MAELSTROM

@pasthauntings (Cullen):

Scritching at her bandaged palm idly, her gaze settled on the Commander. This wasn't the first time. She'd been perched nearby, just watching of and on. Was it odder that she was watching or that periodically, almost timed, she'd look away for a while to seem like she wasn't staring. She was trying to be publicly acceptable. A soft rumble left her as she finally spoke, it seemed a good pause in him training others.

He stops for a moment, watches. Hands behind his back in a straight posture. The chill of the morning stabbing his cheeks, but it's nothing he's not used to by now.

When she speaks he turns his attention towards her, surprised but not at all unwanted. If anything, he finds her presence calming. Hopes that he can be somewhat of an aid to her as well.

"Inquisitor, it's good to see you up"

A smile graces his features, perhaps a tad but shy for he is not yet used to idle conversations like these. He is a warrior, a blade. And that is about it. She makes him feel like a person.

can be used as starter or plotting prompts! 

1) one muse putting their hand over the other’s mouth while they have sex.

2) our muses with unspoken feelings forced to share a bed and end up cuddling. 

3) our muses have unspoken feelings but one of them is upset so the other holds them.

4) our muses have a very strong bond, but haven’t admitted to romantic feelings and one of them just comes and cuddles up to the other for comfort. 

5) sender is in a vulnerable state and the only person they trust is receiver,  who approaches them to try and help. 

6) receiver is in a vulnerable state and the only person they trust is sender,  who approaches them to try and help. 

7) our muses shower together after something traumatic for comfort and emotional intimacy, bonus points if they aren’t even together romantically yet. 

8) receiver’s muse kills someone to protect sender’s muse.  sender approaches to gently calm them down.

9) sender’s muse kills someone to protect receiver’s muse. receiver approaches to gently calm them down.

10) one muse has been brainwashed and the other one refuses to hurt them,  trying to bring them back with a gentle touch. 

11) muses who aren’t together yet or simply have a gruff/sof dynamic: sender’s muse is upset and receiver’s sits next to them,  leading to sender leaning against them and finally breaking down. 

12) muses who aren’t together yet or simply have a gruff/sof dynamic: receiver’s muse is upset and sender’s sits next to them,  leading to receiver leaning against them and finally breaking down. 

13) one muse is sporting injuries,  the other takes a hold of their face and demands to know who did it so they can take revenge. 

14) our muses aren’t together yet but one of them asks the other to stay the night so they won’t be alone. 

15) our muses aren’t together yet but one of them insists on staying the night so they won’t be alone. bonus points if its to protect them. 

16) gruff muse is being grumpy and the other one just crawls into their lap and kisses them. 

17) softer muse makes the first move for sex and rides or tops the gruffer one who looks at them like they just found god. 

18) one muse has just killed for the first time and the other more experienced muse is there to help them in the aftermath. 

19) one muse is dangerous and has a soft spot for the other one, who approaches them to prevent them from hurting someone. 

20) receivers muse is touch starved and sender gives them affection they aren’t used to. 

21) sender’s muse is touch starved and receiver gives them affection they aren’t used to. 

22) receiver’s muse is the first person sender’s muse turns to and hugs after something traumatic happens. 

23) sender’s muse is first person receiver’s muse turns to and hugs after something traumatic happens. 

24) one muse shows up at the other’s doorstep looking for comfort.

25) one muse shows up at the other’s doorstep because they need help and are in danger. 

26) one muse thinks the other is going to hurt them but instead they protect them. 

27) dangerous or antagonistic muse gently caresses the other’s face who is surprised by their affection. 

28) one muse is in danger and the other, who is usually antagonistic, shows up to help them. 

29) dangerous or antagonistic muse is gently caressed by the other,  surprising them with affection they aren’t accustomed to. 

❝  and  we  can  cook  again  tomorrow,  and  every  day  after  that.  ❞  forever  stopped  being  a  concept.  instead,  it  has  slowly  but  surely  been  turning  into  a  sweet  certainty  ever  since  the  day  she  met  him.  victoria  looks  at  him  and  feels  as  if  she  has  all  the  days  that  have  yet  come  to  pass  firmly  within  the  palm  of  her  hand.  it  is  soothing,  the  promise  of  forever  that  rings  to  clearly  he  does  not  even  need  to  speak  of  it  (  even  when  she  knows  he  will,  she  has  heard  the  beautiful  sound  of  the  sweet  promise  often  before  )

❝  oh  !  you  will  love  the  new  rhododendron  i  planted  while  you  were  away.  she  is  a  fiesty  thing,  but  i  told  her  so  much  about  you  that  i'm  sure  she  will  bloom  the  moment  you  talk  to  her.  ❞

knows  she  is  perhaps  a  bit  foolish    ⎯     when  she  shares  her  love  for  him  with  the  flowers  she  adores     ⎯     but  it  helps  to  dull  the  ache  of  his  absence  from  their  house.  it  helps  to  make  her  smile  wide  between  a  maelstrom  of  gentle  kisses  all  across  his  features.  ❝  come  on  then,  let's  go  and  find  that  bottle.  ❞

Another series of laughter, light and relaxed, when she showers him in kisses.

