#too many armchair experts in this fandom

[emiliasilverova]

[FIC] Achillean Delights

So. I didn't post anything here for the last two days, trying so hard to finish this fic... and just as I'm ready to post, AO3 is DDoSed by greedy arseholes who like neither smut nor LGBTQ+ content.

How ironic.

Ain't nobody stop me from posting shameless LGBTQ+ smut, and you from being able to read it. I did create a Dreamwidth (that I'll likely use to backup my AO3) but I'm too lazy to set it up for now... therefore, see you under the cut for the fic in question (both for length and spice 🌶️).

Before anything, my memory is good enough to remember exactly how I tagged this fic, so there you go:

Title: Achillean Delights Chapters: 1/1  Fandom: GoldenEye (1995), James Bond - All Media Types  Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply  Relationships: James Bond/Alec Trevelyan  Characters: James Bond, Alec Trevelyan  Additional Tags: One Shot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shameless Smut, Banter, Oral Sex, First Time Blowjobs, Edging, Power Play, Boys Being Boys, Decadence, Developing Relationship, James Bond Is Good At Sex, Shameless James Bond, Alec Is A Spoiled Brat, They Shared Everything, MI6 Cafe 007 Fest 2023, Community: MI6 Cafe | mi6_cafe  Word Count: 1529 Summary:

Alec spends a lovely, lively time in James's expert hands—not to mention, expert mouth.

As always do give some love to @samanthahirr for the lovely beta ♥️ Some edits she made here are especially *chef kiss*

And now, do enjoy the fic, hehe.

***

Is Alec the victor or the vanquished in this moment? Hell if he knows. All he feels is the supreme pleasure shrouding him whole—sending warm waves through his body, robbing him of any articulate thought.

He’s splayed on a velvety armchair, one of his favourites among the many antiques he owns. All he wears is a wide open shirt; the way it exposes his chest paints an even more indecent picture than if he were naked from head to toe. His bare legs are parted wide; one of his hands curls into short, thick dark hair. Wet sounds and heavy breathing fill the air, their obscenity a heady aphrodisiac.

This is the most exceptional blowjob Alec has ever received, no question about it. He could stay like this forever—head empty, cock surrounded by warm, luscious lips. Very talented lips, of course; Alec wouldn't settle for any less. Or would he? On second thought, skill alone has never made him quite so intoxicated. Perhaps, then, the defining factor isn’t what, but rather whom he’s surrendering himself to.

Case in point, James Bond.

The sight is mesmerising, almost surreal to Alec. James bobbing his head up and down, catching some air and getting right back to work… all with genuine, communicative enthusiasm. James, of all people. The friend, the rival Alec has known for more years than he’d care to count. The man he thought he’d never fuck outside of his most outrageous fantasies, here in the flesh.

Not so long ago, Alec would’ve refused to believe that James could get on his knees of his own accord—let alone with such absolute confidence. Yet there he is, giving a bravura performance as if it were nothing. 

Warmth, wetness, pressure… they're all applied to perfection. Alec can't help but dip his head back and close his eyes, clawing at his own chest to suppress a moan. What little control he has over James or himself quickly dissolves as he drifts off into sweet abandon. Right where he wants to be; dangerously exposed, but in the safest of hands. 

Without warning, James marks a pause in his ministrations. Alec springs back to alertness, but his muscles aren't as quick to engage. All he can do is watch as his long cock drops from James’s mouth. It feels heavy as it rests in the unbearable cold, a deeper shade of red than just a minute ago. 

“What’s so funny?” Alec breathes, catching the hint of derision in James’s oh-so-tantalising grey eyes.

James stands up and takes hold of the shaft’s upper half. When he gives it a gentle squeeze, a glistening bead of precome appears at the tip. “I never figured you were so messy.”

Too languid to fight back, Alec squints. “Good thing you’re here to clean the mess, then, isn't it?”

“Is that all I'm here for?” 

Now James strokes with just his fingertips—too softly to give Alec what he wants, but enough to keep him hard and aching for more. An unacceptable ordeal. Alec’s first instinct is to thrust his hips upwards for more stimulation… but James removes his hand at once. The bastard.

“Your mouth, James,” Alec hisses.

“Good things come to those who wait.”

“Oh, spare me the aphorisms, damn you.”

Alec lunges to pull James’s hair. Less of a dirty move than leaving him high and dry, in his mind. James catches his wrist before he can succeed and drives him back into his seat. Then James bends, inching his face closer and closer. Alec could use his free hand to force it down, but decides to hold James’s cheek instead. Their lips touch; soon enough, they lock into a passionate kiss.

Tasting himself on James’s tongue isn't as intimidating as Alec expected. In fact, it dissipates the last inhibitions he was clinging to. He shifts and captures James’s lower lip, resolute to take the lead. James lets him have his way, but still provides a little resistance to spur on Alec's ardour. The battle ends when they both run out of breath, bringing them to a brief standstill. 

“James…” 

Alec’s whisper is very much a plea at this point. In response, James cups Alec’s face and gazes into his eyes. James’s hands are warm and soothing, his smile tender—although somewhat inscrutable. What’s on his mind exactly? The relish of having Alec at his total mercy? Knowing his insufferable ego, that’s got to be it.

Feigning to go for another kiss, Alec moves his head forward… and bites the lip offered to him. Not so hard as to draw blood, but still making James recoil in surprise.

“Rude, positively rude,” James says, his tone half-disapproving, half-amused as he brings his fingers to his mouth.

It’s Alec’s turn to grin now, full of mischievous defiance. “Keep me waiting any longer, and I’ll be just as rude as you deserve.”

James snorts. The mischief proves contagious; even as he finally kneels down again, he can’t be bothered to hurry up. He doesn’t return to what’s expected of him, either. Alec moves to prod him along, but is caught short by the latest weapon from James’s arsenal—kisses to the inside of his thigh. 

The novel sensation gets the better of Alec, who slumps back into his seat. James jumps at the opportunity for petty revenge and sinks his teeth right into the delicate skin. The infuriating man knows exactly what he’s doing, applying just the right amount of bite to set his victim’s blood ablaze. 

Without realising, Alec caresses himself again. As his other thigh is given equal attention, his wandering hand finds his own erect nipple. He flicks it greedily, his delight too strong for the remnants of his self-consciousness to put up a fight. 

James’s lips on his balls send a jolt through Alec’s body. His toes curl, his hands no longer know where to go; back to his chest, onto the armrests, or into the shiny, crow-black hair—James’s greatest vanity. James licks and lightly pulls, and Alec submits. The all-consuming pleasure almost sends him over the edge, but he manages to hold back. There is no way he’ll let himself be robbed of his climax in James’s mouth, however deep under James’s spell he may get.

When it becomes clear that James’s next target is his swollen tip, Alec’s heart pounds. The moment he’s been yearning for is imminent… or would be, if James would stop teasing him for once in his godforsaken life. Instead, James laps up the slow, thin trickle at the slit, pushing Alec to feverish levels of anticipation. 

“James, for fuck’s sake—”

At last, the wet heat of James’s mouth engulfs his pin-straight cock. Alec lets out a long, uncontrolled moan as intense relief washes over him. He should be livid at how James made him beg for it a second time, but he doesn’t care anymore. This is what he wants, and James is giving it to him… anything else is irrelevant.

The fuse already burns bright within him, lit up by the fast, thorough suction up and down his length. Fingers roll his balls, while others form a tight ring around the base of his shaft, friction eased by a generous coating of precome and saliva. Alec squirms in his armchair, his breath ragged. He tries to keep up with such fervent worship as long as he can, but he knows the inevitable is upon him. 

When Alec sits up and starts pushing down on his head, James doesn’t flinch. Good boy. He keeps sucking in earnest, relentless and undaunted. As the irresistible pressure builds up, Alec’s muscles contract. This is both too much and not enough. He groans and mumbles incoherently—euphoric from being at the centre of the universe, light-headed from being so close. So very close…

Alec cries out, swept away by the force of his orgasm. James firmly holds onto his shaking thighs, but doesn’t remove his mouth as Alec fills it with warm come. Alec’s cock keeps pulsing for a few seconds, as long as it takes to release so many years’ worth of longing. There is nothing left on his mind during this incredible high… save for complete, unadulterated satisfaction.

James lets go, and Alec collapses, panting. Numbing weakness takes hold of him as he basks in the afterglow. After some time, he manages to half-open his eyes again—only to be greeted by the most handsome sight he’s ever witnessed. James looking at him with a sly smile, his sun-kissed skin shining with a thin sheen of sweat, dishevelled and untidy. Alec wants to kiss him hard, to mark him as his conquest… but that would have to wait until he can move again. For now, all he can do is smile back.

