get on the bus, and then I don’t.”

He pursed his lips, looking away from your face and to the road, glistening with dew and oil slick and hazy streetlights.

“Where would you go?” you murmured.

He shrugged.

“Haven’t really thought about it. Just…” he trailed off, gesturing vaguely at the street. “Away.”

Away. The dream of away was a fantasy, had always been a fantasy. One you consistently came back to after every fight, every hit, every curse. You rub at your eye, wincing when it stung. You wonder who hit him.

“Yeah,” you said. “Away.”

He sniffed, scratched his nose. Suddenly he shifted, straightening his back and his shoulders and puffing out his chest a little, any hint of vulnerability gone and replaced with smug cockiness.

“So you gonna tell me your name?” he smirked. You rolled your eyes at his obvious display.

“___,” you told him.

“Yoongi.”

Your eyes widened. So that’s how you recognised him. “Like Min Yoongi? The drug dealer?”

He scoffed. “I am not a drug dealer.”

You raised your brow the same way he had at you.

“I am not a drug dealer… during school hours,” he clarified. You snorted.

“Anyway, how would you know unless you’ve bought off me, huh?”

“We go to the same school. You’re a consistent source of locker room gossip. Everyone's scared of you.”

Min Yoongi rode a motorcycle and smoked under the bleachers and once told a teacher to fuck off. Min Yoongi could set you up with anything if you were willing to pay. Min Yoongi ran with gangs. Min Yoongi had fucked his way through practically the entire school. You either hated him, wanted him, or were scared of him. The rumours and chatter surrounding him was endless, and he did nothing to discourage it, getting into fights and into detention, showing up to every house party with arms full of weed and leaving one too many hickies on a girl’s neck.

And here he was in front of you, staring at his boots and shaking his head almost bashfully, you dare say.

“You don’t look so scared,” he huffed. You shrugged.

“I’m having a bad day.”

“Yeah, no shit. You look terrible.”

“Hey!” you cried indignantly, “speak for yourself, asshole!”

He laughed then, a deep, carefree rumble from deep in his chest. Your lips rose on their own accord, and you had to fight to keep the smile down.

He didn’t seem so scary. Apart from the blood, of course.

“You wanna get a milkshake?” he asked abruptly.

“A milkshake?”

“Yeah. I know a place that stays open late, not far from here.”

“Oh. Uh… yeah, okay. Yeah, that sounds nice.”

The place he led you to was a small, rundown building next to a service station, trash littering the footpath out in front, with a guy leaning against the wall puking on his shoes.

JO’S DINER, screamed the flickering neon sign. OPEN LATE!

You screwed up your nose and hesitated, eyeing the guy warily.

“That’s just Heegun,” Yoongi said, nudging you, “‘sup, Heegun!”

Heegun raised a hand, before he doubled over and continued to hack his guts up.

Yoongi barrelled through the door, gesturing for you to follow. You hurried in after him, giving Heegun a wide berth.

The inside of the diner was vintage 50’s style, with a checkered floor and red vinyl chairs, and records and pictures of old cars hanging on the walls. It smelt of motor oil and fries, and scratchy music was playing through the speakers. One of the lightbulbs above the counter was out, leaving a weird dark spot, and there was a puddle of… something collecting in a spot where the floor dipped. The waitress at the counter was chewing gum and scrolling through her phone, her classic white apron covered in grease stains.

“Jisoo,” Yoongi drawled, sidling up to the counter. Jisoo, an older woman with extremely thin, overdrawn eyebrows, sighed heavily.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said. She had lipstick on her teeth.

“It’s me! How’s it going?”

Jisoo raised one of her fake eyebrows, very, very slowly.

“You two look like shit.”

“Yes, we know. Thank you. Could we get two milkshakes, if you please? ___, what flavour you want?”

You started. “Oh, uh, just chocolate.”

“Two chocolate milkshakes. And a large curly fries, I’m fucking hungry.”

Jisoo marked it down on a little notepad, and somehow even made that sarcastic.

“Sir, yes sir,” she grumbled, and pulled out her gum and stuck it behind her ear, “take a seat.”

Yoongi sat you down in a little booth by the window and slid in opposite you. The table was covered in crumbs and the vinyl stuck to your bare legs.

“You‘re a regular?” you asked.

“Well, they know me by name,” Yoongi replied. He leant back and rested his arm up on the top of his seat, a dark blot against the garishly bright diner, somehow more intimidating in decent lighting than he had been in the dark. It finally hit you; you were in a shitty restaurant with Min Yoongi. You were having milkshakes and curly fries with Min Yoongi.

Why not, you supposed, it’s not like your life wasn’t already a disaster. You put your elbows on the table, the crumbs digging into your skin. You didn’t have the energy to be disgusted.

“So…” you began, and then came up blank.

“So…?” Yoongi urged.

“Uh… how much were the milkshakes? Because I have like…” you fished around in your pocket, “two dollars. And five cents.”

He chuckled again, rich and gruff, and you swear you felt it in your bones.

“Relax, it’s on me. Like you said, you’re having a bad day.”

“And you’re not?”

He shrugged. “Eh. I’m used to it.”

“That’s not a good thing,” you said, narrowing your eyes at him. He smirked.

“That’s life, doll.”

Life, indeed.

“So…” you said again.

“So…?” Yoongi urged, again.

“Is this what you do for fun? Come to…” you lowered your voice, just so Jisoo wouldn’t hear, “come to shitty diners in the middle of the night?”

He seemed amused, his smirk growing a little wider and his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Yeah. This is all I do. Just this, nothing else,” he teased.

“Well, what do you do then? Other than this. And drugs.”

He leaned forwards conspiratorially and cupped his hand around his mouth, like he was about to deliver a secret, and you found yourself leaning into him.

He opened his mouth and whispered, “sell drugs.”

You scoffed and sat back, brushing the crumbs off your elbow.

“Right, of course. Typical.”

Jisoo appeared, a cigarette hanging from her lips, balancing a tray with two milkshakes and a basket of curly fries on her hip. She brought it down on the table hard enough to make both milkshakes spill over the sides of the glass.

“There, you little shits,” she grated, her voice like sandpaper.

“Thanks, Jisoo,” said Yoongi, going straight for the fries. “Heegun’s throwing up out the front again, by the way.”

“WHAT?” Jisoo roared. You flinched. She stormed across the diner, her thunderous footsteps making the table rattle, and swung the door open with so much force it was a miracle it didn’t come flying off its hinges. “FOR FUCK’S SAKE, HEEGUN, YOU DICK, THIS IS THE THIRD TIME THIS WEEK!”

Yoongi chuckled at your shell shocked expression. “She’s a real piece of work, huh?”

You nodded mutely, and hid the way your hands shook by grasping your milkshake and bringing the straw to your lips. It was pretty good, all things considered.

The second the food hit your stomach, it rumbled audibly, and your head went light and frantic. You reached for the curly fries and shovelled the greasy things into your mouth like a starved man.

“When was the last time you ate?” Yoongi asked, eyeing you cautiously. You shrugged, which was a lie. You knew exactly when the last time you ate was; last night at 10:24 pm, sitting across from your father, listening to him rant about how much he hated his job. People yelling at mealtimes seemed to be a trend.

You both ate in silence for a moment, the sounds of Jisoo shooing Heegun away and an overhyped pop song in the background.

“We go to the same school, then?” Yoongi said, with a mouthful of food. You wrinkled your nose at him.

“We do. Don’t talk with your mouth full, it’s gross.”

He snorted. “Yes, ma’am.”

You elected to ignore him. “We have literature together.”

“Literature, huh? I’ve never noticed you before.”

“I try not to be noticed.”

“You some kind of social recluse or something?” said Yoongi, raising a brow.

