#me to me: lamplighter doesn't need to be in this set right?

[helloitstsyu]

Turning Page | Tom Cruise 18+

Fantasize Series Chapter 9 | Previous Part | Fantasize Masterlist

The kiss ends. So does the song. But neither of you move.

His forehead rests against yours, and in the hush that follows, the silence becomes more intimate than sound—like a breath held between heartbeats.

"I should take you back," you whisper, your voice barely a tremor against the charged air between you.

"I don't want to go."

Your lips part—not just from surprise, but from the naked honesty behind his words.

"I don't want to go back to pretending I'm someone I'm not when I'm with you."

You search his eyes, and for the first time, the storm you've always seen in him—guilt, restraint, fear—begins to clear. Something softer rises in its place.

Hope.

"Then don't," you whisper.

He doesn't answer. Not with words.

He only looks at you—like you're the first thing he's ever truly seen. Not with hunger, nor hesitation, but with reverence. As if your presence alone has unraveled something long-twisted inside his soul.

You steps back, hand slowly leaving his, you walk toward the exit. But before you push the door open, you turn to him. His eyes still locks on you with that warm gaze. You smile and hold your hand out to him.

"Are you coming?"

Tom's lips curve into a small, quiet smile. He slides a bill across the bar without looking away from you. "Joe, nice talking with you."

"Good luck, man," the bartender replies with a knowing wink.

Tom walks to you, big smile on his face. He laces his fingers through yours—not with possession, but with a quiet desperation. Like you're a lifeline. Like he's terrified of ever letting go again.

Outside, the air is crisp with desert wind. He shrugs off his jacket and places it over your shoulders without a word. You take the keys, told him you're the one driving since he had too much to drink; he doesn't argue. Just sits beside you, facing you, watching.

Every movement you make. Even a strand of flowing hair, he watches you like you're a performing miracle.

You can feel his gaze like the sun warming your skin—intense, patient, grounding.

Once you arrive, you park in front of your cabin. The silence between you isn't awkward—it's full, stretched like the space between lightning and thunder. You take a step toward the porch but he doesn't follow. Not right away.

You glance back at him.

And he looks at you like a prayer has just been answered.

You don't say anything. You don't have to.

You just smile and leave the door open—wide. Hoping he'd see it as an invitation.

Because deep down you don't want to part with him. Not even for the night.

The cabin is warm, glowing in the soft embrace of golden lamplight. You set your keys down with a gentle clink. Your breath trembling, heartbeats raising, in contrary to the slow moment and quiet night.

You hear the door closing, the air changes.

Then arms—familiar, strong, trembling slightly—wrap around you.

His chest presses to your back, his breath brushing your ear like a promise.

You let yourself exhale. Really exhale. For the first time in months.

His arms gradually tighten around you. You lean into him.

"Stay," you whisper.

He shakes his head, hand slowly raises to your face and gently brushes a strand of hair away from your eyes, his touch reverent. "I'm not going anywhere." he whispers.

He presses his forehead to yours again. His lips hover over yours, his breath feathering across your mouth like silk—too light to satisfy, too heavy to ignore. You can feel the strong whiskey from his breath. But still, his presence alone is far dizzying than any alcohol you ever tasted.

His fingers touches the bare strip between the hem of your top and your waist band that rest below your navel. That alone already sending your mind to cloud nine, you need him, desperately.

You open your eyes, meeting his. And you see it again—that look.

It's not lust. But devotion.

"Kiss me," you breathlessly plead.

His voice is roughened with need. "I might not be able to stop."

Your fingers clutch his shirt like it's the only solid thing in the world. "Then don't."

Lips colliding.

Not rushed. Not greedy. But whole.

Each kiss feels like a vow unspoken. A lifetime of restraint slipping from his lips to yours. Deep. Steady. The kind of kiss that heals the places you didn't know were broken.

His arm holds you closer,  pressing you to his chest as if there's more gap in between you two. The other one gently cups your face, worshipping each kiss like it's sacred scripture.

You break away the kiss to turn your body around—face him fully, your mouth claiming his again, deeper this time. Your arms around his shoulders, his hands molding to your waist like he's trying to memorize the shape of your soul.

You ease his jacket off you, his hand quickly helping it slide to the floor. His lips descend to your jaw, then your neck, each kiss slower than the last.

Deliberate. Devotional.

"You should tell me to stop," he murmurs against your skin, right where your pulse beats strongest.

You exhale, "Why should I?"

"Because..." Soft kiss to your left side of neck. Quick glance to your eyes before he leans again to the other side of you, "You said I'm drunk..." he kisses the soft spot on that side, the one he still remembers perfectly. Your mouth falls open, a soft whimper.

"You said you still know what you're doing," you retort. Biting your lip.

Tom looks at you again.

"I do," he whispers. His gaze is so deep, as if he searched for your soul. His fingers trail the hair along your face. So soft, reverent.

"Tom, I don't want you to stop," your fingers grip onto his shirt.

You pull him by his shirt. You kiss him again. He lifts you onto the edge of the desk behind you, never breaking contact of the kiss.

You pull at his shirt—his skin hot beneath your palms. He helps you, pulling it off, and throws it away somewhere. Your arms circles to his back, lips trail soft kisses all over his pecs.

Tom pulls your chin up, kisses your lips again. Then he begins to undress you. Slowly. Tenderly.

Like prayer.

Each article of clothing slips away under trembling hands. Not out of nervousness—but awe. Like he can't believe he's been trusted with this moment. With you.

He carries you to the bed like you're made of glass and stardust. Lays you down with reverence, his lips kissing a trail all over your body, like a cursive line he's tattooing his name onto.

Your breath hitches as you murmur his name, threading your fingers into his hair as he kisses down your body to your awaiting center.

He looks up before he place a gentle deep kiss against your clothed clit.

"Tom..." your head falls back to the pillow

He softly hooks his fingers to both sides of your hips, pulling the cream colored panties you're wearing. Baring you complete. He looks at you like you're a painting on a wall—full of adoration.

"You're so perfect.." he whispers

He kisses you. Tongue softly teasing your clit with such expertise making your breath hitching in your throat.

Tom climbs back to your eye level.

He stills, hovering above you, eyes locked to yours.

"One last time... Are you sure, Y/N? We don't have to rush"

You touch his face, gently, deliberately. You nod, "I want you… All of you,"

Relief softens his features.

He kisses you before standing to remove his jeans, revealing himself fully.

The sight of him still steals your breath. Not because of his body—but because it's him. This man, this soul.

He climbs back to you. Cupping your face.

"Eyes on me, okay?" he whispers.

You nod.

You feel him aligning himself to your entrance. You pant then he enters you slowly, carefully, his forehead pressed to yours.

A gasp escapes you—like something hollow inside you finally being filled.

He groans, stills within you. His hand cradling your cheek, the other holding you to him.

"You okay?" He asks through his pant.

You nod, breathless. "Yes,” Your hand guides his hips to move.

He moves. Not fast. Not hard. But with a rhythm so gentle, so sacred, it feels like he's speaking to your soul in a language only the two of you understand.

Your hand grips the pillow next to your head as the ecstasy builds within. You crane your head back, moaning his name. Tom leans down and kisses your neck.

"God, you so feel wonderful" he whispers

"Toomm..." you softly moan his name. Arms grips to his shoulder.

The way he moves makes your eyes roll to the back of your head. It's not just bodies meeting; it's souls folding into each other. The world blurs to the sound of two heartbeats trying to match. He kisses your temple, your cheek, neck, all over. Every kiss is slow, deep, searching—like you're both trying to memorize the shape of forever.

Your hand shakes, not from fear, but from reverence. Every inch of his touches feels sacred, like worship. He takes your hand and intertwine his, holding them beside your face.

"Y/N..." he moans your name as his eyebrows knitting together. Pupils blown with pleasure.

He watches you. The way your eyes flutter closed. The way your lips part. The way your body moves with his like you were made to fit.

"You're so beautiful," he praises.

His hips movement slowly pacing up—

“Godd! Tomm—” you moan.

“You’re mine, Y/N... Tell me you’re mine” he says then groan into your ear.

“Ohh—I’m yours!” You say in between your moan.

Hearing that makes him smile like he just won a the greatest gift of all. “I love you. God, i love you!”

He kisses your lips again. Then have his forehead resting against yours.

"Tom, i—" you try to warn him in between the gasps and fluttering eyes but failing.

"I know. I feel it too" he murmurs back.

“Come for me, Y/N” he says.

The building pleasure too unbearable.

You hold onto him like he's the only gravity pulling you down. You look up to him. Trying to remember every detail of his face of this moment. Lips parted slipping messy hoarse groan. Skin flushed. Sheen of sweat on his forehead. You could see this face for the rest of your life.

“God, I can’t— i can’t hold it—you feel too good” he groans in your ear.

His face burries to your neck.

His entire body shaking with it. Like he's pouring everything he is into you—every pain, every longing, every piece of him he's never shared before.

The sound of him unraveling, does it to you.

And you break too.

The crescendo is slow—like dawn breaking. Your release rolls through you, soft and luminous, your body trembling too as you cry out against his shoulder.

He doesn't pull away.

He stays. Inside you. Holding you close.

Heart to heart. Soul to soul.

But then he gently push himself just enough to meet your eyes. "You okay?" He asks. His gaze looks at you deeply again.

You smile, really smile. You nod. "More than okay," you whisper.

All night long he doesn't let you go. And neither do you.

Your body still tangled with him, you sit on top of his lap. His arms around you. Eyes still locked always on one another. Swollen lips meet every few minutes. Or his lips trails endless kiss all over your skin again. Shoulder, back, neck.

You nearly chuckled when that thought pass your mind. Tom sees the way you try to hold back your smile by biting your lip. “What? What you thinking about?" he softly asks.

You grin. Your nose brushes his. "You're still drunk, are you?"

He chuckles, low and warm. "I'm sober enough to remember this for the rest of my life."

He kisses you again.

And again.

All night.

Until the sunlight of dawn kisses the edge of the horizon—and love becomes something you can see clearly in the morning light.

———

Taglist

@shadowkl10

@anima-patronos

@tom-cruiseisalegend

@sdrose93

@kujolin12-official

@ashdyh321

@sabsthedoll

[ex0rin]

Hughie Campbell | The Boys S02E07

[aangelinakii]

ALWAYS GONE IN A FLASH.

— no more lies.

summary : you start dating this amazing guy, but soon enough you notice he just doesn't have the time anymore. now you're going to demand answers.

note : this literally took ten thousand billion years to write

after a long week, dinner with your new boyfriend was the first thing you needed.

home-cooked food — round yours, of course, because last month you ate at his. both of you put in a little bit of effort to cook an orzo dish you'd stumbled across in a magazine at the doctor's office the other day.

barry was setting out the table, spoons and forks and folded kitchen napkins printed with cats, whilst you dished out into navy bowls.

"one dish for the mister," you hummed as you came around the table to where barry had sat down, setting his bowl in front of him and your own in front of your chair.

barry let out a content sigh, eyes drifting up to look at you in the dim lamplight from his dish. "i can already tell this is going to be amazing. you never fail to impress me." he hovered himself out of his chair slightly and leaned across the table to press a soft kiss to your forehead.

a bashful laugh followed your smile as he pulled away, sitting back in his seat. "hey, i can't take all the credit — you filled the pan with water."

"that i did," barry grinned, picking up his fork and shovelling up some orzo and sliced peppers. "that i did."

the past six months with barry allen had been nothing but fun. that day you'd met in the vegetable aisle of the supermarket, you'd never expected this — a companion, a best friend, as well as a kind boyfriend to spoil you with compliments and his time and energy.

however, something you'd certainly caught onto was the fact he'd always be needing to go somewhere.

movie night? just as you're sitting down with the popcorn, fresh and warm, film ready to start, he looks at his watch and grimaces. he's got to go.

gym date? he's spotting your exercise when suddenly his hands move from view, and you want to look back at him to see what he's doing, but you don't want to break something — but you know he's looking at his watch, and your date will be cut immensely short.

restaurant? you've just ordered and your drinks have only just come, yet his watch pings and he needs to leave.

even a fool could notice something dodgy with him, not that you'd want to admit barry could be anything but a green flag.

as you dug into your food, the warmth and softness of it all easing the tension you'd accumulated in your muscles over the long week, you noted barry had gone quiet. with a glance up you found his stare upon his wrist, face illuminated by a digital glow. his fork fell with a clatter into his bowl.

he was about to leave.

"hey—" before he could do anything, your insecurities leapt forward, though you wouldn't call them insecurities as such. you were worried; perhaps slightly insecure about what he was doing, where he was always going. but this time you couldn't keep it in. "oh, no you don't."

barry's eyebrows furrowed. you'd never had a fight yet, and you could tell he was taken aback by the sternness of your tone. "i need—"

"no," you shot back before he could finish anything he'd been planning to say. "no, i haven't seen you all week, and it's been a fucking bad week. you can't just leave."