In response, James bends over him again. Alec expects a kiss, but he couldn’t be more wrong. James takes his softening cock as deep as he can, puckers his lips tight and slides off in one expert motion. He gives a few more licks to leave Alec impeccably clean, and swallows.

Alec cannot believe his eyes. “Good lord, James.”

James chuckles, shameless. Then, in his most suave tone, he answers, “I aim to please.”

[denimbex1986]

'The very online showdown between Greta Gerwig’s “Barbie” and Christopher Nolan’s “Oppenheimer” all started with a date: July 21.

It’s not uncommon for studios to counterprogram films in different genres on a big weekend, but the stark differences between an intense, serious-minded picture about the man who oversaw the development of the atomic bomb and a lighthearted, candy-colored anthropomorphizing of a childhood doll quickly became the stuff of viral fodder.

There’s even some disagreement over whether it’s “Barbieheimer” or “Barbenheimer” or “Boppenheimer” or yet another tortured portmanteau — a phenomenon on which the AP Stylebook has yet to offer guidance, but for the purposes of this article will be “Barbenheimer.”

It didn’t hurt that both Nolan and Gerwig have very passionate and very online fandoms eager to join in. Never mind that many of those fans overlap — the memes, allegiances, and T-shirts were just too fun.

Both movies often trend on social media when the other releases a new asset — a trailer, a picture, an interview. On one level, it’s a marketing department’s dream. Awareness could not be higher, the conversation couldn’t be louder, and neither film even has official reviews out yet.

“‘Barbenheimer’ is a marketing gift borne out of social media and I think it’s benefiting both films,” said Paul Dergarabedian, the senior media analyst for analytics firm Comscore. “You’re certainly aware of both movies in a more profound and compelling way than I think might have otherwise happened had they been released on different weekends.”

AMC Theaters reported that 20,000 of its AMC Stubs members had purchased tickets for a double feature. If you’re counting, that’s 294 minutes of moviewatching. Even Margot Robbie — Barbie herself — and Tom Cruise, the star of another summer blockbuster, have started plotting the ideal “Barbenheimer” day.

“It’s a perfect double bill,” said Robbie at her movie’s London premiere Wednesday. “I think actually start your day with ‘Barbie,’ then go straight into ‘Oppenheimer’ and then a ‘Barbie’ chaser.”

Cruise — whose “Mission: Impossible – Dead Reckoning Part One” opened a little over a week before the “Barbenheimer” showdown — said at his premiere he’d plan to see both on their opening day, likely starting with “Oppenheimer,” which seems to be the internet’s preferred viewing order as well.

“Barbie” actor Issa Rae thinks there’s a reason for that.

“I think that there’s a very specific order that if you see them in. If you see ‘Oppenheimer’ last then you might be a bit of a psychopath,” she diagnosed at the London premiere.

The showdown has made armchair marketing experts out of everyone, quick to scrutinize every move by Warner Bros. and Universal — as though it’s possible to compare two extraordinarily different campaigns.

One has infinite opportunities for very pink, sparkly photo opportunities, whimsical brand partnerships for seemingly everything from underwear to pool floats, large-scale fan events with autograph signings and pop stars like Billie Eilish posting about the soundtrack. In other words, the “Barbie” campaign can go nuclear.

“Oppenheimer” has the bomb, the alluring mystery and the big screen hook, but it’s not the kind of movie that lends itself to, say, a frozen yogurt collaboration.

Is the competition real, though, or just a meme? Some in Hollywood wondered if Warner Bros. plopped “Barbie” on the weekend as a slight to Nolan, who had opened many films for the studio in that corridor including “Inception” and “Dunkirk.” He left Warner Bros. amid its controversial decision to send a year’s worth of movies to streaming and made “Oppenheimer” with Universal instead. But a pointed box office war doesn’t exactly make sense for a studio that has talked recently about wanting to lure Nolan back.

There is an unspoken code of conduct: Never badmouth another studio’s film, publicly at least. This is partly decorum, especially when it comes to “box office showdowns” which all will say are a creation of the press and sideline spectators. But it’s also rooted in some truth: The conventional thinking is that having eyes on one movie is good for other movies — you see their posters and trailers and on some level everyone benefits.

And social media has allowed movie stars to get in on the game, too. Following reports that Cruise was irked the latest “Mission: Impossible” was going to lose its IMAX screens to “Oppenheimer” after only a week, Cruise posted photos of himself and director Christopher McQuarrie standing in front of posters for “Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny,” “Barbie” and “Oppenheimer,” holding tickets for each.

“This summer is full of amazing movies to see in theaters. These are just a few that we can’t wait to see on the big screen,” Cruise’s Instagram caption read.

The official accounts for “Indiana Jones,” “Barbie” and “Oppenheimer” responded with supportive notes. Gerwig and Robbie even followed with a similar photo series a few days later, which the official “Oppenheimer” Instagram account reposted in its stories. Charged with playing Oppenheimer, Cillian Murphy told the AP at his movie’s London premiere that “of course” he’d be seeing “Barbie.” The sporting cross-promotion between four studios — Universal, Warner Bros., Disney and Paramount — is something the film business has not quite seen before.

“Not only is Tom Cruise the biggest box office star in the world, but he’s also an incredible ambassador for the movie theater, for the movie theater experience and boosting other movies,” Dergarabedian said. “And that collegial atmosphere within the framework of what is seen as the very competitive box office derby is kind of a nice thing.”

Still, everyone likes a No. 1 debut, and both “Barbie” and “Oppenheimer” reportedly carry $100 million production price tags (not including the millions spent on marketing). As far as box office tracking goes, “Barbie” has it in the bag with forecasts showing that it could open above $90 million in North America. “Oppenheimer” meanwhile is tracking in the $40 million range. Then there’s the wild card of “Mission: Impossible 7’s” second weekend, which could snag second place.

Still even with a second- or third-place start, “Oppenheimer” could be destined for a long, steady, profitable run into awards season. Adult audiences for R-rated movies are not often the ones who pack theaters the first weekend.

Back in 2008, in the midst of the recession, Warner Bros. and Universal faced off on the same July weekend with another Nolan film that went up against a lighthearted confection: “The Dark Knight” and “Mamma Mia!” — both of which went on to be enormously profitable (though Nolan did win the first weekend).

The bigger worry is that what’s been heralded as Hollywood’s post-pandemic comeback summer has had more ups and downs than anyone might have hoped. That’s putting quite a bit of pressure on “Barbenheimer” to overperform and boost the lagging summer box office, which pales in comparison to the bigger issues facing the industry as actors join the writers on strike.

But with just over a week to go, it’s still a source of amusement. Even “Barbie” co-star Will Ferrell threw the gauntlet in his winking way at the London premiere.

“I think the world maybe wants to see ‘Barbie’ a little bit more right now,” Ferrell said. “Just saying!”'

[stealth-liberal]

Ugh, I just read yet another long post by yet another pedantic asshole who "can't enjoy" *insert historical TV show/movie here* because the clothing has a dye colour that the people of the time frame didn't have yet, or a particular food that didn't exist yet in that area. One person added sparkly gems as why they couldn't watch these shows.

I just... I can't believe these people. They all must be the most pedantic bores the world has ever known. I bet they suck the fun out of every room they enter. If the presence of a fucking orange, potato, clothing dye, SPARKLY PIECE OF FUCKING JEWELRY kills your joy in a FICTIONAL piece of entertainment... you need to talk someone.

This level of obsession is beyond "don't like, don't watch". I never see these sorts of posts written by actual experts or academics or whatever. It always seems to be armchair obsessives....

Why do I care? Because I have watched too many armchair obsessives RUIN fandoms and shows/movies. If it's not the needlessly obsessed over minor and unimportant historical details crowd in historical shows/movies, it's the folks who can't handle a property's adaption from one form to another (the Tolkien obsessives screeching about short hair on elves). All versions of armchair obsessives (historical and fictional) also always seem to loose their damn minds the minute women and/or people of colour enter the picture.

These people ruin everything they touch, they destroy everyone's fun and joy. I wish they would just get jettisoned from fandom spaces. They make it awful for everyone. Including themselves because it CANNOT be mentally healthy to be this pedantically obsessed with something.

That is all.

[krreader]

BTS scenario → foreplay.

pairing: bts x reader fandom: bts warnings: oral sex ; language ; dirty talk ; sir!kink ;  genre: smut ; fluff word count: 1.4k+

a/n: duuuude this was so much fun, I had so many ideas!!! I hope you all enjoy this!!!

kim seokjin

Jin wasn't self-conscious, not even in the bedroom and he honestly had no reason to be. He looked like a god when he was on top of you.

But at one point in your relationship, you just realized that having sex with the lights off gave it a different kind of thrill. Not knowing where the hand of your partner would go next, where they would touch you next and what they would do to you next.. you loved it.

And so it had become a little game between the two of you, especially because Jin soon realized how much you loved this. He could make you beg and whine before he even took off his underwear.