“No, I just don’t like making a scene, unlike some people,” you told him. “Beside, I sit up the back, and Mr. Ahn makes you sit up the front, so.”

“Huh,” he hummed, tapping his ring against his glass. Jisoo came back inside muttering under her breath, huffing cigarette smoke everywhere. “It seems like you know plenty about me, but I know nothing about you.”

“Not much to know. I’m not nearly as interesting as you.”

“Oh, you think I’m interesting?” he drawled, smirking.

You rolled your eyes. “Well, you’re always up to something.”

“What are you up to?” he asked, jabbing a finger at you.

“Me? Not much.”

“Aw, c’mon. You got no friends, no hobbies? Nothing?”

He was watching you in that peculiar way again, like you’d just said something funny but he couldn’t quite understand the joke. He looked… interested.

“Why do you care?” you demanded, narrowing your eyes.

Yoongi put his hands up in mock surrender.

“Pardon me if I wanna know a bit more about the random chic I found at my bus stop,” he exclaimed indignantly, gazing dangerously at you from under his bangs. You faltered and your cheeks heated, and he gave an amused little huff.

“Um… well…” you stammered, and sipped your milkshake to compose yourself. “I, uh… I like music.”

“Music, huh? What kind?”

“Uh… any kind, if it’s good.”

“You’re really not giving me much to work with here.”

“I’m… I’m in a choir?” you offered.

“Oh, you’re a choir girl,” Yoongi said, “that’s cute.”

You scoffed. “Cute? Excuse me, that shit is hard. Do you know how to tone deaf 70-year-old people are? Extremely. Painfully. And they pinch your cheeks after they subject you to their dying cat noises! Choir takes a lot of effort, thank you!”

Yoongi laughed and grinned, so boyishly that for a moment he almost looked like a different person.

“I’m more into rap myself.”

“You rap?”

“Maybe.”

“Are you any good?”

“Well, that’s - that depends.”

You snorted.

“Huh. I didn’t know you rapped,” you said.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” Yoongi told you, and wiggled his eyebrows at you. You choked on a fry with laughter.

“Ooh, mysterious. Let me guess, let me guess - you’re addicted to anime. No, no! You cry at cat videos.”

“I do not,” Yoongi grumbled, “I have not once - not once - cried at a cat video.”

“Bullshit, you have too. I can see it in your eyes.”

Jisoo, from her place back at the counter, coughed loudly and pointedly in your direction, and you realised you’d been raising your voice. You lowered yourself back into your seat sheepishly.

Yoongi was still smiling, shaking his head in amusement. He was handsome, you thought. You’d never quite understood why girls threw themselves at him despite knowing the extent of his shady business practices, but you understood now; his mouth was soft and his jaw was sharp and his aura, while commandeering and a little intimidating, was relaxed and calm and familiar. You were having the strangest urge to reach over the table and brush his hair from his face, or maybe tap his nose.

He was… oh, he was cute.

He was smirking at you again. You were staring. Fuck. You looked down at your milkshake.

“You’re cute,” he said, and the milkshake went down the wrong way.

“What?” you spluttered uselessly.

“You’re cute. I can’t believe we’ve never met before.”

“Well…” you began, pausing to collect yourself, “...we have now.”

He grinned. You grinned back.

Yoongi walked you back to the bus stop, and when he asked you if you wanted him to walk you home, too, you refused.

“You homeless?”

“Just for tonight.”

He didn’t push.

When the sun rose, and you finally slunk back home like a dog with its tail between its legs, your father rushed forwards and drew you into his arms and cried apologies into your shoulder, like he always did.

I’m so sorry, ___. I didn’t mean it. It’ll never happen again, I promise.

He even bought you pizza for dinner - but then he got drunk, and then he did it again. Like he always did.

[eddiescouch]

To Know You Like A Butcher

If I were to carve a door into your chest and step inside, what would it be like at the heart of you? Would I journey through an entry hall filled with gilt-framed memories or would they be clothes-pinned like laundry on a line? Is your welcome mat well traveled with its greeting faded under foot or is it more ornamental rather than invitational? Does it wait eagerly to whisk away a visitors boots or is it greeting only on ceremony and not sincerity? No matter how it waits, no matter how it greets, no matter how you’ve framed the foray into yourself, I am here, and I am wanting to see the whole of you.

To carve a door upon your skin is not something without consequence. I have opened the door and let myself inside and I will not let that be for naught. I accept my fate. I will not leave no trace. I refuse to embark upon this like a burglar in the night. Like a ghost. You will experience me as I experience you. The stains of my boots will stay with you after I leave and you will know me. Your floor boards will creak to my step as you feel the weight of me in your halls. No matter how much I have cleaned my hands my fingerprints will leave an inevitable stain on something, somewhere, inside you. After all, you are not a museum and I will touch the displays. 

I want to see the shelves of books you’ve carved on the inside of your chest and run my finger along the edge of every book. I want to know the stories that fill the spaces between your ribs. What are the tales you’ve been told that make you so desperate to breathe? I want to know just what words you turn to for support in each and every breath. The spines of the tomes you’ve tucked into the vertebrae of your backbone lift you tall and keep you strong. And if I knew their titles then I would know you, too. 

I would recite their titles like a prayer- an invocation of you as much as your true name. When I whisper through their pages my voice would not be my own, it would always be yours. Just flipping through the worried pages paper quickly turns to skin. Their words come together and I feel as you feel. My eyes become yours. You see these books are the spell of you, written on your bones as you have put them there. They are your second name, and as I have journeyed to know you, I will remember this name right next to my own. 

In the grand halls of your stomach would I find a long table to fit a village? Or do you seat your round table at a wooden cable spool? It once bound wire that built bridges but it can still bind over broken bread just as tight. As your guest, what would you serve me? Would you serve me the precious sensations that feed you and sustain you when your table is empty and the caverns of your chest are dark? What are those things you squirrel away in your larder and use to feed your soul when your heart lies in winter? After all we don’t just need to feed our bodies, we must feed our souls. 

I want a taste of the sensations you keep tucked away to burn when the days grow cold and the nights grow long. I want to taste the molten sunrise of the peach of your dreams, blinding in its acid bite that melts into a kiss of sweetness. I know it will be like the sort of taste that slaps you across the cheek then kisses your bloody lips as the sting sets in. What is it like to stand in the moonlight of your mind? The gentle flutter of moth wings against the cage of your fingers before you set it free. What will be savored more, the gentle butterfly kisses on your palm or the sweet freedom under its wings. When you find yourself needing to grab hold of something, do you knit your fingers into the thought of dew covered moss? Does the fur coat of the forest make you feel like royalty when you wear its feel on your skin? Does it give you the courage to stand with your head held tall no matter the storm around you?

Tell me the sound of your beating heart, for that is something that is heard long before it's seen? What is the song of the thing that lies at the core of you? What is the thing that has been caged behind your ribs your whole life? Will I find a roaring dragon in your chest raw and wrathful after one too many wayward knights? Or is it something softer, deeper, more sonorous. A siren at the crashing tide, bleeding out like an exhale, rushing back like a breath. Is the beat of your heart the howl of a wolf that is gnawing at the cage of your ribs for something more, for a pack on a mountain it’s never known?

By the time I come to the chamber at the root of you, I have seen so much. Inside of you I have cut my way to you and for all the surgical precision in the world, I know I have cut you open that much more. I have created seams inside you, where you started and then where I began. There is no gentle way to get to this door. No way that doesn’t involve some blood on the floor, either mine or yours. Only you can say if it was worth it. Only you can say how ragged-edged the wounds I have left in my journey to know the truth of you. It is your choice whether you know me by the pain of knowing you, or the way I softly flipped the pages in your chest and my smile while I sat across your table. I may be at the brink of knowing the whole of you, but it is your choice how I sit inside you. 