"you don't understand—"

"exactly, barry, i don't understand." the fork in your grip trembled, knuckles morphing white. "you've been doing this for the past six months. i really don't understand."

despite your quivering brow and clenched fist on the table, barry seemed to turn a blind eye, chair scraping against the floor as he got to his feet.

perhaps dismissing it was better than actually facing the situation.

"i don't have time to explain right now," he was saying, turning away from you, tapping away at his digital watch. "i need to leave."

if he left now you'd be worrying all night — or until the next time you two spoke — that he was okay, that your relationship was okay. if you let him leave.

maybe it worked better in the movies, in the heart-throbbing novels, but now was your chance; to make things right, to learn the truth.

just as he was about to leave the room, leave his bowl of orzo, leave you (again), you jumped from your chair and chased him down — though it didn't seem he was trying too hard to run away. maybe he wanted this, maybe he knew it was right.

fingers grazed wrist, barry stopped walking. in fact, he even turned to face you, though his eyes stayed from your face. they even looked sad. guilty, maybe.

there you stood, staring up at his face while he desperately tried to not look at yours, fingers clamped around his wrist, with everything to say but no known way to say it.

jaw hung, tongue tied, your eyes lingered on the dismissive expression on barry's face; his furrowed eyebrows, something curling at his lip.

"you've stopped now," you managed to push out after moments of pushing. "you've stopped."

but, instead of responding, barry's eyelids fell over the beautiful blue you often found yourself getting lost in.

"can you just — i don't know — be honest?" you suggested, fingers squeezing lightly on his wrist again. beneath the pads of your fingertips, his veins pulsed quickly, a throb beneath your skin. "you're usually so good, but when it comes to this... thing — i don't even know what happens."

then he did the last thing you expected.

a dry laugh huffed past those lips of his. when you first kissed them your heart had been thumping against the cage of your ribs, the cage of all the emotions you'd been attempting and failing to suppress.

how could he be laughing in a moment like this?

"you'd think i'm stupid," barry finally spoke after many more beats, each hammer of your heart against your chest growing frantic — why is he laughing? what does he mean?

finally you pulled your hand away, certain he would stay in his place now. "i think you're more stupid not telling me."

barry brought a hand up to scratch at the back of his neck, eyes still positioned anywhere but your face. "no, seriously, you'll think i'm making shit up as an excuse or something."

stubborn as ever, you crossed your arms over your chest and took a step forward, until barry had no choice but to meet your eyes. "try me."

his stare bore deeply into yours, and you could almost feel yourself break, the want to shrink back into yourself and take everything back — and let him leave — beginning to overwhelm.

then the corner of his mouth began to curl, and he broke away. his hand went into his pocket; when it came out his fingers were curled around something. "you don't have to believe me, but just know i'm telling the truth."

when his palm opened up, you had to lean down to get a closer look at what was sitting in the centre. a small ring, although big enough to fit on his middle finger; gold band that shone in the overhead apartment light; right where the karat-diamond might be on an engagement ring sat a red emblem, the home of a shiny gold lightning bolt. it seemed familiar, but you couldn't place it right now.

with a shrug, you looked back up at barry, jutting out your bottom lip.

"what does this look like to you?"

stupid question.

"a ring," you snickered.

barry's thumb moved towards where the ring sat on his hand, and, in an instant, your boyfriend was gone. instead — you recognised his eyes — he was donned in a red suit, electricity crackling along his muscles and an air of urgency brushing through your hair.

a stumble, your jaw dropped low, mouth hung wide.

the same symbol from the ring sat atop his chest.

the flash.

your hands shot up to your mouth. every profanity you could think of wanted to spill through, but nothing seemed to pass your teeth.

barry — the flash — gave a soft, downturned smile, his periwinkle blue eyes glinting. he held out a red-covered hand to you, though he could tell you were reluctant to take it. "i'm really sorry i haven't told you, that i've been keeping secrets, telling lies... everything. it's a big deal. i mean, you knowing who i am now. i need to know i can trust you."

trust? what did he know about trust? six months and he hadn't told you this? you're dating the flash, and you're only just finding out?

"it's a big ask, i know," he continued, hand remaining outstretched. "and i'll be more honest, but..." he took a look at his wrist, at the digital band watch. "i actually do have to get going. something's happening up in metropolis."

"metropolis?" was the first thing you thought to say. "how will you get there?"

the smile upon barry's lips brightened a tad, and he brought his hand up to point at the lightning bolt on his chest.

"right," you chuckled. the words trailed off, but your eyes continued to examine this new version of your boyfriend. "i... suppose i understand. just— be safe, okay?"

one step, two step.

"i really value our relationship, barry."

barry's smile widened again, his eyes bright from behind the mask. "i value you, too. and, hey, i've stayed safe so far, haven't i?"

with one final step, you closed the gap between the two of you, engulfing your arms around his muscular, lean frame, the material of his suit seeming to fizz beneath you.

"yeah, well..." with a sigh, you pulled away, remaining a hand on his arm and giving it a squeeze. "good luck."

then he was gone, leaving you with a rush in your chest, the front door open, and still-warm food on the dining table.

[starfxkrinc]

hey moony! can you pls write ab a conjugal visit with felon!jj. love you. smooches

less conjugal visit and more "first day out" fuck

you were trying to stall, doing your best to divert jj's attention away from the cleavage of your shirt, but it was impossible. he was a man starved, having gone 6 years without the touch of a woman and only having your letters to go off of.

there was a serious of poorly thought out decisions that led you here. from signing up to be an inmates penpal, to the explicit descriptions of what you'd do if you met to the risqué polaroids you attached to said letters. in your defense it didn't seem like jj would be getting out any time soon.

just your luck he got off on good behavior.

the meager meal was barely enough to distract him, even as he wolfed down what had to be his first good meal since he got out that morning. you on the other hand struggled to eat your fries, trying your best to chug down the ice cream soda he got you as a treat.

"you said it was your favorite." he had nudged it towards you, looking deceptively sweet with those blue eyes even has his large tattooed hand spelled danger. "and you're gonna need your energy. trust me."

still, you drunk it down, grateful for the rush of sugar to snap your sense as he paid for the meal. the motel wasn't far, a quick five minute drive on the back of his bike and before you knew it you were being walked through the door, with his lips on yours--his still salty and yours still sweet-- and a hand palming your ass.

jj barely got the two of you im, but he deposited you on the bed, turning to obsessively turn all the locks before he took off his shirt, fumbling with his pants and boots in his fervor to get naked.

"um, jj i don't know bout all this-" you sit still, shivering in the a/c chilled room overtly aware of how much of your ass hang out your shorts and the way your nipples are poking through the thin fabric of your shirt. there's no denying you look like the kind of girl that'd be here.

"aw cmon, don't pussy out on me now cupcake, you're just excited. bet you didn't think you'd see me so soon." he's right in front of you now. big and broad and glowing even in the dim lamplight, "talked all that shit in the letters now look at you. all scared."

you're defensive, "m'not scared." you were but he didn't need to know that.

"yes y'are. pretty little thing like you don't know what you're in for. a man has needs babydoll. and when those needs aint been met he gets a little..." he twists a hand beside his head, "cagey. now relax i aint gonna hurt you. take your clothes off."

shaking, you do. peeling your shorts off as you keep your eye on the bulge in his pants. when you take your shirt off, he gets so hard the head of his cock pokes out the top of his waistband.

you reach for him, tugging his bottoms down until your faced with every inch of jj's red, throbbing dick. suddenly, you become very aware of your months of involuntary abstinence, "is that gonna fit?" you moan, watching a bead of pre drip from where it pooled in his foreskin.

"i'll make it."

jj hauls you up by the back of the neck, kissing you hungrily before he turns you around to sprawl on your stomach. he spreads you open from the back so he can trace his thumb from your sticky hole to your clit, "that's what the fuck im talkin about." he mutters more to himself than you, adjusting so he can press into you.

the moan he lets out just from the heat of your pussy makes you shudder, then you tense at the first stretch of resistance.

"wait. jj, wait go slow, you're too-"

he pauses, "you done this before right?"

jj doesn't give you time to answer before he sinks in, bottoming out on the first thrust with a sticky squelch as you yelp underneath him.

"shit, just stay down babydoll. let me take this." he sets a punishing pace, holding you down with his hands on your hips as he fucks you rough and steady. you've never heard a man as loud as him before--panting and whining as you suck him in.

but you're not faring much better, each smack of his hips against your ass sends you sliding up the bed, you're stuffed so full you don't know whether to crawl away or throw your ass back for more. there's no denying it, you've never been fucked like this before. like the wet snatch of your pussy was a lifeline.

whoever was on the other side of the wall was in hell. the sounds coming from the two of you were ridiculous as you begged for him to slow down. the way he battered your cervix and pressed relentlessly against that sticky spot inside you had you in tears, clenching around him sporadically as you came. over and over from the overstimulation. there was no build up, no slow spread across your body as it hit you like a train, leaving you delirious.

"stop--stop--i can't, ohh my god, it hurts! i can't stop--"

jj clamps a hand over your mouth as he drops down, covering your body with his as he picks up the pace. he's slamming into you so hard all you can do is let out little squeaks.

"nuh uh, you need that sugar i--fuck--promise." he groans loud and long in your ear with his sweaty body sticking to yours as he pumps you full of cum. you can't tell which of you is shaking more.

"fuck. don't know who needed that more you or me." he reaches over to grab a cigarette, lighting it then taking a long drag, "i normally last longer than that sugar, swear i do. just cut me some slack alright it's been 6 years."

all you can do is let out a snort, feeling your eyes growing heavy as your body calms, "food. i want food."

jj smiles, "good. gonna need all the food we can get i booked us for 3 nights."

[wingedshadowfan]

the 'breaking expensive glassware' scene in ninth house is so important for darlington's character (it's essentially an extension of 'the moths' scene)

first of all. he's a man of knowledge and preparedness. he believes he knows all there is to know and that makes him prepared for it. alex easily challenges that belief, breaks his rules.

“It wasn’t the ritual.” “Was it the blood?” “No. One of them grabbed me. You didn’t say that was going to happen. I—” Darlington couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You’re saying one of them touched you?” “More than one. I—” “That isn’t possible. I mean …” He set down his wine, ran his hands through his hair. “Rarely. So rarely. Sometimes in the presence of blood or if the spirit is particularly moved. That’s why true hauntings are so rare.” Her voice was hard, distant. “It’s possible.” Maybe. Unless she was lying.

his very obvious disbelief and distrust toward her is understandable - not only is what she's saying so incredibly unlikely, but he's also read her file. he has some surface level knowledge of her life and the state she was in when sandow recruited her. she's an uneducated, untrained, unprepared, a juvenile, an addict with no prospects (he never stops to consider how she got to that point, deems it irrelevant) who somehow wound up the only survivor at a murder scene. what incentive does he have to trust her?

His Dante, the girl he would gift with the keys to a secret world, was a criminal, a drug user, a dropout who cared about none of the things he did.

she was fortunate enough to be born with what he considers a gift - the ability to see grays - something lethe took notice of and rewarded generously. that's the only reason she's here. she has no other redeeming qualities to him, unlike each of the thousands of lethe house candidates he was supposed to review and pick from, that opportunity, that honor ripped away from him. this would've never happened, if not for her.

“You need to be ready next time. You weren’t prepared—” “And whose fault is that?” Darlington sat up straighter. “I beg your pardon? I gave you two weeks to get up to speed. I sent you specific passages to read to keep it manageable.”

she doesn't mean him in particular, but he predictably misunderstands (and i'll explain why). he's confident he did the right thing, that he did enough. he readily gave her what was most dear to him in a silver platter - his knowledge, the key to this world of mystery. partially he did it for lethe, partially he did it because he felt for her (referencing he moth scene here). he doesn't take lightly to being accused of being wrong, of having done the wrong thing. especially by a seemingly ungrateful newcomer throwing a temper tantrum after fucking up and possibly even lying about why.

“And what about all of the years before that?” Alex stood and shoved her chair back. She paced into the breakfast room, her black hair reflecting the lamplight, energy sparking off her. The house gave a warning groan. She wasn’t sad or ashamed or worried. She was mad. “Where were you?” she demanded. “All you wise men of Lethe with your spells and your chalk and your books? Where were you when the dead were following me home? When they were barging into my classrooms? My bedroom? My damn bathtub? Sandow said you had been tracking me for years, since I was a kid. One of you couldn’t have told me how to get rid of them? That all it would take was a few magic words to send them away?”

