#and the skin all around my mouth and nose would be peeling and flaky | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

virtueangel · 4 years

Text

limitless.

chapter eleven.

wc: 2,526. original publish date: october 23, 2020.

"Vincent," JFK says, leaning back against his pillow. He and Van Gogh are in the bedroom with the balcony, Vincent sitting cross-legged at the far corner of the bed and Kennedy at the headboard, his long legs stretched out in front of him.

"Hm?" Van Gogh mumbles in response, barely looking up from his sketchpad.

"How come you never let me see what you're drawing?"

Vincent pauses for a second to look up at the boy. "How come you never let me see what you're drawing?" He volleys.

JFK laughs. "Because I can't draw."

"Can't, or don't?"

John shrugs. "Same difference?"

Van Gogh sighs, chewing on the end of his pencil. He nibbles off some of the yellow paint, flaky and crinkly against his tongue. "No, not really. Maybe if you drew more often, you'd get better at it."

JFK pulls himself away from the headboard, folding his legs underneath him and walking on his knees to the edge of the bed, where Van Gogh is sitting. He tilts the top of the boy's book down, peering at the graphite curves etched onto the paper.

"How long have you been practicing that for?" Kennedy asks wryly, snickering up at Vincent.

Van Gogh snatches the sketchpad away, embarrassed to admit how long he's really been drawing JFK for. "I've been drawing people for years. I've mastered them."

John smiles softly, and Vincent nearly melts. "You have."

Van Gogh closes his sketchbook and places it on the bed next to him, away from JFK. He places his pencil down on top of it before brushing some hair out of his eyes and looking up at Kennedy. He smiles sweetly, a soft look in his eyes. JFK smiles back, feeling free under Van Gogh's gaze.

"You know what I really like, Jack?" He whispers.

"What do you really like, Vinny?"

Vincent's smile widens, and his insides are set ablaze by the nickname. In an instant, he is transported back to his childhood. It wasn't good -- at least home life wasn't -- but to feel so simple, so uncomplicated and happy with JFK. He'd do anything to have it back, to leave all of his sadness behind.

"I like candles."

"That's not at all what I thought you were going to say," JFK replies, his tone light like the clouds in heaven.

"But aren't they fascinating?" Van Gogh challenges, sinkhole brown eyes widening. The corners of his mouth tick up, up, up, until he's grinning so wide Kennedy can see his teeth.

"You're just fascinated by fire," he says.

Vincent shrugs, but he's unapologetic. His smile hasn't faded, and JFK imagines pulling him in by the collar of his shirt, kissing him hard and deep, deep, deep. "Aren't you?"

"It's mesmerising," John replies, his voice hushed.

"Do you have a match?" Vincent asks.

Kennedy smirks. "It would be useless without a candle, don't you think?"

"Okay, then do you have a candle?" Van Gogh laughs, leaning in closer to JFK.

"There's probably one in this house that no one lives in," Kennedy volleys, leaning closer as well.

"We live in it now."

"You'd want to live with me?"

"It can't be any more of a sacrifice than you living with me."

JFK and Vincent sit with their noses touching, eyes darting down to mouths and back up to eyes. Van Gogh opens his mouth and his eyelids flutter shut. He wants for Kennedy to close the gap, but he doesn't. Instead, he pulls his face away and slides off the bed. Vincent opens his eyes and frowns, closing his mouth and holding his jaw shut tightly. He swallows.

"I thought you wanted to find some candles," JFK grins deviously, and Vincent rolls his eyes in response.

"Yeah, yeah, okay. But I'm going to get you back for that," Van Gogh promises, sliding off the bed himself and following John out of the room.

Kennedy turns around, the same devious grin still lifting his face. "I'll be patiently awaiting that, my dear."

Van Gogh rummages through some of the drawers in the kitchen while JFK searches the rest of the house, both looking for candles. Kennedy manages to find a few tapers, magenta and coated in petrified wax droplets. Vincent finds two tea lights in the back of a drawer, one with no wick and the other with barely enough wax to burn. In the same drawer, he finds a box of matches.

"What do you intend to do with these candles, Vincent?" John asks, setting the tapers down on the kitchen table.

Van Gogh strikes a match and it fizzes, the sound searing like carbonation through the air. He watches the flame on the match grow, flickering before licking the thin wood and charring it black. He turns the match sideways, letting the fire grip onto the blackened wick rising out of one of the tapers before it burns to life. He lights the other with the same match before blowing it out in one breath, precisely and with no struggle.

"I don't know," Vincent replies. He shifts his gaze from the lit candles to JFK. "I just like the smell of fire."

***

That evening, Vincent sits on one of the plush outdoor chairs set on the balcony. He has a novel opened wide in front of him. He sits quietly and unmoving, concentrating hard on the words in front of him. The fog is cold and wet against his nose, his ears, his fingertips. The bandages around his head are getting soggy. He'll need to change them soon. He probably won't get to wait until the morning, thus throwing off his normal routine. He ignores the moisture in the air, immersing himself in his novel. He can't remember the title of it or the main character's name. He just likes the story, the way he feels while he reads. Silent and composed, with a hint of sophistication unparalleled. Van Gogh doesn't even notice when JFK climbs out the bay window and sits down on the chair next to his. It's a matching set.

John watches Vincent as he reads, breathing deeply through his nose. He blinks slowly, a shy smile turning up the corners of his mouth. He unfolds a novel of his own on his lap. He'd pulled it off one of the bookshelves in the living room. It's old enough to not have a cover -- the title isn't printed across the front, only on the spine. It's written in old English, and the author is clearly British. He thinks the protagonist's name is Eleanor, but he's only been paying half attention to the text. He likes to read, but he's slower at it than Van Gogh. He can sit in uninterrupted silence for hours, whether it be to paint or read or write. That's one of the many things JFK admires about the boy; it's also something he can't do himself.

"Vincent, can I ask you something?"

The boy jumps, nearly dropping his book. "Jesus, John, why didn't you warn me?"

He laughs. "Because you looked so peaceful."

Van Gogh smiles. "Sure, you can ask me something."

"Why don't you write a book?"

Vincent looks taken aback. He shakes his head, a nervous smile twisting his lips. "I couldn't write a whole book."

"Why not?" John asks in his soft tone, closing his novel and marking his page with his finger as he leans across the armrest of the chair.

"Because I don't have the stamina for something long-term."

"But you do write a lot," JFK states.

Van Gogh shrugs. "Yeah. But, like, poems and letters and stuff. Journal entries. None of that is intended for public consumption."

"Would you let me read any of it?"

Vincent blushes and looks away, pretending to be fascinated by the fog. All it ever does is hang in the air. Van Gogh wonders if Marshtown ever isn't foggy. It seems impossible to never see the sun. "I wouldn't want you to go into it with high hopes and then be disappointed. I'm not as good as you think I am."

"Then I'll set my expectations low and be presently surprised."

Van Gogh closes his own novel and leans across the armrest of his chair, his face inches away from JFK's. He stares into the boy's eyes, a raw smile spread across his face. Kennedy returns it. "I haven't anything to write about."

"Then I'll give you something to write about."

Vincent stifles a laugh. "I'm not writing about you, JFK. Love stories are tired out."

Kennedy looks down at the balcony floor and shrugs before meeting Van Gogh's eyes again. "I wasn't talking about me."

Vincent sits back in his chair and looks out into the fog, thinking instead of avoiding. "So show me." He turns back to the boy. "Show me what you were thinking of."

"So get in the car, and we'll go."

"No," Vincent shakes his head. "No more driving," he pleads. "I like it here. Let's stay here for a while. I want to stay here for a while."

JFK smiles. "We're getting in the car, but we're not leaving Marshtown." He reaches out to rest his hand upon Vincent's. "I like it here, too."

***

"So remember when I told you that this town was built to look abandoned?" JFK asks once they're in the car. They're driving down a line of houses; the residential part of Marshtown. Neither boy knew there was a non-residential part.

