#my unsubstantiated hunch is that like

[prettyboysdontlookatexplosions]

still mad about this post lol so let me also say: “they taught us critical thinking in english class” is extra funny to me because there’s a genuine debate among Ed Heads about whether “critical thinking” as a discrete and decontextualized skillset can actually be taught :) so it’s pretty silly to go around confidently branding yourself as a critical thinker while simultaneously revealing that you’re extremely comfortable making assumptions about the relative simplicity of complex ideas which remain contested in their respective fields :) personally i would be pretty embarrassed to call myself a critical thinker if i also couldn’t stop myself from revealing i was totally lacking in the intellectual humility that would enable me to understand that we have yet to reach consensus on unbelievably complicated issues like how best to educate an entire population :) but i guess i was absent the day that tenth grade english covered running your mouth like an asshole on social media :)

[suguru-getos]

— soft yandere suguru geto pt 1 —

-> building the story in this one. warnings: none! the reader meets suguru for the first time since her best friend was encapsulated by a curse causing nightmares and issues. it’s fluffy <3

suguru had one goal — irradicate the non-sorcerers so there comes to be a world without curses. satoru on the other hand wanted to make people capable enough to fight the curses. the goal was same - a world where curses don’t exist anymore. suguru was hell-bent on achieving that of course. gaining fame as ‘geto sama’ a monk-looking saintly human being who helps people. the backgrounds are for suguru to handle anyways - he needed curses to get powerful & eventually achieve his goals.

his hatred for monkeys was unsubstantiated. no one who was not in control of their cursed energies would be spared by suguru geto. he didn’t even spare his parents. though he knows certain monkeys are slightly more valuable than others. some are his banks, some give him curses to swallow. and some are the ones who have no control of their CE and end up attracting higher curses/creating them.

what he didn’t take into account was you. your best friend was tormented by sickening nightmares of being non-conned almost everyday. aches in the back, cramping and utter pain during her period. you had almost given up — as her roommate, you had searched all psychologists; all doctors. nothing seems to be working. until one day — you found a ‘monkey’ treated by none other than geto sama.

without wasting time, you believed their gratefulness and their willingness to lend you the address. since nothing is working — you will definitely try anything at this point.

the moment your car landed on the geto estate you knew this man was no joke. why else would he be able to afford something like this otherwise? on the other hand — you were suspicious as to his ulterior motives. what if he was a mafia boss or something? who knew. finally, after some wait; you were advised to follow the instructor who led you to suguru geto.

he sat there, a merry & a friendly smile over his face. something that’s practised even as he talks to your friend. “yumiko san.” he grins, “you have symptoms like rape nightmares, don’t you? you feel like you’re being touched in the wrong places & there’s nothing you can do about it?” your best friend teared up, she had never felt so intricately seen and heard the way geto had made her feel. he raised a hand, and the curse that was latched into her, unseen by you. unseen by her.. latched itself into suguru’s hand.

she instantly felt lighter & felt better. while you were extremely considerate of what suguru geto did, you were not pleased. what even was that — you and your best friend bowed and on your way to leave. you turned back, “what did you do?” you couldn’t help but ask.

“ah, i have god’s grace in my hands thankfully. nothing much. prayed on her behalf that her problems go away. little one.” he hums, monkeys are usually dumb enough to be happy-go-lucky with the treatment. you weren’t. suguru hums, “if that’d be all, you may leave. i have other things to cater to.”

your siren eyes met his own, deep down. you could sense suguru hated your best friend. it was just a hunch— the vibes were so off. you hum, “what do you practise then? what form of meditation?” you crossed your arms, eagerly wagering for more answers on his behalf.

suguru chuckled in disbelief, an insignificant, puny monkey was asking ‘him’ questions? “be grateful and leave.” he said dismissively. and your best friend held your wrist, dragging you outside. you were adorable and so curious. pity you were just an ordinary, low-class monkey.

“he’s a scammer, a fraud! i’m fucking sure! let’s go to a doctor.” you scoffed, gritting your teeth. glaring daggers at the man who laid down in front of you on a stage, seemingly uninterested. suguru wanted to play with you too, the same curse that was latched onto your friend, he transferred it into you, going out. now you’d have the same symptoms and suffer. shouldn’t have voiced your shit so hard, tsk…

unfortunately for suguru, you ended up like one of those who can see curses once subjected to cursed energy. you screamed gutterally when you saw the hideous creature attached to you. an amused smirk ran past his lips at the way you tried to shove it away. your friend was in utter confusion — what did she do? got on her knees and apologized on your behalf to ‘geto sama’ who promised to treat you. and forgive you of course. forcing her to leave.

you screeched curses and profanities at suguru, who was more than pleased to see you hit some sort of a standard he has for people he’s allowed to care about. his hand touched your crotch, right where the curse was supposed to be holding, unconcerned with your flustered resistance as he absorbed it.

“there we go, little girl.” he smiled, while you watched the curse turn into a ball. “this is the thing that was latched onto your friend. normal humans can’t see these. some of them can. i can.” you sat next to him and asked him a multitude of questions about this. you don’t remember the last time you had talked to someone this much & suguru doesn’t remember the last time he was so thoughtless. he was observing literally everything. your facial features, the way your brows scrunched when you emphasized over something, how you overcommunicated with your hands at times, rolled your eyes ever so often and shook your legs while you asked questions and waited eagerly for your answers. you blinked and your lashes looked so long and luscious, your hair suited you just well. he wonders how your soft looking skin would look all marked up with hickeys. he wonders how your voice would sound when you would moan or scream out his name. he wonders how his name would sound. how your lips would curve a certain way to pronounce ‘suguru’. oh he’s slowly losing his mind isn’t he?

he asked you to stay the night and join for dinner since it was quite late because of everything he just told you. you of course obliged and met his adopted daughters, miguel and the others who he called family. holy fuck they worshipped him. you knew that because of the way they respected you — treated you as their own because suguru said you are a guest today. his daughters were bratty but they knew their limits; seems like suguru raised them well.

after dinner, you joined him for a walk outside, pouting and flushed because he wasn’t wearing his gojo-gesa anymore. he almost looks so normal with that. “you aren’t an actual monk are you?” you raised a brow, grinning when he shook his head in denial. “no, i’m just here to collect cursed spirits because of my technique for a greater cause.” he hums; replying gently and looking deeply into your inquisitive eyes. you threw another question at him, seemingly obvious. “what greater cause?” you tilt your head like an indulged bird, and he caught that gesture. “want to know everything at once? hmm? little bird.” he smiled, looking relaxed and like a normal human being. “i’ll let you know with time.”

you had a peaceful and a sound sleep, why? because you were unaware how suguru watched you sleep in awe. just thinking of the ways he would watch you smile again, just thinking how he could make you feel special again? he can brain wash you into thinking humans are detestable, no?

the next morning, you were called for breakfast and had a great time, making promises to visit again while suguru bid you a farewell by kissing your knuckles. looking ever so charming. oh you will visit again, otherwise suguru geto would: either way… your red thread of fate was sealed.

suguru geto had a little crush…

or was he in love?

[bookworm551]

Take the Edge Off | Part 10 | Terrors

Summary: Late at night, Miguel confesses something that haunts him.

A/N: well, it’s time for me to post my bi-monthly part since I’ve been slacking sm lately. No good excuse, I’m not even sure if ppl read this anymore but oh well, enjoy

Warnings: smut, oral f-receiving

Word count: 8.4k

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9

You were sleeping peacefully when the sound of quick rustling startled you awake.

Something was thrashing beside you in bed, quick and panicked. You blinked your eyes open, your sleep-addled mind trying to process what was happening. You felt disoriented as you tried remembering where you were. The bed and sheets were most definitely not your own, yet they were somehow familiar.

Miguel. This was Miguel's bed.

Since your talk with him about being more than just fuck buddies, Miguel had actually kept his word. He communicated more about where he was, what he was doing, how late he'd be out. There were even a few nights like tonight where he'd let you stay with him in his room.

It was Miguel who was causing the rustling that now pulled you from your sleep. He was muttering something unintelligible as his legs kicked at the sheets. You rolled over to face him right as his form shot up from the bed. Through the darkness, you could hear his ragged breathing as he gasped for air, and you could vaguely see his silhouette hunched forward next to you.

Instantly, you felt awake and alert. Pushing yourself up from your pillow, you were immediately at his side. "What's wrong?" You asked, placing a worried hand on his shoulder. Under your palm, you felt the sweat that slicked his clammy skin.

Miguel flinched hard from your touch and jerked his arm away from your hand, still breathing in sharp, uneven gasps. Instead of replying, he turned his body away from you, ripping the covers off himself and moving to sit at the edge of the bed as he fought to steady his breathing.

You'd been in his position enough times to know exactly what was wrong. Nightmares had plagued you endlessly since the first time you lost someone you tried to save, and they didn't get easier with time.

"Lyla, turn the lights to 20%," you said softly. Immediately, a faint glow illuminated the room, and you could see Miguel's trembling body in the faint light. He was rocking back and forth slightly as whatever vision he’d had faded from his mind, and he didn't say anything as his heaving chest began to grow steady again.

You scooted closer to him but didn't touch him. You knew all too well that sometimes you needed a moment to understand that the terror in your chest was unsubstantiated, and so you gave him a second to deescalate before whispering, "Are you okay?"

He ran his hands over his face once before muttering, "Fine." He did not sound fine at all, but you weren't going to point that out to him. Instead, you carefully placed your hand on his shoulder again. He didn't flinch this time, so you slowly let it wander across his bare chest, wrapped your arm around him, and pulled his back against your body.

He still didn't say anything, but he lifted a hand to grab your arm and held it for a moment as a comforting gesture. "What was it?" You asked quietly, hoping that he'd open up to you. Under your palm, his heart was still racing, though he seemed to be calmer than before. He held onto you for a moment before letting his hand fall away, and he stood up from the bed.

"It was nothing," he muttered. "Go back to sleep."

You watched as he stalked over to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water. Clad in only a pair of black briefs, his whole body was shining with perspiration in the dim light. He was clearly rattled by whatever night terror had taken over his sleep, but you knew he wasn't going to open up so easily.

Rather than listen to his order to go back to sleep, you waited for him to return. His face looked haunted and drained of color when he came back and slipped under the covers again. You slid next to him, snaking an arm across his torso and pulling yourself close to him, resting your head in the crook of his shoulder. Miguel tensed at your touch, but he didn't try pushing you away.

You settled in silence for a while. Tilting your head up to look at him, you saw he was staring absently at the ceiling above, not even trying to fall back to sleep again. You understood that, too—the fear of sleeping in case the same nightmare took over again. You'd lost hours of sleep that way, refusing to close your eyes to keep away the monsters that plagued your dreams.

You quickly realized that Miguel wasn't going to talk unless you did. "I have them too, you know," you whispered, breaking the silence around you. His face didn't change, and after a quiet moment, he replied, "I don't want to talk about it."

"Talking about it helps," you offered. "Even if it doesn't make them go away." You watched his face carefully for a reaction, hoping he'd open up. Still, his faraway gaze never shifted, and he gave a barely-perceptible shake of his head.