“They’re harmless. It’s only the rituals that—”

Alex grabbed Darlington’s glass and threw it hard against the wall, sending glass and red wine flying. “They are not harmless. You talk as if you know, like you’re some kind of expert.” She struck her hands against the table, leaning toward him. “You have no idea what they can do.”

“Are you done or would you like another glass to break?”

his distrust also very reasonably drives her mad. she's sick of not being believed, not being trusted her whole life - even here at lethe, where magic is a widely accepted fact, people like him, who've never had to live a day in her life, with her ability, still think they know better. she's supposed to be safe, understood, helped here. she isn't. she's only being used for lethe's agenda. and darlington? he perpetuates that fact. he's her mentor, for fuck's sake. she'd barely began to trust him when he showed her magic, when he taught her to protect herself. she must've misjudged him. he did all that for lethe, not for her, just like how he covered up the almost butchered ritual from scroll and key.

“Why didn’t you help me?” said Alex, her voice nearly a growl.

“I did. You were about to be buried under a sea of Grays, if you recall.”

“Not you.” Alex waved her arm, indicating the house. “Sandow. Lethe. Someone.” She covered her face with her hands. “Take courage. No one is immortal. Do you know what it would have meant to me to know those words when I was a kid? It would have taken so little to change everything. But no one bothered. Not until I could be useful to you.”

this is why he misunderstands. she doesn't challenge him directly, she attacks lethe, but he's taken it upon himself to assert lethe's authority, to protect its credibility and integrity from such accusations. he's embodied lethe. it's a part of who he is now. he considers himself an extension of it, its golden boy, its gentleman. so this criticism, he takes personally. but it's not about him.

Darlington did not like to think he had behaved badly. He did not like to think that Lethe had behaved badly. We are the shepherds. And yet they’d left Alex to face the wolves. She was right. They hadn’t cared. She’d been someone for Lethe to study and observe from afar.

He’d told himself he was giving her a chance, being fair to this girl who had washed up on his shore. But he’d let himself think of her as someone who had made all of the wrong choices and stumbled down the wrong path. It hadn’t occurred to him that she was being chased.

he's not a fool. he pieces it all together. he realizes she's right, she isn't lying. his blind trust in lethe prevented him from seeing it all before. her records start making sense. her anger now and her fear earlier start making sense. but that doesn't mean he's equipped to help her, to comfort her, to deal with the weight of what it all means. i imagine her sudden depth and pain must've scared him. he was raised by his grandpa who thought the solution to everything was alcohol, ice and manners. only thing darlington seems to have added to that list is breaking things. and alex seems to already be well versed in that.

After a long moment, he said, “Would it help to break something else?” She was breathing hard. “Maybe.” Darlington rose and opened a cupboard, then another, and another, revealing shelf after shelf of Lenox, Waterford, Limoges—glassware, plates, pitchers, platters, butter dishes, gravy boats, thousands of dollars’ worth of crystal and china. He took down a glass, filled it with wine, and handed it to Alex. “Where would you like to start?”

[starlightarchery]

↪ language of flowers - WISTERIA

submitted by @teamtakagi ↪  " Write a scene where Rook dances with their partner. "

Viridian has been perfectly content to hug the outskirts of the room for most of the night - alternating between brief conversations whenever he's approached, to nursing the same drink he was handed when he walked in. No discomfort, no avoidance; he just finds himself more inclined to watch than partake.

Which, it seems, Emmrich is not about to let stand - based on the pace he takes once he catches his partner's eye, oozing purpose with every stride.

His breath catches all over again as he watches the soft sway of Emmrich's chosen attire, catching the light with each step. Deep purples and brilliant greens over a loose ivory shirt, cinched high at the waist but otherwise left to flow freely over the dark trousers he'd chosen to wear beneath it all. Royal in all but name, gilded at the arms and neck, and the most captivating sight the Warden's ever laid eyes on.

"Do you plan to remain a wallflower all night, dearest?"

A small sip, feigning intent to hide his grin behind the rim of his glass. "No wallflowers here, love. Just enjoying the view."

And then, because he never can help himself, his free hand brushes the backs of his knuckles across Emmrich's jawline up to his temple in soft strokes - where they linger until the necromancer claims the hand. He places a kiss to Viridian's fingers, who bumps the pad of his thumb against Emmrich's bottom lip in kind and quickly finds himself wishing he could steal the Watcher's company entirely for himself. He's shared for so much of the night, after all.

Whether reading his mind or pure coincidence, Emmrich's smile follows right behind his silent whims. "We need only stay a bit longer," he voices, "if you wish to leave soon."

A twinge of guilt creeps in, and he gives their joined hands a small squeeze. "We'll stay as long as you want, love. I'm in no hurry."

Emmrich seems to get an idea then, eyes flashing with thought as Viridian raises a brow.

"Well, if that's the case - would you join me for a dance?"

Viridian's earlier confidence flickers a moment. Were this anyone else, it'd be an easy no. But it's not. It's Emmrich. His joy, his heart, his soul. Of course that doesn't stop the nervous chuckle that spills out of his lips before he can swallow it down.

"I'm uh, not that great a dancer, Emmrich."

"Can this be?" A quietly mischievous grin makes its way to Emmrich's lips and oh god - Viridian's about to lose this battle of wills embarrassingly fast. "Dragon fighter, god slayer, and yet deterred by the mere thought of a waltz?"

"Terrified," he exaggerates, knowing full well he's going to give up in about two seconds. Sure enough, he sets his glass on the nearby table before accepting the outstretched hand waiting for him. "But for you? I'll try and be brave."

Amusement crinkles in the corners of Emmrich's eyes as he guides them to the dancefloor. The deep mauve of Viridian's coat brightens under the lamplight, rich notes of purple and red and violet to compliment his partner's more cool-toned colors. Trimmed in brassy metallics and lined in cream, it's without a doubt one of the nicest things he's ever worn. Not quite his style, but he's been assured throughout the night - whether by direct word or prolonged stares - that the tailoring does wonders for his form (he owes Lucanis big time for helping him pull the attire together last minute).

When they reach the middle of the floor, Viridian lets Emmrich guide their stance and steps into a starting position. He remembers watching his fathers dance together - the way they fit and moved as one - and thinks he can emulate it well enough, so long as he finds the right pattern. That's usually the trick.

Mercifully, they start slow, mostly keeping in place until Viridian's footing is more sure of itself and they can move into a roaming pace. There's a learning curve, certainly, but Emmrich's grace more than makes up for any he lacks; even disguising his initial hesitance entirely. And before he knows it, they've found a sort of rhythm - nothing spectacular, or fast, but calm and gentle and perfect for the two of them.

"I believe someone may have exaggerated their supposed incompetence," Emmrich murmurs next to his ear, and Viridian lets his eyes briefly flutter shut at the sound.

When he opens them again, he's smiling. "Or," he begins to rebuttal, taking advantage of a brief moment of confidence to gently spin Emmrich out before drawing him close again (turns out fight movements are just as useful on the dance floor as a battleground, who knew?), "that someone just has a very good teacher."

He gets no small amount of satisfaction from the subtle pinks that bloom like watercolor across Emmrich's cheeks; the latter doesn't blush easily, and he could certainly blame it on the heat from the lamps or the exertion of the dance steps, but Viridian silently pockets the victory regardless.

Their steps slow even further in time with the change in music, Viridian's hand on the small of Emmrich's back guiding him closer until they're pressed together, chest to chest.

Emmrich lets his head fall against Viridian's shoulder, who in turn presses his cheek against the perfectly neat crown of gray and silver. They've slowed to more of a gentle shuffle, in tune with each other rather than the music itself. There could be a thousand people in the room, or no one at all, and Viridian doesn't think he'd notice either way. Or care. All that matters is this - this moment, this person, this peace.

And if it'll lead to more moments like this, then dance lessons have suddenly become the most important thing on his mind.

[lykegenia]

He Makes Her Cry (He Doesn't Like It)

Fandom: The Wayhaven Chronicles Pairing: Mason x Rhiannon Lloyd Rating: T Warnings: None Summary: After the disastrous attempt to stop a kidnapping leaves Rhiannon injured, Mason has time to reflect on his mistakes.

Read on AO3

--

Mason’s clothes scrape across his skin. It burns where air currents brush against it. He hears the biomechanical creak of the joints in his fingers clenching and unclenching, the working of his organs. The glare of lamplight on the bright, biohazard yellow walls makes his eyes water. Brick dust clogs his throat. In the next room, the hiss of the shower faucet masks Rhi’s heartbeat as well as her movements, and that sets him just as much on edge as everything else as he argues between needing to know she’s alright and knowing he won’t be welcome if he invades her privacy.

Fuck, he wants a cigarette. But she doesn’t like the smell and he’s not about to step outside and leave her when she’s still so vulnerable.

He’s already had to do it once. Transferring her over to the medic, to be swept behind a plastic curtain and assessed for who knew how much damage, was one of the hardest things he can ever remember doing, her limp, fragile human body too far gone in shock to even register being handed over like a sack of cloth. The worst part was when he finally let go, and the scent of her blood finally wound beneath his panic. With his mouth watering, he shed his outer layers right there and fled, threw himself under the stream of his own shower to be rid of it. He scrubbed under the stinging water until his skin was chafed raw and his nose and eyes burned with repeated latherings of soap. The memory of it lingers, caught in the back of his throat with the dust, but at least in her room he can focus on the other facets of her scent. Hand lotion. Sawdust. Beeswax. The unscented shampoo she switched to about a month back.

There’s no further sound as she continues washing off the worst of the grime from the collapsed warehouse, at least not that he can sense over the noise of the water. He suspects she’s making a conscious effort not to do anything that will have him banging on the door again – or barging through it – but if the silence goes on much longer he’s going to start tearing out his hair.

The emptiness gives him too much time to think. The hollow, glassy look of Rhi’s eyes when he found her. The bruises already blooming across her cheeks. The coldness he can’t fathom and can’t stand that she’s forced between them ever since that morning at the bakery when he so royally fucked up. It bothers him most that he cares at all – that if the wall that fell on her were just a little heavier, or the steel bars more exposed, or the annunaki less injured, then that conversation might have been the last one they ever shared. The words burn through his mind, the shame of them unfamiliar and unwelcome, but incessant.

Why did humans have to be so damned breakable?

What she wants is to see me naked, that’s all that’s going on here.

The instant the words spring from his mouth he wishes he could cram them back in. Rhi’s pulse spikes, blood rushes to her cheeks, the peppery burn of anger laces the air. A moment passes in iron silence before she turns away to gather her coat from the back of her chair.

Sorry, Haley, it looks like I’m running late. Put it on my tab, yeah?

He has an instant to register the stab of fury at being so thoroughly ignored before her gaze flashes to him with such vitriol he almost forgets she’s human.

You’re a dick.

He only catches the tremor in her voice because he’s paying attention. By the time he’s processed it, she’s halfway down the street. The joking line he tries to get her to slow down makes her round on him with a snarl worthy of a werewolf.

Will you just stop? How many times do I have to sit through one of your shitty come-ons before you get it through your thick skull that I’m not interested?

Her heartbeat betrays her. But it’s the sharp break from her usual stoic denial that drives him close, tired of rejection. There’s nothing wrong with my come-ons, Sweetheart.

My name is Rhiannon.

Why are you making such a big deal out of this?

Because I’m sick of it!

The words are hissed, like she’d rather shout but doesn’t want to draw attention to herself. Too late for that. She’s trembling.

If you’re that desperate for a fuck, go to a bar and pick up someone who’s actually impressed, because I’m done. I’ve had enough. I’m sick of being your punching bag. If you ever say anything like that about me again, I will be putting in a harassment complaint with your handler, understand?

He wants to scoff, to diffuse the tension and brush off whatever this is because since when have human emotions ever bothered him? Their brief passions never hold his attention for long. And yet, beneath the blaze in her eyes and the song her pulse is singing him, he recognises pain. He’s hurt her.

Do you understand?

I speak English, don’t I?

He snaps because he’s thrown. It’s not a state that improves when she turns on her heel and marches off.

Where are you going?

Work.

In case you’ve forgotten, there’s a bounty out on you.

What the fuck do you actually care?

It stopped him short. The tang of salt drifted back to him on the wind.

He smoked through a whole pack within an hour trying to take the edge off the strange, sharp ache in his chest, then snapped at Felix for daring to ask how his morning went.

The rush of the shower cuts off. A few last drips, and then the tentative pat-pat of feet as Rhi steps out. There’s a faint hiss of pain, followed by the rustle of plastic as she removes the protective covering for the cast on her arm. Mason bends his head towards the door. He catches the burst of mint from her toothpaste, time stretching too slowly as the brush scrapes over her teeth.