"Theorised. You theorised that Marshtown was built to look abandoned," Vincent corrects him.

JFK waves him off. "Yeah, yeah, same difference. Well, I was right."

"You have no proof."

Kennedy turns to look at his passenger, grin so wide it crinkles his eyes.

"Watch the road!" Van Gogh laughs.

"Marshtown isn't actually a residential town," John says, peeling his eyes off of Vincent. "You know why it was on that sign by the freeway exit?"

"No. Why was it?"

"Because..." JFK prolongs the word, pulling into a parking lot Van Gogh has never seen before. "It's actually..."

"Just get on with it!" Vincent demands with a smile.

JFK stops the car and twists the keys out of the ignition. He and Van Gogh get out of the vehicle, closing their doors at the exact same time.

"Come on," Kennedy says, interlacing his fingers with Vincent's. The smaller boy's breath catches. He forgot that there's romantic touching without kissing, and that romance is much more than just kissing. He squeezes JFK's hand, feeling the warmth wash over his skin. Vincent's hand is cold against John's, but he doesn't say anything. It's a comforting kind of cold; not clammy or sweaty.

"So, while you sent me off to look through that ginormous house for fucking candles-"

"You did that at your own free will," Van Gogh reminds him.

"-I stumbled across a book that had a map of Marshtown on the cover, so I was like, hm, let's see where this leads us..."

"Oh, so that's why you took so fucking long?"

"And, as it turns out, Marshtown actually used to be an amusement park!" JFK exclaims, a childish twinkle burning in his eyes. Vincent can't help but kiss his jaw.

"What do you mean 'used to be'?"

"Well, it's shut down now, but I guess all the houses used to be, like, activity centres in one way or another."

"So you brought me out into a grassy field in cotton-thick fog... just to tell me that Marshtown used to be an amusement park?"

"Well, I'm also going to tell you that our house is probably haunted because it's the only one that was built with the intention of having tenants."

Our house. "You could've just told me that back at the house, Jack."

"No, no I couldn't have," JFK squeezes the boy's hand, still walking. He seems to be leading Vincent somewhere.

In a couple more seconds, the fog thins, and Van Gogh understands why they had to get into the car and drive to the far end of the town. In front of them is a rollercoaster, rusty and paint-chipped. There's no cab, only a track, that seems to be missing pieces. Disappearing into the fog, it seems to go on forever. Most rollercoasters only run for thirty seconds -- it can't go on for that long. But the fun of this particular track, without any loops or steep drops, is probably that it plunges into the grey-white abyss. It seems like a perfect place to come and lose your mind.

"It's a rollercoaster track," Vincent states.

JFK grins and lets go of the boy's hand. "Yes."

Van Gogh takes a step toward it and rubs his hand along one of the metal pillars, the once-white paint tainted with water-stained rust. "How long has this been broken down for?"

"Since the early 1980s," JFK replies.

"You really did your research, huh?"

Kennedy flashes his giddy grin, Colgate teeth piercing through the limitless blanket of fog. "I wasn't gone for that long, now, was I?"

"I guess not."

Vincent continues to feel around the track, skeptical of its reality. Marshtown is a dumb name for a town, but an even dumber name for an amusement park. Everything about it seems so surreal, so made up. He doubts that it was really abandoned as soon ago as the late 1980s.

"Do you wanna climb up?" John asks hopefully. Even through the fog, Van Gogh can make out the burnt orange of his letterman jacket.

"It doesn't run anymore, Jack."

"We could go for a walk," he suggests.

Vincent looks up to the track and then down to the grassy floor, considering. "What if I fall?"

"I'll catch you."

Van Gogh rolls his eyes, but can't suppress his smile. "Jesus, so this is what it's like dating you."

"We're dating?"

Vincent's smile falls. "No."

JFK frowns, the twinkle flickering out of his eyes.

"I mean, yes. I don't know. If you want us to be."

Kennedy takes a step closer to Vincent, and wraps his arms around the boy's waist. "How much clearer do I have to make it that the answer is yes?"

Van Gogh swallows and resists the urge to wrap his arms around JFK's neck. "You have to say the word."

"Yes."

"No, I mean... the one that you call a person when you're dating them."

"You mean boyfriend?"

"Say it."

"Vincent."

Van Gogh tilts his head up, catching Kennedy's eye. He knows this is childish. He knows it's stupid to want to be someone's boyfriend -- even the word sounds juvenile. He's always known that he's same-sex oriented -- that was never something he had to question twice. But hearing JFK say it out loud, to know in his head where he stands once and for all, would make it real. "I'm waiting."

Kennedy hesitates, but before Van Gogh can look away in defeat, he says, "Vincent, I want you to be my boyfriend."

Now, Van Gogh lifts up his arms and wraps them around JFK's neck, pulling his head down and kissing his lips. "Good, because I want you to be my boyfriend, too."

#clone high #clone high van gogh #clone high jfk #jfgogh #limitless

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cauldronoflove · 4 years

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“Do you want to talk about it?” + msr 🥺

A lilac duvet and navy blue pillowcases, a plot of bronze lamplight. Scully laid her jacket out over them both, itself petal-crushed violet. Her shoes crawled under the bed one by one, and her phone clattered on the nightstand--in the dark room of her mind prints hung out to dry of squat hotel room nightstands of yore, black-and-red light on cedar and ash; spruce and pine and fir.

Tucking one leg underneath herself, she eased onto the edge of the bed. The springs coughed up phlegm and final breaths, pinched her shins in crustaceous retaliation suited for the sand still collected in the soles of her shoes. She batted at the quilt uselessly with the tips of her fingers as if to press the springs back in line, and succeeded only in advancing the timeline on her next tetanus shot. Her arms already pricked with phantom needles.

From the nightstand--catalogued as B-1D-4, for the material and the drawers and the commonality--she retrieved her phone to tuck to her ear.

"Two FBI agents walk into a restaurant," she started as soon as the line clicked.

"Oh, I've heard this one."

"Really? I was thinking about going into prognostication, but in that case you beat me to it."

"Give yourself some credit; in mine it was one agent and he was already standing outside his partner's room with dinner."

She smiled with half her face, the corner of her mouth raising overhead hands in righteous awe. There truly were no bounds to Mulder's whims, nor to the pleasant surprise that she still felt, even now at six months in the field with him under her belt.

She looked to the door, thinking of each grain that separated her from him, cutting his outline in life-size. She'd have left him out there if she wasn't so damn hungry.

"One FBI agent opens the door for another," she amended, pacing across the room on legs pulled taught from her earlier sprint. Her stockings slid unfortunately over the coarse carpet, making her toes curl.

On the other side, his hair was still wet from the shower, a water drop sliding down past his ear and steadily marking for the worn collar of his t-shirt of which he had a jacket tossed off-set over. He raised a greasy bag of something god-sent with a sheepish smile. Oil and fat and salt pollinated the air, leaving her off-kilter at how deep her hunger ran.

"Can I come in?"

"Depends."

He showed his other hand, carefully cradling two drinks--white plastic with a purple cuff that made the carbonation burn all the way up into your nose. One stretched his palm to full width and the other chapped the soft skin on the inside of his elbow, each showing dark cola through the foggy lid.

Her mouth curled up silently at the other end, an apple peeled in one long strip and scattered for divining on the floor. She pushed out of the way to let him through.

Before she could get too far away he put a burger wrapped in slippery-thin paper blotted in grease marks between her hands. It was lopsided, leaking processed cheese slice and juices from browned onion, but it was a welcome sight. She could barely get it undone through her shaking hands. Hunger overtakes--and it takes and it takes and it takes.

He kept to his side of the room, propping up in the squat chair shoved under the window like a fire hazard. He had his burger, had the bag rolled up at his feet and the drinks on the table between the chair and the door. First was the main course, then the entree. She scarfed down half of hers before he ever even got his up to his chin for inspection.