Sighing, you looked back down at his chest, littered with faint scars from his time as Spider-Man. You wondered about the stories of how he got them. No doubt it had taken years to accumulate them all, each one a tiny reminder of the amount of traumatic events he had lived through. You had your own reminders too, and not just the scars on your body.

"Mine are usually memories of people I couldn't save," you admitted quietly. "Sometimes, it plays out exactly as it happened, sometimes it's a bit different. I used to tell them to my best friend, and it helped."

Your throat tightened as you thought of your friend. She was the only one who had known about your secret life. She had been the one to confide in, the one who listened. Late at night, when you couldn't stop shaking from the nightmares, she would answer your calls, no matter how late it was or how early she had to get up the next day. She had done so much for you.

And in the end, you had failed her.

"Then, I couldn't save her either," you continued quietly, a slight warble in your voice, "and the nightmares got...so much worse."

You felt Miguel's head shift to look down at your face. It was now your turn to avoid his gaze. Guilt and shame washed over you as you replayed that terrible day, the day you lost the most important person in the world.

There was a beat of silence, and Miguel's hand slid under the fabric of your shirt and began slowly rubbing your back across your skin in a comforting gesture—ironic given that he was the one still shaking off the effects of his nightmare.

"My worst ones are about her," you finally managed to say, still avoiding his gaze. "It's usually her on the ground, dead—" you took a shaky breath, "—but then she looks at me and asks why I didn't save her."

Over and over again, she would say it, and even now, you could see the scene clearly. Her body, sprawled and broken, her dead eyes glazed over lifelessly while her bloody lips moved and ask, Why didn't you save me? Why didn't you save me?

A shiver ran through you at the memory.

"I just had that one last weekend," you confessed softly.

There was a pause, and you could practically hear Miguel putting together the fact that you had been with him then, in that very bed beside him. You had woken up shaking and nauseous, but since he had still been sleeping, you had let him be while you stayed up for hours without closing your eyes again.

Miguel finally broke his silence. "Why didn't you tell me?" He asked. You gave a weak shrug. "Same reason you're not telling me yours," you countered. "It's not easy to talk about."

He didn't reply, but he did pull you closer to him so that you were lying halfway on his body, one of your bare legs draped over his.

Neither of you said anything for a long while.

You reflected on what you had said to him. That was the first time you'd ever told anyone about that particular nightmare. What you had said before was true—it's not easy talking about the things that scared you the most. Even just recalling it out loud made you want to curl up in a ball and hide under the bed, but now, you couldn't deny that you felt lighter, less burdened, less alone.

"It was you."

Miguel's voice was barely above a whisper when he finally interrupted the silence. You raised your head to look at his face again.

"Me?" You repeated quietly.

"You—something was coming for you. I don't know what it was, but I knew it was going to kill you."

His fingers curled into your back like whatever phantom had plagued his dreams was coming for you again. You were silent, barely daring to breathe. You were afraid that if you so much as blinked, he'd clam up again and refuse to tell you what was lingering from his dream.

"I tried running to you," he continued slowly, "but every step, I pushed you further towards whatever...thing was coming for you. And when it got to you..."

He didn't have to finish his sentence. You could see from the shadow that passed over his face that whatever he had seen in his dream hadn't been pretty. He just sighed and stroked your skin slowly.

"Have you ever had that one before?" You asked softly.

He shook his head faintly, and you held him a little tighter. The first time having a particular nightmare was always the worst, the hardest to convince yourself it wasn't real. It was no wonder he shook you off before. In his confusion, he probably still thought you were dead.

"It's over now," you told him quietly. "I'm alright."

Miguel said nothing, his eyes still fixed determinedly on the ceiling. His absent gaze didn't waver for the few heartbeats of silence that followed your words, and you were sure he was replaying the vision of whatever darkness had consumed you in his sleep.

Lifting your head up from his chest, you tried to capture his gaze with your own, but he refused to look at you, almost as if he was afraid that your eyes would be as lifeless as he had seen in his dream.

You cupped his cheek with one hand and gently pulled his face to look at you. He didn't resist, and his eyes finally blinked and met yours.

"It's over now," you repeated softly, "and I'm right here."

Miguel took a moment to study your face, like he was trying to memorize every line and curve that made up your appearance. You didn't move, didn't flinch from his gaze, letting him see for himself the life that still flowed inside you.

After a few seconds, you lowered your lips onto his to let him feel the warmth of your mouth, the heat and desire you had for him. Miguel responded by subtly pulling your body tighter to his as he moved his lips against yours.

Breaking away from you gently, there was the faintest softening of his face. "I'm glad you're here," he murmured quietly.

You felt your face glow at his words. You understood that he meant more than just you being there with him at the moment. He was glad you were alive, glad you were with him through all the shit you both had to deal with.

"Me too," you replied before placing another quick kiss to his lips again.

Settling back down at his side, you casually traced your fingers over his chest. So many reminders, so many terrors. You thought about all the sleepless nights you'd experienced since becoming Spider-Woman, all the strange visions that came to you in your dreams.

"I once had a nightmare that I had to shoot webs out of my ass," you told him in an attempt to lighten the mood.

There was a pause before Miguel huffed out a single, soft breath. "You too?" He replied. Your eyebrows shot up. "You too?" you repeated in surprise, a smile pulling you out of the somber mood. "It must be a canon event for us Spiders."

Miguel hummed and looked up again, and even though there was still that lingering appearance of melancholy, his face seemed more relaxed now. Your ear was pressed against his chest, and you listened to his steady heartbeat. His hand still rubbed your back slowly, the feeling apparently grounding him back to reality.

"You should go back to sleep," he told you. You shook your head. "I'm not tired," you replied. "Are you?"

"Even if I was, I couldn't fall asleep," he said, his eyes fixed on the ceiling above. You nodded. "I get it."

Silence returned.

Your fingers continued stroking his stomach slowly as you replayed his words, and your chest felt warm by what Miguel revealed to you.

He was scared of losing you. The fear of it made stole his breath away and caused his body to quiver. His face had looked haunted as he recovered from his night terror. It was such an intense and visceral reaction to the idea of you dying.

Soaking up his warmth against you, you knew you felt the same way—the same fear, the same helplessness at the thought of losing him. You hadn't even realized how deeply you had fallen for him, hadn't realized how important he was to you until recently. It consumed you so completely that the idea of him not being here with you made stomach tighten nauseously.

Turning your head, you brushed a kiss to his chest. Just a simple touch, just to remind both you and him that he was there now. You felt him shift to look down at you, and you were somewhat surprised when he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. His lips lingered for a moment before he breathed a sigh against your skin.

Facing up at him, you met his gaze in the dim light. His eyes took in your appearance, and you took in his. An understanding passed between you, one that acknowledged what you were feeling, the fear and anxiety as a result of your feelings for each other. One look that told each other everything you were too afraid to say.

Your lips met his in a soft kiss—slow, gentle, comforting. You broke apart for a mere second before moving into another one, and then another, until he was leaning forward and pulling you in harder against his mouth. Your hand rubbed against his chest more intentionally while his tongue teased at your lips, and you parted to let him taste your mouth with a small moan.

Your heart began pounding in your chest. Each movement he made was slow and sensual, and he took each touch to remind himself that you were alive. His hand roamed up your back to feel your warm skin, and your loud sigh was proof of the breath in your lungs.

Your hand wandered lower and lower down his abdomen, the hard muscles flexing beneath your touch. You reached the band of his briefs before you stopped. Any other night, you would've jumped on him without hesitation, but you found yourself pausing and wondering if making a move for sex was wise.

Pulling away from his lips, you whispered, "Would this make you feel better?" You didn't need to clarify what you meant.

Miguel's eyes were half-lidded as he stared at your face. A faint smile pulled at his lips, the first crack in his wall of gloom, and he raised a hand to brush his fingers across your cheek. "It definitely wouldn't hurt to see," he breathed in reply.

A smirk pulled at your lips. "It could hurt if you want it to," you mused. "Just a little bit." His lips curved up a little more at your implication. Before he could reply, your hand pressed down on his cock over the materials of his briefs.

Miguel bit back a groan. You rubbed your hand over him with tantalizing slowness, watching his face as he closed his eyes and pressed his head back. Kissing his exposed neck, you reveled in his pleasure and pushed down harder against him.

"It doesn't have to hurt, though," you continued quietly in his ear. "It can be soft and gentle." You kissed him again just under his jawline. Under your palm, you could feel him growing hard. You smiled at how your words and some simple touches made him crave you.

"Or it can be hard and rough," you continued, your hand pushing down against him harshly, and you nipped at his ear. Miguel sucked in a sharp breath and pushed his hips upwards into your hand. He groaned your name softly, and just the sound of it made your core grow hot.

You slipped your hand under the black material that strained with his growing bulge. Miguel's breath stuttered as you wrapped your fingers around his hardening cock. "We can do it however you want," you finished with a smug grin.

You could feel his jaw clench under your lips. "Fuck," he breathed softly. You let the single word fuel your movements. You squeezed tightly as you slowly pumped your hands up and down his length. Another soft groan sounded in his throat, and he turned his head to kiss you again.

Still stroking him steadily, you broke away from his lips to ask, "So, how do you want it? Gentle or rough?"

His breath was hot against your mouth before he murmured, "Why choose when we can do both?"

A wicked smile grew on your face, and in a heartbeat, your lips were crashing down on his, devouring and exploring every inch of him. Your hand followed after your mouth's eagerness, stroking him with a stronger need.

Miguel pushed his hips up off the bed in encouragement, and in the same motion, he tugged off his briefs to free himself from the constricting fabric. Now, you could see his full length, so large and stiff that it made you ache.

Your breath grew heavy as your hands continued smoothly sliding up and down his cock. Turning your head, you nuzzled your face beneath his jaw and sucked at the skin of his neck. Miguel seemed utterly paralyzed, and his deep moan tickled your lips.

"Relax," you purred. "I'm gonna take care of you."

Miguel's hand moved under your shirt—his shirt, actually—and up your back. His callouses felt rough against your skin, and they wandered across your body and pulled you closer to him. You nipped gently at his throat, and Miguel's fingers dug into your back.

"Does that feel good?" You asked smugly, already knowing the answer. He nodded in response, his eyes closed tightly as his chest heaved uneven breaths.

"Talk to me," you implored in a smug voice, never slowing your hand's pace. "Does it feel good?"

Miguel was trying his best to answer you, and through his stuttering breath, he managed to sigh, "Yes. God, yes."

You loved the desperate edge in his voice. It sent a thrill running up your body. You lowered your face from his neck to his chest and placed long, wet kisses all over him. A growl sounded in his back of his throat. When you glanced up at his face through your lashes, his eyes were closed, and his head was straining against his pillow as his muscles flexed in pleasure.

"I love hearing you," you murmured against his skin, never ceasing for a moment the stroking movements of your hand. "It makes me so wet, every sound you make."

Hearing your words, Miguel actually moaned, and he pushed his hips up into your hand. The sound went straight to your core. Your blood was growing hot, and the deep throbbing between your legs was almost unbearable. You squeezed your thighs together to try and gain some relief, and you let out a quiet moan of your own.

Miguel must've heard you because something in him snapped. His eyes fluttered open, and he pushed himself up to capture your lips. Your hand increased its pace as Miguel explored your mouth with desperation.