A heart is a heart, and yet it is unlike any other. I wonder if you think you bleed the golden ichor of the gods, or the black blood of a demon? I can tell you definitively your blood is as red as any other human. Mortal. Fallible. Fragile. Just like any one of us. There is so much blood on the floor, both fresh and dried I can tell you’ve been through so much. What caused these silver scars to net across your heart? What tore you open all the way in here where you thought nothing would ever find you? How did you get so strong that you could bear all this? The flesh of your heart is strong and red. It beats on, not unafraid but despite its fear. You deserve all the gentleness of the world, but as I am compelled to know you, truly, I am compelled in this one last act of violence. 

I carve a part of your heart and consume the ruby flesh. The taste of you is immaculate. The taste of your blood on my lips is the taste of knowing who you are and it is one I would taste one thousand times more. My dear I am so, sorry I have caused you pain to know you. I am so, sorry I  have torn you open on my account. I am sorry I have left you bleeding and vulnerable in my hands, so I will hold you. I will stop the bleeding for as long as I can until you can stop it on your own. I will not leave you with the wounds I have caused. I promised you I would not leave no trace but I never said I would not take responsibility. So I will be with you. As long as it takes. For I am yours as you are mine. While I am here I invite you to come inside. To know the whole of me.

[jade4813]

Like Moths to a Flame, Chapter 8

Fandom: North and South

Title: Like Moths to a Flame

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: John/Margaret

Synopsis: “I hope you realize that any foolish passion for you on my part is entirely over.“ Margaret decides to confront John about his unjust judgment of her character, but the two have always been drawn to each other, and things quickly get out of hand. In the aftermath, she agrees to marry him to satisfy propriety, but she cannot forget how ready he was to believe the worst of her. Can love survive without trust, or will the two find a way to work through the misunderstandings that have plagued their relationship from the start?

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

As John put her back on her feet, Margaret told herself that she should release him from her grasp, but her hands seemed unwilling to comply. He seemed no more inclined to move away than she, his breath warm against her cheek as he gazed into her eyes. She longed for him but lacked the words to say as much. Nor did she quite know how to continue, her mother never having had the opportunity to guide her on such matters prior to her death.

Of course, she wasn’t totally ignorant of what was to happen. She had already given in to physical passion once – it was the entire reason she was now married, after all. But she wasn’t entirely certain how these matters were supposed to proceed as a matter of course. She assumed he would come to her tonight, but would he assume the same? Did he depend upon her to issue an oblique invitation?

Whether he felt as anxious and uncertain as she, or whether his thoughts were occupied on other matters, he asked, “Were you sorry to have to leave the dancing so soon?” With the millworkers expected to return to work in the morning, the celebrations had not gone as long into the evening as they had at Edith’s nuptials, but Margaret had been gratified that her new husband had stood up with her for more than one number. His dancing had perhaps lacked a certain amount of polish, marked by the occasional slight hesitation that suggested he was out of practice – but he had acquitted himself well enough for her mind.

“I’m not much for dancing,” she confessed. She enjoyed the occupation upon occasion, but she wouldn’t go so far as to call herself accomplished at the activity.

“I thought Southerners liked nothing better than to spend their days in idleness and their evenings in dancing,” he teased.

“For shame, Mr Thornton!” she cried in mock indignation, her tone too light to either cause or fear offense. “It hasn’t even been a day, and you’re already marking your new bride’s failings? It’s not the way of a gentleman, you know.”

His hands began to stroke the length of her back, his touch releasing tension in muscles she hadn’t realized she had tensed. His voice caressed her, encouraging her to melt in his embrace, as he replied softly, “I may not be a gentleman, but if you have any failings, I can’t see them. Forgive me?”

Although she was distracted by his touch, there was one matter that had preyed upon her mind throughout the day. Pulling away slightly, she looked up at him in concern. “You’re forgiven, provided you’ll forgive me in return for the day’s distractions. You’ve been working so hard at the mill—”

“A day’s loss won’t make much of a difference,” he reassured her.

They had been standing in the entryway, lost in each other’s eyes for far too long, even for newlyweds. Particularly since theirs was not a love match. The servants would talk – Margaret was well aware of the predilection for gossip in Milton – and her behavior would only reinforce their conviction that she had long conspired to trap the most eligible Master of Marlborough Mills into marriage. “It’s been a long day. Is there somewhere I could freshen up?”

John looked at her in consternation. “Yes, of course. I’ll show you to your room. I wasn’t sure if you’d prefer to – well, I didn’t want to assume.” Taking her hand, he escorted her upstairs. Halting outside a closed door, he displayed a slight degree of uncharacteristic sheepishness as he explained, “Jane set up your room earlier today. I hope it’s to your liking.”

Striving to hide her surprise, she pushed open the door and peered in at the furnishings, though she didn’t enter. “It’s lovely,” she acknowledged. Was there a genteel way to inquire as to the location of his room? It wasn’t a question she’d ever had to consider before.

As she pondered her predicament, she felt herself drawn to him and stepped back into his embrace. Their mouths met, and Margaret closed her eyes. Her heart started to race, as she wondered once again if she was expected to invite him to join her in her bed that evening, and if he would think less of her for being so forward if she did. Then again, she had been unthinkably forward in her father’s house, and he had still married her, so perhaps he didn’t find her unseemly for her boldness.

“And your room?” she asked, striving to hide her embarrassment at the implication.

“Next door.” He hesitated. Surely in time, they would grow more comfortable with each other, and these encounters would lose this initial awkwardness.

He was offering her an opportunity for her own private sanctuary, and she appreciated his thoughtfulness and care. She was even tempted to accept his offer, though she feared that impulse did her little credit. She was a bride, now. His bride. A lifetime of sermons had instilled within her an awareness of her wifely duty, even if it had failed to address some of the more pertinent logistics. But it was the longing in her own body and heart rather than any spiritual, legal, or moral decree that compelled her to move past him and enter his room.

She was unsurprised to note that it was a very masculine bedchamber, the furnishings large and imposing, but it was not without its charm. Clutching her hands before her, she made a show of gazing about her with an appreciative smile. “It’s perfect. Just needs a woman’s touch. I can have my things moved in tomorrow.” Then, afraid she might have overstepped, she added with a bashful smile, “Unless…do you mind? If you’d prefer your privacy—”

She was afraid of seeming too forward, but they were married now. Was it even possible to be too forward with one’s husband? Alternatively, was his decision to set them up in separate rooms due as much to his own inclination as his assumption of her preference?

He shook his head, brushing the back of his fingers along the curve of her cheek. “You’re my wife, Margaret. Everything I have is yours. Everything I am is yours.”

She had intended to return to the room he’d prepared for her, to ready herself for her first night as his wife. But when she felt the first brush of his lips upon hers, her resolve to leave him fled, and she melted into his arms. Lifting her in his arms, he carried her to a nearby chair, pulling her into his lap. His kisses were slow and unhurried, and he caressed her back, soothing her with his touch.

It seemed to John that holding Margaret had to be the closest he would ever come to touching Heaven. How long had it been since she had left that first, indelible imprint upon his heart? He could swear it beat now only for her – a fanciful thought, but wasn’t a man entitled to a bit of whimsy on his wedding day?

He longed to carry her into his bed, to do as he should have done that day in her father’s sitting room. To linger where he had once hurried, to request what he had once demanded and she had freely given in return. But when he kissed her, he could taste her fear, her anxiety, and that wasn’t what he wished for her on their first night as man and wife – or any evening after.

But if John was anything, it was patient, and if there was anything that was worth waiting for throughout his entire existence, it was this. He kissed her until she became liquid in his arms, her breaths warm and ragged in his ear. Then he lifted one hand, stroking her through her gown.