Thomas might hold some sense of religion in the palm of his hand, but he has never believed in a greater God that shall smite or grant miracles. What he believes in, is her. Her love, so much greater than anything else in this world. Perhaps he has a sentimental heart, but who can blame him? Always so much more in tune with his emotions than his father would have wanted. But look at where that got him.

With her, he can express his true emotions. She has held him through tears, through anger, through sorrow. Her arms, a safe haven for him to return to. Does she feel the same with him?

He takes her hand, not before leaving a kiss to her palm, and leads her towards their makeshift ' wine cellar '. It is not so much a cellar, but rather a downstairs room with some half-empty cabinets of bottles. Gifts and purchases throughout the years. Some William's for storing, some left by other members of their little family, but Thomas finds the one he is after rather quickly.

"There. Now lead the way, my darling, to the garden!"

@pasthauntings thomas said to victoria : ❛ keep reading, don't let me distract you. ❜

she  is  high  on  the  glory  of  it  all,  of  the  fading  light  of  the  setting  sun  trickling  in  through  barely  parted  curtains.  for  a  moment,  she  is  jealous  of  the  final  rays  of  the  day,  for  they  get  to  kiss  him  when  she  still  keeps  up  the  pretenses.  when  she  still  pretends  to  be  cold  rather  than  warm  liquid  underneath  his  hands,  underneath  his  peregrine  mouth.

the  vibrations  in  her  chest  are  not  at  all  unlike  the  communications  of  bees.  touch  me,  and  hear  the  quivering  of  bones  and  organs.  victoria  forgets  that  which  she  is  reading       ⎯⎯⎯        chooses  instead  to  stare  at  him  from  over  the  edge  of  the  book  instead.  touch  me,  the  jittering  of  my  sternum  should  tell  you  i  want  it.

❝  you  are  always  distracting  me.  ❞  tone  of  her  voice  is  unbelievably  fond.  all  sweetness  and  sticky  syrup  that  she  hopes  thomas  will  never  choke  on.  wash  it  down  with  seawater,  and  call  it  taffy  when  she  will  later  bite  into  the  curve  of  his  shoulder.  yet  her  fingers  are  steady,  clean  for  a  moment  more,  as  she  moves  through  soft  hair  down  to  an  all  too  familiar  jaw.  only  kisses  the  scar  with  a  gentle  swipe  of  her  thumb.  knows  he  will  allow  little  else.  ❝  want  to  see  who  grows  distracted  first  ?  me,  reading.  you,  putting  your  mouth  on  me  ?  ❞

What book she is reading, he does not know, has not taken the moment to enlighten himself, not when she is everywhere. Her scent, her voice, her touch. There is nothing more important. Just her.

The touch against the scar he hates so, doesn't even move him. Not when she speaks those words. It makes his head go completely blank but full at the same time. Blood is boiling like fire under his skin, and he cannot help the sound, air escaping his lungs, that falls from his lips.

He is only a man, after all. And she, divinity.

"Yes..."

It makes no sense when spoken out loud, only to his own ears. For yes, yes of course. Whatever she asks of him, whatever she needs of him.

They have fallen together so many times now that it has become second nature to him. He knows her, loves her. For him, her pleasure is the most important and it shows in the long drawn out hours of their love making. So of course, this time as well, he complies happily with her games of distraction.

His touch is light, fingers brushing against the soft skin of her inner thigh, know the path it will lead him towards and he has to pretend he is not excited. Fails in this pretence, for it is shown clearly on his face.

One last kiss pressed against her hand, and he moves, it is a good thing she is wearing light clothing, easy to navigate around as he dips down towards his goal.

Elbow narrowly avoiding his, Christine slips past the hallway and turns around at the table, the cool smash of wintry air in the apartment suddenly stale over the empty bar.