He broke away from you for a second and gasped softly, "I need to feel you."

You smirked and lifted yourself up off his body. His impatient hands began tugging at your shirt, and you had to move your hand away from his cock to allow him to rip it off your body. With the shirt gone, you were left in only a pair of underwear.

Miguel was eager to feel you. He rolled his body onto yours and settled between your legs. As he hovered over you, he had one arm planted on the bed to support himself while the other wandered up your body, feeling your bare skin beneath his palm.

Another soft moan escaped from your lips as his rough hand slid over your body, kneading at one of your breasts as his lips latched onto your neck. Your thighs squeezed around his hips reactively when you felt his hardened length nudging against the soaked fabric of your underwear.

Your desperation to feel him inside you was overwhelming. Letting go of Miguel, you started tugging at the band of your underwear. He knew what you were doing, and so his lips broke away from your neck as he hooked his fingers around the top of your underwear. Sitting up off your body, he pulled them down your legs and tossed them aside.

Miguel stayed sitting upright for a moment, drinking in the sight of your bare body before him. Even in the low light, you were able to see how his eyes burned with desire, how they took in every inch of you with longing.

You looked up at him, too. His body towered over yours. The contours around his muscles were exaggerated by the soft light overhead, making him look like a god. His dark hair was mussed, and strands of it had fallen over his face. Between his powerful thighs, the sight of his cock made you ache.

"I don't think I'll ever get used to how good you look," you said softly.

Miguel's eyes flicked up to your face, a small hint of surprise in his expression. You didn't praise him often enough, you realized. So often, he was the one idolizing your body while you were rendered speechless from his touch. Seeing him now with his god-like physique, you realized Miguel deserved to know how much you loved being with him.

Sitting up, you ran a hand up his sculpted body, feeling the muscles underneath his warm skin. He flexed reactively as your fingers skimmed up to his neck, and you pulled him into another slow kiss.

With your other hand, you reached down and stroked his cock. Miguel let out a low moan against your mouth, making you smile. "I don't think I'll ever get used to how good you sound," you whispered, pulling him back down to the bed.

He followed after you eagerly, his body hovering over yours as he continued kissing you ravenously. Despite being on top of you, Miguel was following submissively with your every physical direction. He was propped up on one elbow while his other hand held your thigh. His body was practically trembling in anticipation while your hand continued stroking him slowly, but he remained hovering over you and waiting for your permission to enter you.

You were just as anxious to feel him inside you. Pulling his head down with one hand to kiss you again, you guided his cock to your soaking entrance.

"Now, remind me of how good you feel," you told him quietly.

Miguel didn't need any more prompting. In one smooth movement, he pushed into you. Your head fell back against the bed with a loud moan as his cock stretched you out. His breath caught in his throat for a moment as he felt the wet warmth of your pussy around him.

"Mierda," he breathed against your neck as he began pumping long, smooth strokes into you. You couldn't even speak from the pleasure that overwhelmed your senses. The most that you could do was force yourself to take ragged breaths while Miguel continued rolling his hips into you, in and out, over and over.

He whispered your name as he pushed himself into you over and over again. You whimpered softly. At the sound of it, Miguel's lips came crashing down against yours, and his tongue explored your mouth with a growing desperation.

"More," you whined into his mouth. "I need more."

Miguel groaned. His movements evolved from strong, steady strokes to relentless, harsh thrusts. You cried out as the sound of him pounding into you echoed around the room, his cock sending pleasure pulsing through your body.

Miguel shifted his body above you. He pushed himself up off his elbow and up onto his knees. With his hands, he gripped you by the waist and hoisted your hips effortlessly into his lap, your back now arched with your shoulders still resting on the bed. Holding you firmly in place, he ever-so-obediently began fucking you mercilessly.

The air was snatched from your lungs as he began driving his cock into you with unrelenting desperation. One of your hand reached up and grabbed the edge of the headboard while the other clawed at the sheets.

Whatever amount of control you'd had over Miguel vanished, and any sort of restraint he'd had before snapped. His cock buried deep inside you and pounded against your G-spot mercilessly. Ragged cries tore from your throat as your whole body began trembling.

“Fuck,” you managed to groan, your fingers clenching around the sheets beneath you. Miguel was ravenous. His large cock stretched you out until it nearly hurt, and his fingers threatened to leave bruises on your hips.

“Like that?” He asked smugly, his words breathless as he continued slamming into you. You whined and nodded, your arms shook with the strain of their grip on the bed. Miguel leaned over your body while keeping your hips up on his thighs, one hand supporting him above you. His lips found one of your breast, and as he fucked you, his ran his tongue over your nipple.

Moaning salaciously, your body trembling as he completely overwhelmed your senses. In his throat, Miguel growled in approval of how you responded to him. His cock continued pounding against your G-spot, and he pulled his head up for just a second to watch your face before he bit down on your nipple.

You cried out as pleasure coursed through you, sending you hurdling into your release. You barely registered how you moaned his name as your climax took over your every faculty. Miguel noticed and gave a few more hard thrusts into you, drawing gasping cries from you.

You were seeing stars as you lost yourself in your bliss. Your body felt electric as Miguel slowed to a stop and pulled away from you, watching you slumped on the bed, unraveling underneath him.

"You look so beautiful when you cum like that," he panted, slowly moving his body further down the bed. "I can't get enough of it."

You moaned, unable to respond to him otherwise. Your heart was pounding furiously in your chest, and you were gulping down deep, uneven breaths. He lowered his face to kiss your neck softly, and you threaded your fingers through his hair. He made you feel like a goddess, and he was your most faithful worshipper.

Your body was still trembling while he placed kisses between your breasts to your stomach. As he moved lower, your eyes fluttered open to look down at him. Through his dark lashes, Miguel was watching your face as his lips trailed lower and lower down your abdomen.

Your body shivered when you realized what he was going to do. "Wait," you gasped quietly, squeezing your legs together around him. Miguel paused right as he was beginning to wrap his arms under your thighs, his gaze restless. He seemed to be exerting all his will to obey your single-word command.

"It's- I'm—," you fumbled for the right words in your unfocused state. Damn him for melting your mind like this, any semblance of rational thoughts shattered by his cock. Taking a steadying breath, you managed to say, "I don't think I can take that right now."

You knew exactly what he could do with his head between your legs, but you were currently still piecing yourself back together, and the thought of him ravaging you with his tongue while you were still coming off of your climax seemed torturous.

Miguel didn't move, but you could see in the dim light how his eyes flashed with need. "I'll be gentle," he promised in a low voice. "I'll go slow. I just want a taste." He shifted, and you noted the restless movement along with the desperate edge in his voice when he added, "Please. Just a taste of you."

Fuck. There was no way you could say no to the sounds of him begging.

In silent reply, you relaxed your legs. Miguel slid his arms under them, his powerful hands gripping your thighs as he pulled them open, baring your soaked cunt before him. His eyes never left yours as he lowered his face down and took a long stroke of his tongue up your pussy.

You couldn't suppress the cry that wrested from your throat. Your whole body felt like it had been set on fire as he licked at you again, a low growl rumbling in the back of his throat as he tasted your desire for him. Your eyes squeezed shut, and your legs fought the iron grip of his hands.

Slowly, gently—just as he promised—Miguel explored your pussy with his mouth. His tongue trailed between your folds, avoiding the very top where your swollen clit was still too sensitive for his touch. You sighed at the feeling, the warmth of his tongue sending delightful shivers across your body.

Moving lower, he slid through your wetness until the tip of his tongue teased the outside of your entrance where his cock had been mere minutes ago. Your breath hitched at the feeling, and Miguel took that as a sign to push his tongue in as deep as it could go.

Your back arched off the bed as he pushed into you slowly again and again. You moaned his name as he tasted you so passionately. Miguel's hands pulled your legs open further while he fucked you just like that, his tongue sliding in and out of you at a pace just inside of what you could handle.

"Mmm, Miguel," you whined, one hand gripping at his hair while the other reached for the headboard again.

It felt so good, impossibly good. Everything he did to you made you wonder how he could possibly be real, how he could possibly be with you. Your first time together, you hadn't thought it would ever happen again, let alone evolve into what you had now. What had started as a one-time fuck was now a constant need to be with each other, to hold each other close and never let go.

Your hips began shifting restlessly under his mouth. Your very blood felt as if it were on fire. Already, he had brought you from being overstimulated to craving another release.

Miguel lifted his face from your pussy for a moment. His glistening lips were parted as he panted lightly, and his eyes were glazed over with lust.

"You taste so good," he murmured, his voice hoarse with desire. "I could eat you out every day if you'd let me." You moaned softly at the thought of it. "I'm not stopping you," you replied breathlessly.

His lips curved up into a smirk before he lowered his head down again to drag his tongue up your cunt, carefully testing your sensitive clit. Your body squirmed under his firm grasp, and you gasped at the hot pleasure coursing through your veins.

Miguel seemed satisfied by your reaction. He took another slow stroke over your sensitivity again, trying to gauge how much you could take now. To answer his unspoken question, you groaned and pressed his head down harder. You felt more than heard his deep chuckle at your wordless instructions, and he obliged you by sealing his lips over your pussy and pressing his tongue against you.

You writhed on the bed, your thighs straining against his hands as he ate you out with greater fervor. Your whines and sighs filled the room, and your grip on the headboard tightened to an almost painful degree.

Miguel sucked, licked, and wholly devoured your cunt. You could feel the pleasure beginning to coil deep inside of you, and he seemed to read it in how your body struggled in his grasp. Falling into a steady pace of strong, even strokes, he moved tirelessly to earn more moans from your lips.

Your fingers gripped his hair tightly, and you glanced down at his face between your legs. His dark eyes were half-lidded and unfocused, completely pussy drunk. In them, you saw his utter surrender to your taste and the complete abandonment of his restraint.

Despite your legs still struggling under his grasp, he released one hand from your thigh, and before you could understand what he was doing, he inserted two fingers into you.

Your hips arched off the bed as a shuddering cry tore through you. His fingers curled inside you, working in tandem with his tongue still swirling around your clit. His pace was unrelenting, desperate, like he needed you to fall apart as much as he needed to breathe. Every nerve was on fire as you felt yourself completely lose yourself in the pleasure of his mouth and fingers.

You might have been screaming, you weren't sure. Every thought and scrap of awareness was washed away by the tidal wave that was your orgasm. Your body felt like it was shattering, and you lost all control of yourself as you lifted your hips off the bed with trembling effort. Miguel stayed securely attached to you, his tongue and fingers working you through it with a final desperation.

"Miguel!" You cried out as you struggled against him, your pleasure an overwhelming force that threatened to tear you apart. He slowed his hands to a gradual stop and raised his head up off of you, his eyes drinking in the sight of you unraveling under him.

"Beautiful," he purred, watching your body as the trembling finally eddied away. "Did that feel good?"

You were still gasping for air, and it took every ounce of your focus to reply, "Yes. Too good. I—I'm gonna need a minute."

His lips curved into a self-satisfied grin, and he placed a soft kiss to the inside of your thigh. "I'll take my time," he replied smugly. He placed another kiss a little higher, and then another on your lower stomach, until he was trailing his lips slowly up your body.