She stiffened at this contact, but he kept his touch soft, undemanding, until she relaxed into him once more. Only then did he pull away, resting his forehead upon hers. “Are you afraid?” he whispered softly.

 “Not anymore,” she responded in kind.

Though he shook with the urge to touch her, he helped her to her feet. Then he rose and reached for her, helping remove her dress and corset with much more care and a good deal less grace than he usually employed. She laughed when he attempted to assist her in letting down her hair, their hands tangling as they sought out errant pins until her hair cascaded down her back. Her sigh of pleasure became a soft moan when he ran his fingers through it, marveling at its texture, and laughed again – this time, with nervous shyness – when he placed her on the bed to assist with the removal of her stockings. As willing and pliable as she’d been, however, she balked when he reached for her chemise.

He was moving too fast, and he drew back, ready to wait until she was ready for him, but she reached for his hand, pulling her back to her. “May I see you?”

He was more than willing to comply, quickly shedding his clothes until he was stripped to the waist. Upon consideration, he left his trousers untouched. Although his bride seemed eager, he reminded himself that she had been an innocent, before he had touched her. It wouldn’t do to scare her now.

Returning to the bed, he stretched out beside her, forcing himself to remain still as she reached for him. Her touch was cautious, exploratory, but she couldn’t have more effectively teased him if doing so had been her intent. He closed his eyes and willed himself to relax, to regulate his breathing, as her hands swept along his chest. She seemed entranced by the play of muscle and bone, her fingertips tracing the lines of his ribcage and muscles of his stomach, which quivered under her caress.

When he opened his eyes once more, he was gratified to see his own desire reflected in her face, and this time, she didn’t pull away when he reached for her. Lifting her into his lap, he was drawn to her warmth, bowing his head to moisten her breast through the thin fabric of her chemise. She shuddered in his arms, and he swept his hands beneath the hem of the flimsy undergarment, stroking her soft thighs.

His own breathing was ragged as he grabbed the bottom of her chemise, but he waited until she met his eyes and nodded slightly, a silent acquiescence to his unspoken request. In one smooth motion, he lifted the garment over her head and tossed it aside, leaning her back until she lay upon the pillows. Then, resting his weight on one arm, he drew back to look at her.

Margaret, so bold in her passion, grew shy under the weight of his regard. A blush stained her chest, rising up her neck to color her cheeks, and she pulled her arms across her breasts to hide herself from his view.

“It’s all right,” he reassured her, placing one hand over hers. He waited until she relaxed once more beneath him to slowly draw her hand aside. This time, she allowed him to reveal her body without protest, though he could still see her uncertainty in her eyes. Resting one hand upon her stomach, he trailed his fingertips slowly along her smooth skin, marveling at its softness. A faint cluster of freckles dotted the skin between her breasts, and he found himself both entranced and enchanted by this unexpected slight imperfection.

“You’re beautiful,” he breathed in rapt wonder, wincing at the sound of his own voice as it broke the silence that had fallen between them. Everything about him was harsher and harder than she, including the edges of his thick Northern accent. By rights, he should never have been allowed to touch, let alone tarnish, someone as lovely as she, and he blessed whatever fortuitous star had shone upon him, to bring her into his life. “I’ve never seen such beauty.”

“John,” she whispered in return, her voice sweeping along her skin and twisting something beneath his breast. It hadn’t been lost upon him that she’d largely avoided calling him by his given name since their reckless coupling in her father’s house. Even earlier in the evening, when she had gently teased him, she had referred to him as ‘Mr Thornton.’ He hadn’t protested, fully understanding that she would require time to grow used to their (and undoubtedly unwanted, on her part) altered circumstances.

He treasured the sound of his name upon her lips and committed each instance to memory, well aware that she had only spoken it thrice since that fateful day – once, in response to his proposal; once, when she had requested a boon of him as a wedding present; and once, when she had pledged herself to him ‘til death they do part.

Even his well-honed capacity for self-denial had its breaking point, and he didn’t know how much longer it would last. Rising off the bed, he extinguished the lamps before quickly removing the remainder of his clothing. John was a proud man – and he believed he had every right to be – so it wasn’t shame that prompted him to undress in the dark. Rather, it was in consideration for his new wife’s feelings. She’d felt shy in her own nakedness; he didn’t wish to overwhelm her by a confrontation with his own.

Stripped bare, John climbed back into bed, pulling Margaret with him under the blankets, and he began to caress her body with greater intent and purpose. Lovemaking was an act which seemed more accommodating to a man’s desires, but he was determined to deny her no pleasure it was in his capacity to give. With his hands and his mouth, he explored her body, reveling in every sigh, every gasp, every moan until she was quivering in his arms.

With her back pressed against him, he thrust two fingers inside her, pressing his palm against her as he simulated with his hand what he longed to do with his body. She cried out, her head falling back against his shoulder, and his body responded, his hips bucking fruitlessly toward hers, but he didn’t give in to his own need until he felt her grow rigid in his arms, the cords in her neck stiffening as she became undone in his arms. Only then did he allow himself to move over her, bracing his weight on his arms as he knelt between her legs and entered her with an exultant cry of his own.

John wasn’t a “proper gentleman” like the men Margaret would have known in London, or even in her beloved Helstone. In truth, he had never wished to be such a man, but for her. He’d always believed a man’s worth lay in his actions, in his honor and his industry, rather than in the size of his purse. He knew the value of hard work and appreciated the satisfaction that came from a job well done. A life of idleness would suit him ill.

But he knew Margaret had always longed to marry such a gentleman. Moreover, a man such as that was what she deserved, sweet and gentle lady that she was. Had circumstance not forced her hand, she never would have chosen a man such as he, and though it was not in his inclination, he would try to be a proper gentleman for her.

How would a such a gentleman act, in an occasion such as this? He would treat her with courtesy and care. Gritting his teeth, John closed his eyes and tried to be so with her, his thrusts soft, slow, and gentle, but Margaret was both impatient and a quick study, and she had learned from their previous experience together. When he would have treated her with cautious gentility, she responded with imprudence, wrapping her legs around his hips and drawing him into her.

It was an unlikely reversal of roles. When John thought he should ask, she demanded. When he would have attempted to exercise care, she threw caution to the wind. The threads of his self-control frayed and he succumbed to his passion for her, thrusting into her hard and deep until he felt his own release wash over him. Then, for fear of how they would betray him and his innermost feelings, he pressed his lips upon hers and allowed her kiss to forestall the ill-conceived confession of love that struggled to break free.

Later, as Margaret slept beside him, her body curled into his and her head resting upon his chest, he ran his fingers through the silken strands of hair that tickled his cheek with every breath. Though his body was sated, his mind was ill-at-ease, fixated upon a conundrum at the expense of his rest.

Although he had fully enjoyed their lovemaking, he could no longer ignore the signs of her innocence and unfamiliarity with the act. Her modesty and inexperience felt too genuine to have been feigned, and while he treasured their first kisses, he could vividly recall her initial awkwardness that spoke of a lack of practice. But how could that be, if Margaret had enjoyed the attentions of another lover? She’d sworn her innocence and his misunderstanding of the embrace she’d exchanged with the stranger on the train platform. Had she been telling the truth?

He also had to acknowledge an inability to reconcile the conflict within his own mind regarding his perception of her. In his jealousy and heartbreak, he’d believed her to be capable of bestowing her charms upon another, but his heart and mind were almost cruel in their conviction that he could never aspire to deserve a woman such as her, that she was too far above the likes of him. So which was it? The lightskirt or the lady? The wanton or the innocent?