When the handle finally clicks open, he pushes off the wall so fast that she startles. For a moment she stands in the doorway in loose pyjamas, her hair a dark, damp mass down her back and her skin now clean enough for the bruises to stand out like wine stains against her cheek.

“You’re still here,” she blurts, with a note of surprise that twists in his gut.

He doesn’t know if this is a prelude to being kicked out, so he shrugs. “Didn’t know if you’d need anything.”

“Oh.”

Rhi’s gaze flicks over him with a wariness that’s becoming habitual now, as if this is an interrogation and she’s waiting for him to switch from Good Cop to Bad Cop. But she’s tired, too. He reads defeat in the slump of her shoulders as she shuffles past him towards her bed.

“At least I hopefully don’t smell like blood now.”

His smirk is hollow. “I can always smell your blood, Swee–”

No. She doesn’t like being called that.

What did you even see in that asshole anyway? he asks as her ex saunters away trying to hide how close Mason brought him to pissing himself. When he tilts a look sideways, however, she doesn’t seem to share his amusement.

You mean between the constant innuendo and the saccharine nickname I didn’t ask for? Not a clue. Her stare bores into him to make sure the point is driven home before she turns her back in clear dismissal. Stay out of it next time. I don’t need your help to deal with Bobby.

She catches his stumble now and her heartbeat jolts again, her limbs stilling for the tiniest instant before continuing the struggle of climbing under her duvet with only one working arm.

“Let me know if the forensics team finds anything, will you?” she asks, settling back exhausted against the pillows.

He makes a decision.

“I’ll know when you know.”

The creeping stiffness in her muscles means she has to turn her whole body to frown at him. Slow. Vulnerable. Defenceless.

“I’m not leaving you alone,” he explains as he drags a chair to her bedside.

“You mean you’re going to just sit there all night?”

“The medic said you have a concussion.”

It’s only half an explanation, but he doesn’t know how to articulate that if she’s not in front of him – safe – then he won’t be able to see anything but the memory of her being crushed under a pile of rubble. At least if he’s watching over her, he’s doing something.

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he promises.

Her jaw works. Her chest expands with an inhale that gets cut short by a wince of broken ribs, and whatever she was about to say dies in her throat. With the smallest shake of her head, she rolls her back to him and hunkers down under the covers. It’s a measure of how exhausted she is that she doesn’t argue, though it doesn’t lessen the tension coiled around the length of her spine. Her pain is a palpable thing, and Mason finds his hands balling into fists at how little he can help – not that actions have ever been his strong suit, and he’s even worse with words.

And then he smells salt. She’s crying again.

“What’s wrong?”

Her shoulders twitch as she sniffs. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’m fine,” she insists. “Just tired.”

It’s him. Something he’s done. He’s fucked up again without knowing it and now she’s crying. Again. He can’t even pretend he’s annoyed because it’s a waste of energy.

“I can go,” he says. He even gets up from the chair. “If you’d rather –”

“No –” Rhi half sits up. Winces. “No, it’s alright. It’s just… been a long day.”

Slowly, in case she changes her mind, he settles himself again, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee. “You should sleep. I’ll watch over you.”

Another deep breath, cut off by pain. It’s an effort not to splinter the arms of the chair. Gradually, however, the stiffness recedes and her breath evens as sleep takes hold, her pulse slowing to a steady thump-thump that leads his own to follow it. She’s safe. It doesn’t matter if part of him yearns to see her face as she sleeps, to make sure her dreams remain untroubled; moving would mean disturbing her, and if she wanted to face him she would have done it herself.

Still, he’ll take what he can get. After the shaky ground they’ve been on since the bakery it’s a relief just to be able to stay. He’ll sit here all damned night if that’s what it’ll take to start him on the road to earning back her trust. He’ll stay. As long as she needs it.

[coldshrugs]

whatever keeps you around

pairing: io laithe / estinien varlineau setting: modern au word count: 696 i'm sick so this was bound to happen.

After two soft knocks, Io leans against Estinien's door, waiting for an answer that doesn't come.

Hm.

Maybe he's asleep. He's on day three of a bad flu and, as far as she can tell, he's barely left his room.

"Hey, you hungry in there?" She asks just loud enough for it to carry through the closed door. The question hangs in the silence for a long moment, long enough that she considers taking the bowl of soup back to the kitchen.

He manages a low, coarse grunt of assent from the other side of the door. Io lets herself in.

She steps around the pile of laundry from his overturned basket, evidence of the search for his most comfortable pajamas. His nightstand is littered with tissues; she places the soup among the mess before sweeping them into his trash bin and pulling it closer to the bed. She turns on the lamp.

Estinien rolls to face her, hair sticking up in odd directions. His nose is a sore shade of red and the same color rings his sunken eyes. He is the picture of misery, but there's a glow of warm relief at her arrival.

"Hi." The word rakes through his throat and sends him coughing. Io's own chest aches as she passes him a bottle of water and waits for it to subside.

"Move over, let me sit with you," Io says. He doesn't protest. She shuffles the pillows into a shape that allows him to sit comfortably, then climbs in next to him, her back against the headboard.

He doesn't say anything. His pained little smile is thanks enough.

"Soup?" She offers him the bowl. "It's vegetable. There's celery in there, I'm sorry. But you won't taste it–can you taste anything right now?"

He rattles out a groan but takes it from her. "I guess we'll find out."

"It's time for medicine too."

"Non-drowsy?" he asks through a mouthful of soup (she made it herself; her dad's recipe from which she refuses to deviate, not even for Estinien's hostility towards celery, not that he seems to mind).

Io shakes her head. "Nope. Unfortunately, this could tranquilize a horse. I'll get more of the other kind before you wake up. I promise."

"Why did I let you in if you're just gonna feed me stuff I don't like and knock me out?" Most of his consonants come out with the same blunted sound, victims of his stuffy nose. Io holds back her laugh and passes him two dark green capsules. He pops them and they sit in easy silence while he finishes the soup.

She takes the bowl. "Not so bad, was it?"

He shoves two pillows her way and burrows into his comforter again. "Pretty good. More for later?"

"Yeah, I made a lot." She closes her eyes and tips her head back until it meets the wall. His labored breathing comes softer and more slowly. Something about it makes her ask, "Should I call Vic?"

"No."

"Don't want him to see you like this?"

"It's not that. Just…" He looks up at her with his red-rimmed eyes, soft, and so exhausted in the lamplight. She pulls the chain to turn it off. "No, you don't have to call him"

She smiles. "Want me to stay with you?" The real ending to that question forms on her tongue and stays there: "baby." She holds it there, like she wants to hold him.

"You'll get sick," he says.

"So you face that way, and I'll face this way and stay out of the blankets." Io moves the pillows behind her and waits for Estinien to roll over. When he does, she mirrors him, back to back. Each of his heavy breaths feels more steady than the last. "I'm right here if you need anything."

She closes her eyes again.

"Thank you, Io." A final whispered rasp as his weight settles against hers.

He'll fall asleep, and she'll run out to buy the daytime cold and flu medicine. But for now, Io lives in the long, easy spaces between his exhales, elated by the simple fact that Estinien wants her here, and no one else.

[solifloris]

so curious why sylus has you this hooked when he's so different from xavier and the guys you tend to like

RIGHT OK i was going to not be as unhinged over him on the dash as i truly was being in my head, BUT SINCE YOU ASKED.... buckle up anonie bc this is LONG long <3

ok but honestly genuinely i don't account for my lane switch to be official at the moment, bc on account of visually, given what we know? i'm still v much into xavier! and we just. don't know anything else set in stone about sylus yet!

and all this has honestly WAY less to do with how he looks or how he portrays the villain aesthetic, which i know is what like- ive been seeing most people attached to. he has the vibes from that trailer, undeniably, but it's also really not why i'm so interested in him—

as much as the why.

as much as the how.

as much as the how far.

so i guess you could say i'm just hella on my toes rn for the potential?

in my head he has very much of a morally grey anti-hero trope; arguably right intentions, wrong methods, sort of a thing. enough so that he'd become the villain, instead of trying to play hero in some way like the others—enough so that, whether he chose to be this way at first or not, he did grow to the need for there to be a stronger catalyst that can be selfish, that doesn't care so much for morals or being "good".

and when you put that into perspective, it means he didn't start out with that kind of mindset.

so what pushed him so far? what was the breaking point? why did he turn to this path? and how different did he will himself to become just to achieve all of this?

then simultaneously it makes you think, like. what about mc would make him need her so much, love her so much, possibly obsess over, that he would turn his back on those convictions just to love her? and then like,,,,, to think about how his world could come crashing under the realization of his love for her, through all he's done and has been doing? how he'd struggle with his emotions and his actions and how to be affectionate with her in a manner that's genuine yet still acceptable? the intensity of it all that he has to learn to control... and then the gentleness that could eventually be found amidst whatever passion or desperation there probably is in that love?

and you'll find this absolutely the fuck out of pocket from me of all people because "wtf? roxie? being soft on main instead?!" but he does feel like the type to slow dance with in the kitchen at midnight, to walk barefoot on the pavement back home after a long day, shoes in your hands, lamplight flickering above you... and not in like, a goofy sort of way? but just? the vibes of pure, possibly intense, sort of love? like. like running his fingers theough your hair waiting for you to fall asleep first, watching the way the moonlight scatters on your face as you do. or looking into your eyes trying to convey something with such ardor and fervency; maybe it's a plea, maybe it's love or aftection or adoration, maybe it's determined.... you get it.

it's the vibes.

it's the possibilities that come with the vibes. it's the possibilities of how he could be, given that the situation and the set-up and the vibes that we can glean from the trailer open up so many options.

so to me it feels like there's like an 85% chance i might fall head over heels for him.

you say he doesn't have the trope of the fictional characters i tend to like; you have not yet seen me cry over wei wuxian, or khun, or blackwater, or moriarty... 😭✋

and like.

we'll still see, obviously, if this is enough to pull me away from xavier, but—if i like the depth in his character? if i like his development? if i like his backstory? if i like his portrayal, if i like his relationship with mc and how their love story is portrayed? then... maybe. it's still a maybe, because we don't know anything yet, but it's a pretty strong maybe.

[randomingoftherandomness]

Hi! How are u? I'm SO addicted with your writing! I'm loving it. I think I read all of your My journey stories.

I have a prompt (It's here the correct place? Idk, sorry if it isn't). Would you write some Alpha!Shangjue x Omega! Yuanzhi where Jue is shocked that Zhi is a omega. Breeding kink is welcomed! hahahaha

You are marvelous! ❤️

I would like to formally start this off by saying, thank you for the very kind compliment and I genuinely hope you like this.

And then I'm going to follow it up by saying that I'm gonna go take a dive in holy water now because Spicy Lemons season is getting me good and if anyone has any other kinky shit they want me to write about these two, the ask box is here, anon is on, and short of scat and necro, I'm pretty down with a lot of things.

Go forth, my fellow filthy heathens x

Tags: A/B/O, Mpreg, Unreliable Narrator, Breeding, Dubious Consent, Mating, Heat

🌶️🍋🌶️🍋🌶️🍋🌶️🍋🌶️🍋

The first time he catches a whiff of that scent, he's having dinner with Yuanzhi didi. Didi is happily eating his meal, enjoying the array of dishes -- his favourites; Shangjue wanted to dote on him a little -- while Shangjue is caught between a spark of arousal and a deep curiosity.

He lowers his bowl and takes a deep lungful of air.

Somewhere in his residence, very near him in fact, there's an Omega that is coming into their own.

The tang of sweetness in the scent is just on the edge of ripeness, and the heart notes of osmanthus and something bitter hint at the way that the Omega will very soon realise it. That's if the Omega won't be going into Heat before they do.

He should probably discuss this with the Head Steward. There are a few people stationed outside the door in case Yuanzhi or himself has any need to be served. If it's one of the younger maids or servants, it could be a scary experience and they should be given the space to feel comfortable.

Shangjue is very well aware that this is a delicate subject and while he doesn't feel up to disclosing how his sensitive sense of smell works, he isn't about to out anyone, least of all an Omega who quite possibly doesn't even know they've developed that sub-gender.

"... Gege?"

Shangjue comes back to himself with a quiet hum. "What did you say? Sorry, I was thinking of something."

Yuanzhi looks down at his bowl and softly asks, "Can I stay over tonight?"

"Do you even have to ask?" Shangjue bites back the urge to laugh. His Didi adorably puffs out his cheeks like an irritated squirrel, before he settles down. "I'm sure you'll stay over no matter what I say."

Yuanzhi seems to slump dejectedly. Come to think of it, Shangjue reckons he looks a bit feverish in the lamplight. In the week that he has been back, this is the first meal they've shared together. Shangjue had assumed that Yuanzhi was just busy, but now he sees he probably has some cause for concern.

