#archivaltm

DARKER THRILLING PROMPTS

sam is used to the kind of acid bath, over-sweetened, superiority that oozes from the pores of every paul, john,  &  frank who marches their way across the threshold of l-corp’s executive floor.  handling that brand of patronizing machismo comes with its own triumphant satisfaction.  she’s come to RELISH the challenge, welcome the opportunity to flex financial acumen at the tips of four-inch heels without so much as a drift tagged into her smile. 

this, however ... 

sam’s spine locks, ramrod straight  ;  there’s a gear that clicks into place to tip her jaw forward.  

metropolis’ reporters don’t take the same rosy tone when it comes to l-corp as they do in national city.  lex’s legacy is too violent, too recent,  &  it’s heaped down with the atlas weight of his villainous baggage.  

(  sam  &  the daily planet’s star reporter are not on good terms  ). 

I LOST THE MEME

@archivaltm​  asked:  ‘  you are a wild  ,  unkempt thing ‘ (FEYD)

                                       “ I could say the same of you.”

The response is quick and cold in nature, but laced with the sharpness of desert nature. The Fremen were nothing more than animals to be hunted for sport by the Harkonnen.  She could have easily pointed out the countless reasons they could easily perceive one another as  inhuman. The nature in which vendetta is born is born out of the innate stillness in which hate festers.

The difference lied simply in life style and circumstance. Compared to the glamor and refined nature of the imperium, the Fremen were a simple superstitious people. Tradition meant survival- the continuation of progeny- the very nature of their basic religion dictated the very core of their lives.

What could the Harkonnen beast know of the foundation of her society? They possessed their fripperies and fobs, glittered and water-fat with a slow mannered nature that only a cheat could muster. Chani could argue her honesty and loyalty. She could make a physical argument for purpose in life, for her place in the wellbeing of the tribe.

But this boy-child parading around in a man’s skin  was akin to  that of an island amid the oasis. the isolationist nature of this sensibility stifled personhood and with that, stifled the society that kept such personhood alive.

He was a wild thing, tangled up in a menagerie to fit the dance of the imperium. She could hardly say the same of herself.

         how could she have expected anything different from the legendary SURVIVOR? 

      she’s settled now by the fire, curiosity and firelight sparkle as she observes the young man carefully tending its flames. michael. there is a rush of heat to her cheeks when his eyes lock onto hers –caught. she finds anywhere else to rest her gaze, the corner of her mouth curving into a half smile.           “you know any good campfire stories?”

@archivaltm​ asked: "I had no idea you could be so… sensitive." from illyana

MORNING AFTER STARTERS

“  what?  ”   watching implies some active, conscious effort at observation.  she isn’t watching lois,  &  even though the question tilted over her shoulder is blue like the shadows, sunk too far into the blanketed warmth  &  roughened by gasps  &  grasping, it still ticks some defensiveness to life.  sam spits out the kind of quick-spluttered scoff that comes across as half-guilty, maybe a little rosy-cheeked.  “  ---- no,  i’m not watching.  ” 

what she is, is twined too far around lois.  one long arm drapes the space where lois’ ribcage opens up into smooths kin  &  a gentle curve.  sam’s fingertips are settled where they finished strumming just high of the band of a rising hipbone.  they’re cozied together to the point where sam could measure the steady, sleepy inhale  &  exhale with a metronome if she wanted.  but up until now, sam has just been tucked into the crook of lois’ neck, the angle knocking the wire-rimmed glasses she stubbornly refused to remove up askew.  

now, though, with lois’ smirk turned away from her but still somehow slicing through the sluggish dregs of post-coital sleep, she moves to right them to the bridge of her nose to make like she has to squint to see through the dark.  

“  you don’t normally stay,  ”  is her lame rejoinder that is pitifully without any barb or sting.  sam’s heel is still tossed lazily over lois’ shin under the sheets.  the quiet, still-glittering sheen sticking to the base of lois’ spine  &  mussing her hair even in the stillness of the night-laden room is enough to catch sam’s eye  &  her interest  (  almost enough to ignore the pull yanking too low beneath her swallow to be anything other than emotion  ).  

this is usually the spot where lois, who is now looking up with an unreadably coy expression,  half-dashed with a smile, partially obscured from the curtain of dark, unruly strands, throws out some sort of neatly packaged insult.  sam, whose too-naked heart is suddenly in her throat, doesn’t want to hear it tonight.