They worked through their burgers in meantime, chewing quietly to accommodate the volume and length of thought balling up their brows. When it was done, she crumpled the already wrinkled wrapper and tossed it underhanded to him, where it bounced harmlessly off his stomach and rolled right off his lap and between his splayed legs. He batted it between his boots, a fast-food, fast-tracked game of Pong that petered out once he had a wrapper to add to the mix.

Scully eyed the rest of the food with intent, waiting, childishly, for Mulder to realize what she was doing and remedy it. Instead, he pulled the bag up and sat it on his thigh where it tilted toward the door like a man on the run.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" he asked quietly, teeth and lips and stubble on his chin all separate parts she couldn't piece together. Her eyes ached, trying to make Monet into Renoir.

Her eyes ached, because she had a concussion. His face, every long line and press of skin, snapped into focus, and she took a seat on the edge of the bed to rid herself of his earnestness.

"No, I want my fries."

He was good at bartering with her already, understood that she didn't take well to flat out denial, but if he tried he could get her to give a little slack on the line. His offer then, paddle to the air and blazing black number, was to carefully roll the sides of the bag down so as not to rip and drop it between them when he sat on the bed too.

Out of the corner of her eye she could see golden-crisp fries obscured only by fat ketchup packets ready to be torn between her teeth. She could see, too, him making himself comfortable, shoving a drink toward her so her could clasp his hands over his middle.

The ice was melted a little, just the way she liked it. She framed her teeth around it and sipped through the impossibly thin straw, each bit of syrup and chipped ice rejuvenating down to her blood.

He never repeated the question, and she didn't offer an answer. Jaw set, eyes tracing the push and pull in the carpet, she reached for a handful of fries. She ate them all, one by one; every fleck of salt and sash of tomato, down past the core and then deeper. Until the pounding eased in her head and her stomach felt like it was on this side of alive.

"Better?" he asked, his tight smile smug and his eyes searching her profile for confirmation.

She thought about leaning back across the end of the bed and focusing on the ceiling, turning the white ridges in stars and the lumpy mattress into a ship's deck. The nausea would be the waves lapping against starboard and she would be somewhere else instead of in her burning coat of shame. But that, something in her grated, would be inappropriate with him still propped against the headboard, looking at her from underneath hair flat on his forehead and eyelashes still damp from rain.

"Thank you for dinner," she said instead, which answered his question quite nicely.

"Okay, one last party trick, but then I'm out." From the inside pocket of his jacket he pulled an oblong cardboard box that was cinnamon and consolation made. He tossed it over and even through the packaging it burned her fingers, but it was perfectly intact. On the side was scribbled peach in hard black letters.

She shot him a look, quickly head on, before prying it open, already scrabbling at the flaky crust and rushing steam with a smile. It was only in the second before she bit down that she thought to offer him some, but he shook her off.

"I'm more of an apple pie man myself."

#its abt. him learning how to take care of her when she wont let herself be taken care of :^(#oh man this is the first fic ive posted anywhere since like may isnt it #hey mtv welcome to my content #my fanfiction

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candied-peach · 5 years

Text

ao3: “to paint a sunrise” rating: T warnings: pda, sympathetic deceit, anxceit genre: fluff description: Virgil introduces his hobby to his boyfriend.

Virgil's boyfriend enters the room, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly at the array of supplies scattered across the table.

"I wasn't aware nail painting required this much work," Deceit murmurs. Virgil's cheeks redden, but he nods, setting down the bottle of base coat polish he's been contemplating for the past half hour.

"Nail art does," Virgil says. "And I want to do nail art for you."

"I look forward to it," Deceit says, settling into the kitchen chair next to Virgil. Virgil can hear Disney in the living room, and Patton and Roman murmuring between each other, but all of his concentration is focused on Deceit's mismatched eyes and the glint of light off his iridescent scales.

"First, a peel off base coat," Virgil says, tugging Deceit's hand toward him. "May I?" He looks up for permission. Deceit nods once and Virgil carefully plucks the yellow glove off, setting it aside. A scattering of burnished scales run across Deceit's skin and Virgil bends his head, pressing a kiss to each in turn. He repeats it with Deceit's other hand, lavishing gentle attention on the pallid skin. When he looks up again, Deceit's face is on fire.

"Virgil, my stormy love, that was unbelievably gay," Deceit says. Virgil smirks.

"Fine by me," he says, and applies himself to painting the base coat on in soft, smooth strokes. Deceit peers at it in interest.

"So what does peel off mean?" He asks.

"Instead of having to use nail polish remover, you can pop them off," Virgil explains. "And because it's the mind palace, they won't just peel off unexpectedly, they only will when you actually want them to."

Deceit raises his eyebrows.

"How convenient," he says. Virgil laughs and nods.

"I'm sure plenty of people in the real world would agree with that," Virgil says. "They also dry super quick if you want them to. Which I do, so." He concentrates for a moment, grinning when he brushes his thumb across Deceit's nail and feels nothing but smoothness.

"How do you feel about pink nails?" Virgil asks, grabbing a bottle of shimmery pink nail polish. Deceit shrugs, so Virgil repeats the process, admiring the way the colors seemed to change when Deceit tilted his hand one way or another.

"All right, I'm kinda messy with this so I'm gonna use liquid latex as a barrier around your finger," Virgil says, pulling the bottle close. "I'm gonna do a gradient. Are pastels okay?"

"Anything you want to do is fine by me," Deceit answers. "Unless you want to dip my nails in trash. I do draw the line at that." Virgil scrunches his nose.

"I'm not Remus," he says. "No worries on that score."

He dabs on gold and lavender and periwinkle, working fast. Sure enough, pastel smudges line Deceit's nailbeds and Virgil blesses his forethought as he peels off the liquid latex. Deceit raises one hand, admiring the play of color.

"It reminds me of a sunrise," Deceit murmurs. "A very pastel one. Thank you, Virgil."

"We're not done yet," Virgil says. "You still need a holographic top coat, and then a glossy one, to lock it all in." Deceit widens his eyes in surprise, but obediently settles back down in his chair.

"Scattered, linear, or flaky?" Virgil asks, showing off the choices. Deceit arches one eyebrow.

"Virgil, I have no idea, you choose," Deceit says. Virgil blushes.

"Flaky it is, then," he says, and bends over his task, gently holding Deceit's hand in his. In the warmth of the kitchen, Deceit's skin is warm, too, and is delectably soft against his.

Finally, Deceit's nails are as done as they're going to be this time (although Virgil can't stop shooting looks at several sheets of nail vinyls he dragged out from under his bed).

"Thank you," Deceit says. "They're gorgeous, Virgil." He leans over and kisses the corner of Virgil's mouth. "I love them." Virgil stares into his mismatched eyes, swallowing hard.

"Here you go," Virgil says, belatedly remembering Deceit's gloves. Deceit looks at them for a moment, then takes them, tucking them into his belt.

"I'll put them back on later," he says, seeing Virgil's shocked stare. "Right now, I believe my nails are works of art that should be properly admired."

"Okay, now that was really gay," Virgil blurts. Deceit smirks.

"Of course it was," he says, and stands up. "Come on, let's show Roman. I want to see how jealous he can look before he runs off to his own nail polish collection."

Giggling, Virgil follows.

#🍬 txt #sanders sides #anxceit #sympathetic deceit #deceit sanders #virgil sanders #deceit #virgil #sanders sides fic #sanders sides fanfiction #sanders sides fanfic #📚#ok to rb #peach writes #janus

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laurelsofhighever · 4 years

Text

The Falcon and the Rose: Feathers and Petals - Rest and Discretion

An extra scene from the latest chapter of Falcon, basically just an excuse for steamy fluff. NSFWish

Read it on AO3

The knock came on Rosslyn’s door just as she picked up the dry clothes her maid had left on her bed. Her boots were already set by the fire and her gambeson hung over the drier, still dripping mud.