You groaned as he moved higher. Your body was thrumming with the aftermath of pleasure, and you were still breathing heavily when his mouth pressed over one of your breasts. You shivered at the touch of him, his warm tongue swirling around your nipple in lazy circles while his hand palmed your other breast with greed.

"You're insatiable," you groaned. You heard him chuckle quietly. "You say that like it's a bad thing," he said against your soft skin. You hummed, unable to keep the smile from growing on your lips. "It's not," you replied, "but I might not be able to walk tomorrow."

Miguel turned his face up to look at you, a smug grin tugging at his lips. "You need me to carry you around the base?" He asked in amusement.

You actually laughed at him. "Mmm, no. I'd hate to hurt that hard-ass reputation of yours," you told him. He hummed thoughtfully, pressing another kiss to your breast. "I think your reputation would be the one at stake," he replied. "After all, what would people think about you being with a hard-ass like me?"

You chuckled, bringing a hand up to run through his hair. "They'd be jealous," you stated. "I mean, half the Society wants to sleep with you, and the other half is lying about not wanting to."

That earned a low laugh from Miguel, his eyes sparkling in the dim light. "Well," he began slowly, bringing his face up to yours, "I don't want to be with half the Society, or the other half." You smiled up at him, your eyes never leaving his as he rested his forehead against yours.

"Just you," he whispered.

You held his stare and soaked in his presence, the lingering hum of pleasure in your body, the feeling of his heat pressed over you. Your hand slid down from his hair to cup his cheek. If you could stop time and hold onto a moment forever, it would probably be this one.

Gently, you pulled his face down to yours and kissed him. Your taste still lingered there, and after a second, you broke away to whisper, "I was hoping you'd say that."

He chuckled, and before he could respond, you pulled him back into a deep kiss. He parted his lips to slide his tongue against yours. You made a soft noise, and your lips moved against his smoothly, your kisses running together until your breathing grew heavy again.

Miguel, you could tell, was more than eager to be back inside you. His hand palmed your breast hungrily, and his whole body moved with anticipation. You quickly realized, however, that he was still holding out, waiting instead for you to give him permission to continue what you had paused.

You shifted your hips up to him, moaning softly when his cock brushed against your entrance. His breath shuddered, and he looked down at you to read your face. You nodded, answering his silent question before kissing him again.

You moaned into his mouth when he pushed into you once more. He moved slowly, so slowly inside you. Every thrust was long and deep, like he was trying to feel every inch of you. Your breathing was heavy as your fingers dug into the skin of his back.

The pace he set was vastly different than before. His pace was controlled and even, withdrawing all the way to the tip before pushing all the way to the hilt. This wasn't just fucking, you realized—it was love-making. Watching your reactions, waiting for your command, doing everything in his power to please you—Miguel completely encompassed what it meant to be a lover.

He broke away from your lips after a moment to catch his breath. You were both breathing hard, and as he continued moving steadily inside you, his eyes blinked open. They met your own, and he stared down at you with something like reverence in his gaze.

"I'm glad you're here," he gasped softly against your lips.

Your heart skipped a beat as he repeated his words from before. It was one thing hearing it in the quiet calm of lying together, but in the midst of the heat and passion, hearing them again gave them more weight, more substance. Even as he was deep inside you, he was still thinking about how grateful he was for you, that you were with him.

"I'll always be here," you promised quietly.

He let out a soft grunt at your words, his hips driving into with more force. Your eyes rolled back into your head as your whole body moved with each thrust. The rhythmic slapping of his skin against yours filled the air, and you couldn't help the quiet whine that left your throat as he pushed so deeply into you.

Your lips met his again in a desperate kiss. His hips thrust into you harder and faster now. You gasped as he pushed into you with greater need. The feeling of his cock moving deep inside of you was driving you insane, and your desire felt insatiable.

Miguel lowered his head to your neck, his hot breath fanning your skin as he continued passionately driving his cock into you. You felt his teeth graze against you, and a small whimper sounded in your throat. He growled at the sound and nipped gently at your flesh. You gave another small cry at the sensation, your fingers digging into his skin.

"You're so responsive," he murmured without lifting his head. "Every noise you make drives me crazy."

You moaned again for him. "It's because you feel so good," you whispered to him. "God, how do you always feel so fucking good?"

He groaned, thrusting into you over and over again with endless passion. Under his breath, he whispered your name. You could feel his hand sliding up your torso, until at last it found your own hand. His fingers entwined in yours and pinned it to the bed above your head.

You stared up at Miguel when he rested his forehead on yours. His eyes were closed as he fully immersed himself in the pleasure of your cunt. Small grunts sounded in his throat as he moved passionately in you, growing more and more hungry for his release until he couldn't hold back his sounds anymore.

With every thrust, he groaned softly in your ear. You wrapped your legs around his waist, urging him to push deeper. You could feel how the hand that was entwined in yours trembled, and his arm that supported him above you buckled at the elbow.

"Fuck," he whispered, his voice taut. "I don't think I can last—"

You didn't let him finish his sentence before you yanked his mouth down to yours again. His moan tickled your lips as your tongue slid against his, and he shifted his body to release your hand. Before you could mourn the loss of that intimate connection, Miguel's hand drifted down your body until his thumb brushed just above where his cock was moving in and out of you.

You gasped as white-hot pleasure shot through you. Your thighs trembled with every circle he made over your clit, in time with each drive of his cock. Digging your fingers into his skin, you held him tightly while you cried out at his perfect touch.

"Oh god, Miguel," you whined, unable to say anything else. His thumb worked rhythmically, pressing down just hard enough that your hips bucked against him. He was breathing hard above you, thrusting with deep, hard strokes.

Your body tightened, and your breathing was growing shallow. You could scarcely think about anything as you felt yourself growing closer and closer to the edge of your release. Miguel, you knew, was also growing closer based on his grunts of pleasure.

You managed to look up at him and were immediately captivated by his face. His dark hair had fallen over his forehead which glistened with sweat. His full lips were parted as he panted, and his eyes were focused on you. His gaze was electrifying, and as he stared down at you, he whispered your name so softly, so reverently, that you could barely hear it over the sounds your bodies were making.

That was all it took to send you over the edge. You were barely able to make more than a strangled cry as your climax racked your body. Every nerve was set ablaze as wave after wave of indescribable pleasure crashed over you. Your back arched off the bed, and you pulled him down in a tight embrace, your shuddering body pressed against him.

Miguel became ravenous at the sight of your undoing. His hand moved quickly from your clit to wrap under your back as he gave himself over to his desire. His hard thrusts had you clawing at his back, completely overwhelmed with the sensation of his cock slamming into you.

Just as you were coming down from your high, Miguel found his. His body tensed and stilled, a loud, gasping moan filling the air as he spilled himself inside you.

Your body still trembled against his while you both gasped for breath. His skin felt hot and alive, and in the stillness between you, he pressed a sloppy kiss to your neck. Against your chest, you felt Miguel's erratic heart hammering in time with yours. You moaned as he rolled his hips into yours with a few lazy thrusts before he pulled out of you entirely.

You remained sprawled out on the bed while Miguel collapsed next to you with a grunt. For a while, it was silent except for the sounds of your heavy breathing. One of your arms was pressed against his, and the other was draped across your face as you recovered from the intensity of what he had just done to you.

Noticing your posture, Miguel turned to you and brushed his fingers across your cheek. "Are you okay?" He asked softly.

You huffed out a breath, your arm sliding off your face as you looked at him with a smirk. "You just made me cum three times," you told him. "I would say I'm better than okay."

His lips tilted up in a smile at you, and his eyes studied your face intently, taking in every detail of your features. You remembered then why he was even awake, how you were startled from sleep by his thrashing. You had almost forgotten about the terror you had seen in his face earlier that night.

As you leaned your face into his hand, you asked, "Are you okay?" He considered you for a moment, his subtle smile still on his lips. "I just made you cum three times, I'm better than okay," he replied smugly.

Your smile widened, and you rolled your eyes. "You're unbearable," you mumbled, causing him to chuckle. His fingers still traced over your skin, and he added quietly, "I'm always okay when I'm with you."

Your face softened. In the low light, you could just make out his features, the shape of his lips, the angle of his cheekbones, the honesty in his eyes. He was only ever like this, open and vulnerable, with you in bed, still coming off of the high of an orgasm. Outside of sex, he mostly interacted with you through sharp wit and banter. This was the only time he ever lowered his walls enough for you to see soft side of him.

Instead of responding to him, you moved closer until your lips met his gently. You held the kiss for a moment before resting your head down on the pillow next to him, looking into his face with admiration. He stared back at you for a moment with a faint smile on his lips until he closed his eyes as his smile faded, and he let out a deep sigh.

"Hmm?" You hummed questioningly.

"Hmm?" He echoed back, his eyes still closed.

"That sigh—what are you thinking about?" You asked him.

The corner of his lips quirked up. "Maybe I'm sighing just to sigh," he pointed out. You gave a disbelieving scoff. "A likely story," you replied sarcastically.

His smile widened, and he finally opened his eyes to look at you again. You stared at each other for a quiet moment, each waiting for the other to say something. Finally, he sighed again, and you smiled up at him questioningly.

"What?" You prompted quietly.

His faint grin disappeared from his lips, and his eyes roamed over ever inch of your face. "I just—I don't think you realize," he said at last, "the power you have over me."

You blinked in surprise. Whatever you had expected him to say, it wasn't that. Miguel must've read the emotions in your face because he smiled softly again and closed his eyes. "Too much power," he added quietly.

Your heart fluttered in your chest, and your cheeks grew warm. He so rarely ever admitted that he cared about you. Despite all the nights like these, sweaty and breathless, and despite the pretty things he’d say in the heat of the moment, and despite the special gifts and treatment he gave you, Miguel hardly ever expressed with words how he felt about you. So, when he did, you often found yourself flustered by those rare confessions.

"Well," you began slowly, "I've heard that with great power comes—"

Miguel groaned, cutting you off. "Don't finish that sentence," he grumbled as he pulled you over to him so that your back pressed against his chest. You giggled, knowing that Miguel had probably heard every variation of your mantra during his time in the multiverse.

He nestled his face against your neck and wrapped his arm around your torso. His warmth enveloped you, and his breath tickled your skin. You rested your arm over his, entwining your fingers together.

"You have power over me, too," you told him quietly. "Way too much."

Miguel didn't say anything in response. A small part of you wondered if he had heard you, but then, he placed a lingering kiss on your shoulder and sighed.

"You should get some sleep," he said at last. "I'm sorry for waking you." You chuckled. "Well, I'm not," you replied wryly, earning a huff of amusement from him.  "And I need to get cleaned up."

He grunted his understanding, tightening his hold on you for just a moment before pulling his arm away to allow you to slip out of bed to the bathroom. When you returned, Miguel had the covers pulled back up, and his breathing was deep and slow.

You slid between the sheets and curled against his side. Even as he was drifting off, his arms pulled you into an embrace. Your own eyes felt heavy now that all your arousal had been satisfied. As you drifted off into sleep, you couldn't tell if you imagined it or if he really did mumble one last time, "I'm glad you're here."