Everything within him (save, perhaps, for his wounded pride) believed her incapable of the charges he’d once laid upon her doorstep. He wouldn’t have loved her before – he wouldn’t love her still – if he truly believed in her disreputability and shame. With his life’s breath, he would vow that she’d do nothing to dishonor him or their marriage. How could he hold so deep a conviction if he truly had no faith in her or her character?

And yet he couldn’t pretend that his accusations had been without either cause or merit. He’d seen her on that train platform, embracing another man. She’d sworn the embrace was innocent, but how could it be? He wasn’t her father, who might be entitled to claim such evidence of attachment, and she had no brother – at least, none that either she or her father had ever claimed. Why would they keep such a man secret if he were to exist? It didn’t make sense that they would do so, but that left the question of who could he have been, that such an embrace could have been apparent and yet blameless?

Furthermore, if she was innocent of the implication of such improper conduct, why wouldn’t she confess the truth of the situation to clear her reputation of any untoward and unjust accusation? And why in heaven’s name had she agreed to marry him? He might be willing to fool himself into believing that her passion for him had been too great to ignore, but not even for the sake of his own broken heart could he ever deceive himself that she had developed a genuine attachment for him.

“I do not love you. I never have. I never will.” No, there was no attachment there, not on her part, at any rate. Not even in his most desperate and fanciful imaginings could he delude himself into believing her feelings for him had changed over the course of their engagement.

Had she married him in the hopes he could provide for her a secure future? If so, he could hardly blame her for it, though the situation at the mill was too precarious for him to have unwavering confidence in his ability to do so at present. He had warned her as much, and while it was true that she’d kindly rejected his offer to cry off the engagement, she didn’t have to care for him to have faith in his business acumen. She might have been willing to gamble her future on the belief that they wouldn’t suffer under financial constraints for long. Perhaps she’d decided he was worth the risk, particularly given the comparative dearth of other suitable prospects in Milton.

That she’d married him to secure her future was the only possible conclusion his mind could reach, and yet it rested poorly in his heart. And so, while Margaret slumbered in contented peace, John wrestled with the confusion and doubt that continued to plague him until the faint light of dawn spilled through his bedroom window and he finally, mercifully, followed her into a dreamless sleep.

[aikatxt]

in empty fields beneath neon lights

i. wings

my grandmother used to have the walls of her house covered in insect wings, pinned against cork boards and kept safe behind a wall of glass. hundreds of brown moth wings, put up for display. in the sitting room, the prettiest wings were left for guest to peer at; vibrant blues and reds and oranges, stripes and stained glass patterns.

i don’t know what happened to all those insect wings. the house seemed to dim and darken, then crumble after she died. the glass-like dragonfly wings vanished; those were the ones that captivated me most in my early years.

i wonder what it means that i can only think of the dead when i see a dragonfly pass by.

the cemetery where my grandmother is buried is old; like everything else in small towns, it has a history we’ve all forgotten. but i don’t visit for my grandmother most days. no, it’s the weather-worn angel that always catches my attention. i know it stands guard over an empty grave;  they never found her body, and after twenty years, it’s clear she will  always be a case that cannot be solved.

its wings are chipped and grey, hands clasped and the stone veil over its head gives only the faintest hint of a face.

the name on the headstone it stands over reads:

                                          Myra Victoria Ksapre

                                          July 15, 1981 - 2009

                                       Lost, but never Forgotten

i wonder about her sometimes. leave flowers at my grandmother’s grave, then sit before the memory of myra and quietly tell her about the butterflies that often rest on her angel’s shoulders.

there is something enchanting about watching a butterfly flutter its wings, gently moving them to keep the wind from blowing it over. i think of my grandmother teaching me how to pull apart a butterfly without damaging the wings, of her hands cradling the tiny corpse, of those hands on my shoulder as she instructs me on how to pin it up.

i leave, and the butterflies keep their wings.

ii. neon

they’ve added more lights since i was last here. like everyone else my age, i  had longed to leave the slow, tired life a our small town behind. unlike most of them, i managed to find my way out into the world and tried to leave the past behind me.

it’s an old story: running away and becoming someone else. and it always ends the same.

i come back, and my ghosts remain with me.

i  haven’t told my mother that i’m back yet. i haven’t spoken to my father in six years. so i leave my suitcase against the wall of this small  hotel room and look out over the once familiar streets. it’s near midnight, and the neon green sign for the next door bar illuminates the street and transforms the groups of stumbling, laughing people into  something more magical.

a moth flies by, moving sporadically, up and down but forwards nonetheless. i watch it fly towards the neon sign  that spells the hotel’s name. it’s too small for me to keep sight of as  it moves away from my window, but i can clearly imagine the little moth  hitting the light and the heat ending its life quickly and painfully.

a  memory returns to me suddenly: a humid summer night, laughing as i chased after fireflies in a grassy field, my grandmother cradling a moth in her hands and my grandfather speaking to someone in hushed tones near their old car.

it’s been a long time since i last thought of them. been a long time since they were buried.

though it’s past midnight, i doubted that i would get any sleep soon, so i  head down to the bar across the street in the hopes that a drink would  get my mind off of things. the neon lights feel nostalgic in a strange way and i am suddenly struck with the realization that my youth is gone, escaped me years ago and i was too focused on running away to notice.

on a cork board stuck outside the old movie theater that closed down when i was in middle school, i see myra’s face suddenly, half hidden in  shadow. the missing sign is weathered and worn, but her smile hasn’t changed.  

the only people who can keep their youth are the ones who die young.

iii. roses

the house has fallen apart. faded graffiti decorates the walls both inside  and outside. the yard my grandmother once cared for is overgrown and  wild.

on the edge of the town, with the nearest neighbor being a mile down the dirt road, it’s clear that this house has been forgotten. no one wants to buy it, so no one wants to fix it up. abandoned, my grandparent’s house is slowly being reclaimed by nature.

the rose bushes my mother helped plant have grown large and unruly. they cling to the chain-link fence that surrounds the house. i have to wrestle with the branches just to open the gate, and thorns cut through  my skin as i make my way up the barely visible path to the front door.

the lock on the door has been broken. i’m sure the bolder teenagers must have broken in, telling each other ghost stories and scaring each other  as they looked through the aging rooms of the house.

with the early afternoon light coming in through broken and dusty windows, the house is filled with golden light. the floorboards creak under my feet as i walk around, looking at how a place once so familiar has changed. though the frames filled with insect wings and bodies have disappeared, couches and tables have been left behind. the dining table still has the marks made by a seven year old me trying to saw through it with a  butter knife.

i wander aimlessly. i don’t try to go upstairs;  the wood is old and decayed and though i may not care much for my own health, i still don’t want to fall through the steps.

there’s a door in the hallway i don’t remember. it opens easily, the hinges loud in the silent house, and any light that makes it through the windows  disappears here. there’s a staircase that goes down into darkness.

i would have remembered this. why don’t i?

with my phone as a flashlight, i descend.

iv. chalk

it smells like mold and dust, so strong it feels like it coats the inside  of my mouth. i put a hand over my mouth and nose and force myself forward.

there are no windows. there’s not much of anything. but against the walls, i find a few frames, glass cracked, holding the dusty remains of insects. the dragonflies are among them. i want to take them back up, pack them beneath the clothes in my suitcase, but my eyes keep going back to the far corner of the basement.

i can’t see anything, but i know something is there.

heart in my throat, i make my way deeper; the walls seem to press down on me, a part of me screams to run away and never come back, but i force myself to put one foot in front of the other. i accidentally kick something, and when i look down, i see green chalk slowly rolling away  from me.

distantly i remember my mother talking to my grandmother: ‘i never did find my chalk after that summer. and you never bought me any again. did you ever tell me why?’  my grandmother’s elusive smiles, her apple cakes, her insects. the old photographs in the family albums of my mother as a child, drawing colorful illustrations on the concrete of the garage.

when i look up, the light of my phone illuminates the bones peeking out of old clothes, the type my mother wore when she was younger.