“Who is it?” she called out.

“Hutch.”

She frowned and padded over to the door, still in her socks. “Alistair?”

“You’re supposed to say, ‘Hutch who?’” He was leaning in the doorway with a rakish grin, and tutted at her as she stood back to let him pass over the threshold. “And then I would have said, ‘It sounds like you’re coming down with a cold, let me kiss it better.’”

She chuckled and leaned up on tip-toe. “As if you need the excuse.”

He hummed into the kiss, but before he could slide his hands around her waist, she twisted out of his reach and gestured to her sodden workclothes.

“Give me a moment, I need to get into something dry.”

A blush leapt into his cheeks and he stared, rubbing at the back of his neck as he scrambled for something to say. “I should’ve waited longer to visit – I only saw you were back and, uh… Should I come back later?”

“Just sit over there.” She gestured to the the fire. “I won’t be long. You didn’t come for anything in particular, did you?”

“Only to spend time with the woman I love,” he teased, obediently following her suggestion.

She couldn’t help but flash a grin back at him, and her eyes lingered on his silhouette as she ducked behind her dressing screen, trying to will away the blush in her cheeks because despite the great care he was taking not to look in her direction, the tension in his shoulders and the straight line of his back as he sat on Lady Raina’s overstuffed sofa showed her just how aware he was of what she was doing. The soft ruffle her shirt made as she pulled it over her head and dropped it to the floor clamoured in the quiet room. Her breath passed too harshly between her lips. Self-conscious of her movements in a way that rarely affected her, she searched for a topic that would take attention away from the draught slinking around her back, and from the insidious thoughts that wondered what it might be like to have his hands there instead.

“I take it Cuno deserted you in search of his dinner?” she asked as she peeled herself out of her breeches.

Alistair startled. “Wha– oh, yes. He’s very insistent about being fed on time. Uh…” He fidgeted. “Is training going well?”

She nodded, and realised he couldn’t see. “Morale is better than expected, and everyone wants to be ready. Though some are wondering why we haven’t moved yet.”

“What do you tell them?”

“That we’re waiting on the king’s word.” With a sigh, she fastened the last tie on the fresh tunic and stepped out from behind the screen, smoothing down the folds of the material to make sure it lay properly against her skin, and when the creak of a floorboard made Alistair jump again, she chuckled. “You can look, I’m decent.”

The light of the fire danced in his smile as he turned and held his hand out to her, and as she stepped up beside him and linked their fingers, its heat making her shiver as it washed over her chilled flesh. Alistair tugged her down against his side, taking care to arrange himself so they would both be comfortable. A brief grimace pulled at his face when the wet end of her braid brushed against his arm, but he didn’t let her go.

“How’s this, my lady?”

“I’m quite content to never go outside again,” she replied as she nestled deeper against his chest. “You’re warm.”

“And happy to warm you up,” he answered, with a brief kiss to her forehead.

She sighed into the touch and relaxed. They hadn’t seen each other since before dawn, and while her brisk and busy morning had left her wanting to scream in frustration, now she found contentment in the silence, in the spit of the fire and the gentle chafe of Alistair’s palm along the length of her arm. His other hand traced shapes over her fingers, winding them together in an idle play like a conversation of its own, but every time the pad of her thumb swiped over his knuckles, her brow creased, just a little.

“Your hands are rough,” she murmured eventually, holding his knuckles up for inspection. The skin on the back of his fingers was flaky, stiff, dry like parchment.

He shifted above her. “They always get like that in the winter.” The words rumbled through his chest, a hum against her cheek. “Something about the cold or the wind, but it’s not as bad as it looks.” He tried to snag her fingers again, so she would stop worrying, but she ducked around the attempt and caught him again.

“The skin will break if it gets too bad,” she said. “Marten lets you go out like this in the morning?”

“I don’t think there’s much he can do about it, love.”

Finally, with a frustrated tut and a sigh, she let him go, but only so she could wriggle out of his grasp entirely.

“What –”

She stopped him with a kiss. “Wait here.”

His confusion followed her as she crossed the room, she heard the creak of the sofa as he craned his neck to watch her open the strongbox by her bed and rummage through the contents. The questions he held on the tip of his tongue all but shouted across the space between them, but finally she found what she was looking for and padded back to where he sat, brow furrowed and mouth twitching with a smile he couldn’t quite hide. She unstoppered the lid of the small pot she had brought back with her and held it up for him to sniff.

“It’s made with crystal grace.”

“What is it?” he asked.

“Give me your hand,” she answered, perching next to him so close her thigh pressed against his.

Slowly, and still with that bemused half-smile in his expression, he did as she asked, watching as she turned his palm over and scooped a little of the white salve from the pot she balanced on her knee, then wiped the glob onto his skin. Soft breath feathered against her cheek, but she focused on her task. He leaned closer as she pulled his hand further into her lap, as she stoppered the pot once more and laid it out of the way so she could use both her hands to spread the salve across his knuckles and massage it into his skin. The simple intimacy of the action brought a flutter to her chest, entranced her with the trust he placed in her and the way his skin moved under the press of her fingers. She traced the lines of tendons and muscles and his hand remained pliant because she asked it of him.

“This feels nice,” he breathed. His voice wobbled; she heard the sound as he swallowed.

She peeked a smile at him through her lashes. “This won’t fix it immediately – it’ll have to be done every day as it heals, and then any time it starts getting dry again. I’ve got spares, I can send a pot along to Marten later.”

“Does it have to be Marten?”

The softness in his voice made her pause. When she looked up, fingers still, the bronze of his eyes had all but disappeared in the low light, with only a narrow ring of colour left around the pupils like the halo of fire around an eclipse as he drank in the sight of her. His lips were parted. She forgot to breathe.

“Not if you’d rather it be someone else,” she managed, as his free hand tidied away the hair that had fallen down across her face.

He smiled at that, leaned down, tilted his head to press a kiss against her mouth that lingered, and teased just a little bit.

“Stop distracting me,” she chided, without breaking away.

“Am I distracting you?”

But he pulled back nonetheless to give her more room, looking far too satisfied with himself. For a moment, he seemed content to sit still, but his need to fidget proved too great and in one smooth movement he bent down and scooped her legs into his lap, so she was all but sitting on top of him.

“So you don’t have to twist around,” he explained with a grin, though she didn’t miss the way his free hand curled behind her knee, how it trailed the length of her calf to her ankle and back again. It was a delicate flirtation, but it made her toes curl against the cushions, and she had to focus to keep her breathing steady.

“Other hand?”

He obeyed, and she missed the touch along her leg. As he reached across to her, he leaned closer, sprawled his arm along the back of the sofa, and in the moment it took to place the pot of salve out of harm’s reach once more, he had drawn so close she would only have to tilt her chin to kiss him again.

“I should finish what I’m doing,” she murmured, already closing her eyes.

His nose nudged against hers as he shook his head. “But it already feels so much better. I should thank you for taking such good care of me.”

She couldn’t help her smile as he closed the last of the air between them, distracted just long enough that his fingers slipped her grasp, escaping to reach up and cup her jaw as he deepened the kiss. More of his weight pressed into her, sparking lightning down the length of her spine, fanning the ember at her heart that had been growing in strength since they emerged from the Circle tower. Her breath stalled in her chest. Her stomach clenched. The hand on her cheek moved down, brushing the length of her neck and over her shirt, and she would have tipped backwards if not for a tiny voice of alarm at the back of her mind that worried about greasemarks on the freshly laundered fabric, about how they might fall off the sofa completely if they fell too far. She caught his hand, pushed back, somehow curled her legs underneath her, and ended up straddled across his lap, one knee planted on either side of his hips.

She had never been in such a position, nor wanted to be there. Their hands, linked above Alistair’s head, helped her balance as she pulled away from the kiss, but stayed close enough for their breath to mingle, to swallow back the uncertainty of what to do next.