[hilsoncrater]

sometimes i read a fanfic and im like "this has gotta be written by a Dude". i can't describe it but there's a Dude Prose to them. the words melody differently inside my head. i never have evidence to back this hunch up btw except for the Dude Prose, which in of itself is also unsubstantiated. Dude Prose is not limited to the actual gender of the writer. it's just...a writing style vibe relating to Dudeness

[caesarsaladinn]

Why waste time with philosophy when the Book of Ceremonies of Constantine VII Porphyrogennetos is available?

that book is perhaps the exact opposite of philosophy. it’s one hundred percent practice with next to no theoretical justification for why they’re greeting dignitaries in this order or wearing that cloak to that imperial function.

there is some interesting administrative stuff, though—I remember a passages about the protocol for acquiring, distributing, branding, and retiring army horses so they couldn’t be easily stolen. also, there are lots of fashion details, particularly in that appendix about the appointment of the proedros. that position was invented around the time the book was written and afaict had only one holder (Basil Lekapenos) up to that point, so I imagine it’s pretty accurate to what he actually wore. my unsubstantiated hunch is that he had a hand in writing it—he was very involved with the government at that point, and may have been nursing his ego after being replaced as chamberlain (though he was reinstated by the time of its writing). and by god did he have an ego.

I would really like someone to go through and sketch the various courtly outfits and accessories. I found a book that explains the articles of clothing that weren’t otherwise translated (i.e. what a skaramangion might be), but I don’t have the skill.

overall it makes me kind of sympathetic to the use of “byzantine” to refer to complicated and arbitrary systems. it’s trivializing to be sure, but they did have some damn complicated, arbitrary, lengthy, expensive protocols for anything the government wanted to do. it makes their survival far more impressive imo.

[whoneedsapublisher]

Cutting Corners

Fic 3! More NicoMaki

Words: ~1100

Summary: Nico is a born cheater. Why should this race be any different? Except somehow, it is.

Also on Ao3

******************

This was everything she could've wanted. Standing there, rain and a cool breeze kissing her cheeks, was victory finally in reach, so close she could almost taste it? All the inhibitions holding her back before seemed so far away. The only step left now lay behind the door mere meters away…

So why couldn’t she bring herself to open it?

Nico frowned.

This wasn’t like her. She knew how the world worked. Playing fair was for suckers. The world wasn’t fair, so why should she act like it was and follow a bunch of fake rules about how to win the “right” way? So when she’d challenged Maki to a race, of course she played dirty. She’d taken shortcuts, she’d started before Maki was fully ready, and here she was, at the finish line, before Maki was.

…Except it shouldn’t have worked this well.

Nico always cheated like that, it never worked. Maki and her stupid long legs always came out on top anyway. So why was it that this time, not only had she beaten Maki here, she was so far ahead that Maki wasn’t in sight?

Nico let out a huff of frustration.

Was she really going to walk out back into the rain again to go find Maki when she could go inside, dry off, get nice and warm, and wait for Maki to show up so she could gloat?

Surely not.

******************

By the time Nico found Maki, she’d already backtracked over more than half the course and was sorely regretting the length of the track she’d picked. It had seemed like a good idea at the time- the longer the curve of the road, the more ground she could steal by cutting through the centre. But now that she was trudging along the track with the light rain still drumming against her back, it suddenly seemed a lot less of one.

Maki came into view as Nico rounded a corner, and it was instantly obvious why Nico had such a lead. Maki’s clothes were muddy, and she was limping, inching along at a sluggish pace and wincing occasionally.

“Maki? What the heck happened?” Nico said, rushing over to her.

Maki gave her a withering look. “What do you think happened?” she snapped. “You picked a road out in the countryside to race on, and it started raining. It got muddy and I slipped. Doubtless just like you planned.”

“What am I, psychic? The chance of rain was like, twenty percent,” Nico said, crossing her arms. “I didn’t plan for it to rain. And it’s not like I’m wearing cleats, why would you be more likely to slip than me?”

“Because you cut through the middle,” Maki grumbled.

“Unsubstantiated wild accusations,” Nico said primly. “And besides, it was just as muddy on the- I mean, you don’t have any kind of proof, and I wasn’t planning this, so shut up.”

Maki glared at her.

“Why are you even here?” she asked.

“Because you were taking forever,” Nico said.

“So you came to gloat?”

“So I came to make sure you were okay,” Nico said. “And just as well I did. Come on.”

She walked over to Maki and slung Maki’s arm over her shoulder.

“How is this supposed to work with how short you are?” Maki complained.

“Lean over or something,” Nico snapped. “Nico is lending you a shoulder and letting you get your horrible mud all over her, so you could at least be grateful.”

“My mud? How it is my mud?” Maki asked incredulously, but she hunched over a little to put her weight on Nico.

“It’s on you isn’t it?” Nico said. “Who else’s mud would it be?”

“Your mud,” Maki said. “Since you’re the one who picked this track.”

“Nico is an idol,” Nico said. “She doesn’t own any mud.”

Honestly, Maki should know something that basic about idols. But despite Nico’s perfect logic and kindness in coming to pick up her poor, injured junior, Maki still complained the entire way. Some might call it “the two of them bickering”, but that was just an outsider’s biased view.

******************

By the time the two of them made it back to the house, the rain had gotten heavier and they were soaked through. As they approached the front door, Nico heard the crash of thunder as well. Apparently this was more that just rain, and the wind picking up seemed to confirm it.

“Wait, hold on,” Nico said, as they got onto the front step.

“What?” Maki said.

NIco opened the door and quickly put her foot over the threshold. “Ha There! I won!”

Maki looked at her disbelievingly.

“Couldn’t you have done that before you came to get mer?” she asked.

“Hmph. You needed to see it, Maki.”

“Whatever,” Maki said. “Let’s just get inside, already.”

Nico considered arguing, but as another boom of thunder echoed through the area, she thought better of it and helped Maki inside, kicking the door shut behind her.

******************

“So? How is it?” Nico asked, walking out of the shower and drying off her hair with a towel peering over at Maki wrapping a bandage around her ankle. Her and Maki’s clothes were still drying by the fire. Maki had demanded first shower and Nico had graciously agreed with only minor threats from Maki.

“It’s nothing serious,” Maki said, finishing off her bandage and lying back on the couch.. “Just a sprain. What about the taxi?”

“Not happening,” Nico said. “There’s a storm and we’re in the middle of nowhere. The company I called laughed at me when I gave them the address and then hung up.”

Maki frowned.

“It’s fine,” Nico said. “Rin said she’d come pick us up tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Maki asked incredulously.

“Yeah,” Nico said. “So I guess we’re going to be using the cabin for more than just a finish line after all. Rin’s aunt said it was fine to stay over here as long as cleaned up before we left.”

Maki let out a frustrated sigh.

“You definitely planned this,” she said accusingly. “You just wanted to stay out here in the countryside and dragged me it.”

“You know, some people would be happy to spend a romantic evening with Nico in a beautiful cozy cabin,” Nico said.

“All of those are people are insane,” Maki said.

“Hmph,” Nico grumbled. “Well there’s probably no one out there who’d want to spend that kind of evening with you.”

Well, except Nico.

But it wasn’t as if she could say that.

She might have crossed the finish line for the race, but the finish line for romance seemed so far out of sight that she wasn’t sure if there were enough corners in the world for her to cut to get to the end in time.

[magpie-moon]

unrecognizable even to my own eyes

Who are you?

A hearth of fire, my eyes blind

With the weight of drums beating

A caustic rhythm of a funeral pyre

Who am i to sing within a cage

Bedecked with gold and virtue

An ivory tower, i engage a fight

To behold my own beneath the stars

Breath air not tainted with love, smothering me

Another avalanche

Come unearth a livid corpse

Lurid in the light, a denouement

I have served my course

Who are you?

Another one of you

Another planet with gravity

Another sun to eclipse your own

I am reflected

Desiccated within glass

A bug on the mantle destined to be seen and not heard

A bird

Just a little bird to be seen and not heard

Who are you?

A light and love eternal

A dove in flight

A flower ever in bloom

I witness of my own destruction, i anticipate the day i spill my cards

Rearrange the dusk to dawn, truth be told

I am numb and drawn, closer every moment to saying things i should not

The thing about self-preservation is that you wilt

You weigh happiness against peril

And come out losing every time

Always waiting, there will never be an opportunity

You will never say,

Say it with me slowly,

Deliberate the sounds.

You have never beheld them, but for me, do it now.

Child.

Grandchild.

No, not the other. Never that

Say it with me now.

Sibling.

Spouse.

Who are you?

Please, i have told you, say it with me now

You will never tell them

The space they take up is too much

Not enough

Your heart swells against the boundaries of overabundant love

You are empty

You are never hugged

But every light burns, they are a thousand little suns

Never meant to be touched

It reminds you that they will never learn, never try, only sink their

Claws into you and expect the world from your unsubstantial hands

Who are you?

They complain they don’t know you anymore

But did they ever sit down and talk to you?

Were they ever more cursory, polite, and uninterested

Verging on negligent only to hound you till you cry

Invade your space and spy

Always spying like you are less than a person

A servant to fill their wasted emotions

Make them proud, hold them down

Never let them see you cry, it makes them feel as if they are the bad guy

Make believe you don’t care

(you care. You’ve never not cared)

Who are you?

The marks along the walls

Remind me of what could have been

The test and stress of time etched in scars The rising of the tide abides

My shoulders hunched

My head a hanging sun against the sky Give me a good look; a reason to believe

I long to rise, fly

Who am i?

A liar to myself and others

Saying i am just tired, that everything's alright Something kept on a tight leash, an animal

A flight risk

A solitary moon, a concoction of you and your enemies

Terrorize the night with a screech owl’s plight

I sing for recognition but i

Am unrecognizable even to my own eyes

[funkymbtifiction]

I saw that ask about Ni and patterns and I thought the INTJ point about not isolating one function but looking at the axis good to remember. But I think the one about not isolating it from the judging functions it’s a very Ni dom thing to say (because then you’re looking at the type as a whole, instead of breaking things down, which is more TP like). In any case my question is how you as an ENFP makes connections. I remember you saying you really identified with Chloe from Smallville, so I’m guessing it’s part of the journalist predisposition?

It’s hard for me to sum it up in any way that isn’t abstract, but I’ll try. On a surface level, assumptions just ‘come’ to me and often the hunch is either a valid interpretation of a situation (such as speculating about someone’s motives or internal state) or it is accurate when I probe into it more. But on a subconscious level, my brain is scanning for ‘what do I know about this person / situation / kind of thing?’ I think this is why I’m so fascinated by things like psychology, or anti-social behaviors, or MBTI or the Enneagram -- because I throw it all into the giant melting pot of my brain and let it all simmer and then when I encounter things, my knowledge is triggered into providing me a reasonable analysis or hypothesis or explanation. I process everything I encounter, but not on a deep meaningful level like a higher Si -- it just goes into a jumble of ‘what I know’ and then gets plucked out at random when something brings that thing out of the void. Or I will sense that there is something missing and go looking for it, and at times, find them in an unrelated area -- and that thing over HERE brings everything over THERE into context. Like... history.