You breathed in sharply when you could feel his fingertips brush against your clit, but only for a moment, then they were gone again and you could hear a little chuckle.

“That'd be too easy, right?”

He managed to get you so wet and riled up before sex, that you were literally soaking with want when he finally entered you. And that was his goal, because he knew that it was a lot more fun for you that way.

You could feel the bed shift a little and then a moment later, he gently kissed you, before whispering, “Will you beg tonight, (Y/N)?”

“Yes,” you whined, “Anything you want..”

You already started begging.

min yoongi

Yoongi was too confident in his ability to not know what he was doing and how it was affecting you.

He liked to keep foreplay simple, because he knew it would get him and you the result you both wanted.

Why change something that was good already?

You couldn't agree more, not when you were coming undone in a matter of minutes because he knew where to kiss you between your legs to make you scream.

Foreplay didn't always have to be long, that's one thing he taught you. What was important was to get you so worked up that you couldn't take it anymore and wanted more, with more being his dick inside you.

And when you finally reached your limit and moaned out his name so loudly that he and you both knew that whoever just went into the bathroom across his room had heard.. but neither of you cared.

As you were catching your breath, Yoongi crawled up to you, hovering right above your lips.

“You taste so fucking good.”

jung hoseok

Before Hoseok, you always thought that foreplay had to include you pleasuring him as much as he was pleasuring you. But your boyfriend proved to you that seeing you become a mess because of him was enough to make him rock-hard and ready to enter you.

One of your favorite things to do was this, you sitting between his spread legs, your back against his chest and your head against his shoulder as he was whispering dirty things in your ear and was rubbing his fingers over your clit, while his other hand was kneading your breast in his hand.

“You're so fucking gorgeous.”

You could feel his hard dick against your back and were already yearning for it to be inside of you, but the feeling of his hand between your legs was so good that you couldn't ask for it yet, you wanted to enjoy this for as long as possible.

And thanks to Hoseok, he never stopped until you begged him to fuck you properly. Even if you came undone like this, he never stopped until you explicitly asked.

He pleasured you like that even if you came. Fuck, that only made him more horny, to be honest.

kim namjoon

Namjoon had always been an expert at female anatomy, that's why you had no problem to orgasm even the first time you and him had sex.

Want to know why? Because he understood that his penis alone would probably not do the job.

Sex with him was always a pleasure, because he didn't just chase his release, he chased yours.

With the responsible leader that he was, whenever he went down on you, he'd turn on the TV and put it on high volume, knowing what his mouth between your legs would do to you. Knowing that you'd start begging whenever his mouth wouldn't find your clit, but every spot around it to tease you. Knowing that you'd fist your hands in his hair to push and pull, knowing that you'd arch your back eventually and let out load moan after the other when his lips finally sucked on your clit. Knowing that you’d eventually scream when you were close.

Sex was an act performed by two parties. Since you had trouble reaching your orgasm with it, he always made sure to give you one beforehand, so that you'd still leave the room with shaky legs.

park jimin

You'd have a hard time deciding whether you preferred foreplay or the actual act of sex with Jimin when someone would ask you.

Unlike with previous partners, Jimin's main focus before sex was to make you understand just how much he loved you – unless you were both in a hurry, but that's a different story.

Right now, for example, the two of you were in bed together, doing nothing but making out with each other and have been doing so for the past ten minutes. Just gentle kisses that turned into heated ones, but then quickly back to soft pecks and careful exploration of the others mouth.

All the while he was holding you so tight, his fingertips just barely grazing the skin on your waist, enough for goosebumps to form on your skin.

Your hands were fisted in his shirt, holding on so tight because you were afraid he'd go if you didn't.

But whenever he paused for a moment and opened his eyes to look at you, smiling at you and looking at you with nothing but love in his eyes, you let out a happy chuckle, knowing that no, this man would never leave.

kim taehyung

Foreplay didn't always have to be physical, that is something that Taehyung had taught you soon after you and him had started dating. Because thankfully, unlike others, he liked to experiment and figure out what you both liked, not just him.

And this? This, you liked very much.

You let out a heavy breath when you read his text once more.

“I'll be home in ten minutes. When I walk into the bedroom, I want you to be naked, understood?”

He got you wet before he was even here, that's the power that he had over you.

“Yes, sir,” you quickly typed back, doing exactly what he asked after having washed up and then falling into the softness of your bed and closing your eyes for a moment.

You thought about touching yourself because of how horny you were, but as if he knew, your boyfriend walked into the bedroom with his hands buried in his pockets and looking at you from under his eyelashes.

“I know what you're thinking,” he took a seat in the armchair across the room, spread his legs and leaned back, “Do it.”

Also, foreplay didn't always involve your partner, you just learned.

jeon jeongguk

It's not that Jeongguk had absolutely zero experience when you and him had started dating, but when he hadn't known you as well as he knew you now, he always thought that you were this super confident woman who knew exactly what she wanted and how to get it.

And while you were certainly on that road, you hadn't achieved that goal just yet.

Nevertheless, Jeongguk had been so nervous about having sex with you for the first time because he was scared that he wouldn't deliver what you were used to, that he put in a a shit ton of effort researching what it was that most women liked.

And because that was so successful, he just continued doing it.

“Don't stop,” you moaned when his fingers dug into a spot on your lower back that hurt a little, “Fuck.”

Your boyfriend smirked, massaging that spot for a little while longer, before his hands slowly traveled lower.

You gulped down hard, even more so when you could feel his hot breath next to your ear.

“Tell me what you want, (Y/N).”

Massaging you and getting you to be fully relaxed? Check. Asking YOU what YOU want and not doing what HE wants? Check.

“Your hand.. fingers..-”

Doing whatever it was that you needed that day?

“Gladly.”

Check.

[nervousladytraveler]

🥰👀🥰

end of year WIP meme!

send me a 👀 and i’ll post a snippet of art/writing that i never got around to finishing this year (r.i.p)

Thanks @juicybeatles for the ask.

This bit is another modern Poldark AU. I won’t say anything else about it other than it is wholly unfinished and takes place around Christmas. If the Poldark fandom is still alive on tumblr in December 2021, I’ll post the rest (promises, promises...).

Happy New Year Everyone!

---

A Rose in December

They’d been talking for hours.

And in that time the pub had transformed itself more than once. Eerily quiet in the late afternoon, when they’d been the sole patrons in the place, then a round five o’clock someone began playing some crooning Frank Sinatra. That lasted until the after-work horde filed in, then Old Blue Eyes morphed to overly cheerful Christmas music with far too many bells. Now it was loud and crowded and would grow even more so as the night wore on. Everyone seemed to have a heightened celebratory edge as they moved closer to the holiday and a few days off.

Ross noticed she hadn’t raised her voice to be heard over the raucous. Perhaps that was deliberate? He had to lean closer to hear her.

“You know I hate the dark spicy shite breweries put out for winter. Pumpkin and clove and cinnamon--it’s disgusting. I don't want to drink my pudding and if I want mulled wine, I’ll make mulled wine,” she tried to make a disgusted face but couldn’t help laughing at her own joke. Her teeth gleamed white and her lips were inviting but it was her eyes--her bright and smiling eyes--that he found so compelling.

Ross laughed too. He noticed they were coming easier now and from deeper in his gut. With each chuckle out, a deep breath was drawn in. A new breath. He remembered this feeling. But he didn’t shy away from the familiarity. Instead he wanted to move further into it. That feeling of coming home and knowing you can open all the doors--to any room.

---

Ross woke to a blinding morning light coming in through the east-facing window behind him. It was a cold, relentless light--the kind usually found in January, reflecting off the vast expanses of frozen snow. December sunlight was supposed to be softer, more muted. But maybe it was the last night’s drink that was making his eyes so sensitive now.

He sat up and tried turning a stiff neck then stretched his arms above him. He laughed--he hadn’t had aches like these in some time.

He knew he’d be alone--that wasn’t a surprise--but he was struck by how comfortable he felt in her room after only a few hours.

Someone once told him that beds shouldn't be placed against a window--it was bad feng shui, she’d said--but it worked well in this space. There was no headboard only the long white curtains that mingled with the white bed clothes. A tall bookcase--also white--stretched nearly to the ceiling and was stuffed with all manner of books. Some smaller ones were stacked sideways, two deep on the shelf, to make room for as many as possible; piles of overflow books stood on either side. A stuffed armchair that delicately walked the line between antique and rubbish was covered with clothes. It wasn’t untidy, just lived in, inhabited by a body whose mind was perhaps occupied by other things.

On the mirror at the dresser someone had stuck a note.

Someone.

He pulled on his trousers and managed to shuffle the few feet without stumbling or finding himself unstable. That was a good sign.