"Can I sleep with you though?"

Shangjue feels something settle in his chest at the request. It's a feeling he immediately tucked into the back of his mind to examine at a different time.

"Just like how you used to when you were scared of thunderstorms?"

Yuanzhi sets his bowl down on the table. "Just tell me no if you don't want to." Biting his bottom lip, he rises to leave. That settled feeling burns into something urgent and panicked. Shangjue immediately catches Yuanzhi by the sleeve, sighing.

"I didn't say no," He gently coaxes, tugging him back into his seat. "I just wanted to know if you want to share my bed or if you want me to get the maids to prepare your room for you."

Yuanzhi is still sulky but he quietly says, "With you."

Shangjue has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from cooing at his Didi's pouting. It's so charming and his fingers itch for a brush to paint him like this.

"Go get cleaned up. You can wear my pyjamas tonight."

This seems to be the right thing to say because it has Yuanzhi perking up, eyes sparkling with pure happiness. He shoots up, thanking Shangjue with a quick hug before he rushes off to the bathing room.

Adorable.

He lifts his bowl to finish his food when his nose catches a stronger whiff of the Omega. The scent is deeper, richer and it sends a jolt of desire down his spine.

That won't do.

Abandoning his dinner, he calls for the Head Steward. Maybe he should see if he has any suppressant in store to keep himself from going into a rut in response to the Omega. Not that he thinks he would, but it won't hurt to err on the side of caution.

Yuanzhi is in bed, eyes big and bright as they watch him dry his hair. It's strangely unseasonably warm tonight; perhaps just a last flush of summer warmth before the weather gives in to an autumnal chill. His Didi has chosen the inner side of the bed, just like he used to when he was a child. Shangjue smiles at that thought, shedding a layer of his robes for comfort before snuffing out the candles, and climbing into bed.

The scent of the Omega has been haunting him the whole evening and it's setting an itch in the back of his teeth.

He should go to the clinic to get a dose of suppressant in the morning just in case the Head Steward cannot find any in their stores. But for now, he is happy to snuggle up to his Didi.

Pulling Yuanzhi against him, he curls his fingers through his hair, scraping nails to the scalp. Yuanzhi practically purrs and Shangjue files the little happy smile on his face to his memories just in case he ever misses his little brother when he is away.

Yuanzhi nuzzles against his shoulder. A habit he does when he is seeking comfort. The world quiets away when Shangjue continues to comb his fingers through long unbraided hair.

"Go to sleep, Didi. Gege is here," He murmurs.

He should have known the universe would find a way to sneak in a wrench to his happier moments.

Sometime during the middle of the night, he dreams of waking.

A lightning of desire coils deep in his belly and he wakes in that liminal lull when you cannot decide whether you’re still sleeping or pushing to the shores of consciousness. The scent of osthmanthus carries him.

Looking over at Yuanzhi didi sleeping next to him, he surges in, pressing his nose to the mating glands on his neck, scent drunk.

There’s something urgent nudging at his mind. Something he needs to remember but every thought and every inhibition falls away when Yuanzhi arching off the bed with a silent scream the second Shangjue has his mouth wrapped around that pulsing gland.

Shangjue drowns in a thick blanket of osmanthus.

Yuanzhi is calling for him.

Calling, “Gege, please…”

What is he asking for?

Shangjue burns to provide. Every second he doesn’t give to fulfilling a purpose is a second wasted. Shangjue wants…

Yuanzhi.

Yuanzhi.

Yuanzhi, who has his legs spread around Shangjue’s thigh, rocking his hips, rutting like a bitch in heat. His pale face is ruddy red, lips parting and making a whining keen that strikes Shangjue deep in his core.

The collars of Yuanzhi’s robe slips. Exposing the dark pebble hard nubs on his sweaty chest. Slipping further with every roll of his hips. Yuanzhi looks debauched and Shangjue has not even touched him.

Yet.

Because the backs of his teeth itch and he can feel the heavy press of his cock just waiting on a slip up from Yuanzhi. Just one that brings the leaking cocklet that peeks out from under the hem of the robe.

Just one that will give Shangjue all the reason he needs to—

“Gege…!”

Shangjue is on him. Pushing him onto his back, sliding into the cradle of his legs and pressing him open. He rucks up the bottom of the robe, making sure Yuanzhi is watching when he kisses right on the quivering muscle of his belly, the slowly marking the path down south, right through the dark wiry thatch of hair that hides a delicate flower underneath.

His probably should have connected the dots then and there.

Something stirs in Shangjue. It’s a primal need. A motivation that calls his Alpha to breed his Omega.

The urgent thought twists a half-hearted dying wail before it floats into nothingness.

And so he does.

Time slips through his fingers and is only marked by flashes of awareness in the shapes and sounds of Yuanzhi, Yuanzhi, Yuanzhi.

At some point, he sinks his fingers into the blessed heat of his body, swallowing down his Didi’s moans with his lips. At another point, he has Yuanzhi’s twitching thighs pressing on either sides of his head as he chases the taste of his slick, hypnotised by the way his virginal cries sound as he scrapes his tongue to his folds.

Yuanzhi writhes. Making sounds Shangjue has never thought he would ever hear come from his Didi’s lips. It’s addictive. Bolstered by the thought that he’s the one who drew it out of him and sealed by his desire to keep being the only one who gets to see this side of him.

Shangjue is guided by the singular need to breed him.

That first slide into Yuanzhi is heavenly. The second is a promise of a future where Shangjue is going to forever want Yuanzhi hanging off his knot, pumping his Didi full of come.

Awareness fuzzes out around the edges and Shangjue surrenders himself to the slick, wet heated pleasure of his most precious person being pressed down under him and fucked until he has knotted him again and again and again.

And then.

Then.

Then, Shangjue comes back to his skin.

It happens while he's knotted for the nth time in Yuanzhi. Sometime during the passage of days, one of the Elders had tried to step in and separate them, only for Shangjue to beat him back all while Yuanzhi was lost to the mindless pleasure of fucking himself back on Shangjue's cock.

He'd mated him then, with half the senior family members in his room, watching with horror as he bred his Didi and claimed him with a bite over his mating gland. A proper one. Bloody and true like they used to do in the old days.

There will be no challenge to Shangjue's claim. There was no legal way they could break this mating without harming them both when there were witnesses to their joining. Morally, well, that was subjective and Shangjue doesn't care too much for that when Yuanzhi's his by every definition of the word.

It has already begun to scar.

The sight of it pleases the Alpha in him. More so when Yuanzhi's soft belly is slightly protruding from all the loads Shangjue had kept pumping into him.

There's a distant part of him, one thought that had tried to worm its way into the forefront of his consciousness that tried to tell him of the truth he couldn't quite process in his rut-buzzed mind.

Yuanzhi, his beautiful, wild and stunningly brilliant Didi is an Omega. One, if the flashes of memories are to be believed, he had fucked again and again, wringing out orgasms from his slender body until he begged to be allowed to sleep, yet still welcomed him into his body with eager moans and searching hands.

His precious Didi, the one he'd raised, the same one who'd looked at him with worship and adoration in his eyes, is now the one he knows the look of when he comes. The same one with slick Shangjue can taste on his tongue. The Omega that pleases his Alpha to be mated to.

Yuanzhi was the reason for the osmanthus scent in his household.

Even now, the scent lingers in their sex-soaked room. But it sits muted, calmer, and mingled with something richer.

Shangjue wraps his arms around Yuanzhi, wincing when the movement shifts his unconscious Omega on his knot. Bringing him closer, he kisses the mating mark, breathing in the smell.

Then again.

His hands tremble when they cup Yuanzhi's face, carefully cradling his beautiful Omega. It's faint, but it's there.

Somewhere in his Didi, there's the sign of a new life.

Emotions stir in him. Happiness, that after all this time, he won't be the only Jue left. Elation that their first coupling has resulted in a pregnancy this quick. They'll have to check afterwards, but the fact was this.

Yuanzhi is pregnant.

Didi is pregnant and the seed is Shangjue's.

His knot deflates soon after, barely able to hold on to hardness after all the sex. It's not a problem for Shangjue. The fuzz of his rut sits further off his consciousness now. No longer brewing just under his skin.

Yuanzhi's hole twitches, almost mourning the shape of him and for a brief moment, Shangjue entertains the thoughts of sinking back into the deep warmth of his body, but decides against it.

His Yuanzhi whimpers a little before sighing in his sleep. Shangjue wraps him up in his arms, kissing his neck, his cheek, the corner of his eye. They might have skipped the whole courting process and went straight to a mating, but it doesn't mean Yuanzhi doesn't deserve him making an effort. There'll be time until their lives change again to accommodate another human, but in that time, Shangjue will court and woo Yuanzhi; shower him with plenty of love and affection.

His pretty flower is a shade of rosy fucked out red, drooling a tickle of white.

Shangjue feels his cock twitch in response.

Maybe just one more time. Just for good luck.

[loopielupie]

Whumptober Day 2 - Thermometer

Katsuki wakes to Izuku shifting in the bed, tugging on the covers like he's cold, maybe? He's hazy with half-sleep but it's still easy for Katsuki to throw an arm out in Izuku's general direction and tuck him closer with a murmured "g'back t'sleep, 'zuku". And Izuku goes with it, burrowing against Katsuki's chest and...shivering?

That doesn't make sense. Their bedroom isn't cold by any means.

Much more alert, Katsuki goes to sit, but Izuku whines and clings closer. He's warm, uncomfortably so, his shirt stuck to his chest with sweat.

"Izuku," he whispers, resting his head against his forehead. It's hot under his fingers and Izuku pulls back from the contact, eyelids fluttering.

"Izuku," he tries again. "Izuku, wake up."

Izuku croaks a sound of complaint and Katsuki can tell that hurts even before his face scrunches in a wince.

"Wh'ass...Kacchan?"

"Mm, 'm here." He brushes sweaty hair behind his ear and Izuku leans into the touch this time. "You have a fever."

"Mmm. Head hurts."

Katsuki stifles a sigh and goes to leave the bed but Izuku grips his shirt on reflex. Katsuki leans back in, runs a gentle thumb across the back of his fist.

"You gotta let me go get the thermometer," he reminds him. "I'll being you something for your headache too."

Izuku releases him with a pitiful nod, slumping back onto the bed. He must feel awful. Katsuki's stomach knots.

"I'll be right back."

The thermometer, paracetamol, water, and a damp cloth are retrieved but it's only then that Katsuki realises he hadn't asked after other symptoms. He kicks himself but heads back, this is good enough for starters.

Izuku has curled up in the interim, burrowed under the blankets and shaking so hard Katsuki can hear his teeth chattering. Katsuki's stomach clenches as he sets down his things. Flicking on the light earns him a pained hiss and he apologises under his breath.

"Oi, you're gonna have to come out of there," he says, poking izuku gently in the cheek. He tries to ignore the little voice in his head that says he's even warmer now. There's protest but he finally manages to get Izuku to give up the blankets. In the lamplight, he looks as awful as Katsuki suspected he felt: fever bright eyes, pale, flushed cheeks, curls stuck to his forehead with sweat. Katsuki swallows thickly and snatches up the thermometer. Shaky hands guide it under Izuku's shirt and they wait the few seconds before a shrill series of beeps breaks the quiet.

"39.6," Izuku croaks, squinting at the screen. Before Katsuki can curse at that, he suddenly sits bolt upright and dives for the side of the bed. Katsuki lurches to catch him with a panicked yelp of his name but the first gag tells him all he needs to know and he scrambles for the bin by the bed instead. He's a little late but he holds Izuku steady until the retching tapers off into ragged gasps for breath.

"m..sorry." Izuku's whisper is fried at the edges and Katsuki's heart breaks a little.

"Stop it," he chastises, helping him to sit and wiping the tears clinging to his lashes. "You're sick. Nothin' you can do about that 'cept get better."

Izuku manages a woozy little chuckle:

"Kacchan's right."

"Course I am. Here," Katsuki hands him the glass of water. "D'ya think you can manage the paracetamol? We gotta get your temperature down."

The sounds Izuku makes isn't very commital, but Katsuki drops the pills into the awaiting shaky hand and while Izuku takes them, he mops up the mess and roots through their drawers for lighter clothes. Izuku is pliant and sleepy as he changes him into a tank and shorts but Katsuki can feel him trembling.

"Nope. No blanket," he says as Izuku tries to wrap himself up.

"But...'m'cold..."

"That's the fever talking, you're gonna boil your brain if I let you have that."

He pulls the blanket down and Izuku just let him; it sends a swoop of dread through katsuki's stomach to see him just...give up like that even as he's relieved he doesn't have to fight him on it. Katsuki can't help squeezing the damp cloth just a little too hard in agitated fingers. Izuku hisses again at the feeling of what must be freezing water on his skin, but Katsuki tries to sooth as best he can, guiding izuku's head into his lap and running fingers through damp curls.