I was thinking the other day about Mrs. Danvers in Rebecca, and the sinister housekeeper trope, and that made me wonder why single women are often vilified. The obvious intuitive conclusion is that they break the social norms of earlier periods, in which the ‘expected’ thing was for a woman to marry and bear children. That made me suspect a level of distrust for women who did not conform in that way, which lead me to assume that the accusation of ‘witch’ likely manifested from fear of being different / someone who doesn’t ‘fit in.’ So, that was a valid hypothesis, but based entirely on Ne reasoning. I got a book about the witch hunts and learned there was also a financial incentive involved, since most of the women accused also held property but were unmarried. The Puritan authorities at the time did not want women to hold property, because it challenged the male hierarchy, and might inspire similar ‘rebellion’ among young unmarried women to seek independence, thus threatening their power structure. The likely conclusion is it was a blend of both opportunism (and ruthlessness) and fear of individuality, so my hunch was right but built entirely off my own mental thinking about what MIGHT be the reason for this. Then, I had to find proof. For me, that’s how Ne works in a daily way -- it presents ideas, hunches, and hypotheses to me that I then must follow up on myself, by looking for something to support a conclusion that is often in the ballpark of accuracy.

Chloe and I are alike in our wild enthusiasm for new ideas and our desire to communicate them and draw our (sometimes reluctant) friends into them. We both started writing at a young age, we somewhat enjoy pulling apart people’s perceptions and challenging them (without getting too entrenched in our own views), we both managed ‘high school newspapers’ (mine was a collaborative effort between other home-schoolers), and we both can’t imagine doing anything BUT writing -- which is ‘communication with the desire to change society.’

And yes, journalism is often the profession of ENFPs. Brief assignments, built off hunches in which you find proof (or should... nowadays it tends more toward unsubstantiated rumors soon dropped when the truth comes out), a continual changing landscape of interests, the ability to travel, and the desire to make the world a better place through what one discovers. ENPs are, above all, avid communicators -- of their thoughts, theories, suppositions, and ideas.

[early20thcenturynerd]

Today, 171 years ago, Princess Louise was born.

“The better known bio by Lucinda Hawksley is entertaining, yet hugely based on gossip, falling short because it presents unsubstantiated hunches and rumors as truth. In biographies, all conclusions must be backed up with credible sources and solid evidence. Unfortunately after 100 years, the rumors stick to a historical figure as if they were true facts, which is certainly the case here. In my review, I feel compelled to confront a few of the rumors and misconceptions. 

Princess Louise Caroline Alberta was intelligent, inquisitive and artistically gifted. Like her siblings, she received a strict academic education, becoming fluent in several languages, music, art and theater, as well as, acquiring practical skills like cooking, baking, sewing and gardening. However, her childhood was marred by the early death of her father, Prince Albert of Saxe-Coberg-Gotha and her mother's prolonged period of mourning. It was a traumatic period that engulfed the entire family and country for more years then it should have.

Princess Louise was the first royal offspring to enroll in a public school, the National Art Training School, at the same time as she was required to fill the role as her mother's private secretary (1866-1871). Louise was successful at both endeavors due to dedication and many hours of hard work. The Princess was a talented sketcher, painter and sculptress and accepted commissions for her art in an era when women were only supposed to have hobbies inside the home. Her sculpture of Queen Victoria at the age of her coronation sits outside of Kensington Palace today.

Queen Victoria, who sometimes considered her daughter argumentative, had to admit the statue was a great likeness and Louise was an excellent private secretary, writing to daughter Vicky: ‘She is (and who would have some years ago have thought it?) a clever dear girl with a fine character, unselfish and affectionate.’ Unlike the Queen, Princess Louise (like her elder sister, Vicky, i.e. Crown Princess Victoria of Prussia) supported women's rights. She secretly met with ‘radical' Elizabeth Garrett, the first woman medical doctor in Britain.

Over a lifetime, Princess Louise supported liberal and forward-thinking social causes, spearheading the education of women, lending her name to get programs and institutions up and running. Likewise the Princess initiated public works and opened wings of hospitals. Not content with merely showing up at the end, she contributed her ideas and was involved in all the phases of planning and implementation right up to the openings.

Many at court, as well as, the public thought Princess Louise was the Queen's most attractive daughter. She was the tallest and slender and as an early proponent of exercise, remained shapely and youthful throughout her life. She bicycled and walked habitually.

Princess Louise was also unconventional in choosing a spouse -- an aristocrat, John Campbell, the Marquis of Lorne, heir to the Duke of Argyll and a Liberal Member of Parliament over a foreign prince. Since he was active in politics and wasn't royal, it was controversial. In 1871, she became the 1st daughter of a Sovereign to marry a commoner since the 16th century. Queen Victoria favored the match as a way of keeping her daughter in Great Britain, and too, of introducing new blood into the family. Also, the Queen always let her children marry for love.

Which brings us to Louise and Lorne's relationship. There's little truth to what is often written, namely: the couple was unhappy and childless because Lorne was homosexual. The marriage began happy and lasted for over 40 years. During these years, Lorne was devoted, supportive and protective of his wife, and they were very much together up until the early 1880s. He never stopped thinking she was beautiful; nor weaned in thinking of and mentioning her in conversations and letters to his family, etc.

And although Louise could be temperamental, she too was loving, thoughtful, respectful and devoted. Apparently the couple tried to have children as Louise went to Germany over the years for cures in the effort. Although she lived to be 91 years old, the Princess suffered from ill health throughout her life (including severe headaches, neuralgia, vomiting and insomnia, especially after a serious sledging accident (on February 14, 1880) in Canada that also gave her a concussion and tore her ear lope in two). 

Jehanne Wake's book makes a good case that probably the real reason the couple remained childless was due to illness or infertility (possibly complications from meningitis which Louise contracted at the age of 16). Moreover in Victorian England, no one thought to consider Lorne's fertility. Both spouses hoped to have children and no doubt the disappointment put a strain on their marriage. Louise became depressed. Furthermore, the evidence that the Princess' husband was gay is very weak based mainly on the couple's close association with Lorne's homosexual uncle and friend, Lord Ronnie Gover (his mother's brother), who although innocent, was drawn into a scandal by a gay con artist. [...]

According to the book, Princess Louise cared for Lorne deeply, but needed to take breaks from him in mid-marriage. Queen Victoria was exceedingly understanding of her daughter's frail emotions, ‘while feeling much for Lorne.’ Lorne, too, was patient and understanding of his wife. As the author notes, ‘At the height of Princess Louise's unhappiness,’ husband and wife ‘kept in close contact and wrote daily.’ Divorce was never considered as neither party desired it.

They stayed together and became close again in later years. When Lorne's father died in 1900 making him the 9th Duke of Argyll, Louise accompanied him to Scotland. Together the couple also lived in Kent House on the Isle of Wight and at Kensington Palace in London. Unfortunately, as Lorne aged, he developed dementia and lost the easygoingness of youth, but Louise was very devoted to nursing him until his death from bronchitis that developed into double pneumonia in 1914. Again, Princess Louise was devastated. She felt dreadfully lonely without the Duke still feeling as she did when becoming engaged, there was no one quite like him! And despite the rumors, her biographer thinks it unlikely that Princess Louise ever had sexual relations with anyone other than her husband. No solid evidence suggests otherwise. The author argues Princess Louise could be chatty, friendly and flirty, and like Queen Victoria, she loved beauty in everything, especially in the form of a good looking man. But the the book states, it would have been too risky and highly unlikely that she ever crossed the line as she never forgot Her Royal Highness status, nor her sense of duty. At any rate, says the author, ‘It was the maternal, domesticated hausfrau which predominated in her character.’ In other words, yes, she flirted, but expressed it as glee and by mothering a man. And, I agree with the biographer! In later years Princess Louise continued some public appearances, often visiting hospitals unscheduled. She lived in Scotland and Kensington Palace next to her sister, Princess Beatrice's apartment. Although the sisters had their differences, they were a close family. Louise spent summer vacations with Prince Arthur at his house on the French Riviera and sketched up until age 90. She died on December 3, 1939 and because of the war was cremated with her ashes buried at Frogmore near Windsor. Had she died in Scotland, she would have been buried next to her husband. In Canada, the province of Alberta, Mount Alberta and Lake Louise are all named after Prince Louise.”

- https://thesavvvyshopper.blogspot.com/2018/09/princess-louise-duchess-of-argyll.html

[lindsayrps]

      ❛    don’t  mistake  salt  for  sugar.  if  he  wants  to  be  with  you.. he will.  ❜

they're in buenos aires and sawyer's due on stage in fifteen minutes. he can't tell you what compels him to make his way down the hall backstage and knock on anna's dressing room door, just that he figures, for once, he'll tell her that she played great during her set and now is as good a time as any. when he pushes the door open, he finds her sitting on one of the couches, frowning down at her phone before she quickly glances up at him, plastering a smile on her face.

"hey," he leans against the door frame, arms folding across his chest. "what's with the face? clara post another dumb picture of you on instagram?"

"no," she shakes her head, drops her hands into her lap. "it's nothing. it's silly."

his brow furrows as he makes his way over to where she's sitting, leaning over the back of the couch and, effectively, her shoulder. she's pulled up an article on some gossip site declaring that he must've been dating one of his ex girlfriends again because she was recently spotted at both of their concerts in tokyo and there's no other possible explanation as to why she was there or why she was sitting in a vip box.

frankly, he thinks it's stupid, just another reason for them to get traffic by using his name on unsubstantiated rumours that are just that — rumours.

"well," he starts, straightening up from his hunched posture, skirting around the couch to sit on the edge of the small table in front of her. "you know that's not true."

"i know." anna nods, "like i said, it's silly."

"it's not silly if it bothers you," and it's true, though it's not like it's the first time they'd been dogged by relationship rumours in the last several months. dublin and london had shared a similar story a few months prior and it didn't seem to bother her then. slender fingers reach for her phone, pulling it away from her, setting it beside him on the table and reaching to close over her hands. "if it bothers you, you can tell me."

she's chewing on her bottom lip, like she's afraid to tell him that it is bothering him, he thinks, like she didn't sign up for having a secret relationship or having a boyfriend who's entire life is firmly stuck in the spotlight and, therefore, firmly within the celebrity gossip culture that comes with it with no signs of changing anytime soon.

"it would be so much easier if we could tell people." she says, finally, lifting her gaze to look at him. it would be easier, he couldn't deny that but he's got something that's solely his for the first time in twenty four years and it feels good and genuine and real and he knows that as soon as they make their relationship public, every single thing they do is going to be public record, good and bad.

but, nobody's ever said he's bad at compromise, so he nods his his head. "i know, maybe when we get to nashville we can tell clara?" the surprise on her face says enough, like she's surprised he'd even compromised that much. "and before you ask, i'm serious and i'm not going to change my mind."

not, at least, until after they'd told clara and, well, by then it would be too late. someone other than the two of them — and their respective bands — would know and it wouldn't be a secret anymore.

"okay, that sounds like a plan." her eyes go wide after a moment, then she laughs, "she's gonna be so...mad."

he laughs, too, pushes himself to his feet. "we'll see. i should get going, i'm sure someone's running around trying to find me and usher me to stage. we'll talk after?"

she nods, again, as he moves towards the door, reaching for her phone that's still sitting on the table. "sawyer?"

anna's voice causes him to turn slightly, glancing over his shoulder as he catches that sly grin on her face. "yeah?" "you look like a sparkly beetlejuice."