“Ross--Despite your *best* efforts to keep me busy all night, I somehow managed to get up on time! I think it must be a Christmas miracle. I don’t dare wake you--I think you earned your sleep ;) I have to get to work but if the invitation is still good--and not just a drunken impulse--then I’ll come by your place tonight when my shift ends. Ring me if plans change. Last night was lovely.”

He laughed. It wasn't the drink that had inspired him to invite her over to spend Christmas with him but he had been intoxicated all the same--by her. After hours in her company, in her bed, and so close to her skin. He considered climbing back under the covers so he might find her scent lingering on a pillow.

Yes, inviting her to Christmas had been impulsive. But so was spending the night with her. Technically he’d only just met her that day.

Ross had no regrets. And he was heartened by the tone of her note. It meant he’d be seeing her again soon.

He looked around at the other items on the dresser.  A cosmetic case, crammed full of brushes and eye palettes. A hairbrush with long red hairs sticking out of the bristles. An empty eyeglass case--did she wear glasses? Apparently so. A few photographs of herself when she was younger were tucked in the mirror frame. The other people in them must have remained important to her these many years later.

He suddenly felt he was prying and turned away at once. He grabbed up his shirt and went in search of the toilet.

---

“Morning,” a deep voice said without turning from the stove.

“Um, yes, good morning.” Ross tried not to mumble but realised his mouth was dry. He also thought he could taste her on his lips; he tried not to panic at the memory of such pleasure.

“Coffee?” the young man asked then placed a mug on the table in front of an empty chair without waiting for Ross’s response.

“Thank you,” Ross said and after a moment’s pause took a seat. It would  definitely be rude to take the coffee and go back to bed.

“I’m frying eggs. Can I make you one too?” Was this man familiar with the routine of entertaining her abandoned guests the morning after?

“Yes, please. I’m Ross Poldark. You live here?” It sounded warmer and more conversational in his head.

“I know you, Ross. We met years ago but I suppose you don’t remember. I’m Sam.” Now Ross saw the resemblance in the eyes, the smile. He also saw the gold cross around the young man’s neck.

Good god, that’s right, he remembered now. She’d said she shared a flat with her brother but didn’t mention it was the religious one. He took a gulp of coffee hoping Sam hadn’t heard what went on behind the bedroom door just hours before.

“Melz said she was going to your place tonight for Christmas,” Sam said as he went back to cracking eggs with expert efficiency.

Melz--a family nickname but not one he’d ever used with her.

“Yes, I’m happy Demelza agreed to come. You should join us.” Another impulsive invitation. And this time it was followed with regret.

“Thank you but no,” Sam said. “We’ve mission work. It’s an important night for us.”

Of course take advantage of the sad and down trodden on the loneliest day of the year in your conversion efforts. That seems fair. He was glad Sam’s back was turned again so he wouldn’t see the undisguised disgust on Ross’s face.

“Last year we fed over 300! In one night,” Sam continued.

Shame spread through Ross’s gut. At least Sam was doing something to help those in need.  Who was Ross to be so judgmental?

“Congratulations,” he mumbled. Was that the proper response? He suddenly was feeling less and less certain of himself, of his place, of what he thought he knew about her, and what he now saw he didn’t. “Does Demelza help you...in your work?” he asked tentatively.

“No, she’s too busy and it’s...not really her thing,” Sam laughed then grew serious again.

Ross wished Demelza was there to shepherd him through this conversation. She seemed to know how to frame things so the world made sense. He wasn’t sure what to say to her brother now and grew desperate to push away images from last night that flashed across his memory.

Her face, her body was so lovely as she leaned over him in her moonlit bed. Her voice soft and low yet rich as she purred his name: Ross, Ross.

“Sister works hard, long hours. She deserves to enjoy herself now and then,” Sam slipped an egg onto a plate for Ross, then fumbled to find a clean fork. “It’s nice to see her happy again.”

[janetfraiserdeservedbetter]

Pins and Needles (Chapter Four)

(Read Chapter One, Two and Three here!)

Rating: G

Word Count: 1754

Fandom: Stargate SG1

Pairing: Sam Carter x Janet Fraiser

Summary:  Janet is a single mother and owner of a tattoo studio. Sam is a florist who has just moved into town. Janet's infatuated. Sam's a disaster gay. Flower shop/Tattoo parlour AU. 

Authors Note: Completely forgot to upload this chapter here! Chapter 5 is coming, slowly. Thanks for all the love on this fic so far though! I know this chapter seems heavily Sam/Jack but I promise it’s only for this bit and then we’re back onto the cute ladies! 

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After the disastrous morning she’d had, Sam only hoped that the afternoon would be better. She’d thought about sending a text to check in with Janet but the woman seemed rather cold when she’d left so Sam thought it best to leave it be. She’d spent the afternoon trying to meditate but when that hadn’t worked, she’d retreated to her garden - not that it was much of a garden at the moment. The soil was good but the last owners had let the yard go and before she could plant anything, there was a lot of work that needed to be done.      Sam pulled her bike into Jack’s driveway right at 5 pm; his garage door was open and the man sat by a sad excuse for a motorbike, beer by his foot. When he heard the rumble of the Ninja, he looked up and smiled at her. She climbed off the bike and removed her helmet, running a hand through her hair in an attempt to smooth it down.      “Glad you could make it,” Jack held a beer out to her and she smiled gratefully, running a hand over the bare engine. “Heard you needed an expert's help,” she teased. The man chuckled, flipping a milk carton over for her and patting it.

     The afternoon passed quickly and they made good progress cleaning the body of dirt and rust and making a plan of attack. Before either of them realised, the light had faded and the temperature dropped, and Jack leaned back, groaning a little. Sam looked over and grinned, wiping her hands on a rag. “I think you’ll need to order the radiator but then we can go from there.” “What would I do without you?” He smirked and Sam blushed a little, tossing him the rag. “Got time for a drink?”

     “Sorry about the mess. Beer okay?” Jack called as he flicked the lights on, heading down the corridor to the kitchen. Sam peered around the living room politely, keeping her hands in her pockets. His house was tidier than she’d expected for a bachelor. There weren’t many personal items; instead, the coffee table held a few empty bottles, an array of fishing and hardware magazines strewn across it. A blanket was draped haphazardly across the back of the couch and if Sam didn’t know any better, it looked like he slept there too often. The only personal effects she could see were a handful of pictures on and above the fireplace, some of Jack alone in uniform, others with a pretty blonde woman and a little boy. She wasn’t trying to be nosy so when she heard Jack’s footsteps in the hall, she turned to him, ignoring her own curiosity. He held a bottle out to her and she took it gratefully, sitting on the sofa across from him in the armchair.      “How long were you in the air force?” She said after a long moment as they both took long swigs of their beers.      “Almost 3 decades. Most days, my body feels like it was five.”      “Why’d you get out of it? If you don't mind me asking. I just can't imagine that working at a hardware store would be as adventurous as piloting an F-16.”      He looked impressed. “Spent more than my fair share of time in and out of near death situations. Takes a toll on your body and your relationships. You seem to know a lot about the force. Because of your dad?”      “Yeah. I was fascinated with the stuff as a kid. Almost went into the academy...”      “But?”      “When my mom died...I kinda came to resent the military. All my dreams of being an astronaut just went out the window.”      “Probably for the best. After my son died, I couldn’t...I couldn’t go back.”      “God, I’m sorry.”      “No, it’s...I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…” He exhaled sharply. “Another beer?”      “I shouldn’t have any more on an empty stomach. Got anything to eat?”      “No, I usually order in. Wanna go grab a Pizza?”

     Thank god they rang their order in ahead of time because the town was bustling with couples out and about on date night. They’d taken Sam’s bike but Jack had driven, leaving Sam to hold on tight to the man’s torso. She couldn’t deny that he smelt amazing, like Old Spice and grease and she could feel how fit he was under his shirt but she couldn’t get Janet out of her head.      Jack found a park down from the street from the pizza shop, right by ‘Lord of the Beans’, and he grinned as he took the helmet off.      “She rides nicely,” he patted the seat appreciatively and Sam smiled back, locking the helmets under the seat. They crossed the road together and Sam couldn’t help but peer back into her shop as they passed; it was dark and quiet but the lettering had finally been applied to the glass and the window was full of Peace Lilies. It was her dream come true and it was finally coming together. She glanced over at the tattoo parlour, half expecting to see Janet through the window but despite the lights, the shop looked empty.      “Vala usually stays back on weekends to mind the place so Janet can spend some time with Cas,” Jack explained and she bit back the questions she had about their relationship. She’d already made things weird with Janet, no need to do the same with Jack too.      Changing the topic, the pair chatted idly as they strolled, steering clear of personal topics, instead talking about the bike and Sam’s shop.      “My mom always wanted to be a florist but it just never happened for her. I know it sounds silly but after she died, that’s all I could think about. I wanted to do what she couldn’t. Then dad died and… well, I guess it was just the right thing to do.”      “It’s a big move to make by yourself,” he noted and she shot him a small smile.      “What can I say, I’m an adrenaline junkie.”