Izuku goes slowly boneless under the attention, eyelids falling closed, although Katsuki can see him fighting it.

"Sleep," he coaxes. "I've got you."

"...mmkay. G'night."

Katsuki watches Izuku slacken against him, listens to the even sounds of his breaths, and settles in for a long night.

[queenofbaws]

You know what this is! Another day, another set of lyrics!

'I think there's something wrong inside my head, I'm getting anxious

I've lost all hope I had of staying calm, I cannot stand this

So bite your tongue and walk away because I need a minute

I feel the blood run through my veins and there's a monster in it'

(God i hope your actually enjoying/looking forward to these things. Probably should have asked beforehand if this was an idea you'd be cool with oops.)

It came on like a migraine, that's what it was - a couple warning aches in the hinge of his jaw, his heartbeat echoing thickly through his sinuses, a pain that started off dull and stupid but grew sharper and deeper and more defined with each hour that passed.

"I don't havta listen to this," he muttered into his hands, through the hot saliva that had started to pool in the dip beneath his tongue, "I don't care, I don't care, I don't care - "

"I don't care if you don't care," Travis snapped right back, doing that thing he always did, rounding on him without really rounding on him, keeping his angles right, staying just out of reach, serpentining in case the perp got belligerent or flighty or felt a plain old surge of self-confidence, "the problem doesn't go away just because you don't fuckin' care, Chris, it still..."

The rest was lost to him, the trumpeting of a grown-up in one of the Charlie Brown cartoons they'd watched, growing up; the throbbing behind his eyes flexed into something deeper, calling to mind a sign he'd seen in town once, a raggedy number zip-tied to the chainlink outside someone's home: I CAN MAKE IT TO THE FENCE IN 2.8 SECONDS, it read, the dark outline of a guard dog printed below, CAN YOU?

It didn't occur to him he might've said it aloud, not until the bleating stopped and the room went still, not until he watched his brother's hands lay themselves flat on the desk as he leaned down and over him, not until the argument gave way to the Older Sibling Special: "The hell you just say to me?"

"I said," he said, looking up from his hands with eyes that were only his in theory, the dull lamplight hurting, stinging, lacing his brother's face with squirmingly translucent veins, "I'm gonna give you three seconds to get outta my room, Trav, and if I were you, I'd take 'em."

six sentence sat(or)sunday!!!

[cuntissimos]

title: clinging to not getting sentimental.

fandom: saltburn.

pairing: oliver quick/felix catton, felix catton/annabelle.

rating: mature.

wordcount: 874.

summary: oliver watches felix have sex with annabelle, all while being delusional and lying to himself. as usual.

triggers: alcohol use, stalking, voyeurism, smoking, violence.

ao3 link.

felix is staring at annabelle from across the dancefloor. i've seen that glassy, vodka-fueled look before. we all have, though i know that i see it for what it is: desperation. everyone loves felix, they do. no one leaves him alone, and he's grown accustomed to it. all of these people, all gathered at his feet, leaving flowers and prayers just for a glance in their direction. i think the reason he likes me so much is because i don't do that. never have, never will. my sun doesn't shine for felix catton, does it? no. he's worshiped with longing, especially from those like annabelle. i imagine that in her head, she thinks of wedding bells or invitations or feeding felix cake. it's all a bit pathetic, really, watching her now cut through her friends to get to felix. my gaze flicks to india, and her crushing disappointment. another disciple cast aside for felix's cravings. is it sweet to see them kiss as the music vibrates the entire club? hardly. there's nothing romantic about empty kisses that taste like alcohol.

pushing myself off of the wall, i slowly exit, but not the way felix went. that's too obvious, too... strange. people would notice, more than likely, and i can't have that. once they're on the trail back to felix's room, i pick up the slack and walk behind in the shadows. felix is hanging onto annabelle, his long body bent to the left, his head on hers. i can hear giggling, felix raising a bottle. he's smashed — totally off his arse with something horridly flavored, probably. whipped cream vodka or something equally as disgusting. they make it through the winding courtyard of our beloved oxford, and then — i fork toward the windows. i make sure to get there after felix enters with annabelle. their lips crash, two catastrophes looking to destroy fair towns with their undeniable affection. it's tragic.

i light a cigarette, taking a long drag from the filter, the curling wisps of nicotine-tinted smoke dancing around my head like felix does. he shines, you know. trusting and kind and dangerously sheltered from pain. he doesn't know what it's like to want, to need, to suffer for something you've set your heart on. love for him is so gentle, and it comes too fucking easily. he loves me. i know he does. he told me the first time we officially spoke, the words falling from his mouth like warm waterfalls nestled in hidden mountains. it felt... right. beautiful. no hatefulness, no sarcasm. i've never seen him look at annabelle the way he looked at me that day. it's nice when his brown eyes — so much like a loyal dog's — light up with happiness and laughter. i can give that to him, i can always give that to him.

he thrusts into her, the curve of his back lean and tight with exertion. i gain no sexual pleasure from this, i feel empty. tired. it's far past midnight, but that isn't the reason my heart pumps in a slow rhythm. there is no excitement, only the sharpness that comes before decay. a twisted blade, a gunshot that hits a vital organ. i'm bleeding for him, but not in the way one would expect. a tear falls, hot and stinging, and i finish the cigarette off with another drag. flicking it into the flowers, i hope they burn. i hope they wilt and curl into themselves. that's how i feel, that's how this makes me suffocate. they don't last long — fucking drunk will do that to you — the both of them rolling under the duvet looking for a smoke. felix laughs, the lamplight giving him this fucking awful glow. sweat is settled on his chest, and i hate it. i hate him. i hate felix catton. i want to tell him gorgeous words and say he's the only one for me, but i also want to know what it means to hurt him. really, truly hurt him. that's not violence, it's righteousness. a slaying of the ego, a sword wrapped in the thick muscle of self-worth.

she doesn't stay. she never does. with a kiss to his cheek, annabelle pops out whilst adjusting her clothes. felix doesn't bother lamenting, because there's no reason to. the lamp is off, the night presses against me with such incredible, horrible, nauseating weight. i watch his silhouette, moving with the rhythm of his breathing. my hand reaches out, and i press it to the glass. it's as if it also moves with his lungs, like i can feel the reverberation. in and out, in and out. my fingers curl until i form a fist. it's true, isn't it? that verlaine poem.

your soul is a select landscape — where charming masqueraders and bergamaskers go, playing the lute and dancing and almost, sad beneath their fantastic disguises.

all sing in a minor key, of victorious love and the opportune life, they do not seem to believe in their happiness, and their song mingles with the moonlight —

i rear my fist back and then pound it against the glass, the pitch-black night covering my form, my face. felix startles, yells, then leans over to light the lamp. i'm already gone.

[symphonyofmalice]

Episode 1 Reactions

Below the cut, my reactions to watching the first episode of the AMC IWTV show

I want to say right off the bat I am not, on principle, opposed to changes. I will try to keep an open mind to whether those changes are made well to serve a story or purpose.

Starting with Daniel being older and having Pakinson's. This does not have to be a bad change, but it does tell me that they can't intend to do the original devil's minion plot. Part of the tragedy of Daniel's book character is how young he is, the life he could have had if all these vampires hadn't gotten tangled up in it. Him being older and having a disability makes him evoke Gabrielle to me- someone freed from poor health by vampirism. We'll see where they take it.

I will say Louis does an excellent job coming across as charming and controlled, but also a little inhuman and off.

Fan me is a little irked at them being able to be awake in daylight but it's not a dealbreaker.

I know (spoilers) that the assistant character is Armand, so I am watching that with some anticipation.

"It's a fever dream told to an idiot". I get that this show needs, as it's premise, that the interview was faulty and worth re-doing. This does the job of justifying that set up decently well. It still doesn't feel good to have the original book and first movie, which so many love as a faithful adaptation, get discussed this way. Again, the change itself is necessary, but the dismissive and insulting tone feels unnecessary.

"I'm not your fucking boy, I'm an old man with all the triggers that come with it" is a decent line but feels awkwardly acted.

Lestat's intro shot is iconic, and I'm not afraid of admitting that.

I'm glad to see more of Paul, to give more weight to his loss for Louis. Especially since other adaptations didn't include him.

That said, I feel odd about the scene where Louis pulls a knife on Paul. One could argue he was making a show of strength for the observers, keeping up a reputation. But 1) it seems like genuine anger and 2) one of the key character traits of Louis- why he initially follows Lestat- is lacking the courage of his convictions. Louis of the books is a somewhat passive character who waits for others to arrange the things he secretly wants.

Ok the Mayfair witch reference is cute and funny without being disruptive

Louis little uncomfortable look and chuckle when he's invited to confession is good actually.

❗"Only the impossible can do the impossible" I am counting this as a "I, too am impossible" Nicolas reference.

Lestat looking at Miss Lily while he mentions good food is also nice.

I feel awkward about their weird competition but I think I'm supposed to.

God Lestat is flirting so shamelessly hard with Louis.

Lestat's killing random lamplighters now? And like a feral dog? This feels like too much a change. The shot is very slasher horror rather than gothic horror. And Lestat killing evil-doers is too big a part of his character to just skip over.

The card table telepathy is cool. I think I would appreciate it more as just "Lestat thinking at Louis so they can have a conversation in what feels like an instant" or even "Lestat keeps the others from noticing time passing" than "actual time stopping powers" (as implied by the floating chips).

Lestat watching Louis as Louis watches the opera is another iconic shot.

Little peppering and sprinkling of Lestat's backstory (mastiff, rifle, Gabrielle, Paris).

Lestat looking offended when Louis pretends not to like opera feels accurate.

Wait Freniere?

Ok even the first time I tried to watch the show, I was intrigued to see the religious conflict be able to play out between Lestat and Paul.

Louis: Why would you think I was ashamed Lestat: Well you are about 100 miles into the closet but let's call it an educated guess.

Savage garden obligatory ding

❗A young violinist I once knew~

There's another good shot of Lestat reaching for Louis from behind just as Louis leans forward.

I think Louis is supposed to be eating her out but he is somewhere near her thigh/knee.

It is a benefit of the time that the show got to be more explicitly queer than previous adaptions could.

Credit where it's due, the little drink and even healing the wound with blood

Paul's death scene is emotional but, I think missing the ambiguity (in the books, it's after a huge argument and Louis isn't sure if it was accident or suicide) actually weakens it a lot. (Though the last sunrise addition makes a dark touch I think I'd like).

Like, they still have the emotional punch of Louis' family suspecting him, but Louis knows for sure.

Lestat can definitely be crass and an idiot but "Hey where'd you get your brother's coffin" seems much even for him and especially "your brother's head longed for that flagstone"

The messy drinking is just going to be a pet peeve for me. I get its a visual thing for a visual medium but it's a minor canon ruffle.

On a more serious note, I really hope the confession scene and Lestat killing the priest don't replace the later scene of Louis killing a priest himself. (Though I suspect it will, because that might be too similar/redundant for the show). In the book, it's a character moment for Louis- he realizes he's the only supernatural power in the church, and that no one will punish him for the things he thinks he deserves. In the show scene, it just makes Lestat the horror movie villain taking away his safety and community.

So glad we got punch-gore brain gibblets. (/sarcasm).

"It is difficult to explain how his words disarmed me" No you can't actually get away with telling me the thing is indescribable, because I'm not buying this quick turnaround as is. This is not a scenario where "just trust me, Lestat was very persuasive" is working on me as a viewer.

I can kind of squint at getting it as a "supernatural escape from the social forces of racism and homophobia" but like still...don't just gloss over that

LOUIS CLOSE YOUR DAMN MOUTH YOU'RE SPILLING LIKE SPOONFULLS OF BLOOD.

Lestat is definitely more antagonistic in the first book before his protagonist makeover, but even in hindsight, nothing in the first book severely contradict's Lestat's self-depiction (e.g. choosing murderers as victims). This might stretch or break that.

Also it all feels a bit rushed. Lestat is hunting Louis, yes, and it's in character for them to be a little toxic and fucked up. But going straight from the funeral to the turning scene, I feel, doesn't give a lot of time and weight to Louis wallowing in misery and inviting death, as he does in the books and movie.

-

TL;DR: Sam Reid makes an excellent Lestat. Some of the other changes I am watching warily to see how they turn out. It could be promising. They do sprinkle in little references to the canon, but sometimes that feels more annoying than actually helpful. Like, if you're going to make these drastic changes to characters' personalities and ways of being, it doesn't super help that Lestat said the words Savage Garden. That doesn't give you adaptation points.