‘   Which is it, Stephen?   ‘   She sighs, the sound caught along the soft ridge of her closed palate.   ‘   You adopted mystic duties – that are so monumentally important. Now you’re on another journey of self-discovery to what, surprise and disappoint yourself at every juncture?   ‘

They were twenty-three, thirty, then thirty-five. What changed in all those years? Falling in love and learning to live with all the doubts. Because each time it didn’t last.

‘   I've never really said this because I wasn’t sure if it would bring me respite or contrition.

There’ve been many – many times I’ve had to get over somebody I never had.   ‘

Never has he been a man of kind nature, but then he supposes this is something he has begun telling himself, for there is no memory to serve him the time where he felt content about life. It has always been take, take, take, and then take some more. Never enough. Of course, one can always blame the parents, the upbringing, pasts and everything else that comes with growing. Stephen knows better.

You are the one making the decisions. You are the one behind the wheels. You are the master of your own thoughts. You are at fault. You alone.

It matters little whether or not these powers have settled within him. It matters little that he is the master of the mystic arts now. In the end, he will always be himself. Always be the ungrateful Stephen Strange, and she will always be deserving of someone better.

"And now? What does it bring you?"

What does she want him to say? There is nothing. No words that can take back what has already occurred between them. He should know. Any lesser man would reach out to time itself, but that cannot be.

No, for this to mend, it shall be on him to right his wrongs and if she decides that this is too late, he shall have to accept that.

THAT ROAD TO IMMORTALITY is made up of many paths, all converging on that same point, that final threshold where fate's humble servant will break down what little remains.  little bothers the playwright in this world, already having penned some semblance of his own death into a script waiting for its turn upon the stage.  a difference of opinion begs for a break from expectation in some cases in others the friction words can cause is entertaining in of itself.  fellow overseers  &  those within the fractsidus never cease to amaze him, even if they may be one step closer to ripping apart a pristine page from his own book.

he lets his gaze fall over her, taking in her present state which to him seems rather neutral.  not that he ever stopped himself when her expression shifts, his mind running off ahead with can only sound like illusions of grandeur  &  she but an unwitting audience of the soliloquy.  but this time he stills, basks in the the brisk breeze  &  watches where loose strands of hair drift.

❝  as you said, perhaps ...  perhaps not.  ❞          green eyes meet her own hues, cristoforo's eyes have dimmed since their stop in septimont but these windows have never been what reveals all about his character in this grand play of life.  he chooses to opt for more conviction, stepping away from his familiar web for a moment.          ❝  no, phrolova.  i suppose it is not.  though i must admit, it is rather curious how you linger, as if there is still one last note that never quite made it into your symphony.  ❞

a bare hand humbly rests upon his chest.           ❝  can you truly blame me for anticipating its completion ?   ❞          he looks to her, wondering if hecate might impart something more candid.

One cannot force such a grandeur of a symphony, she thinks.

He is correct, of course, there is a small annoyance in her for the unfinished piece that simply did not come to be, for it would have been great. Now there is no point anymore. This one will stay unfinished. It will fall into the depths along with everything else she touches. Not even his stories will fix that.

Her heels click against the ground with he slow pacing. Back and forth, back and forth. She is not restless, far from it, but rather-- she is waiting. For what she isn't sure, but for something.

"One cannot force such a grand spectacle from thin air. It shall not be then. Perhaps it was doomed from the beginning..."

To whom she speaks it is hard to pinpoint, even so her lone pale eye seeks him out as she stops before him. The presence within her is docile, quiet. The hum is still there, but as for right now everything is at peace.

"What is life if not disappointing?"

things  are  pleasant  like  this.  when  they  are  two  neighbouring  dogs  who  have  realized  that  there  is  no  beef  between  them,  only  a  fence  and  the  occasional  squabble  over  territory.  drew  doesn't  need  to  bare  his  teeth  and  show  the  scars  on  the  inside  of  his  cheek  to  tell  thomas  that  he  is  serious  about  protecting  what  he  fought  for,  and  thomas  doesn't  need  to  do  the  same  in  kind.  all  that  is  left  is  the  never-ending  banter.