[your-softlullaby]

Annwyl and the Mists of Tirna Scithe

The wasteland never ends and it's killing me

Wait and count to ten but

I'll never be able to live I can't seem to breathe

I'll die fading carefully so don't save me

Standing on the edge, it's darker now

And it's in my head, I can't hear a sound

Facing the storm I'm cast out at sea

I'll drown eventually so don't save me…

Annwyl felt her heart beating rapidly in her breast, and for a moment, it was difficult to breathe. Her chest hurt - a heart attack? Or, no, perhaps it was simply panic. It hurt all the way around, into that place between her shoulder blades. It was sharp and undeniable. The muscles in her right arm went taut, adding to the agony. It was all she could do to go on.

But going on was a must. The mists around her were thick and absolute, hiding the path from sight. It was difficult to tell which way one must go. What made it worse was that she simply could not recall how she got here. She had no idea where here even was. 

It was as if her mind was wiped clean of what it might have been. The only thing she knew for certain was her name: Annwyl. It was almost a comfort, knowing that not everything had been lost. But there was a sort of lonely despair which crept through her as she lay in the knowledge that all that she had known, all that she had loved, had fled her mind. Perhaps it had been stolen with the mists. Perhaps not. It was impossible to tell.

Now, she moved toward the single shape she could make out in the mist. A tree, towering over, with bowing branches carrying thick, strangely colored leaves. It was the only beacon she had seen in a while; she used it for a brief respite, seating herself tucked up against the trunk, reveling in the simple feel of uneven bark against her back. She drew her legs to her chest, clutching them tightly to her with her arms. She felt her entire body trembling, felt the tears as they began to tumble down her cheeks. 

Annwyl was alone. And she was afraid, so very afraid. Without any context, any clue as to how she even got here, wherever here even was… Fear was acute, like an unwanted friend, lingering so close its imaginary shoulders bumped into her own, over and over again. 

She could not live like this. She had to find a way out. She had to. There had to be a way out of this prison, built with unsubstantial misty walls.

Forcing herself to her feet, she wobbled a bit, unsteady, but she forced herself to walk on. Forced herself to move forward. She did not know if she would make it out, did not know if she had faith in it. Faith in herself. But then, she had no idea who she even was. A name, that was all she had. Everything else was entirely a mystery.

She had no idea how long she had walked after leaving the tree, the one thing she had been able to make out in the whole of this horrific place. Each step was almost an agony, for around her, Annwyl began hearing the shrieks and growls of unseen monsters. Although she tried desperately to push them out of her periphery and attempted to ignore them, the sounds they made were too terrifying for her mind to truly push aside. 

It ate at her. With every step she took, it eroded another piece of her. Trembling like a leaf in a furious hurricane, she somehow managed to move onward. Somehow, she managed to keep her footing. Even as the monstrous sounds around her became more and more prominent, louder and louder, as if the creatures they belonged to were coming in closer.

The moment something brushed her shoulder, she went rigid. She could not move. Her breath came out in a rush and, try as she might, she could not draw in another to replenish herself. Though the touch was momentary, her fear was not. And it was not long until another came. 

What she felt did not belong to an animal. No, it was not fur nor flesh which touched her. It was reminiscent of her tree friend from before. Limbs crafted of rough, distinctive bark. It was as if the trees themselves had uprooted and animated themselves, shrieking and growling and making a hideous creak as they lumbered by, so close they began to crowd her space. Did they know she was there? How could they? She was so very small. A… Sin'dorei? Yes, that seemed right. Annwyl had no idea what the word even meant, all meaning had been stricken from her mind, but she knew it was integrally bound to her.

Where she should have been elated to discover yet one more clue to who she even was, those tree figures, ones she could not see, but could feel, had entirely drained from her the capability to rise above the fear. She finally managed to force herself to breathe, to move, and she walked slowly and carefully along, her entire body shuddering with fear.

How small a word to describe the enormity of what she was feeling. Somehow, she had risen above fear. It was as though she had climbed above the threshold into something so much more poignant and terrible. But words did not do it justice. It simply was. It had become a part of her now, an ever present reminder of the situation she was in.

Soon, another hulking figure became visible in the mist before her. What even was it? She paused, squinting, trying to make it out. She thought it might be a deformed tree, but then it moved. Before she knew it, a cry had slipped from her lungs, and she did not clamp a hand over her mouth quickly enough. That cry echoed in the space between her and this terrible hulking thing. 

It snapped to attention, its head, a monstrous horned thing, those horns rising above its head like jagged spears jutting dangerously toward the heavens. Its body was hunched over, its massive arms dragging the ground. Like the other creatures which had swirled around nearby, this one creaked and groaned with every swift step it took toward her, as if it were made of trees. As if it was an animated mass of wood. 

Annwyl turned away from it, prepared to run, but her feet defied her. Behind were those awful other creatures, the ones she could not see, the ones which darted around her, taunting her with their shrieks and growls, as they brushed against her, reminding her that they were real and not imagined. To turn and run would be to invite them back in. But not to run… would that be worse?

Her answer came more swiftly than she had ever imagined. Beneath her, a gnarled bramble began to form, and it crept up her legs, keeping her rooted in place. She let out a terrified cry as she found herself entirely immobilized. But that was not the worst. No, what was worse was how those brambles began to push themselves deeper, burrowing beneath the skin. It was a new sort of agony, and she could not help the scream which burst forth. 

Shrieks answered all around her, a cacophony of excited sound, and Annwyl could not keep the tears at bay any longer. The brambles pushed higher and higher, climbing her calves, thighs, and then, her torso. Not merely clinging, but digging deep beneath her flesh. Rivulets of blood began to flow from the deep furrows they left in her, and that blood began to pool at her feet.

As she turned her head, looking back toward the thing she imagined must have created these, she saw it rise up on its back legs, lifting those massive arms over her head. In the next instant, she knew, it would all be over...

[mchalowitz]

fic: with/without child

summary: they imagine a life with their son, they try to find him.

Trust no one morphs into trust everyone.

Emails received from anonymous senders, addresses dropped into his lap. A hacked last name of unsubstantiated origin. He keeps this from the one person he really, truly trusts, and tries to believe that this is a noble decision. Her heart has been through too much, he rationalizes. She has felt the stabs of anguish too much by his hand. By withholding what he knows, he causes that pain all the same.

He goes to the far reaches of the country on a hunch, under the guise of visiting his mother’s gravesite. He’s been a free man for a year or so, it feels like something he would need to check off his list of things to catch up on. She’s confused, he was never close with his mother anyway, but she’s glad he’s getting out of the house when she’s spending so much time at the hospital. He kisses her cheek before he leaves with a suitcase in hand. 

He believed he would meet his son. He didn’t. 

Mulder has thought of his son a thousand times. 

A flash of copper hair and toothless smiles when he hands a complacent technician his sample cup at the donor lab, visions of clumsy waddling and eating popsicles in the grass during humid nights on the run. He wastes away in his office, dreaming of kitchen science experiments, and hashing out the dynamics of kindergarten romances.

Bringing up their son to Scully is like adding vinegar to baking soda, an explosion occurs.

If Scully allows herself to dream about a life with William, she would never let him know. In bares bones motel rooms once upon the time, the questions were always on the tip of his tongue. He wanted to know everything, right down to the way he smelled, and how he fussed. He never thought he had any parental instincts until the moment he held that baby in his arms. 

For a few months, they stayed in an off-the-grid cabin in the thick forests of Montana. It was the farthest north they ever went, the closest to a life of freedom they rejected across the border. It was the first time they stayed somewhere more than a few weeks, a respite from motel rooms and truck stops. It was peaceful, comfortable, the first seed of inspiration to find their own home. 

They get a little drunk a couple nights in, loosened by cheap merlot. Her feet  stretched across his lap, her small body sunken into the ancient cushions. “Do you think he’s okay?” he remembers asking, twisting his glass in his hand. His alcohol sloshed brain cannot hold this in any longer. “His p--the people he’s with, do you think they’re good?” She says she hopes so, with a hint of a tremble in her tone.

She imagines him as a little boy with her hair and his eyes. His first word is something strange like Okobogee or mothman. He loves books and never sleeps. He tells her he wants to be a doctor, he tells him he wants to be a ghost buster. 

He sees his son more in scenes than details. Chewing on Mulder’s index finger when he teethes, while Scully stands by insisting it’s unsanitary. Road trips to amusement parks that aren’t haunted. Telling him tales of his parents’ adventures like fairytales until he insists he’s too old for these made up stories. 

They never have another conversation about their son that doesn’t end in tears and slammed doors, accusations of resentment for the other’s choices. The guilt cuts hot and deep. Eventually, it seems better to hold it inside. 

It is not an active decision to find more joy in their lives, it just happens. It’s a transition they knew would come eventually, where they have whole days where they don’t think about the fact that they have a son somewhere in the world. They laugh until they can’t breath at each other’s jokes, they like to go to the farmer’s market on weekends with their outfits that unintentionally match just enough to make other people jealous. They make love for no purpose other than because it’s fun. They exchange vows and it is the purest moment of bliss they have ever experienced. 

They are still two parents without a child. They sleep side by side, wonder if giving him up really kept him safe.

It takes more than five years for him to admit to her he used his connections to track him down. More than once. He still keeps the trips to the far reaches of the country on false leads to himself. The world not ending is not the only reason he fell into darkness, ruined their lives, their marriage. 

Mulder believes this time will be different. Their car parked in the shadows, they stare down another government facility. Their relationship was built on trespassing. He wonders how many twenty foot high fences he’s had to boost her over. He sees her wedding ring glinting in the light. “Don’t want our son to think we’re living in sin?” he asks. He can’t go long without making a stupid joke. 

“Mulder, shut up,” she tells him as she swings her leg over the top. He makes a comment about the possibility of being too old for fences. 

Scully starts to respond when he shushes her, pulling her around the nearest corner. They’re rusty at the whole trespassing thing. They didn’t spend enough time accessing the area. Two guards, rifles in hand, cross from one building to another. He waits for them to disappear inside the building. He starts to follow. 

“What makes you think that building is the right one?” 

“It’s been twenty-four years, Scully, you should know a lot of my work is based on hunches.”

He doesn’t expect her to be satisfied by this answer and she isn’t. It has no basis of actual fact. Mulder, in a less than legal fashion, has acquired a keycard to the facility. He thinks. He hopes. He slides it. There’s a click, a flash of green. He opens the door, holding his arm high so she can walk underneath. 

"Alright, since you seem to have a handle on this, which way?"

"Split up, meet back at the car? If you get the milk, I’ll get the eggs."

She decides left in aggravation. With the militarian exterior, he was expecting something a bit more drab, but this facility is almost hospital-like, with its bright florescent lights, and white walls. Underneath, there is something very prison-esque. Each door appears like a vessel of confinement. “I think it’s this one,” Scully tells him. 

"Why?"

"I thought we were working purely on vibes this time around."