[little-miss-moonshine]

candlelight and sunlight

well. I'm not sure how to address you anymore. endearingly? not likely. distastefully? although you might deserve it, I think not. familiarly? doesn't feel right. I shall settle for referring to you as my distant acquaintance. it's less than you are, but far more than you deserve. I thought to myself long ago that the last post I wrote for you was the last post I would ever write for you. in a sense, this post is not for you, but let me tell you why I'm writing to you. you continue to persist in my life, and I need you to understand that it's over.

I used to hold a candle for you. I told you in july that you shouldn't be my jaan, that I will find someone else, someone who deserves me. well, I did. someone else, the right person, is my jaan now. and you know what? I think I've fallen in love with the man I am going to marry.

let me tell you about him. his hair glints mesmerizingly in lamplight and the light of day. his eyes shine bluer than any ocean I've ever seen, and I've seen a fair few. his smile gives radiance its definition. I used to call you an angel, and yet, every time he glances back at me from my desk, backlit by the light from my lamp, I feel like I'm truly seeing an angel for the first time.

his character shines even more brightly than his smile. he makes me smile, he makes me laugh, he makes me think, and so much more. he radiates joy when he's happy, and its effect is astounding. he shows me all of him: his tenderest smile, his sharpest smirk, his most vulnerable frown. he is one of the most genuine people I know. he tells me he loves me, and I believe it beyond any shred of doubt. he looks at me with true love in his eyes, and he speaks to me as though I'm someone precious. he holds me with gentle hands, ones that will never let me go.

he is the kindest person I've ever met. I've never met someone who shows me as much care as he does. he lights up my whole world, and I've never felt so happy before. he is like me in so many ways, and even where he differs, we still pull at each other like tides, like magnets. didn't you know that opposites attract? someone once said we were two of a set in every universe, and I don't doubt it for a second. I think he was made for me, and I think I'm made for him. even if I'm not, I will spend my life trying to be everything he deserves, because he deserves the whole world. loving him feels like icarus flying straight into the sun to find that there is nothing but warmth, kindness, and joy under the glow of soft orange light.

this dilemma has me thinking. it leaves me wondering how I ever thought your weak candlelight of "care" ever compared to the shining force of his love's blazing sun.

you miss me. I know you do. this whole messed-up delay, where you remain in my life at a point that I can't remove you, is riling us both up. maybe a petty side of me delights in it just a little, wanting you to feel a little of the pain you have inflicted on me, but it genuinely doesn't give me the joy it once would have. you want a second chance, but honestly, the right person will never need a second chance, because they will never hurt you or leave you like that. you're not the right person for me, and you know that.

you know it all, but it's not enough. maybe this will be. for the sake of argument, let's say I did give you another chance. what exactly would I be giving a chance to? us? I don't know that even one second of our relationship was genuine. I don't know that a single word that ever came out of your mouth was true. I deserve someone who treasures me, and you never did anything but take me for granted. even if you decide to say you love me now, I deserve a love that does not take you losing me to realise how much you need me. did you know you have yet to even apologize to me for everything you've done? the one mantra I kept repeating to get over you was "if he wanted to, he would." you never wanted to, so you never did, and you still haven't, so you still don't want to. I'm not yours anymore, and you should make your peace with that.

make no mistake, me walking you through my decision shouldn't give you hope that you have a chance. I've already made this choice. he consumes me: my thoughts, my dreams, my prayers, everything. thoughts of you occupy nothing but a tiny space in my brain, and the only thoughts that ever cross my mind are empty, halfhearted questions about why you did this to me, how you sleep at night, and whether you'll be like this forever. life has given me a chance, a chance at real happiness, so I'll grab it with both hands and pray I'm worthy of the ride. I hope you'll understand that I'm turning my back on your candle and facing my sun's warmth.

so, just for clarity's sake, please understand that it's over. farewell, my distant acquaintance. I wish you all the happiness you deserve.

[night-garden-fic]

Chapter One: All Colors Combine Down to Black

(Read on AO3)

"If you're painting, all the colors combine down to black, and there's no getting them apart again."

Part One

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

"Sleep will not come to this tired body now

Peace will not come to this lonely heart

There are some things I'll live without

But I want you to know that I need you right now"

-"In the Arms of Sleep," Smashing Pumpkins

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Chapter One: All Colors Combine Down to Black

     "Okay, just a minute here..."

     Russell drifted; lost in the sound of a dark, smiling voice, in the feeling of smooth, supple rope working over his already raw wrist.

     Before he knew it, he felt his right hand slide down the bedpost, limp and unmoored.  He stretched his arm, clenched his fist a few times, and let the tired limb drape across his chest, listening to the creak of the bedsprings as Lady Ann got to work freeing his other hand.

     Trying, in turn, not to listen to his own ragged, uneven breathing.

     It went better than expected.  You're all right.

     The thought encouraged him.  Underneath that breathless exhaustion, he was already feeling the return of his usual vitality, such as it was.

     Then the second rope loosened.  With both arms free, Russell wrapped them around himself; warming his hands beneath his crossed arms for a moment, then beginning the usual semi-conscious, informal inspection.  Rediscovering, with a reverent caution, the evening's assortment of marks and bruises, reigniting each one with a faint, sweet echo of pain.

     The long scratches criss-crossing his shoulder blades, faintly stinging like the summer sun.  The bitemarks running up and down his soft flanks.  His wrists, braceleted with red and the beginnings of milky indigo.  His throat��already slightly hoarse when he showed up on her doorstep—raw and parched from countless cries of ecstasy.  The tension in his head and chest...

     ...Noticeably absent.

     (For now.)

     Everything that could be wrung out of him had been thoroughly wrung; passionately, painfully, completely, leaving nothing but a pleasant empty buzz, like the subtle breath of a gaslamp.

     It really had been too long.

     Having hastily coiled the ropes and set them aside, Lady Ann now coiled her own body—lank and ropelike in its own right—around Russell, as he stared up towards the rafters in a numb, blissful haze and absent-mindedly prodded his bruised sides.  In his reverie, he let his eyes wander over her ivory back and towards the window, taking note of the snow that had begun piling on the balcony beyond.

     It was the first of the season, a shimmering harbinger of all the long, bone-freezing nights to come.

     Not for us, though.  Not here.

     Russell basked in the warm lamplight, leaning into the summery glow of the blazing marks on his back.  Lady Ann—who seemed to be feeling as light and satisfied as her grateful conquest—sighed to herself contentedly and purred into his flushed, sensitive skin.

     "Looks like you had no trouble getting back in the swing of things, hmm?"

     Russell, still breathing heavily and somewhat adrift, ran a hand through his sweaty hair.  Another strange, incongruous sense of having discovered his own personal summer in the midst of the chill.

     "I mean...  I had no choice.  I felt like I was about to go crazy."

     It's just something people say.

     (She probably doesn't know I might be telling the truth.)

     Lady Ann snaked one hand beneath him, gently squeezing the back of his neck.  Gently, yes, but digging in her nails just enough to make it interesting.

     "That makes two of us."

     Russell shivered.  The way things were going, they'd have to start all over again, and he honestly didn't know if he could take it.

     So what if I can't?

     (Gods, just finish me.)

     He flushed slightly at her touch, at the delicious thought of allowing himself to be worked over until there was nothing left.  But, even as his mind grew over-warmed and hectic with blood-hot, quivering thoughts, the calm thankfully remained.  Lady Ann had both arms wrapped around him now, holding him tight.

     Holding me together.

     And, if he was honest with himself, that was the true, secret reason he did all this.

     The release, the pain, the total surrender...  All exquisite, all essential.  Some days, it was the only thing that could remind him he was, really and truly, alive; not just theoretically, but in a vital, almost bestial sense that couldn't be ignored, no matter how far back he'd allowed himself to slip into the dark, dank vault of his skull.  He trembled, he gasped, and, at times, he bled.

     Her hands didn't slip right through him, and—irrational as it seemed—he sometimes needed the reminder.

     But, as surely as he knew that the right kind of touch could almost always bring him back to life, Russell also knew one simple, sad fact: every night he didn't have to spend alone in his own bed, lying awake, trying in vain to hold himself in the absence of anyone else to hold him...

     ...Well, that was one more long, dark, velvet expanse between him and another kind of darkness; a darkness much less restful than the one currently fuzzing the edges of his vision, a darkness that constantly threatened to swallow him whole.

     (Again.)

     For now, though, Russell was safe for another night; lying in a warm pool of lamplight as though it were a golden summer sunbeam that had escaped into the dark winter just to meet him, with warm, delicate hands mindlessly traveling along the planes and contours of his body, like water.  He almost felt himself slowly drifting down into a heavy, much-needed sleep.

     And then he felt her fingers graze across his chest; gently, but just a little too carelessly.

     The pain was like a slight electric shock, and Russell inhaled sharply through his teeth, turning on his side and curling in on himself.  It was over as soon as she pulled her hand away, but it always somehow managed to catch him off guard.

     Lady Ann seemed equally startled, and, in an instant, she was sitting nearly upright, gently stroking his hair.

     "Dammit...  Sorry.  I wasn't paying attention."

     Russell exhaled slowly.

     Breathe.  You're still here

     (It's all right.)

     "...Don't worry about it.  Not your fault."

     She brushed a few sweaty locks away from his dazed, stricken face.

     "I didn't say it was my fault, I said I was sorry.  Are you going to be all right?"

     Gradually, with a bit of mental coaxing, his body relaxed itself, growing limp and content again.

     "...Yeah.  Yeah."

     Lady Ann sighed as she looked up and down the slack wreck of his body.

     Russell knew that look; the "pity's sake, it's always something with you" look, the "honestly, you're a bit of a mess" look.  It was that familiar "you're lucky I like you so much" look, which—though he knew she didn't mean anything by it—he always experienced as the prick of a tiny, dull needle in his swollen, aching heart.

     He had come to know the look well; a peculiar paradox of soft liquid eyes and a hard tense jaw.  And something a bit more immaterial, as though he could watch her mysterious, flinty soul moving behind her face, taking three steps back to get some air.  Though it often stung, Russell understood it as a silent refusal to be brought down with him, and could only respect her for that.

     In a way, it made him feel safe, not to mention somewhat absolved.

     She was willing to sit up with him on the nights that his nightmares woke them both; leaving him perched shivering on the edge of the bed, breathing shallowly and watching the horizon for the first sign of light.  And, when they went out drinking, she would subtly keep a handle on things, making sure he wouldn't get too maudlin, or too carried away.

     When she failed, she stood holding your glasses while you knelt in the gutter, trying to cry and heave at the same time without choking yourself.  Remember that?

     Russell did, indeed, remember that.  And all the other times she bravely waded into the mire with him, delicately—and somewhat pointedly—holding her heart above all his muck and murk.

     I'm so sorry.

     "...Hey.  Don't you be sorry now."

     For a moment, he genuinely feared Lady Ann was reading his thoughts, figuring that, if anyone could, it would be her; the cold, glistening diamond blade of her mind calmly piercing his scattered brain like a honed spear through a rotten apple.

     The more likely explanation, of course, was that he'd simply been muttering to himself in half-sleep; eyes closed, glasses sitting crooked against the mattress, mind wandering straight off his tongue without him even noticing.  Russell hadn't realized how quickly he'd been fading, and now found himself seemingly sinking into the bed, and barely in control of his faculties.

     "I'm sorr-"

     Figuring he'd better just quit while he was ahead, he fell silent and allowed himself to sink further.  Russell felt his breath slow, watching as the vague images of clouds and figures bloomed behind his eyelids in smudgy, painterly color.  The livid beginnings of dreams.

     Stay like this.

     (Don't turn against me tonight.)

     The images, to their credit, didn't make the usual slide towards the bloody and sinister.  Instead, they simply scattered almost as soon as they'd arrived; vanishing into the dull red of his closed eyes, giving way to a sudden leaden heaviness in his chest.

     Just as Lady Ann had begun to gently remove his glasses and let him sleep, Russell stirred and cleared his throat harshly.

     "...Think we could sit up for a while?"

     He felt her carefully push the frames back up on the bridge of his nose, then quietly shift on the bed as she propped the strewn pillows against the headboard.

     "Sure.  Go ahead and get yourself comfortable."

     With a bit of effort, Russell pulled himself up, leaned back against the pillows, and let out a rattling cough.

     It didn't sound too bad, at least by comparison, but it was still a reminder of the bad cold that he had struggled to shake off, which was the reason for their not having met in over two weeks.

     As they giddily ascended the stairs earlier that evening, Russell had reassured Lady Ann that he was now, technically, fully recovered, then warned her that his lungs still weren't completely back to normal.  Which, of course, he followed up with another reassurance: that he was probably ready for their usual pastimes, as long as they took it a little slowly.  Which, to their credit, they had; at least at first.

     Russell cleared his throat again, then sighed, sounding almost defeated.