“This, uh…” he cleared his throat. “This feels nice.”

A nervous laugh fizzed in her chest as he searched her face. Almost without thought, she let go of his hands and cradled his face instead, shifting ever so slightly to rest her weight equally on either side of him, and noticing his brief glance downwards as his fingers settled lightly around her waist.

“Has anyone ever told you how handsome you are?”

A blush had risen on his cheeks, his mouth swollen pink from the attention she had already given it. When he looked at her, the brightness of his eyes focused only on her. He tried a grin, but had to wet his lips before he could stammer out an answer.

“Every now and then,” he said. “There were some ladies in Denerim once, but they were… not like you. Nothing like you.”

The reverence in his voice made her breath catch, but unlike the last moment they had managed to steal together, her doubt never surfaced, even when his fingers twitched against the small of her back.

“Why?” he asked, breaking into her contemplation. “Is this your way of telling me you think I’m handsome?”

Smirking, with his pulse fluttering under her touch, she leaned down with her answer on the tip of her tongue, breathing in his scent, his care, and wanting more than just this strange tension as she held herself above him.

Someone knocked on the door. A male voice – one of her guards – called her name, requesting her to come on a matter of business. Blinking as if out of a daydream, she hissed a curse through her teeth and slid out of Alistair’s lap, back to his side, and buried her head in his shoulder like that alone might make her responsibilities go away. For a sour moment she wondered what Eamon had ever been worried about if the two of them never managed to get even half an hour alone together.

“We have rotten timing,” she grumbled as the knock came again, less certainly this time.

“Is it us, or is it everyone else?” He plucked at her chin and sighed as he pressed his forehead to hers. “You’d best go see what he wants.”

“I’ll be back,” she promised.

He smiled. “I hope so. I’ll be over here. Until the blushing stops.”

#dragon age #dragon age: origins #dragon age origins #da:o #alistair theirin #alistair x cousland #f!cousland #cousland #rosslyn cousland #the falcon and the rose

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kylorengarbagedump · 5 years

Text

Little Bird: Chapter 13

Read on AO3. Part 12 here. Part 14 here.

Summary: You can't do this anymore. You won't.

Words: 2200

Warnings: Handmaid AU

Characters: Kylo Ren x Handmaid!Reader

A/N: Another chapter! Look at me, mom! I'm writing!!

I'm trying to inject plot into this story. Please let me know what you think? I'm honestly, for the first time, looking for feedback on the turns I'm making the story take, because I feel like it needs more stakes! More excitement! A direction! An arc!

Anyway, thank you SO much for your feedback on the last chapter, I love you all so so so much. I'm so lucky. <3

“Something’s off with you.”

Was it that obvious? Ofarmitage was not one to comment on how you looked or felt, or to really even chat about anything, ever. Unfortunate that your main companion in Handmaid-dom was dedicated to maintaining a barrier between the both of you--but you supposed that everyone coped with this trauma differently. More unfortunate still was that you were realizing that your instinct was to try and dig your claws into any fleeting connection, no matter how dangerous or stupid.

I want you here.

That bastard--toying with you like that, tugging--

“Hello? What’s going on?”

Shaking your head, you fixed your wings. “I need to get out of here.”

You hadn’t expected the words to leave your mouth, but when they had, you met Ofarmitage’s eyes, her face dark red, a mirror of your own. Both of you turned back to the path.

It had been on your mind all night--how you were going to get out. You knew there were organizations out there, stealing women away in the danger of night, sneaking them through state lines and over borders to lands where red, blue, and green were colors on a wheel. Part of you felt almost guilty for considering it--after all, what would happen to the Marthas if you left? You also, strangely, worried about Johana, how she’d respond to another loss, another person abandoning her to loneliness.

“Ofkylo.”

“Oh!” Your head snapped forward. You’d been in another reverie. “Sorry. What?”

“Be quiet.” Her pace had slowed to a crawl, enabling you to murmur before the next checkpoint. “I said I know people who can help.”

You blinked, heart skipping. But you said nothing.

“They’ve been bugging me forever to go,” she said. “They might finally leave me alone if they know you’re trying to break out.”

You frowned. “Why do you want them to leave you alone?”

Ofarmitage snorted. “I don’t want to leave.”

“What?” you asked. “What do you mean?”

“Why do you want to leave?” she spat--but then lowered her volume. “I thought you said you could handle yourself.”

Wincing, you recalled what you’d said all those weeks ago when she had warned you about your Commander. She’d been right to warn you--but you hadn’t anticipated any of this.

You also recalled she’d said I know how you feel. “Why don’t you?”

She drew in a quiet breath. “My Commander wouldn’t like it.”

“That matters to you?”

“He’s my Commander.” A pause. “So yes.”

Your final worry: the quiet voice within you wondering about the Commander, wondering about the person you’d sworn you’d seen the night before. Wondering if you’d be like every other Ofkylo to him--and pathetically hoping you meant more. Gilead hadn’t destroyed your instincts entirely. There’d been something in your conversation last night, something intimate, some mutual acknowledgement of knowing trapped behind the glass walls of your roles. Roles he’d determined.

He was the exact reason why you couldn’t continue to stay, balancing your actual life with this desire to know and be known. You couldn’t continue to tempt this strange, disgusting ache to truly need him, beyond physicality. He’d brought this upon you both, and to suffer while your survival dangled in the balance was now intolerable.

But you couldn’t say all of that.

“I see.” Your differences were greater than you’d initially thought. “Ofarmitage,” you said, “you have to tell them about me. Please.”

“I will,” she said. “I will.”

The rest of your walk was quiet, the shared burden of your positions silent between you. You focused on wanting to leave--if you wasted another minute ruminating on your Commander’s feelings for you, you’d end up with a broken neck. Either from hanging, or from his dick (given the past couple days, it’d probably be from his dick).

Walk finished, you escaped into the home, sequestering yourself in your room, as if the scent of deception had stuck to your skin, afraid that if you even glanced in the direction of Ren or Johana, they’d smell it on you, they’d know your plans. More guilt, though: didn’t Emma deserve to escape? Didn’t Rose? Yet if you revealed anything to them--and something went wrong… No, that wasn’t worth their lives.

The next morning, Ofarmitage met you again. Her wings hid a sheen of sweat at her brow, her hands twisting back and forth over the handle of her basket. This made your own palms sweat, but the thought of investigating was even less appealing.

“Blessed be the fruit.”

She nodded, words tumbling out like curses. “May the Lord open.”

Chest tight, you kept your eyes low. Had she been caught? Were you about to get taken? Your pulse quickened by the second. You cleared the distance from your home before she hissed between heavy breath, “They’ll meet you tomorrow. You’ll know them.”

Breath caught in your own chest. “Oh.” For some reason, you hadn’t expected such a quick turnaround. “Well--”

“Sorry.” Her whisper was hoarse. “I just. I don’t like being pressured.”

“Oh,” you said again.

“I know you must think I’m an idiot,” she said, “wanting to stay with my Commander--”

“Ofarmitage, I don’t--”

“--but it’s much safer, and, really, he’s been so kind to me, I don’t want to disappoint him--”

Her voice was rising. A checkpoint was closing in. “Ofarmitage, please--”

“I even think I might be getting pregnant soon, so, obviously I want to stick around for that, and to leave the Wife--”

“--could you--”

“--you know, it’s just unnecessary, and it’s, it’s, well--”

“Shh!”

She stopped, hands shaking, lips pinched. Silent, she sucked in a long breath through her nose, lids closed, and you watched her, attention darting between her and the upcoming checkpoint. The Guardians observed you from yards away, heads craning to discern the issue--but two breaths, and she moved forward, gaze to the ground, grip firm. When the Guardians stopped you, you explained that in the weather, she’d overheated, lost her balance. They didn’t question you.

Ofarmitage remained that way, hidden breath drawn into her lungs every few minutes until you returned to your home. Before she left you there, you pinched her wrist, and she turned to you, dark eyes meeting yours, drowning in panic and shame.