“it was my father you know,” says a girl emerging from the shadows. her features are blurry. “asked your father to hide me down here and never speak a word of it. what do you think of that, sophie? your best friend beneath you and you never noticed.”

this girl mistook me for my mother. a dreadful understanding dawned on me.

“sophie is my mother. she never told me that she knew you.”

“your mother? how long has it been?”

she steps closer. it’s easier to see her now. see that same face, the same eyes as those missing posters, just without the smile.

“very long. we’re a small town. your disappearance turned you into a legend, myra.”

“they did the same thing to johann when i was still alive.” she stops just a  few feet away from me. “i need you to do something for me,” she says.

i stare at her, the girl whose empty grave i sat near, whose face haunted my entire life in this town, whose memory was only shared in whispers  and tears.

“anything,” i promise.

v. rituals

i  wonder if my grandmother knew. she must have; the missing chalk she kept from my mother means she must have seen the body. the questions i  asked as a child about myra had been answered with the words found in the news about her disappearance. i wonder if her hands that pulled  apart insects were red with the blood of others.

my mother must never know. no one can ever know.

myra’s father and my grandfather are dead. who would take on the consequences of a murder over twenty years old?

i go back to my hotel room. i text my mother and promise to visit her in  two days. i shower and get a drink. i go through the slow ritual of getting ready for bed, thoughts a thousand miles away. i dream of myra, young and alive, and wonder why?

these are answers i will never have. this is a secret i will carry to my grave. the sins of my grandfather are the ones i must bear. my grandmother had me well acquainted with  death before i ever entered school. i can carry another ghost.

i leave at one in the morning. i let the rose bushes take their share of my blood, then put myra’s bones in a large trash bag. when i leave, i pluck off a rose for her, then another just to rip off the petals. i sneak into the cemetery, where nearly every light is as dead as the  people inside. it takes me another hour to dig up her empty grave and lay her bones to rest.

“thank you,” she whispers from behind me. i don’t turn around. i fill in the grave.

when the sun begins to rise, i toss the trash bag and shovel into a dumpster down the street. when i come back, the sunlight falls upon the stone angel like a halo. the dead are at rest. her case will never be solved. i alone will know where she was hidden.

at the feet of the angel is a dead butterfly. i reach out and tear off its wings.

the apple never falls too far from the tree after all.

[lumberingleviathan]

Werewolf x Reader

No one knows when the circus will arrive, or when it will leave. Only that it can be found in empty fields, or at times tents strewn up beneath the thick canopy’s of the woods skirting the edge of town. They bring with them the smell of sweet caramel, and of vanilla the closer you get. The circus is not hard to miss, flagship colors of deep blacks, and crimson reds. It would be garish if it weren’t for the lights that flicker soft as candle light seemingly strung up without a chord in sight.

You’ve never had the pleasure of going before, so late at night does the circus come alive, and how early you’re always off to work.

Not tonight though.

Tonight you slip out through the back gate of your home, it’s hinges squeaking in protest. Perhaps a try at calling you back to your senses, but there’s nothing that could overpower the sound of it. Where music drifts like fireflies, each note rising on the wind, dimming down to a whisper you swear tickles at your ears.

Bare footed you follow the path of night flowers, each blooming as you pass. Shimmering blues, and rich indigos, the rare bright of pink. Your heart swells by the time you reach the forests edge. The tents tower, and laughter rings up from within, even if their doesn’t seem to be a soul in sight.

Yet a lone woman sits behind a ticket booth, her smile warm, at ease as she beckons you closer, “Ticket dear?” She sounds at once both old, and young- ageless in the way it wavers. “How much?” You question, realizing only too late you’ve brought no coin with you. A touch of fear gnaws, and you wonder if you’ve made it this far only to be turned away. Yet there’s only a moment before she tilts her head, eyes you curiously, “It seems you’ve already got one.”

You open your mouth to protest, but sure enough as you lift your hand a silver piece of paper materializes in your hands. “I-“ she waves off your objections, winking in the process. “Worry not, newcomers are always welcome.” You dare not argue, chewing at your lower lip as she nods back behind her. “Go on then, he’s waiting for you. Been some time now, you’re late.”

Unsure of what the woman might mean you step over the threshold. All at once the space before you shimmers to life, crowds busying themselves with attractions, and each other alike. Bustling, and joyous in their pursuit of the circus with no name. How curious you think, that such a place has no sign save for the full moon depicted on its banners. How warm it feels within, as if the sun brushes at your shoulders; yet there is only the moonlight as a constant companion

Carefully you make your way further in, indecisive about what you’d like to see first. The sword swallower one sign proclaims, the lady of the lake another. Yet there’s one sign in particular that beckons you forth. One you’ve seen many times over in dreams, Casius, the name emblazons itself on your memory. Your chest feels full, as if your very lungs might balloon up as your fingers gently brush at the silk draw curtain at the entrance.

“Finally.” The voice carries out of the shadows, and you note no one else but you has entered. Eyes gleam gold in that blackness, and steps fall heavy, but slow as they move towards you. “What does she seek, I wonder?” The tone of his voice is honey smooth, but there’s a heat to it as well that catches in your throat. Like a shot of whiskey, how it takes from you all sense, leads you to move towards him.

It feels familiar.

“Did she not miss me so? Has she no favor for my wanting heart?” His visage is slowly revealed, lumbering towards you his maw peels open, showcases the glinting pearl of his teeth. The lupine stretch of his jaw, large gold eyes drawing over you. “So beautiful she is, so sad, you truly do not remember?” There’s a pain then, his voice lower, a growl that doesn’t frighten, but plucks chords of sorrow in your chest. His furs starting to gray at his muzzle, while his chest displays scars- some old, some as recent as a week past.

You can’t take your eyes off him, “I don’t, I’m sorry.” You wish you did, how the shock of a werewolf existing seems of less concern than your want of some memory he speaks of. Where only a blank resides within your mind, but when he reaches to delicately cup your chin you sigh. A flutter of a noise that feels like sinking into bath water, a warmth so profound you find yourself tilting your face. Brushing your cheek against his palm; how a rumble picks up in his chest. “She is so sweet, sweet, and soft, and always so far away.” Casius whispers now, how the words come careful out of a throat never fully used to speech.

Yet words he gives you, and deep down you know he has given them time, and again. “I want to remember.” You whisper, and delicately, soft as moth wings, you press a kiss to the raised ridge of a scar across his palm. Watch as his eyes flutter shut for a moment, a rumble of approval in the broadness of his chest.

“You tease me.” His words drip from his mouth, while his free hand moves to draw claws carefully back through your hair. How in his touch there’s a restrained power, that it is with great care he puts his hands upon you. Drawing you closer with a gentle press while he cradles the back of your skull. “Precious thing.” Whispers now, breath fanning out against your face, his own dipping to breath in against your throat. Your knees press together, a soft whine reveals itself in your throat.

“What’s this?” He inhales sharp, and groans low, knocking his head beneath your chin. His laughter was sticky as tar, “So she does remember some things-“ slowly his hand lowers, takes the time to let his claws brush down your side. Raising goosebumps in its wake, by the time he presses his palm between your thighs there’s no denying the quickening wetness.

You swallow quick, while your heart kicks quick beats, he pauses, leaning back enough to take in the sight of you. “This is what you want?” Asks you, even though like this you can see the hardening of his cock. You nod quickly, and when he doesn’t continue part your lips, “yes, this is what I want.” His smile stretches wide across his face, teeth catching the slow lighting of candles around you. While he works your dress upwards, relinquishes his hold to pull it free of you over your head.