     "...Sorry. I really am okay.  It can just take me a while."

     Lady Ann put her arm around his shoulders, gave him a reassuring squeeze.

     "I know.  You really put those lungs to good use tonight."

     Sometimes, Lady Ann also had to keep Russell from getting maudlin while he was dead sober.

     And, mercifully for both of them, the solution was simple.  She ruffled his hair affectionately, slid off the bed to stand at her dressing table, produced an aged bottle from the top drawer, and poured each of them two fingers of whiskey in heavy cut-glass cups.

     Handing Russell his glass, she repositioned herself on the bed, draping her arm back around his shoulders with a gratified sigh.  She, too, had a taste for the quiet aftermath.  Enjoying the way the tranquil glow of the room seemed to match the glow of their spent, satiated bodies, the pair sat in silence.

     Between small, warming sips of his drink, Russell held the sharply-hewn glass up to the guttering lamp, watching in fascination as it scattered faint rainbows in the dim room.  Finally, when the glass was at last empty, he simply held it there, turning the crystal lazily, watching the colored shards dancing across the floor.

     After some indeterminate length of slow, sticky, mesmerized time, he woke from his trance to find Lady Ann gently nudging his face.

     "...Hmm?"

     He only realized how baffled he probably looked when he heard her laugh.

     "Nothing. It just seems like we lost you for a minute there."

     With a slight shrug, Russell returned to studying the glass.  And the lamp, and the dancing rainbows at their bedside.

     "Oh... I was just thinking.  Did you know that white light is just every color piled together? And all a prism does is bend the light just right, so they can spread out a little?"

     The underside of that idea, of course, was how terribly he wished he could hold a glass up to his white-hot mind; untangle the scrambled spectrum of his thoughts so everything could finally breathe.  Still deeply transfixed, he briefly entertained a strange, whimsical thought: that every night he refilled his cup a few times too many, this was exactly what he thought he could accomplish.

     But Russell didn't want to bring down the night—not again—so he kept the conversation to the comfortably theoretical and rotated the cup a little faster, as if to demonstrate.

     Lady Ann propped her chin in her hands and watched the colors skitter wildly, like bright-winged beetles.

     "I've heard something like that, but I don't think they described it like you did...  And the light from this lamp isn't exactly white."

     Russell sat the cup on the nightstand, stopping the rainbows in their place.  The dim, warm, yellowish glow lit up the frames of his glasses, making him squint as he turned to face his endearingly pedantic lover.

     "...No, I guess it isn't.  And anyway, that's just light.  If you're painting, all the colors combine down to black, and there's no getting them apart again."

     Another idea with a dark underside for Russell to studiously dismiss.  Thankfully, Lady Ann was ready to change the subject.

     Colors are only colors to her.

     "Interesting...  Well, seeing as we have no paint here, and a whole night ahead of us...  Think you're up for another round?"

     Her mouth was set in a familiar, tantalizing smirk.  Russell inhaled thoughtfully, as though testing his own capacities.  Then exhaled, somewhat sadly, finding them lacking.  He was still having trouble catching his breath.

     "...Honestly?  I am, truly.  But I'm...  Not.  That took a lot out of me."

     Lady Ann's smirk gave way to a playful smile, as one hand moved to gently cup Russell's face.  He cleaved to her touch, and felt himself flushing red-hot even through his profound weariness.

     "Right! You're exhausted.  How about you just lie back, relax, and let me take care of things this time?"

     Russell settled back on the pillows, returned her smile with a wry smirk.

     "Sounds like an acceptable compromise."

     Before he had even finished his sentence, Lady Ann had pushed Russell into the mattress and was clutching his hips in an iron grasp, her dark hair obscuring her features as she readied herself to take him in her mouth.

     (Gods, just finish me.)

~*~

     I wake in the trenches, the cold mud sucking at my aching body.

     (Don't you wake somewhere else now?)

     (Maybe.  But I always come back.)

     It's dark down here where I lie; the overcast sky a distant strip of grey roiling overhead.  I watch the clouds roll by, and wonder who the hell dug this trench, anyway.  It's not quite deep enough, and so narrow that it can hold only me.  It's a tight fit, too; the loamy damp walls squeezing at my shoulders and pinning my arms.

     No sword, no bow, no knife, no bedroll between me and the soil.  Though the earthen walls loom over me, I feel strangely vulnerable and exposed.  I want to curl up, assume the defensive posture.  Tuck my head, hide my belly, draw in my limbs.

     But something is wrong.

    My body won't move.

    There's a strange distance between me and myself, and I really should have put it all together the instant my hands didn't obey me.  But it isn't until I'm suddenly pelted with cold, heavy dirt that the realization hits me; with all the weight and chill of so much leaden clay.

     I'm lying in my grave.

     For a second or two, I wait for a rush of panic that never comes.

     It's sad, I suppose, but I always feel a little better once I understand things.  And, in all honesty, having no more delicate brain or entrails left to protect comes as a relief.  I'm so tired, and now I can rest.  Simple as that.

     (And you have someone waiting for you, remember?)

     I do remember.  And, for the first time in a long time, it almost makes me smile.

     Only almost.

     (This body is no longer my own.)

     And, since it isn't my own, I relinquish it; focusing my dwindling awareness on my last view of the world, of the sky.  The grey clouds are a little depressing, but I want to remember them, want to take them to wherever I'm headed next, along with everything else.

     (It really wasn't a bad life.)

     (It's the only one I got.  It can't have been.  I won't accept it.)

     More wet earth tumbles down.  My eyes follow those damp clods up to a rusty shovel, and the old shovel up to a young man.  Wiry scarecrow arms, stooped melancholic shoulders, stringy grown-out hair falling into his face and catching the harsh wind.  He could be any one of us.

     Then the clouds part for a moment.

     And, in that eerie yellow light, recognition hits me.

     I know this boy; from mirrors and mud puddles and the rippling murky surface of cheap tea in a tin cup.  The sun lights his eyes and ricochets off his glasses, and I realize he knows me, too.

     More than that, he knows I'm looking right back.

     We lock eyes for a moment, in silent shock at the impossibility of it all.

     Then a heartbreakingly familiar cry rings out in the distance, and he drops the shovel and rushes toward it, leaving me half-buried.  At first, I want to rise from the grave and throttle him.

     That cry was meant for me.  I'm the one who answers it.

     But then, one last thought; as soothing as a cool hand on my head:

     "You will."

     It's all taken care of, and I can rest.

     The clouds roll in again, and a hard rain begins to fall.

     It brings the sodden earth down to swallow me whole.

~*~

     Russell crashed back to consciousness; in a room as dark as the grave, tangled in sweaty sheets as damp and heavy as waterlogged soil.

     For a panicky moment, he believed himself to be lying in the ground, in that terrifying living-dead state, but his racing heart soon proved otherwise.  As did the sound of Lady Ann's peaceful breath, and the warm weight of her slender arm draped across his heaving chest.

     Just a bad dream.  You're okay.

     Even if only one of those things was true, it was better than being buried half-alive.  Heart still pounding, Russell took in a deep breath and let it out as slowly as he could, lacing Lady Ann's delicate fingers with his own.  She didn't wake, even as he pulled her arm tighter around him, holding onto her like a drowning man.

     He lay like that until the light in the window faded from starry indigo to ethereal grey-blue that lit the room in soft, chilly winter tones, until he was sure he'd really survived another night.  Then he quietly cleared his throat and whispered hoarsely into the sunrise hush of the bedroom.

     "Hey...  I have to go."

     Russell gently rubbed Lady Ann's knuckles as he spoke, and felt her stir at least partially awake.

     "Mmm...  'Kay."

     With that, she pulled her hand away and rolled over, dragging the sheets with her.  Russell shivered, alone within himself once more.  His body was stiff, his lungs were clogged, and, as he dragged himself to sit on the edge of the bed, it really did feel like crawling out of a grave.

     No.  You're alive.

     Russell examined the rope burns on his wrists.  They glowed almost magenta against the soft morning blue of the room, and had become mottled with a deeper purple in the night.  Just under the skin, he was bleeding.  A heartbeat, a pulse.  Russell coughed, swayed to his feet, and began to dress for the day.  He stepped into his boots, shrugged on his coat, and bent to kiss his Lady on the forehead.

     "Thanks for last night.  I had a good time."

     She gently pulled him down to press his lips to hers for a lazy morning-breath kiss; slightly stale but not at all unpleasant.

     "Me too.  Come see me again soon, okay?"

     Russell straightened up and squeezed her hand again.

     "Of course.  Already looking forward to it."

     And then they parted ways; Lady Ann into the deep blue velvet of early-morning sleep, and Russell into the frosty stillness outside.

     The previous night's powdery snow had stuck; along with the previous night's shadows, the previous night's chill.  Russell shivered and drew up his collar, burying his icy hands in his pockets and minding his step on the slick cobbles.  Already, the flush and heat of the evening was beginning to feel surreal, which made him sad.  He didn't want to forget what it was to be warm.

     Russell blew a puff of humid air into his hands and rubbed them together as he approached the Library, finding someone waiting there for him.

     "Oh, hello...  My, this is convenient.  I was just going to leave this on the doorstep, but since you're here..."

     It was Ivan.  Who, with his heavy poncho and vapor-white breath, somehow looked right at home in the cold; as though he were meant to be herding Monsters on a tundra somewhere, instead of propping up an unwieldy parcel on Russell's front porch.

     "...Hey, Ivan.  Yes, I can take it from here.  Thanks."

     Russell steadied the narrow package as Ivan adjusted his cozy layers of drab wool.

     "Just doing my job.  You take care now."

     Ivan turned briskly on his heel, waving casually as he walked off to wherever it was he went.  Behind him, Russell mumbled a quiet goodbye.

     "Yeah.  Take care."

     Then he opened the Library's door and laboriously dragged the package—taller than he was, and rather heavy for its size—inside.  Russell propped it against the wall and leaned heavily beside it to catch his breath, starting slightly as a cheery little voice rang out from somewhere behind the stacks.

     "...Daddy!"

     For a moment, he was reminded of the cry from his dream, and nearly lost his bearings.  But then his daughter barrelled towards him and encircled his waist with small, welcoming arms.  He placed his hand on the top of her head, gently ruffling her silky peach-colored hair.

     "Heya, Ceci...  You're up early."

     With no question as to where her father had been at this odd hour, Cecilia nodded into Russell's coat, then took his hand and led him to the kitchen.

     "Uh-huh!  I made breakfast!  Do you want some?"

     Russell saw that she'd been carrying around a sticky knife, and wordlessly took off his coat.

     "Sure.  Just get a clean knife if you've been using butter, okay?  We don't want to hurt my stomach."

     He examined the back of his coat as Cecilia popped two slices of bread in the oven to toast.

     "Don't worry, I just used jam...  What kinda jam you want?"

     Cecilia triumphantly held up the gooey knife.  Russell smiled fondly, even as he noticed the sticky smear she'd left on his coat.

     "Well...  I see you're having strawberry.  That sounds pretty good to me, too."

     He playfully held up the stain for her to see before he turned on the tap and held it under the hot water.  Cecilia giggled.

     "The best kind!"

     She made a show of crunching into her jam-heavy toast.  Having gotten the stain out, Russell wrung the wet splotch as well as he could, then laid the coat over the back of his chair to dry.

     "You have impeccable taste...  But go a little lighter on the jam for mine, okay?  I'm a tired old man.  I don't have your sweet tooth."

     Cecilia nodded, then knelt by the oven to check the toast's progress.  Russell sat down at the table and observed her with interest.  He hadn't yet taught her to use the stove, even for something as uncomplicated as toast, so he imagined she must have just picked it up by watching him.  And, though he'd almost wanted to scold her for turning on the oven without his permission or supervision, it felt like a moot issue upon seeing how competently she was managing.

     Cecilia, it seemed, could now make breakfast.

     Gods, she's growing up fast.

     He watched her delicately pull the toast out of the oven, carefully coat it with a thin layer of jam, and toss it onto a small plate, which she proudly placed in front of him.

     "Here ya go, daddy!"

     Russell took a bite, nodding approvingly.

     "It's just right!  When did you get to be such a good cook, hmm?"

     Cecilia grinned with pride.

     "Yesterday!  I got hungry while you were sleeping, so I made toast!"

     Russell paused mid-bite as he remembered the previous morning.  He'd tossed and turned all night, and only managed a few fitful hours of sleep after the sun had already risen.

     "Well, you're on your way to being a toast master, that's for sure...  Tell you what.  Since you're being so grown-up, maybe you can help me out after breakfast?  Ivan brought the screen for our room today, and we can go set it up together when we're done here."

     Cecilia nodded brightly and started eating her toast in big hearty bites, eager for the day to begin.