#indizien

@indizien​ -    ❝ you’re awful calm about it. ❞ from alan maybe <3

@indizien​ said   ⟶   " i miss you. " from s1 helen !!

RED (TAYLOR’S VERSION),   accepting.

@indizien​ asked: “Drink some water. It has ice.” either from peter bishop or hiroshi hatake!!

@indizien​ peter sent: ❝  if he’s not doing anything to keep you, then why are you trying so hard to stay?  ❞

              words twist in her gut like a knife.  salt in the wound.  all the bitter things which come with being confronted by her circumstances.  it’s just another piece of her brokenness.  always extremes.  either running away from kind hands out of fear they will get cut trying to hold her.  or letting herself remain where warmth is lacking,  just because someone decided to hold a shard of her soul in their hand without flinching.  brows crease and her gaze is avoidant,  staring anywhere but at his own scrutinizing eyes.  

He’d stepped out for just a few minutes — just to grab coffee, he’d promised, his coffee maker is on the fritz and he hasn’t listened to her good-natured bullying on the subject. ( “It’s worth a few hundred to get a good one,” she’d insisted just last week, while they wandered idly around a Bed Bath and Beyond so she could replace her vacuum cleaner. The domesticity of it all had made her itch — not from discomfort, simply from the unfamiliarity. She hasn’t been domestic with anyone in years. She takes some satisfaction in knowing she was right when he drops a kiss to her cheek, asks her to keep an eye on Agnes while he runs around the corner. )

     And she takes the opportunity to be nosy. Agnes is still asleep, blissfully unconscious in the way that only children can achieve, and so Astoria picks through his bookshelves to see what he has that she’s read, takes a peek through his pantry and his liquor cabinet and makes a mental note to replenish his whiskey when she gets the chance. Nothing particularly invasive, and nothing beyond the idle snooping any girlfriend is allowed to do when left unsupervised. 

     ( There’s that domesticity again. She doesn’t know what to do with it. She doesn’t do this, doesn’t play house with widowers and their small children, but he’s been remarkably easygoing about what she does do. She wonders, not for the first time, if Tom Keen is worth sticking around for, if this is worth exploring. ) 

     The floor creaks beneath her bare feet as she retreats to the kitchen again, to take another look at the coffee maker in the hopes that she’ll be able to will it into functioning. She takes a step back, then moves again, rocks her weight from one foot to the other; it’s professional curiosity that has her peering at the floorboards in question, noticing that one’s a bit loose, lifting it gently from its place. 

     And fine, sue her, it’s personal curiosity that has her opening the box. 

     The box is open on the table next to her when she hears him come through the door, the offending floorboard still removed from its place, and she calls an absent greeting his way. She’s given up on the coffee maker, now, and she’s lounging comfortably at the kitchen table, feet propped up on the seat beside her, a book she nicked from his shelves in her hands, and she grins when he’s in her field of vision. 

𝙰 𝚂𝙼𝙸𝙻𝙴 𝙷𝙸𝙽𝚃𝚂 𝙰𝚃 𝙷𝙴𝚁 𝙻𝙸𝙿𝚂, 𝚅𝙸𝙱𝚁𝙰𝙽𝚃 𝙶𝚁𝙴𝙴𝙽𝚂 𝚁𝙴𝙻𝙴𝙽𝚃𝙻𝙴𝚂𝚂 𝙸𝙽 𝙷𝙴𝚁 𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚁𝙴 ― fixed upon his cheeks flushed with pleasure and the dusty greens watching her work… A spotlight for the woman who always craved his attention. Eyes lock as she descends further, slipping the length of his arousal deeper into the heat of her mouth, head nudging the tight of her throat where she moans in welcome of his tightening grasp and the violent buck of his hips in response. Quickly, she rises, the thick head of his cock cradled betwixt her lips, for tongue to tease with a suckle before diving down once again ― this time deeper, if only slightly ― a pattern she repeats again and again until cock twitches atop her tongue and lover’s hand urge her to stay, where arousal is tucked at its deepest, a favorite spot to cum ― hot and sticky cream to spill down her throat… But Hera had greater plans and head rises to resist the push of his palms, cock spilling from her lips only moments before sweet release. He groans and she grins, watching as she gently glides a fingertip along the length of his wet and spittle covered shaft,    ❝  ― more than that?  ❞    She teases, dipping down to run her tongue along his shape, a sultry and languid kiss smoothed atop his tip,    ❝ You want to cum that bad?  ❞

          it’s just a second: she freezes up, a child caught red-handed. she never heard him coming ( never does, really ), and the cigarette in her fingers feels like a betrayal of sorts —— not the standard she’d set herself up to, not even now — into the world AFTER. it’s just a second, anyway —— though slowly, never making a show of it, he’s carved himself a space inside this world she calls HOME, now. family, if family is the feeling of being whole —— or maybe ( she thinks, sometimes, in those odd moments everyone else is busy or distracted and she gets to sit in the corner and look, and wonder, and love them in her gentle, ever-blooming way ): the way she can see herself mirrored a hundred times over, into the way moa melts into her hugs, or the way tom holds on to her like she might slip away, the way agnes finds the truth of things in the simple, reckless way she plays. she sees herself in kua too, but she’s afraid of it: ‘cause she can’t quite name what it is she sees, or guesses, rather —— something about caution. something about never making waves. the quiet that’s not a sign of PEACE but the very lack of it.

       “ busted ”. when she feels the water is getting too deep, the waves to high, she reels back in — freddie grins, makes it a joke. she accepts the jacket anyway — unaware of the goose flesh on her arms until the sudden warmth sent her shivering. a mouthed ‘ thank you ’, a half-twirl of her cigarette as the embers fall into the blackness outside. “ really thought this would be IT, you know ? that i’d have the perfect excuse to quit for good ”. her smile is apologetic, though she never voiced the promise to either of them but herself. a half-smirk for him, then she’s staring at the burning tip of her smoke. “ it’s not that i keep looking for them… they just keep finding me. ” it’s not really about the smoking, though, is it ? her vice is of a different kind. her vice is FEAR and the way she won’t let go of it. and sometimes she thinks, the way she’s afraid of seeing herself in him is because he could look into her, as well, and recognize the signs: how it won’t ever truly leave. how even at the height of joy, even huddled between the warmth of all their bodies, she still fears a gust of wind might make this castle of cards crumble. most times she’ll just avoid his gaze. even now, turned sideways to face him, she lets her eyes focus on a non-descript patch of black beyond him instead. “ what are you doing up, anyway ? ”. a smile. “ moa kick you out ? ”