     On their way back to the bike, Jack with the pizza, Sam couldn’t help but notice the light’s still on in the studio but this time, Janet was on the sidewalk, phone to her ear, police cruiser by her side. Without a word, the pair rushed to the tattoo artist. “Jan, you okay?” She spun to look at them and Sam could see the frustration on the other woman’s face. Her gaze softened a little when she saw Sam and she let out a long breath, running a hand through her hair. She was all rugged up in a sweater and lounge pants, a cardigan wrapped tight around her; it looked as if she’d just gotten out of bed.      “Oh hey,” she looked to Jack quickly. The man touched her arm and she chewed her lip. “Yeah, the shop got broken into. They didn’t steal anything from what we can see. Sheriff Hammond thinks the alarm scared them away.”      As if on cue, a large, bald man strode from the store towards them. He nodded at Jack and Sam in greeting.      “No luck on fingerprints, I’m afraid. Whoever did this didn’t seem to have time to go through the cash drawer.”      “Thank god for that… I’ll get you the camera footage tomorrow when I call the security company.”      The man nodded again and touched Janet’s arm. “You let me know if you need anything.”      With that, he got into his police cruiser and drove off. Janet exhaled and stretched her neck, turning back to Sam and Jack. There was something in her eyes; disappointment? Vulnerability? Rejection? Whatever it was she seemed to push it down and took a deep breath.      “I’ll have to stay to tape this window up and hope the insurance covers the damned thing,” her voice was stiff and she squared her shoulders. “I can swing by first thing in the morning to help.” Jack watched the small woman grip the broom, brushing small defeated strokes across the dark grey tiles.      “Thanks Jack, really.” She gave a tight-lipped smile as she knelt, brushing the pile of the glass into the flat pan and casting it aside. It almost looked as if she was praying, her shoulder-length auburn hair gently swaying in the cool night air that invades the shop through the hole in the window. “Go, you two should go enjoy your night. Don’t let me keep you.”      “Don’t be silly. We’re worried about you.” Sam said, taking the cardboard from her hands the woman turned, her eyes wide and her body tense. Sam knew this woman would fight over flight any day.      “I’ll get some wood from the shop and I'll help you fix up for the night and clean up the glass. Sorry to cut this short, Sam.”      “No, it’s okay. I’ll stay with her until you get back,” Sam smiled, watching Jack leave with determination in the direction of the hardware store. She looked back to Janet who was back on her feet, staring into the pile of shattered glass distractedly.      “I am sorry. I didn’t want to ruin your night…” Janet sighed.      “You’re not. You didn’t…I was just helping with his bike. I’m a bit of a tinkerer, that’s all. Plus, it was more of a therapy session than anything..”      “Yeah, Jack does that to people.” For the first time that evening, Janet smiled at her and Sam felt herself relax slightly. The pair cleaned the glass from the floor in comfortable silence and Sam felt herself watching Janet from the corner of her eyes. She looked exhausted and stressed and all she wanted to do was give her the biggest hug but Jack strode into the store at that moment, a few thin sheets of plywood in his arms. He grinned at them and Janet moved over to take some from him.       Suddenly feeling not needed, Sam watched them work for a moment, Janet holding the wood while jack drilled.      “I should go…” she proclaimed, heading for the door. Her friends looked up at her as she dug for her keys.      “I can give Jack a lift home,” Janet offered, dusting sawdust from her hands. Sam chewed her lip and nodded, her chest tight.      “I’ll see you around…” her eyes moved to Jack. “Thanks for today.”      He smiled warmly and nodded and she felt eyes on her all the way to her bike.

[darksunrising]

Sola Gratia (3/?)

Masterlist

Rating / Warnings : General Audiences, no warning.

Fandom : Bram Stoker’s Dracula, BBC’s Dracula, various Dracula and vampire lore.

Part 3/? (2262 words)

Author’s notes : Eris starts to explore, and starts to understand castle and Count both hold some mysteries she is not sure she wants to resolve.

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My eyes fluttered open, and it took me a second to make sense of my surroundings. Sitting up with some difficulty, the soft mattress seemingly trying to keep me in, I set the covers aside, and threw my legs over the edge of the bed. The room was bathed in a strange light, almost green, and if the rain had stopped, the sky was still low with bulging clouds, threatening to burst open at any moment. The fire in the hearth had died out, only leaving a few red coals to shimmer softly.

I changed back into my new outfit. My usual clothes might have dried out overnight, but I had to admit I really loved the skirt. It had pockets, for hell’s sake. I had no idea what time it was, the dark skies making it impossible to assess the position of the sun. I figured if I were going to do anything, I might as well go check on the damage in my bag, which I decided to forget about last night. I left the room, trying to find my way back to the main hall. After a few hesitations and turnbacks, I finally found the main stairs, and reached my bag, still sitting near the door. As I feared, most of everything was soaked, even the food I’d taken with me. Had to throw that out, at some point. I found my phone, that I had miraculously put in a waterproof case. Still working, though on concerningly low battery, and had no signal. I sighed, and set it to extreme batter saver mode, hoping it would last until I could get back to civilisation.

I grabbed my remaining clothes to have them dry with the rest, and went to the dining room. There, the fire was still going strong, with a couple of fresh logs. At the end of the large banquet table, I was surprised to see a steaming pot of tea, and a plate of something close to scones, I believe. It was accompanied by a sheet of thick, high quality paper, folded in half to stand on its own, marked with my name in a neat, graceful handwriting.

“Dear Eris, I expect you had a pleasant sleep. I have left for the most of the day, and will certainly not return before dark. Please enjoy some breakfast, as you must surely be famished. Feel free to explore should you wish it, as I have left the keys for you along with this letter. I hope you will forgive me for my absence, and trust you will find the means for distraction. Your devoted host, Count Vlad Balaur.”

As I read the letter in a half hushed voice, warmth spread across my chest as I finished on his name. A glance at the table confirmed the presence of said keys. If I had to fumble through all of them every time I wanted to open a door, exploring just might take the whole day after all. I slipped them, along with the letter, in my pocket, and poured me a cup of tea. It was a different blend, black, yet flowery and soft. Perfectly well infused. The scones seemed to be fresh out of the oven, which made me wonder if he baked them himself, or had staff. I didn’t see anyone last night, but then again, it was late. If he was as rich as his house suggested, he just might. I figured I would look out for them. If anything, I had to compliment the chef. I don’t know if it was because I hadn’t eaten since yesterday at lunch, but eating these scones felt somewhat close to a religious experience.

After I became physically unable to eat any more, I decided to follow the Count’s idea, and explore. The castle was old, that much I could tell. I wasn’t an expert on architecture, but I was more or less convinced that the most ancient phase of construction had to be around the 13th, 14th century. The village probably built itself around it, so that would make some sense. Obviously, it had been updated, rebuilt, but the main structure was still visible. A lot of the rooms seemed almost… Stuck in time. A bit messy, crowded, as if the people who last left could come back any moment. Even so, the thick layer of dust dulling the colors made it clear that wasn’t going to happen.

I couldn’t help but feel some nostalgia. 15-year-old me would have been thrilled exploring a place like this. Not that I wasn’t, but at that time, I was so into urban exploration that I almost got dragged to the station a couple of times for tresspassing. My parents never knew, and just thinking of their reaction if they ever had had to go bail me out of jail for being a bastard goblin made me go into hysterics. Couldn’t help but picture my father, stilted up into some sad brown corduroy suit, mouth pinched in a lip-less line, having to pick up a ratty kid who just could not, would not, keep her grubby hands out of dangerous, rat infested abandonned houses. Or shut down psych wards, that one time. Pretty anti-climatic, that was. 

I stifled a laughter, and shut the door behind me. Most of the rooms were boudoirs, spare bedrooms and such. There was one large room, covered in hunting trophies and animal skeletons. This one interested me the most. Inside, I noticed it was close to a cabinet of curiosities. Glass and wood shelves hosted a variety of skeletons, egg and sea shells, fossils, even some weirdly misshapen baby animals, floating in yellowed jars. The taxidermied animals seemed almost real, and at any moment, I expected them to start moving around. One shelf, built along the whole length of a wall, was dedicated to various skulls, ranging from standard game, elks, boars and whatnot, to more exotic things. One in particular caught my eye. At first glance, I thought it might be human, but I was very quick to change my mind.