“I don’t think you’re an idiot,” you said. “But it’s not too late.”

She shook her head. “I’m…” Her face twisted in a grimace. “I’m scared I’d miss him.”

That desperation for connection tingled. You wanted her to feel safe with you, your arms ached to grab her, wrap her up in understanding. But the surveillance of your front entrance loomed. Instead, you whispered back, “I’m scared too.”

A smile--sad--ghosted her lips. She turned and walked on.

Inside the home, your heart raced with the possibility of freedom. The thought terrified and exhilarated you. It was only a decision you’d made a couple of days ago, and now it was it happening. Part of this was a blessing: there was no time to second-guess yourself, only time to coast forward on pure adrenaline and instinct. That also meant there was no time to plan, no time to anticipate, no time to practice. You had one shot at this. Or you’d die.

Then again, if you remained here, in your Commander’s cage, you’d also die. So.

Johana’s softening had enabled you more freedom--so after anxiety boiled in your chest throughout dinner, you stayed stuck to your chair, after your meal was cleaned, after the sun descended into the clouds. Time moved without you, echoes of sunset gleaming over your eyes and across the stained oak table, the stillness of the air seized in rays of peach-yellow light. At the window across from you, a tiny grey bird flitted along the sill, its reedy beak poking at the glass.

Your lids fell in a slow blink. It wanted to come inside. Maybe the bird knew something you didn’t.

Footsteps in the kitchen startled you alive--and the source of them made you wish you weren’t. Shoulders shrinking, you folded in on yourself, hands hugging each other in your lap. Commander Ren approached, standing at the head of the table. It was as if you were transparent under his stare, as if your thoughts were broadcast on a marquee for him to read, as if he could peel you into flaky, trembling layers with his mind.

Thank God he didn’t have a power like that.

“You seem tense,” he said without irony.

The bird by the window was gone. “It’s because you’re here.”

Ren cocked his head. You stole a glance at him, a glimmer of sunlight in his honey irises. His beauty was inhuman and unfair. The anxiety in your chest tangled as you followed the line of his pretty nose to the soft pink fullness of his lips. What had he done before Gilead? Who had he been?

He sat, leaning over the table, examining you. “Tell me how you’re doing this.”

Mind and blood racing, you halted all physical response, instead choosing meet his gaze, like you were hiding nothing. “What do you mean, sir?”

“You’re no idiot,” he said. “Neither of us are.” His voice was molasses--slow, thick, and dark. “You’re playing a game.”

If your anxiety had been a tangle, now it was a snarled mass. You glanced around, convinced you were about to be torn from your seat. “I don’t…”

“The more I speak to you, the more furious I become,” he said. “Do you understand? You impair my judgement. You threaten my power.” His brow drew low. “Tell me how you’re doing it.”

“Commander,” you said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not!” All of your interactions had ended in him silencing your complaints with sex. Was he mad that you’d sworn off susceptibility to that tactic? “Please, sir--”

“Tell me!” His fist slammed the table. “You know exactly what you’re doing to me.”

Shaking your head, you sunk into your chair. “I don’t, I don’t--”

His knuckles were white. “I should have you killed.”

For some reason, you weren’t afraid. Well, not some reason--it was the reason you were still alive. The same reason he’d come to you at night--the reason he sought out Johana, the reason he’d returned, vulnerable and aching. It was the reason he didn’t know why he wanted you to stay, the reason you scared him, the reason he sat in front of you now, demanding answers you didn’t have.

Jaw tight, you replied, “Then do it.”

Ren’s face grew taut. “No.”

“Why not?” you asked. “It’d be so easy.”

“You…” He paused, searching the room for words. “I…” Breath left his nose in frustration. “I don’t want that.” Growling, he stood, crossed to the window, his size eclipsing the pane. There was a long moment of silence, the sun casting him in a golden aura. “I don’t want that.”

Guilt again--you’re really going to leave? But only a whisper of it. “There are plenty of Handmaids to take my place, sir,” you said. “Maybe one who wants to be here.”

“No.” He turned to you. “Not one like you.”

In his stare was a presence you’d seen two nights ago, a magnetizing wish, a pull toward the impossible and unspeakable. Ren held you there for what you knew to be seconds but what felt like infinity, like you could reach out into this empty, breathless space, see birds with their wings mid-beat, catch motes of dust suspended in light.

“You enrage me,” he said. “You haunt me.”

Fingers trembled. Sweat beaded. “Commander…”

“How have you done this?” His jaw tensed. “Why?”

Fumbling with your hands, you shook your head, teeth worrying your lip. The guilt was gnawing, now, but you ignored it. This was not your fault. It was his. “I can’t answer that for you.”

“Now is the time you refuse to tell me what you think?” There was a desperate edge to his tone.

You pursed your lips, back straightening. He was not asking for a testimony. He was asking for your opinion. But you imagined that saying this is exactly by design, for us all to dangle here, hanging ourselves by our own humanity would not be well-received.

“Sometimes,” you said, “I wonder what you were like. Before Gilead.” Ren was motionless. “Maybe you wonder that about me, too.”

“Before Gilead,” he murmured. His eyes, appraising you again. “Before Gilead, this world was chaos.”

“Maybe.” You shrugged. “But I’d call a Commander confiding in his Handmaid chaos, too.”

Ren was silent, scrutinizing. In deliberate steps, he moved toward you, until he towered, and you inched back in your chair, heart jumping into your throat. How horrifying that the heat of his body made your thighs clench, made your lips tingle, even while you conspired to escape his spell.

“You almost had me,” he said, dipping low to your ear. You shivered, biting back a whimper in your chest. “But you do not own me. I own you.” He brushed his mouth over your skin. “I will keep you in this home as long as I need. I will figure you out.”

He captured your lips with his own, and you melted, tension pouring out of your feet, a sigh pouring out of your chest. It was brief and blissful--he pulled away and tucked an errant hair behind your ear.

“Remember that,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He left you there, flesh on fire, and you collapsed, crumbling into your chair. See you tomorrow? It seemed like a promise. You could only hope that he wouldn’t.

#kylo ren smut #kylo ren x reader #kylo x reader #kylo ren #kylo trash #handmaid au #little bird #WOW!#another chapter #more kylo content (photos gifs etc) to come soon

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justwritingscibbles · 6 years

Text

A Fine Welcome

Fic Request:

“How about a fic where zombie Robbie finds nb reader, bc u smell nice he later reveals, walking ur dog and he hugs u u can barely scream bc his body pressed against u. He gets scared but it tickles and he holds u closer when Anti knocks u out. The septics freak bc "we told you to find rob not kidnap someone" but u+ur dog are treated nicely by the Septics who only keep u to make sure Anti+rob didn't hurt u, complimenting your dog that chase defo plays with and its the start of Robs first romance”

“What the hell do you mean ‘they can’t stay’? You do realise I had to knock them across the head, right? We let them go, they’re gonna start a riot somewhere.”

It was the warmth of a familiar furry body that began to stir you from the heavy sleep. The scratchy voice further stirring you from the black. The same voice you heard before something heavy struck the back of your head.

“No! They....stay.... pup too.” Another voice spoke. It was familiar too. The scent of heavy cologne tickled your nose. The memory of a shambled walk. A violet head of hair and the sensation of being crushed by his arms.

A hug.... one you don’t remember asking for.

“Robbie, the dog and your new friend cannot stay.” A softer voice spoke up. Closer to you. Like they were sitting directly beside you. “We need to get them somewhere else. A hospital. O-Or a hotel.”

“Zat vould be a mistake. Vhat if they remember Anti? Ve cannot risk letting them go. Not until ve know zey aren’t a threat to us.”

Their words were swirling in your mind. They all sounded so similar you were sure it was just one person speaking.

You groaned and you felt something cool press against your head. It was damp, providing a sense of ease to the discomfort behind your skull.