❝  what,  you  scared  ?  hope  you're  not  scared  of  little  old  me.  ❞  many  are,  and  there  are  many  liars  who  say  that  they  aren't.  ❝  i  am  lacking  competition        ;       half  of  them  in  that  ring  don't  know  how  to  fight.  they  know  how  to  dance,  or  how  to  make  themselves  seem  like  fuckin'  assholes  doing  their  little  pirouettes  for  show.  ❞

shuffles  the  golden  title  on  his  shoulder.  makes  sure  that  she's  pretty  in  the  radiant  light.  not  a  speck  of  dust  on  her.  drew,  unlike  so  many,  knows  how  to  take  care  of  things.  ❝  you're  a  scrapper,  i  can  tell.  you  should  toss  that  bike  of  yours  and  join  me.  we  could  have  so  much  fun.  ❞

The thought is intriguing. Almost inviting. For yes, perhaps they would have a lot of fun.

"Does it have the same thrill as going full speed off-road? Every second counts and if you lose concentration for just a moment, it will inevitably either kill or maim you horribly"

A tilt of his head. Fingers shift, the laptop is closed and he pushes back against the chair. There is a look in his eyes, one that tells that his interest is very clearly piqued. Come on then, surely there must be another reason than a belt.

rational  mind  refuses  to  accept  that  which  his  emotional  heart  has  long  grown  to  realize.  he  is  needed  here  far  more  than  he  is  out  there.  the  winds,  the  hollow  gale,  don't  need  another  man  who  is  mere  paces  removed  from  being  a  boy.  his  name  is  sweeter  spoken  by  a  brother,  than  it  is  by  those  dying  for  the  loyalty  of  a  king  who  does  not  even  care.  the  question  remains       ⎯⎯⎯⎯        is  he  a  brother  or  a  soldier  first  ?

❝  if  i  don't  come  back,  then  it  was  simply  not  meant  to  be.  ❞  the  ❛  it  ❜  is  unclear.  both  the  blood  from  the  right  woman  turned  mother,  and  the  title  of  worthy  son.  james  knows    ⎯     has  known  for  nearly  all  his  life    ⎯     that  it  should  have  been  thomas.  yet  he  remains  grateful.  grateful  that  he  was  allowed  to  carry  the  weight  of  father's  expectations  for  so  long.  thomas  might  have  felt  the  sting  of  its  absence,  but  that  did  mean  he  never  got  to  feel  the  pain  of  the  weight  of  it.

the  hand  that  comes  to  rest  on  thomas'  shoulder  is  heavy.  weighted  down  like  iron.  should  the  metaphor  call  for  chains,  james  is  already  wearing  them.  he  wants  nothing  more  than  to  be  supportive  and  kind,  but  he  lacks  the  words  to  truly  make  his  point  known.  ❛  i'd  die  a  thousand  deaths  for  you,  ❜  is  both  too  grand  as  well  as  not  quite  grand  enough.

❝  never  apologize  for  speaking  your  mind,  thomas,  ❞  you  should  always  be  listened  to,  ❝  soon  you'll  be  tasked  with  the  same  honour.  then  it'll  be  me  who  waits  for  you  to  return.  then  it'll  be  me  who  gets  to  tell  you  how  much  i  miss  you.  ❞

Those words hit him like a wave of ice cold water. Stings worse than any harsh strike from the man masked as a father. Thomas is still, tense. His eyes are vacant, but at the same time, hard. Once more he has settled his gaze on the ground, and it is as if he has forgotten to breathe.

It is crawling underneath his skin, the ugly anxious feeling of panic. He should have outgrown that by now, how stupid he feels as breathing becomes a challenge. This, he masks of course, as well as he can from years of ' experience '. ( james knows him too well, however. he knows this too )

"Do you think so little of your own life, that you believe it will not devastate me should you not return from duty"

The hand upon his shoulder grounds him, but it is not enough to chase this ugly, anxious feeling from his chest. How it grips his lungs, denies air to float freely. ( oh god, not now )

This is the clear difference between them, he supposes. His emotions run free and rampant, never has he learned how to control them properly like a worthy man in his father's eyes. He is lucky to be skilled at seamanship at such a young age, for had he been worthless in this as well, he is fairly certain he would have been sent away. There are some worth in you still.

"It hurts me so much when you speak poorly of yourself, James. I wish you could see yourself the way I see you"

He searches deep in his lungs to finally find a breath deep enough for a sigh, yet the pressure and the struggle for proper intake of oxygen has made him slightly lightheaded. This he masks as well.

My boss will be gone for three-ish weeks, which means that I will take her role until she is back, and for those of you who know me, I am STRESSED about this.

So yeah, activity will be all over the place. Some days I might write a lot, other days there will be nothing, and most replies ( as per usual ) will go into the queue.

That doesn't mean I am not reachable. Mutuals are more than welcome to poke me in the ims, send asks or message me on Discord, cause I will need some distractions.