The skull seemed fine, strong jaw still attached to the cranium, even a bit of mummifies tissue still attached in some spaces. However, the teeth… The teeth made no sense. Too many, too sharp, like they had been filed into curved, pointy shapes you only see in great apes, or carnivorous animals. Reviewing every strange cultural rite that could explain such a bizarre thing, I started to feel more and more uneasy. I almost felt like it was staring at me from the shadows, behind the hollow eye sockets. Not necessarily wanting to linger any more, I slipped out of the room, and locked the door after a few tries. Just to be sure, you know.

I had visited most of the rooms, but still one was pinching my curiosity. If I understood right, I could see its windows from those of the corridor leading to the dining room. Tall windows, almost church-like. I passed its door a few times, but was never able to find the key that unlocked it. The mind works like it works, and by the thrid time, I was almost ready to find a way to pick the lock, or break it down. Frustrated as ever, I gave a kick to the frame, that made me repress a cry of pain.

“Well now, what has that poor door done to deserve this ?”

I nearly jumped at the sound of the Count’s voice. He was standing behind me, a manner which seemed to have become a habit on his part.

“It was resisting my best attempts to pierce it’s secrets, which is a grave offense in my book”, I replied.

“Ah, I am afraid it was entirely my fault”, he admitted, and produced a key from his pocket, twisting it between his long, slender fingers.

A mischievous smile playing on his lips, he unlocked the double doors, and pushed them open, dramatically turning back to face me, his coat flaring around him, arms open.

“Welcome to my library.”

The room was filled with the last rays of the sun, setting on the mountain ridge, under the clouds. It caught the dust the Count must have raised as he entered in golden specs, floating up all around him. Everywhere, bookshelves stretched out up to the high ceilings, accessible by ladders and small bridgeways. The floor was covered in richly woven carpets, and at every comfortable corner sat armchairs and reading tables, agremented with chandeliers. There had to be a lifetime’s worth of reading within these four walls, and for a moment, I was unable to even walk in.

As I finally regained control of my limbs, I stubled inside, jogging to the nearest shelf. Leather-bound books, stacks of rolled parchment, gilted, worn, intricate, small, large, I didn’t even know where to look first. There were so many different languages, I couldn’t even recognize half. I let my fingers trail along the backs of the volumes, deciding on which to pick first.

“Do you like it ?”, the Count softly asked, as if not to disturb my frantic search.

I turned towards him, unable to stop smiling. He looked almost surprised, almost moved. The sun caught his eyes, revealing their deep blue color. I noticed his hair was now dark as night, cascading on his shoulders. Not a single gray hair in sight. He looked almost exactly like his portrait in the dining room, now that I thought about it. He must have noticed my internal trouble.

“Is there something wrong ?”, he asked, stepping closer to me.

“Nothing”, I replied, shaking my head. “You seem to be… Well, for lack of better terms, younger than yesterday.”

“Ah, a bruise to my ego !”, he exclaimed as he carried a hand to his heart. “I know I have left my younger days behind, but I have yet to be an old man.”

It had been a dark, stormy night, and I figured that by candlelight, my mind could have played tricks on me. Maybe I had been expecting a lonely old man so much, that he appeared that way, in my slightly frostbitten mind. I decidedly turned my attention to the shelves, and picked a volume. A bit worn, but the dark green of the leather, and the tiny golden patterns still vivid on the spine. As I read the title, it had me laughing to myself. Ὀδύσσεια, Homer’s Odyssey, in the “original” speech.

“Do you read ancient greek ?”, the Count asked, now looking over my shoulder.

“I have had the misfortune of learning it. Since then, I fell out of practice, I think.”

I turned over the pages, the familiar words coming back to mind without having to really read them. It was with this story, and the Illiad, that my parents taught me. I knew them almost by heart at that point. His tall silhouette, behind me, felt almost protective. I was nearly tempted to let myself lean back against his chest. I could feel soft strands of hair brushing past my shoulder, making a shiver run down my spine.

“Are you cold ?”, he asked. “I am afraid these walls tend to not hold the heat very well. I could have a fire lit here, if you want.”

His tone was almost tender, concerned. I had no time to answer, before I heard the rustling of fabric, and felt the weight of his coat placed over my shoulders. His hands lightly slid down my arms, flattening the soft, tightly woven wool over me. The sudden warmth did nothing for my shivering, and I nervously turned another page. My finger slipped on the edge, which cut right through the soft skin.

I cursed under my breath, watching red bead at the cut, and run toward my palm. The hands of the Count, still over my shoulders, suddenly gripped them tight, almost enough to hurt me. I could swear I heard a growl from deep inside his chest. He took my hand in his, examining the wound. A slow stream of red came trickling down his own fingers. He was leaning closer to me, so much that I could feel his breathing on the nape of my neck, heavy, trembling.

“You should be more careful”, he told me, his voice barely more than a whisper, deep, and dark.

I turned back, freeing myself of his grip, and tried to step away. My back hit the shelves, my injured hand held up to my chest, the other still holding the book so tight my knuckles went white. He once again took my hand, this time holding a cloth to the cut, red slowly seeping into the white cotton. He kept his eyes riveted to the makeshift band-aid. They didn’t seem so blue anymore. He took a deep breath, which sounded almost like a snarl as he let it out. He whispered something in romanian I couldn’t make out, let go, and suddenly, he was gone. Leaving me breathless, confused, holding the now mostly red cotton square to my hand. The edges of the shelf dug into my back. I inhaled sharply, as if I’d been holding my breath the entire time, which could easily have been the case.

I closed the book, and slipped it back onto the shelf. The library was silent, if it weren’t for the faint sound of a crackling fire, in the hearth.

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Taglist : @carydorse @angelicdestieldemon @bloodhon3yx @thewondernanazombie @battocar @moony691 @mjlock

[willowbilly]

Title: Leave Me Alone, Let Me Be (Ch 11/?) Fandom: Daredevil (TV) Relationship: Frank Castle/Matt Murdock/Franklin “Foggy” Nelson/Karen Page Rating: Teen and Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Chapter Word Count: 4,118

I finally updated this thing after an approximate eternity and seeing as I’m inordinately proud of myself for doing so I decided to start posting chapters on Tumblr, so here ya go! The entirety of LMALMB (or as I like to call it, “The Fuck-Off Fic”) is now officially over 50k words of Matt’s poor but hopefully improving mental health and slow burn OT4 (avocadokastle? mattfoggykarenfrank? mattfoggykastle? kastledevil...fog?) rife with fluff and pining. There are a ton of additional tags on Ao3 which you might wanna check out just be safe, and warnings for this specific chapter includes themes and discussion of suicidal ideation, depression, grief/mourning, an implied minor dissociative episode of a non-PoV character, and very brief imagery of canonical past trauma. Chapter One can be found here! 

The long-awaited Saturday rolls around.

Karen lets Frank sleep over again the night before so he doesn't have to hike there from his safe house, though he takes the couch this time and tosses and turns all damn night on the precariously narrow, saggy cushions. Ends up fleeing with the dawn to do his usual morning circuit of the streets, which takes a while, but still not long enough.

Nelson likewise shows up hours early, buzzing with anticipation which Frank sees spread to Karen as easily as if from one cell in an organism to another and which he's hard pressed not to succumb to himself. He unwisely drinks a couple beers to kill the feeling of queasy hope and holds tight to his misgivings instead, camped out in Matt's corner chair with his laptop as Karen and Nelson put on some smooth jazz and stumble through increasingly tense matches of chess as evening creeps over them. The whole day is spent wrapped up in stifling wait, a waiting bogged down with the same airless quiet of a funeral speech where you'd feel too guilty to dare risk a glance at your watch to check the time but too detached to invest yourself in actual mourning.

They all stand too quickly when the knock comes.

Nelson—Foggy, Frank's gotta get into the habit of first names with the guy now that he's not just “one of the lawyers” to him, shoots Frank a pointed glance the moment Karen opens her door and Red's on the other side, perking up all happy and victorious and see? because he thinks his old buddy is really there with them, present inside that thick, funny skull of his, standing there in his rumpled suit and his beat-up blind-person shades.

There's no way to tell him, with Red right there, what Frank knows, what he can feel way down thrumming underneath him like the vibrations from a mortar reaching up through the rubber of his boot soles; this is too soon to be anything other than a polite facade of progress, too soon to allow Red time to get his head in the game. Hell, besides being all for show, the very artificiality of this'll probably knock Red right off track before he even has the chance to start, start him faking again to ease their fears.

But it's not like Red really could've been allowed to come back to them completely in his own time, either.

Frank had thought, at first, that he'd be able to keep tabs on him while he's out, that maybe they could manage to keep in contact and help him out organically, without enforcing specific dates and times to meet like a trio of concerned parole officers with their charge, but there hasn't been hide nor hair of him on the streets since they'd dragged him off them to recover from the flu and Red hadn't tried to get in touch with either of the others before tonight, the agreed-upon date for when he absolutely had to, which, again, raises the thought that he's set out to do all of this for them rather than for himself.