The bed dipped and a wet nose prodded your cheek, followed by a whimper as the warm body moved closer to snuggle into you.

Silence settled for a few heart-beats and you could feel the burning sensation of multiple gazes on you.

You were beginning to worry now.

“Friend...scared.” The slurred voice mumbled. “P-Pulse...faster.”

“Zen they are avake.” The more heavily accented man hissed. “Ve need to decide now.”

“No!” The damp cloth fell away as you felt the world shift. Cold arms wrapped around you and you felt your head roll onto the fabric of a shirt. That same heavy scent of cologne filled your nostrils and you forced your eyes open. Coughing weakly. You were ignored as the person holding you curled around you; almost protectively. “Friend stay!”

Around the room, you glimpsed four men. Almost all identical in looks stare at you in defeat.

To them, they were at a stand-still. They couldn’t tear you away from Robbie without causing a very dangerous situation. It would risk Robbie Turning, or you getting injured or panicking.

The man with a baseball cap sighed and looked to the other three. His gaze close to pleading.

“Let’s talk to them. They’re human after all, and they have a dog. Dog people are trust-worthy.”

“Chase, that is so stupid even I’m surprised it came from your mouth.” The scratchy voice came from a man with a scar across his neck. His green hair messy and all over the place. His eyes a vibrant green, like they were glowing. “You do realise dog-fighting is a thing. And they consist mostly of dog-people.”

The man, Chase, frowned and glared at the more menacing guy. But said nothing, he looked a little heartbroken.

The arms around you tightened when Anti turned back to look at you. Meeting your confused gaze with a sharp scowl.

“I still think Marvin should hex them.” He said after a moment. Receiving a gurgled growl from the person holding you. “Hey man, it’s not gonna hurt them. Just put them to sleep for a bit. And make them forget us.”

“No.” Robbie snarled. Falling quiet when your dog glanced at him.

Panting happily.

Your pet was probably overjoyed to be on a bed with you. Despite the fact that there were many strange men around you and you were practically trembling with fear. (Y/D/N) didn’t care. They were probably expecting a cuddle or even a treat.

Seeing that these guys weren’t taking you seriously yet, you decided it was time to test out your voice. Your head was pounding, you were being held hostage by a man who reeked of cheap store deodorant and you had no idea what was happening.

“My name is (y/n). Look, I don’t know what is going on, but I promise not to tell anyone. J-Just let me go.” You were surprised by how calm you sounded. But one cold look from Anti and you were back to shaking.

This Robbie guy moved you so he was shielding you from those neon green eyes. His teeth bared in a snarl.

“Rob, buddy, mind explaining why you attacked this person?” The baseball cap guy, Chase, crouched beside the bed. Catching Robbie’s attention and you felt the guy instantly relax a little.

You liked this Chase. He was more friendly and obviously knew that demanding something or arguing wasn’t going to help.

You turned your head enough so that you could see the man that held you.

At the park he looked horrible. His skin had been dry and flaky. Eyes dead and almost emotionless; shambling towards you like a horror film zombie.

It had been a terrifying experience and before you could sprint off, you had been captured in his arm. After that, it was a blur.

But here, Robbie’s skin was smooth. Despite a small cut to his lip.

Had you done that? When you tried to fight him off?

“Smell... nice.” Robbie said and Chase’s lips quirked in an uncertain laugh. Pressing a hand to his lips as Robbie continued. “Pup wanted...to play. (Y/n)’s hair..smelt...pretty.”

“Oh dear fucking god, Robbie.” Anti huffed and beside him, a masked man had to hide his grin behind a cough. All of them seemed to find this a little humorous. But you were very confused. Had you been kidnapped because of your shampoo??

“An-i tried to... hurt them...” Robbie’s tone dipped into a growl and all eyes turned to Anti. Who quickly raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. Cutting off a rising scolding from the last man in the group.

“No. No, that is not what happened! Robbie had them in a headlock! He was hugging them so tight they couldn’t breath. I was trying to remove him off them. Schneep you said so yourself; that the, uh, thingumabobs, on their neck is like they were being strangled.”

The man who has started the scolding, Schneep, sighed heavily and nodded. Fixing his glasses to sit on his nose as he crossed his arms.

“It iz true. (Y/n) had abbreviations around their neck and shoulders zat could be early signs of strangulation. Robbie vouldn’t have tried to kill zem. But he iz known to get.... overexcited.”

“Robbie not hurt (y/n)!” The man’s voice sharpened and became clearer with the rising anger. But his strength increased too and you were quickly feeling the same sensation of being crushed like before.

(Y/D/N) whined and started barking when you flailed, trying to push the man off you. Managing to dislodge the guy enough to almost knock him away.

Chase was quick to grab you and Anti glitched in behind Robbie. Peeling his arms off you and pinning him to the bed.

“No! Let go, An-i!” Robbie screeched. His hands reaching for you as Chase escorted you out. Making soft whistle noises to your pup, who bounded after the both of you.

Schneep slammed the door shut the moment you and your dog were free of the room. The sounds of Robbie’s cries echoed after you as Chase guided you into the kitchen.

“I’m real sorry about this,” Chase said. Offering you a seat on a stool by the kitchen counter. “Usually Robbie is better behaved. He must really like you if he had tried to hug you in public. He’s not one for stranger interactions.”

“To be honest we’ve met before. He was walking by my house and (y/d/n) started playing with him through the fence. I didn’t really recognise him till now.” The words tumbled from your lips as the memory flooded back. Was that why you hadn’t attacked the moment he hugged you? Did you think he was coming over to say hi?

It was still a blur. And it frustrated you trying to piece it all together.

Chase gave you a sympathetic smile and flicked on the kettle. Preparing to make you a warm beverage.

“To be honest, it’s kinda our fault this happened. We try to keep Robbie indoors so he doesn’t disturb anyone. But sometimes we forget to lock the doors and Robbie has a way of finding an exit out of yards. He’s an escape artist, I’m telling you. Anytime you need a way out of prison, I’d suggest going to him.”

You chuckled and shrugged. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The two of you fell into an awkward silence. What were you meant to say to one of the five men that kidnapped you?

Chase clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Scrambling to find some topic to fill the silence.

Glancing at your dog as it pushed it nose into the trash can; almost knocking it over in it’s determination to explore the smells there.

“Your dog is adorable. Robbie has a way with animals. They seem to love him, even when he’s Turned.”

Suddenly realising that he shouldn’t have said that; Chase clamped his lips shut and looked at you hopefully.

“Ignore that. Please? I don’t wanna get dragged into the scolding from Schneep when you leave. I’ve already heard the whole ‘no secrets to outsiders’ rule.”

It was obvious that something was going on here. But they seemed like pretty cool guys. Even though, yes, they did kidnap you and seemed like they were threatening to dump you in a random location after... “hexing” you.

But they were still to try any real threats to you. And they were half being polite.

“I promise not to tell anyone.” You said. And Chase didn’t miss the flash of fear in your eyes. He smiled softly. It reminded you a parent trying to comfort their child after a nightmare.

It was warm and friendly. It surprisingly comforted you, even despite his next words.

“Don’t worry. We won’t do anything to you. Robbie will make sure of it.” It was meant as a joke. But Chase was never good at those.

After Chase made your tea and you both fell into a silent understanding that there was no more talking; you both fell into a tense quiet.

Up until the rest of the group came out to join you both.

The masked man and Schneep were the first to come out. Watching expectantly as Robbie and Anti followed. They looked like two kids who had been caught with their hand in a cookie jar.

Schneep crossed his arms and nodded to you. “Apologise. Or Marvin makes you cluck.”

“Sorry~” Robbie said instantly. His gaze was gentle; matching the same gaze (y/d/n) gives you when they’ve chewed up your shoes again. “I...didn’t mean.. to hurt you....” Robbie concentrated on every syllable so his voice carried them clearly. It was obvious to you that he had some sort of speech impediment.