Drinks in the sight of you while he works at himself, slow strokes, while you flush at your chest. He returns in that same slow pace he used before, as if time might stretch eternal, as if you aren’t craving touch, craving the nearness of him. The pad of his thumb works to split the seam of you, “So wet already.” His jaw opens, rests his teeth against your shoulder. The pressure of them there while his tongue works the skin. How easily he might tear through another, yet not once do you fear him. Only shudder at his breath all but burning at you, his words mumbling around your flesh.

His touches are barely there, and fleeting, until you’re working your hips trying to chase each shift of fingers. “Casius.” You hiss, the name collects against a moan of frustration. His chuckle tightens his maw around you, leaves imprints in its wake, “I’ve got you-“ shifts his palm, letting you set pace against the heel of it. Saliva rolls down your skin in rivets, while he watches you work yourself into a frenzy against him. Heat building, and coiling tight as anything. Thighs starting to tremor, “That’s it-“ He pulls his mouth away from you, buried his face into your chest with pants escaping him.

“More-“ your word a whisper, but too quick, “More, please-“ louder this time. You can feel the way he bucks into his hand, and all you can think about is what it’d feel like to have him within you. Stretching, and claiming, and if it might finally make you feel found. He lowers himself then, arms coming around your thighs to pull you flush against him. His head thrown back tongue lulling from his mouth at just the feel of the head of him bullying at the slick entrance of you. “This?” He asks losing the calm slope to his voice, sounds near begging. While your hands dig sharp at his shoulders. “Yes.” And you’re lost to anything else but what it feels like to all at once be taken in a thrust that stretches you out against him. Sweat beading at your skin, and a heat that threatens to scald.

How desperation comes next, a frenzy in the way he grows for your hips, leaves light red lines from his claws to lift you. Jerking you back down against him, each time pulls you under the tide of you both. His name becomes a litinay in your mouth, a cavernous echo to the way he howls, and hisses, and fucks you like he might never let go again. That when you break it is with a cry of a noise strangling in your throat, and yet still you rock down against him. Grinding hip bone to bone, the way it sends shock waves through your skin, until he spills himself inside of you. Heaving air, panting hard nosing into your hair.

You can’t move at first, arms encircling his neck, holding him tight to the shiver shake of your body. Memories like pin pricks against the blankness in your mind, that you had a home here once.

That you might again.

If only you could remember.

Yet his name is now the North Star in a velvet sky, “ Casius, always so patient.” You whisper, unsure of your words, yet how easily they flow from you. While he walks you towards the back of the tent, refuses to lower you back to the ground.

The circus never stays more than one night, everyone knows this. How rules are set that all must leave come the break of dawn. You wonder what might happen should you stay, entangled into the wolf who seems to purr as you thread your fingers behind his ear. somewhere far away the gate behind your house swings open, and shut, but there will be no one to close it come morning.

[peachfyzzy]

risotto x reader: snooping  pt 2

s/o to my friend for telling me what to do with this chapter! 

cw: filth! pros fucking but a main focus on risotto

a03 link! https://archiveofourown.org/works/20921339/chapters/49998542

After your night with Risotto, you didn’t really know how your relationship would progress from then. Obviously, you were more than friends now. Surprisingly, however, all the tension between you two had completely dissipated. Passion filled nights and spontaneous sexual encounters took its place- which you were more than happy about. 

Still, deep within your heart, you wondered. Risotto only knew of your lust for him. He saw some of the most intimate parts of you, but still never got access to the love you felt for him. 

At this point, you had no idea what you would say to him. Would he be turned off by your sudden confession of feelings after one night of seeing that side of him? Or would he reject you and stop seeing you all together? Or would he take it lightly and continue to indulge your inner fantasies? Something about the goth man made it hard to analyse him fully. One night, all you knew about your prior engagement shattered into itty bitty pieces at your feet. 

You were awoken to the loud sound of grunting. Your half awake mind had no idea what to think of this, but with the little common sense you had, you decided to grab the nearest heavy object and run into Risotto’s room to look for a possible intruder. Risotto was a tank of a man and could easily take down an average man, which comforted you quite a bit. You leaped out of bed and quietly opened your door, peering into the darkness with a silver bat in hand. You tried your hardest not to creak against the old wooden floor...but you had a feeling whoever was in your house wouldn’t hear it over their own noises. 

The grunting and springing got louder and louder as you approached Risotto’s room. As you turned the corner to enter, you saw light leaking from the crack of his door. You were no idiot. One of two things was going on in that room, but you wouldn’t forgive yourself if you ended up leaving the situation alone and were met with a bloody Risotto. So, with bated breath and a shaky hand, you cracked the door a tad more…

An assortment of clothes littered Risotto’s hardwood floor. One’s that matched and others that didn’t- but certain too much for one person to wear outside. A blonde man you had seen a handful of times was hunched over one of Risotto’s pristine white pillows. You recognized him as one of his friends, one of the more serious ones. You had never spoken to each other, only stolen intrigued glances. An otherworldly pleasure was plastered over his face. You leaned in a bit more and saw the beginnings of Risotto’s torso…

 Once your brain finally caught on what was happening, you held in a yelp and tripped over yourself to get out of their line of sight as quickly as possible. 

Once again, your accidental snooping had gotten you in trouble. Luckily, they were too...wrapped up in what they were doing to notice you in any capacity. You took a deep breath and jumped into your bed as if something otherworldly was chasing you. You felt like an awful pervert for it, but your face was brighter than bright in terms of color. You made a mental note to keep out of Risotto’s room altogether unless asked. 

As you got comfortable in bed and let the embarrassment wash away, your heart began to ache, if only slightly. Risotto had no reason to commit himself to you and you only but...You groaned and slammed a pillow against your face, vanquishing any thought of sadness or Risotto with the calm limbo of sleep. 

~~

This time, you were more pleasantly awoken to the smell and sound of cooking bacon. Before you could let the claws of sleep fully grasp at your consciousness, three raps on your door fully woke you up. “Come in…” You sat up, your hair messy and your voice thick with sleep. Risotto cracked the door before opening it fully, a plate of bacon and pancakes in hand. 

“Good morning.” He took a step in and sat down the plate. You didn’t miss the way his eyes wandered around your barely clothed body. 

“What’s the occasion?” 

“You have a long day ahead of you. It’s best to eat three meals if you want to be fully energized.” 

“What do you mean? Is there anything important I missed…?”  

“I’ll tell you later. Come down to the living room around noon. We have a lot to talk about.” You knew that tone. It was his signature demanding one. You didn’t mind the way he took charge, but your mind went wild with thoughts. All of them lewd and very Risotto. 

~~ 

After a long day of going through your mundane routine, you were happy to finally reach the solace of your house. You were more than ready to retire into bed and glue yourself there until your body had it’s full of respite. But, given the fact you were you, that wouldn’t be happening. A loud ding signalled you to look through your phone. It was from Risotto, of course, and it was about earlier. Apparently, whatever he needed to talk to you about couldn’t wait until morning. You took one last look at the sunset behind you and twisted the faux gold knob to your shared apartment. 

When you entered, you were greeted with Risotto and a somewhat familiar blond man. At first, things didn’t click. It was only when you locked eyes did you remember him fully. His eyes were a gorgeous, piercing blue. Clarity was in abundance. 

The image of him hunched over a pillow, lost in pleasure, clouded your mind. Instantly, your face began to flush. “What do you need, Risotto?” You tried your hardest to sound indifferent and almost annoyed, but your partner could always see through your bratty attitude. You heard the man next to him ‘tsk’ quietly, to which you delivered a quirked eyebrow back. 

“I wanted you to meet a friend of mine.” 

“Oh?” You took a step closer but let the coffee table in front of you divide the pair from you. “Nice to meet you.” You delivered an honest smile, holding out your hand for him to shake. He happily took it, giving you a firm handshake. 