And just the other day he was trying to convince them that Red was fine out in the snow, doing what he wants. Which... they can't make him not do what he wants, so he figures his point stands.

Frank can't tell if Karen and Foggy realize that they've picked the less bad option out of a pair of bad options, if they mistakenly think that that this situation already feels so stagnant because it's like a lull before enough energy builds up for them to really start to roll in the right direction, instead of what it really is: just stagnation, itself. If they can tell that they're still balancing on the peak of that hill, that they— that Red could still end up tumbling on backwards with the barest shift of the wind.

But none of them have a better solution. Frank very well isn't any sort of damn expert on this shit.

He thinks, looking at the way Karen cradles Red's elbow, leaning into him to nudge him towards Ne— Foggy, that even if they don't think it, they feel it; that basic flaw inherent to any way they approach this. The gravity tugging at their polite little balancing act. The two of them wouldn't be alive if they didn't have the right instincts to divine the sort of duplicity which so easily insinuates itself into your own mind, wrapping you up in comforting apathy, telling you not to worry, to let things go and leave them as they are.

Hell, if they were the kind to give in to that sort of thinking Red would be dead already.

So maybe they are on the right track. Frank's been wrong before, that's for damn sure. And doing nothing is the same as giving up. Quitting.

Like fucking hell.

“You all right, Frank?”

It's Red, modulating his monotone into something with just enough intonation to pass as life, his face appearing plastic as he raises his eyebrows, pulls the corner of his mouth up. A near-perfect impression of true expression trying its damnedest to avoid the uncanny valley and failing.

“Are you?” Frank asks, trying to deflect attention from what was probably a protracted period of worried glaring on his part.

Red shrugs, the half-smile stretching wider, but before he can visibly muster the energy to verbally respond he's saved, as he has been so many times before, by Foggy cutting in.

“Did they just passive aggressively express concern for each other?” he whisper-shouts to Karen, leaning over in front of Red and theatrically shielding the side of his lower face with his hand.

“Baby steps,” Karen replies, in the same fashion. “The purging of toxic masculinity... it's a process, you know?”

“So you mean at some point they'll graduate to just aggression, none of the passive?” Foggy jokes, voice rising. “Won't that be dangerous?”

Red slaps him lightly with the back of his hand, his smile momentarily solidifying into a glimmer of real emotion, soft and tired, but there... before fading again.

Frank feels his jaw clench, and looks away.

Karen must catch it because the hand not at Matt's elbow stretches out to alight on Frank's shoulder, bridging the gap and bringing their whole group into a sort of huddle, Foggy immediately leaning in with a grin and looping his arms around Frank and Matt's necks. Matt is back to focusing on Frank, the echo of bemusement pinching at his eyebrows; of course he'd heard his teeth grind. Probably wondering what the hell Frank's problem is.

Frank's wondering that, too.

“Sorry,” Red murmurs, apropos of nothing, and ducks away to drift towards the couch, Foggy's hand hanging outstretched in the air for a moment as though reaching after him, his smile flickering as his ever-present undercurrent of worry threatens to break through.

Karen shakes her head and smooths her hair and then her skirt, clearing her throat and pointing awkwardly towards the kitchen with a matched set of finger guns and a click of the tongue before subsequently following her own lead and going to retrieve the food.

Frank steers Foggy, still hanging around his neck, to the couch as well, nudges him down. Red stands for a bit longer, clearly torn between trying to liberate his armchair from Frank's laptop and letting it slide. He finally sits his indecisive ass down next to Foggy as Karen kicks the fridge shut and bustles over to set the veggie tray on the coffee table, pulling his legs in tight to give her more room.

“I thought... this'd be more casual?” Karen half-asks, gesturing to the tray of raw produce arrayed around a veritable pond of ranch dressing. They all take a moment to respectfully consider the vegetables and then as one just as respectfully dismiss them. The background jazz devolves into a soft, unbroken succession of crashing, the endless, silvery shivering of an interminably prolonged cymbals solo. Karen screws up her face, stares down at her wildly unpopular veggie tray, and with a chagrined grimace mutters to herself, “...Yeah. Not going so hot.”

“I bring down the mood,” Red offers, and he's so flat of affect that it's hard to tell whether he's aiming for levity or not.

“It's not like that's your fault,” Foggy says, and he is going for lighthearted but even Frank can tell that for once it's exactly the wrong thing to say. The words But it is my fault are practically buzzing in giant neon letters over Red's head in unsaid response.

“I, um. I also have some potato chips somewhere!” Karen rallies, wringing her hands, but she doesn't make any move to get them. Too nervous to leave, maybe. “Or we could make some actual food. Like, a meal? Dinner?”

“Those're good to have every now and then,” Foggy says, with a sidelong glance at Red which absolutely fails to even exist within the same dimensional realm as subtlety. So much for those cautious interrogation plans he and Karen had sketched out. “Meals. Made of food.”

Red doesn't react at all. Might not even be listening.

Frank starts jiggling on of his legs and resists the urge to start pacing. A meandering progression of cordial saxophone notes spills forth from the radio speakers, the cadence like that of an alternate, more flowing conversation, overheard.

“Frank and I made some grilled cheeses the other day, at my place,” Foggy says, forging desperately onward. “Added some sandwich meats and stuff. They turned out really great.”

“You mean a panini,” Red says. His voice is so soft, lips so still, that Frank almost misses it.

“Well, if you wanna be pedantic about it,” Foggy replies, brightening slightly at this sign of life and tipping over into Red so he can affectionately knock shoulders with him.

Red sways with the movement, letting Foggy draw him in but not expending any energy to either meet him halfway or to avoid him. “You add things to a grilled cheese, you have a grilled sandwich which happens to have cheese. A panini.”

“Yeah, you got me there, buddy,” Foggy says, dimming a few watts again as he concedes unnecessarily to Red's pointless insistence on semantics.

Red cocks his head, reading the room. Karen shifts, sidling closer to Frank's side until his restless leg rustles against her skirt and he stills; they both have their arms crossed. Foggy looks away, off into the dark expanse of the television screen. Red turns his head to the other side, birdlike. Reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose, lifting his glasses. Frank can just see that his eyes are shut beneath, his lashes fanned over shadows no less deep than when last he'd seen them.

“Sorry,” Red repeats, voice completely dull, now.

Karen and Foggy both hear it, share a glance. Frank huffs as he intercepts it, drops his eyes resentfully to the floor so Foggy can't hold his gaze the way he's trying to.

“I don't want you to be sorry,” says Karen, carefully.

Red suddenly slams his fist against the tabletop and she flinches hard, Foggy likewise startling away, pushed by reflex into Frank's side. No one moves for a moment as Red straightens, thoughtfully flexing his hand and cradling it in the other as though to keep himself from lashing out again, face expressionless.

“Do I get to be sorry for that?” he asks.

“If you're trying to prove a point you're going to have be clearer about it or actually break my table,” Karen snaps.

“I mean. Do I get to be sorry for things I do. For who I am. Am I even allowed to try and show remorse for who I am.”

“There's a difference between remorse and being a dick,” she says. “What is this even the fuck about?”

“Call it the quandary of living as a flawed being and being self-aware enough to regret it.”

Foggy laughs tiredly and falls forwards over his knees, rests his head in his hands.

“You... you don't have to be sorry for being you,” Karen insists.

“And if this is who I am?” Red says, waving towards the table as if it displays the sense memory of violence there for all to see.

“What you do isn't who you are,” Karen tries, flustered, now, the flush high on her cheeks and her body a tight line of tension along Frank's side.

The first side to lose their cool in a debate is always the losing one. Red, Frank's sure, knows this, and Red can't even muster up the wherewithal to give a shit, much less shout. One point to depression, it seems.

“If actions don't illustrate a person's character then what does?” Red says. States, rather. Detached and cerebral, like he's musing about human experience in a philosophy class and not winding them all into some nonsensical debate about whether or not he has their permission to be sorry for existing, and giving off not-so-slight hints which suggest he's toying with the idea of making them give their permission should he not already have it.

“That's— you know that's not what I meant,” Karen sputters.

Red shrugs, sags back into the couch, stretching out the long line of his throat as his face lifts up towards the ceiling, head lolling wearily on the backrest.

Frank hates the sight of his throat exposed like that, his body slack and slouching, open to any attack. Hates how it so effortlessly communicates how little Red even cares to protect himself in their presence, hates how his own mind leaps to razors rasping against jawlines, the edge of a blade sliding snug over the carotid artery, the taste of skin and the sound of breath hitching.

God. Not the time. Not the place. And for the foreseeable future, not the fucking person.

He presses into Karen's slight frame, her comforting solidity driving out the inarticulate wants ghosting through his head. She grabs his wrist in a snake-strike fumble, gripping fit to bruise, and it's only then that he realizes that he's clenching his fists hard enough to dig his nails into his own flesh and consciously relaxes them.