Anti however glared at you and glanced away. Mumbling under his breath; too quiet for you to catch.

The masked guy, Marvin you guessed, rolled his eyes and withdrew a wand from his cloak. He waved it once and Anti’s eyes widened as his lips opened and a loud chicken like “cluck” burst from his mouth.

Robbie giggled as Anti muffled the rest of the series of chirps and clicks. Eyes shining like sparks of green hell-fire as Marvin returned his wand to his cloak.

“Louder this time.” Marvin said and Anti groaned.

Head bowed and shoulders slumped, Anti stuffed his hands into his jeans and forced through clamped teeth. “I’m. Sorry....for kidnapping you.”

You didn’t really know how to respond to that. But you smiled and nodded.

“I, uh, forgive you. Just... don’t do it again.”

“Ve can promise zat,” Schneep said. His gaze turning to you; hardening as he continued. “Only if you promise us zat you vill not share vhat happened here. Ve mean no harm. But ve vill if you push-”

“No!” Again, Robbie’s arms caged you against his chest. Almost pulling you off your chair as Robbie hugged you tight against him. “No hurt, (y/n).”

You chuckled at the collective groans from the other men. This was probably something that happened often. Not to strangers, but it did look like Robbie liked to take hold of someone and not let go. This was further showed through the exasperated tone Chase had.

“Robbie, we aren’t going to hurt them. We just want to make sure they don’t spill the beans on us. Alright.”

“They...promised.” Robbie snapped. His hold much more careful now he had you again. He didn’t want to hurt you anymore then he already had. “They...friend.”

“Alright, alright. Look Robbie, just let them go and we can talk, ok?” Marvin smiled under his mask. Hoping to coax his brother into releasing you.

But Robbie shook his head, his bottom lip trembling a little and everyone tensed when his eyes began to turn grey.

“Uh, Rob, it’s ok. You can stay with them until we work it out. It’s ok.” Chase moved closer and Robbie continued to shake his head. He was trembling and you didn’t like the small whimpers that were slipping out of his chest. It was sad.

You reached up and squeezed his fingers. Hushing him gently.

“Hey, it’s ok Robbie. I’m not going to leave yet. We can sort this out, ok? Let go and you can sit with me.”

“Robbie...can’t.” The violet haired man whimpered. And everyone froze, expecting the worse. His eyes turning down to you and your heart nearly broke upon seeing the distraught expression he was wearing. “Robbie...stuck.”

You weren’t sure what that meant, but everyone around you started to laugh. Chase covered his face with his hat as Marvin shook his head, his shoulder shaking from his cackles.

Anti wore a grin of dark amusement as he came closer and took a seat next to you.

“Better get use to it. He’s a zombie. Robbie get’s rigor-mortis whenever he stays in a certain position for too long. So get comfortable. Because he can stay that way for hours.”

“.... What do you mean he’s a zombie?!”

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smackeology-blog · 5 years

Photo

The Body Shop: Glow-revealing liquid peel -> Vitamin C line

Yes, I do have to work on taking photos... But now let's talk about this little guy and what it does and does not do! Have you tried it already? Let me know!

So, here we are, my first post and I have decided to start off with The Body Shop. For no reason whatsoever. But I do like the brand though, shower gels smell like heaven, body butters are sometimes too heavy but those smells, how can anyone resist them?! If you fall for smell - stay away from this store because it. will. make. you. buy. a. lot. of. stuff. :D Some products worked for me, some not so much. But let's start with this liquid peel and read on to see my review.

They say - it should be ''glow revealing'' for dull and tired skin. Also, because it contains vitamin C rich camu camu, it should bring a certain freshness to your skin, i.e. glow after you apply it, rub it in and wash off. Camu camu, cacari, or camocamo, is a small bushy riverside tree from the Amazon rainforest in Peru and Brazil, which grows to a height of 3-5 m (9.8-16.4 ft) and bears a red/purple cherry-like fruit. Camu camu has an extraordinarily high vitamin C content (on the order of 2-3% of fresh weight,[3] second only to the Australian native Terminalia ferdinandiana), and this property of the fruit has been exploited in positioning it on international markets.

Not sure about you, but this promise sounds lovely. But I am not delusional about what random product can do for me. Skin care is a huge business and marketing departments are on fire! But what I want is my skin clearer and cleaner. I do use coffee and baking soda twice a week as peeling and it worked lovely for me so far, but sometimes I wonder whether all these tiny grains are too much for the skin. So I decided to purchase this, to maybe get more gentle peeling.

General info

Let's do basics first: when added to your daily routine, vitamin C provides a range of benefits, from evening out your skin tone, shielding skin from the visible impacts of pollution, significantly improving hydration, and keeping your skin looking younger, longer. So no wonder cosmetics industry started putting vitamin C on the front line of its skin care routines. With an excellent safety profile, it finds increasing use in photo ageing, hyper pigmentation, tissue inflammation and promotion of tissue healing. Ongoing research has been directed toward improving its delivery into the dermis for stimulating collagen production and scavenging free radicals. Good question to ask is how efficient and effective vitamin C is in any product, taking into consideration that it is highly unstable, especially when exposed to light.

145ml seems to go a long way since I dispense 1 pump for my whole face so I assume it would last long time. Taking that into consideration, I can say I can handle the price from time to time in case I decide to re-purchase.

What it's like?

As you can see - transparent liquid. If you are into ingredients here they are:

Aqua, Alcohol Denat., Propylene Glycol, Glycerin, Carbomer, PPG-26-Buteth-26, Palmitamidopropyltrimonium Chloride, PEG-40 Hydrogenated Castor Oil, Quaternium-80, Parfum, 3-O-Ethyl Ascorbic Acid, Mel, Limonene, Behentrimonium Chloride, Cetrimonium Chloride, Benzyl Salicylate, Hexyl Cinnamal, Isopropyl Alcohol, Linalool, Myrciaria Dubia Fruit Extract.

I am no chemist and I definitely do not intend to use Google to analyse every single ingredient and its impact since I do think chemistry is ''a bit more compliacated'' than that :) But what I can tell you is that the liquid is not thick in any way, it is more slippery and thin so you can easilly dispense it on your skin.

Aaaaand....ACTION!

The Body Shop's instructions go like this: Dispense 1-2 pumps of the product onto fingertips, and apply to cleansed, dry skin avoiding the eye and mouth area. Massage into skin for up to 20 seconds until clumps become visible and peel away from the skin.

Reality is: if you do put it all over your face, you will start rubbing and one part will be fine, other part will start drying out in the meantime etc... So my advice is to put small amount on one part of your skin, nose for ex., and rub it in. Then move to the next part of your face. Clumps will start forming. And guess what - no, it is not your skin. If it was your skin, you would be all red and irritated :) This is actually product clumping up. But in fact it should act like some sort of mini glue that will pull off any dead skin you might have as well as impurities. I tried it on one small dry patch under chin I had (now I regret I took no photos of that..) and all the visible dry flakes were gone! So - it does do something after all, it is not some scam, so you can relax :)

Final verdict

You know what? I was skeptical at first, I do have to admit that. And I still am in a way. But my skin does have nicer glow after using this. If nothing - it does seem cleaner. And that is good enough for me. All day at work and around town leaves consequences so I am happy to have something, aaanything, that will make my skin breathe again.

It does not irritate your skin, if you have very dry skin and flaky skin it will also work well for you and hydrating your skin afterwards is a must.

My only wish is that it would do something for this c**p in my pores so I can stop walking around 20min with my weird blue L'Oreal mask :D But hey, I would sort of miss scaring my boyfriend around :D

So, I would recommend the product if you need to get your flakes of or for some reason you can't or won't use scrub on your skin - this will do the trick for you.

#thebodyshop #cosmetics #skincare #veganfriendly #vitaminc #healthyskin #beauty #review #producttest #peeling #liquidpeel

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