“I said hunches, not vibes. Totally different,” he tells her. There’s a bin next to the door, holding a file. She grabs it, begins to read as he watches. She wordlessly urges him with a pat on his arm to unlock the door. She rips out the papers, shoves them into her jacket. 

Click, green. He pushes the door open. The light in the room is almost tortuously overwhelming. It feels like there isn’t enough time to process the images in front of them before Mulder feels a body push hard against him. His partner falls to the ground.

Mulder starts to kneel down to help Scully as she scrambles to her feet. “I’m okay, I’m okay. Mulder, we have to catch him before they do. They’ll kill him.” 

They take off down the hallway. Her hair is flapping behind her, she’s always been faster than him. They follow the squeaking sound of sneakers, the same body being forced against heavy doors to the outside. There aren’t a lot of choices when it comes to hiding places. There’s another building a few yards ahead, more of a warehouse. They watch the door swing shut. 

This is not the kind of game of hide and seek he saw in his mind.

Inside the empty building, it’s almost pitch black. The only light comes from the moon shining through the openings near the ceiling. There’s the click from a gun. 

In all his fantasies, he never sees his child behind the barrel of a gun. 

"Put your hands up!"

Mulder and Scully exchange a look, raise their hands. The light finally hits the child’s face and they both know what the other is thinking. They both imagined a copy of Scully, with her auburn hair, and fair skin, and slight frame. This William, the real one, looks like faded photographs of his father in Oxford sweatshirts and floppy hair. Scully is in there, with his piercing sky eyes, and hints of that auburn color, but anyone’s doubt about the father of this child can be erased in an instant. 

"William," Scully says softly, the comforting tone of a mother. "We're here to help you."

"You can’t help me. You’re going to do to me what the others did to my parents. Stay away from me!” 

It’s been some time since Mulder has had to negotiate when a gun in being held just a few feet from his face. He’s never had to with a scared child. His scared child. “We understand what you’ve been through, William, we just want to help.” He can't begin to fathom what has happened to cause this. “My partner is a medical doctor. If they’ve done something to you, she will know what to do.” 

The gun is wagging around violently. They can see how hard their son is shaking. One wrong move could end this all fatally. Mulder steps forward slowly, hands still up.  “It’s okay,” he says, barely above a whisper. “You can trust us.” He takes another forward step, places his hand on a thin wrist. “I can take it.”

The boy nods. His fingers loosen, letting the gun drop into Mulder’s hand. He closes his eyes, tears slipping down his cheeks. “Hey,” Mulder says. “None of that.” William’s eyes fly open, there’s a flash of what looks like confused recognition in his eyes. 

Scully lowers her hands. Mulder watches her expression of wonder as she walks toward him. He’s so tall, her arm almost has to stretch when she brings her hand up to his cheek. This is their first contact in years. She knows he needs it, and she takes that leap of faith that he will not reject her. Whether he knows her or not, he leans into her touch.

[tarysande]

Fic Update: Any Four Walls: Active Duty

On AO3

#

Active Duty

Time off active duty hadn’t dulled Shepard’s sense of impending danger. Now, of course, that instinct mostly came in handy when Rose was about to attempt something doomed to end in blood and a trip to the hospital. Still, as she sat off to the side around a crowded table watching her husband attempt to both smooth ruffled feathers and remain firm about the political stances the still-new Council deemed important, the prickle of the skin at the back of her neck went from mildly irritating to downright distracting. Had she been in the field, it would have been enough to make her draw her weapon. She simply couldn’t put her finger on why. Splitting political hairs was nothing new, after all, no matter how heated the opposition.

Her lips twisted in a self-deprecating smile and dragged her hands through her hair in an attempt to soothe herself. Doubtless it was something ridiculous. Probably some deep-seated fear for the children, though Shepard had ample proof Solana was capable of rising to any occasion—even if that occasion was two bundles of giggles, pranks and inexhaustible energy. She glanced at the time. Half an hour until the next scheduled break; she’d call then, even if it meant enduring Solana’s inevitable ribbing about people who worried too much.

The prickle did not subside.

When a turian aide entered quietly and began scanning the room, the feeling of not right, not right, be on alert only intensified. His gaze lingered for a moment on Garrus, then shifted until it landed on her. This was followed by a brief, beckoning gesture. She rose at once, moving along the outside of the room as stealthily as she was able to without actually resorting to using her tactical cloak.

Nothing good ever came of aides interrupting meetings to whisper in ears. Especially when they wore expressions as serious as this one wore.

Garrus, speaking calmly at the front of the room while another politician shouted at him about impossible demands, ridiculous concessions, never paused, but she felt his eyes follow her out. If she knew him—and she did—he’d find a way to wrap things up without anyone realizing he’d maneuvered the end of the meeting far too early.

He was getting good at that. Diplomacy. It might have made her smile, if the abrupt appearance of the turian aide hadn’t struck such a discordant, sour note in her.

What do you need me to do?

But no, it wasn’t that, not anymore. Now it was, what’s happened to the children?

The turian didn’t quite meet her eyes. He hunched a little into his cowl, mandibles pulled tight to his face. “Comman—sorry, Admiral. Admiral Shepard. I’m sorry to interrupt—”

“I’m sure you’ve got a good reason, Lieutenant…?”

He blinked at her. His eyes were very green. His markings were the same color. Though it was never particularly easy to place a turian’s age—not for her, anyway—she had the distinct impression this one was still very new to his commission. “Vatix, ma’am. And yes, ma’am. Uh, General Fedorian sent me.”

A mantle of cold clarity settled over her. She saw every anxious twitch in the turian standing before her. She heard the faint metallic whirr of the environmental systems, and over that the faintest hum of Garrus’ voice. If she’d been wearing a hardsuit, she’d have already pulled up her HUD, she’d have already been planning.

The aide looked very much as though he anticipated being the messenger doomed to get shot after delivering his message. With every nerve singing, every instinct she’d thought dormant pulled taut, she could not actually bring herself to disabuse him of this possibility.

“Go on. Is there a reason Naxus didn’t come himself?”

“Comms are dampened in here. As you know. To prevent interruptions?”

“I am aware, Lieutenant Vatix. Could we skip to the message, please? Is it Solana? The children?”

Whatever he saw on her face made the aide cough and continue quickly, “Oh. Yes, of course. Sorry, ma’am. No, he didn’t mention his wife or your children. He asked me to escort you to his office.”

“To what purpose?”

“He didn’t elaborate. Only said it was urgent.”

She closed her eyes for the moment it took to inhale a sharp, annoyed breath. “You could have opened with that, Lieutenant. Let me get Garrus—”

“He asked for you, ma’am. He said it wasn’t something, uh, requiring Councilor Vakarian’s presence.” Vatix shifted from one foot to the other. “He did have a human visitor with him.” His mandibles flicked once before drawing tight to his face once again. “Sorry, ma’am. I—should have mentioned that. He did tell me to.”

“Yes,” she agreed, narrowing her eyes and gesturing for him to precede her. “Lead on, Lieutenant.”

After two or three attempts at conversation were met with yet more nervousness and single-syllable, stammered replies, Shepard fell into silence at Vatix’s side. Her skin did not stop its incessant prickling. Her fingers itched to close around the grip of a pistol, and it took some effort to keep the bland smile on her face and her hands still at her sides. Vatix, she noted, did not have her self-control; his long digits tapped a random, nervous pattern against his thigh.

“So, is it hero worship or hate?” Shepard asked, after turning down two different hallways—each emptier than the last—and enduring another agonizing minute of total silence. “No judgement. Just curious.”

“Sorry?” Vatix asked, and though she was not nearly as expert at reading other turian subharmonics as she was Garrus and Tyrra, the young lieutenant’s discomfort was palpable even to her.

“Effortlessly being able to start conversations is something of a point of personal pride,” Shepard returned, carefully modulating her own voice. Friendly. Even. Interested. “I can’t figure out why you won’t oblige me.” She smiled mildly. “I’m not used to being thwarted. I figure you’re nervous because you’ve heard one too many exaggerated stories, or you hate my guts. Either’s fair.”

Vatix didn’t laugh. His fingers stopped tapping and immediately headed for the flap of the pocket they’d been dancing over during the entire length of their walk. Her skin burned. Before she could second-guess herself—or let the words galactic incident—override her instinct and the relatively unsubstantiated evidence she’d collected, she wrapped her fingers around his reaching wrist, spun to catch his arm behind his back, and brought one foot down on the back of his left spur with just enough pressure to ensure he froze. His audible breath wheezed with barely controlled pain. Wrex would’ve said Vatix had a quad; Shepard knew how damned sensitive—and vulnerable—an unarmored spur was. She had, of course, been counting on it.

“You want to tell me what’s really going on here, Vatix?”

“General Fedorian—”

“Wouldn’t have sent you. He’d have sent someone who knows damned well I can find his office without help.” He tried to rise up to give himself leverage to ease her pressure on his arm, but this only brought more weight down on his spur. His breath came in swift and shallow gasps. “Not my first rodeo. And I’m good with maps.”

Vatix said nothing. She put a little more of her weight on his spur, feeling the give. She didn’t think the high-pitched whine he emitted was intentional. “You want to try again?”

“It’s too late, anyway,” Vatix gasped.

Much as she wanted to finish the work she’d started on his spur, she wanted answers more. She twisted his arm further, pulling it nearly from its socket. Plates weren’t much use at the joints. Part of the reason for the bulkiness of turian armor was protection at those weakest junctures. Vatix wasn’t wearing armor any more than she was, and whatever advantage his height might have given him in hand to hand was lost to her strength and better positioning.

What do you need me to do?

“For what?” she snarled, applying just enough pressure to make him yelp. With her free hand, she reached into the pocket he’d been toying with and retrieved a syringe prepped full of a liquid she couldn’t identify. Her guts twisted and she swallowed down the bile and bitter panic that always threatened to overwhelm her when she saw needles. Of all the goddamned ridiculous things. “You’ve got about thirty seconds before I use one of the half-dozen ways I know how to kill your species without needing a weapon.” Her fingers tightened reflexively around the syringe. “Or maybe I’ll just give you a taste of your own medicine, here. Whatever the hell it is.”

“You think I’m afraid to die? I just needed to get you out of the way. And I did. I did. Your time is done.” Vatix’s subharmonics steadied; even through the pain, Shepard heard the confidence. The zealotry. She wished she didn’t have quite so much experience with zealotry; the tenor of it was unmistakable. And terrifying. “You think we’re blind? No. We see your fingerprints on everything Vakarian does. We know his face is the mask you wear to control the weak turians who wish only for new overlords to appease. We’ve had enough. We will have turian sovereignty again, free from humanity’s pestilent influence. We carried your people through the war and—”

Shepard didn’t let him finish. “So it was hate then. Good to know.”

The steps of this dance were familiar, for all she’d been avoiding practicing. Like a waltz. One-two-three, one-two-three; nothing so complicated as a tango. On one, she finished dislocating his shoulder. On two, she shattered his left spur beneath her foot. On three, she crushed the other, effectively hamstringing him. Another turn around the floor would’ve seen him cooling in a pool of his own blue blood, but she paused, thinking of his words, his warning. Thinking about time.

By the time he hit the floor, screaming, Shepard was already running.