Foggy sighs, goes to lay back the same as Red. Inches nearer again, the couch cushions bowing under their weight and pressing them closer. Red doesn't pull away when Foggy places his head on Red's shoulder, nor when Foggy laces their fingers together.

After a moment Red's fingers twitch, and curl around Foggy's in turn.

“She means you don't have to be ashamed for taking up space,” Foggy whispers into Red's chest.

Red's Adam's apple bobs as he swallows thickly, but otherwise his demeanor stays as vacant as ever. “But I do, though. I don't know how not to.”

“Then if... that's a part of you, then that's okay. It doesn't make it right, or... or okay for you. But I mean. I don't think that about you. I'm always happy you're here. Even when I'm mad, or you make me sad, I... I wouldn't be able to face the world knowing there was a Matt-shaped space out there that was... that was emptied out. You got that?”

“No,” Red lies, his brow pinching and hand twitching around Foggy's as he does so. “Quite frankly, I'm not even sure what we're talking about.”

Foggy watches their hands for a long moment, the very picture of downcast mercy. “Yeah,” he eventually agrees. Just to let Red off the hook. “Nothing really makes sense, here.”

“That doesn't make talking any less important,” Karen says, the firmness back in her voice. “Whatever you have to say. Even if it doesn't make sense, I think it's better that you do say it. You're valid as you are.”

“Valid, huh?” Red says, actually smiling faintly.

“Valid,” Karen emphasizes.

“A nice sentiment. Kinda cliché, though, isn't it?”

Foggy jostles their joined hands in exasperation, says, “Man, lay off, we are trying our best here and past school and job awareness sensitivity campaigns are all we have to rely on.”

“Your sentiments are valid,” Red intones solemnly.

Foggy bumps him in retribution.

Red zeroes in on Frank when he makes the mistake of breathing out a chuckle, his head rolling towards him.

“You've been quiet, Frank,” he observes.

This is probably the moment when Frank should say something passive, pleasant. Something to keep the mood from souring again, what with this sudden, mysterious flip towards deescelation. So, quite to his own bemusement, that’s what he does.

“I'm just soakin' in you bein' around. Puzzlin' it out. S'nice.”

“Nice?” Red echoes.

“Yeah, Red,” Frank says, falling back on a more combative tone, gruffly and aggressively teasing, to try and distance himself from his own admission. “What, that so hard to believe? That I can just feel like seein' you's nice?”

“Yeah, actually,” Red says, and Frank has to be careful not to grind his teeth again. “It's not... I know you're not lying. But.”

Therein lies the fucking crux of the matter. The mindset which keeps popping up again and again, the weight at Red's ankle, dragging him under. That silent But I can't bring myself believe you.

Thus the outburst, the second-guessing and the testing.

He's waiting, resigned, for them to take it all back. Their promise of support, their understanding, their... their love. Waiting for his dread to be vindicated, for when he can finally give up without letting any of them down because they will have become tired of him, of dealing with him, they will have moved on and freed him from laboring under the restrictive yoke of their concern, their care. And in the meantime, while he's trying and failing to convince himself that they mean what they say when they comfort and encourage him, he's pushing their boundaries, dropping hints, seeing if he can bring about the inevitable after all, prove to himself that he's not paranoid for doubting.

It reminds Frank of the utter disbelief he'd felt at the sight of his family's blood on the grass, technicolor-bright red on green, the ravaged brain matter blown out of his daughter's skull, clumping gory and wet in the silky sweep of her long brown hair, the barrettes at her temples still clipped neatly in place. After he'd woken up he'd cherished an infinitesimal trace of that disbelief in the core of his furious heart, feeling it prick at him every time he was alone and things were still and quiet. How it'd sharpened into a needlepoint pain whenever Karen talked with him, this queasy, undead yearning. He'd just wanted that voice, that nagging what-if to be proven right, because the reality was wrong, somehow, the alignment of the world inexplicably, ephemerally crooked.

But both of these stubborn, siren-call whispers, his grief-stricken nostalgia, Red's relentless self-defeatism, are the lies which their minds dress up as truths. Wolves decked out as sheep.

There's no way he knows of killing such suspicions. His still crop up sometimes like wistful specters in his dreams, and Red's, now... Red's aren't... his're something like a fucking personality trait of his. Built-in. These aren't questions which can be so easily carved out of a man like so many malignant tumors.

And of any of them, it shouldn't be Frank who realizes this shit about Red first. He is not equipped. It really shouldn't be him.

Fuck, nothing should ever be up to him.

“You'll get there,” Frank says, lies, like an idiot, spouting a sweet 'n soft kinda falsehood right after Red's reminded him he can tell whether it's the truth or not. But Red's the epitome of falsehood in and of himself, a walking oxymoron. A diviner of truth, a righteous, honest man who can't help but act out false prophecies, compelled over and over again to strive for the worst, in himself and in others, to hold the greatest faith in unfounded skepticism.

Red's face crumples, betrayed, but just as he makes to draw into himself Karen shoves Frank over to make room for herself on the couch. “Scooch over,” she demands, and there's a sort of chain reaction of rearrangement, Frank standing and reseating himself as Foggy shimmies over, pushing Red tightly into the armrest and releasing an oomph as Karen throws herself back into the cushions, her remarkably hard, angular hipbone shoved sharply into Frank's, crowding him bodily up against Foggy in turn. It’s a very snug fit.

“This couch is not nearly roomy enough for this,” Foggy complains, slightly short of breath.

“I could go,” Red suggests diffidently.

“Never,” Foggy declares, momentarily releasing Red's hand so as to hook their arms together and then grab his hand even more firmly with an emphatic little shake. “We are chilling.”

“Forever?” Red asks.

“Well. Until we wanna order something and have to get up,” Karen says. “That sounds okay with everyone, right? Matt?”

Red clenches his free hand against his knee, a flex of bruised knuckles, then lets go, curls his arm in to rest over his stomach with a soft, emotionless sigh, sinking deeper into the couch as the air leaves him. “Yeah, all right,” he says.

His breathing is very slow and shallow, but as all four of them sit there they begin to breathe in sync, Foggy stroking his thumb over Red's fingers in time to the deep rise and fall rhythm, their chests expanding on inhale, pushing arms and ribcages into each other like their bodies are trying to meld together, and then contracting on exhale, relaxing a little more and falling a little closer each time, an endless, oceanic pulse of connection flowing through them as artfully wandering piano notes drift soothingly around the living room, accompanied by a low, smoky female voice crooning some painfully apt, poetic pap about love.

“I don't want to fuck this up,” Matt says, flat on his back on the cool cement so as not to disturb the warm, purring weight of Nina, dozing on his chest in a regal little bundle, facing him with her paws tucked neatly beneath her. “But I think I already have. Or I will.” He'd fucking— he'd hit a table. To see how they'd react, if that was all it'd take. He hadn't been able to f— it was like he'd been on autopilot, as if he couldn't fucking feel anything, and so it'd seemed reasonable. To just be an asshole, to act like he hadn't given his word to try not to just say fuck everything. He'd fucking ruined it.

His breath hitches and he reins it in harshly, falls back into a meditative breathing technique to keep from scaring the as-yet unperturbed cat with his hysteria. The fur behind her ears is so fine that it catches on his callouses as he skims over her shape, mapping her out, and he cups a hand gently over the steep, delicate curve of her spine, resisting the urge to crush her to his chest to gentle the terrible tenderness slavering in him like a starving thing. The patch of skin Foggy's thumb had rubbed over still tingles.

Nina is, again, a welcome anchor, soft and heavy and undemanding enough to hold him in the present. Tangible, alive. The same way the other three felt to him, when they were squeezed together on Karen's uncomfortable couch, listening to jazz, ignoring the sour pall he'd brought down over everybody from the moment he stepped foot in her apartment.

For a while, there, he'd fooled himself into thinking that everything was okay.

They can't have forgiven him so easily. It wouldn't be right for them to let this slide.

“How'll you know if you've fucked it up?” Melvin asks, from all the way on the other end of the workshop. He's leaning against his workbench and courteously not looking in Matt's direction, careful not to accidentally catch a glimpse of his face.

“I—” Matt starts, and then he stops himself, trying to force his hyperbolic thoughts back in order as he had his breath. Tries to assess things objectively.

What would be the absolute sign of failure? Concrete, clear-cut. Independent of his own atrocious judgment.

“They'll tell me.”

“So if they tell you, then you'll know,” Melvin concludes. “But they haven't yet, so you're fine.”

Matt lets loose an ugly laugh, again stifling himself for Nina's sake as her tail begins to flick in reproach. Even if he manages to keep from purposely sabotaging things it'll still just turn out to be a matter of time, then. A waiting game.

He sucks at those.