“Prosciutto.” His voice was deep and rich. One you could easily see yourself getting lost in. 

“Y/N.” You responded, taking a seat on the table. “So, is there any specific reason you wanted me to meet him?” 

“You two have a lot in common.” Once again, you raised an eyebrow. From the looks of Prosciutto, you expected little to be shared between you two. He looks conservative and put together, somebody that could kill with little to no remorse. 

“Like what?” You would come to love your curious attitude. 

~~

“Strip.” Your newly found partner held his lit cigarette to his lips, letting out puffs as he spoke. You had no idea what being with both Risotto and Prosciutto would be like. From what you witnessed the night before, you half expected to be the one ordering one of them around...but Risotto and his friends always managed to surprise you. You looked at Risotto, who was sitting right next to Prosciutto. He nodded, letting you know his conformation was final. 

Slowly, you began to undress. Article by article, you dropped your clothes to a pool at your feet and let their gazes burn into your soft skin. “Step closer.” Risotto beckoned you forth, his finger pulling you towards him. You complied, stopping within a few inches of them. 

“She’s gorgeous.” The not so subtle praise left Prosciutto's lips with a ghost of a smile gracing them. His rough hands reached out to cup one of your breasts. You curled your toes at his actions, trying your hardest to keep a straight face at his bold action. Finally, he locked eyes with you and delivered a harsh slap to the soft flesh. You recoiled a bit, but all the restraint in the world couldn’t keep your moans in. The blue eyed man hummed as if he figured out how to properly place a puzzle together. “Ah. I see. Risotto?” With a firm shove, you were pressed against the fully clothed goth man. You instantly picked up on how differently Risotto acted when working in tandem with his friend. His eyes seemed to soften just a bit, and his ministrations were more calculated- all as if to make up for the roughness of his friend. 

You imagined you’d crack if both of them came at you with full force. 

Your goth partner took a lock of your hair and began twirling it between his fingers. “If things get out of hand you know your safe words, yes?” You nodded, leaning a bit into his touch. As soon as he internalized your consent, you were pushed onto the bed and pinned there with strong hands. 

A loud yelp escaped your lungs, tempting laughter from the two men. Feverish kisses were laid over your body by your dominant partner. Your eyes were tightly wound shut, but you could hear and feel clothes dropping next to yours. The passing and shifting of bodies was almost too much to keep track of. 

When all of the clothes were finally off and your senses came back to you, you found Prosciutto on top of you. “Risotto has told me a lot about you.” His words drew you in like a moth to the flame. He gently tracked a hand down your stomach, then down the sides of your hips, and finally to the cusp of your ass. In one fluid motion, he flipped you over, and your bare ass was on display. 

With a firm grip on your ankle, he yanked you down towards the end of the bed. Finally, you were bent and ready for him. “Count.” 

Suddenly, his palm came down heavily on your ass. You scrambled within yourself to recover and respond. 

“One!” Your voice was shaky with pleasure and your growing nerves. A satisfied hum came from both of the men. Another hit. 

“Two!” Prosciutto was unrelenting, almost cruel. He happily delivered hit after hit, sending your body into the same pleasure he must’ve felt the night before. After 15 open palm hits, your ass was red and your lungs burned. Still, once Prosciutto pulled away and rubbed his palms, you inched backwards in a poor effort to get more. He simply tutted. 

“I knew you’d like her.” 

“Right as always.” 

Hearing the two men talk about you as if you were some sort of object turned you on even more- even if the thought was embarrassing. Just as you began regaining your composure, a bigger hand knitted into your hair and pulled you back. Your back was pressed firmly against Risotto’s front. He quickly locked his arms under yours, keeping you hoisted in the air as Prosciutto began lowering himself. “Make sure you prepare her properly.” 

Pros yanked your thighs apart, displaying your pussy for him fully. You fidgeted a bit at the sudden burst of cold air making contact with your wet sex. Just as Risotto ordered, he got to work. You were sure this encounter wouldn’t allow you any edge when the intimidating man below you left painfully low stripes up the length of your dribbling pussy. It was unlike Risotto. He wanted to bait out a please. A surrendering flag. He was going to watch you dismantle in a desperate plea to get the pleasure you so badly craved and he was going to enjoy it fully. “Please…”

“What’s wrong? Am I going too fast?” His teasing tone made your hips jut out further in an attempt to catch his lips and shut him up. 

“Fuck! You know what I want you ass-” Before you could even utter the full insult, your mouth was usurped by Risotto’s. He completely stole your breath away. When you pulled away and the string of saliva connecting you two broke, you headed his ‘warning.’ “Please go faster...Prosciutto.” 

“Better.” Finally, he placed his hands against your thighs and was once again, unrelenting in his attack and pace. His plush lips took your clit between them, sending waves of pleasure throughout your being. It seemed the man below you was talented when it came to any kind of person. Man or woman, he had the experience and ego to back it up. As you reached your climax, you reached back to grasp onto anything that would keep you grounded to Earth.

You finished in an excellent display of fireworks and stars. Your whole being was on fire. Prosciutto drank in the sight of you losing yourself to him and you knew it was fueling his expectations of you in the future. You came to with a satisfied, almost goofy smile. “Thank you...Prosciutto.” Your voice was beyond sore.

              “Is that good enough?” Risotto peered forward and let out a hum of approval. 

              “Very well done.” Risotto began to loosen his grip on your body. “Can you walk?” 

              You shook your head. 

              Delicately, Risotto sat you on the bed and watched you find comfort in the sheets. Both of the men looked at you, then back at each other. Risotto came to know your limits very well over the past few weeks, and you trusted his judgement. “Up.” 

                The position he had you in made you feel awfully lewd. Your legs were splayed just a bit too far by coarse, black rope and your head hung slightly off of the side of the bed. Your front was visible for all to see and your eyes struggled to capture sight of the men from your lewd pose.

                  The familiar feeling of Risotto’s tip teasing your eager pussy sent chills up your spine. Before you could moan or beg, Pros’ was already on you. His flushed tip ran itself down your lips. From his angle, he would be able to clearly see where his cock would enter your throat. It was deliberate, as always. 

                   Finally, they both thrusted in. Risotto was generous to slide in slowly, given his size, but you couldn’t say the same for your other partner. Within seconds he was ruthlessly fucking your face. You could hardly breathe with all of the pleasure and tension erupting in your core once again. They unlocked a fantasy you were unaware that you even had and fulfilled it while they were at it. Pros continued fucking your throat at a brutal pace, his grunting and groaning filling the room and hitting the ceiling. This seemed to stir something within Risotto. He quickly caught the smaller man’s chin, keeping it in place as they locked eyes. “Remember what I told you after. If you cum before I do, she won’t be the only one who can’t sit or walk properly.” This comment slowed his pace instantly. 

            With a moment to breath, you indulged in the breath you were allowed. His slow pace turned out to be more tortuous in the end. You wanted all of him. On the other hand, Risotto’s thrusts we’re picking up. The feeling of his thick cock stretching and filling you was something anyone could get addicted to- man or woman. He left you with only thoughts of him and the sound of his voice replaying in the back of your head over and over. You threw your head back more, gargling on the feeling and fullness in your mouth. Finally, Risotto showed his telltale sign of his impending orgasm. 

           His teeth gritted and his grip on your midsection tightened. The fulfilling feeling of Risotto’s release entering you sent you over the edge. With a final jut, he emptied himself fully and made sure you followed suit. Prosciutto looked back up at Risotto for approval and took your head in both of his hands, fucking you like you didn’t need to breath. He finished deep in your throat, giving you no choice but to swallow. Once the panting subsided, Risotto spoke. “I didn’t lie about you two sharing a lot in common.”