#mutav

there’s a yelling in his head, not in his ears. it bounces around his skull like a curse poorly thrown. the yelling melts into frustration then into anger, then it’s impossible to ignore as much as his subconscious tries to fight against it. 

his eyes blearily open. he registers the fact that he’s all tense seconds before he registers the back of a man about to fall onto him. sam lets out a string of incoherent swears. sluggishly dragging his body upwards, hands shooting out just in time to shove the man forward. his hands pulse with enough magic to make the push that much more physical. the guy, this asshole, stumbles forward and half-crashes into a table full of trinkets. 

before sam even thinks, registers frank’s presence on the other side of the room, he’s pulling out his wand, muttering a harsh spell under his breath to curse this guy seven ways to sunday.

in which Godfrey W. Nicht leaves to start a war.

ft. brief mentions of @tenccs, @nogoodwitch, @affirmatxve, @mutav

There are Obligations. There is doubt.

heavy mind, heavy eyes, dope hazed. it takes a moment for the words on his screen to make any sense. when they snap into place, he fumbles with the phone and it nearly slips from his fingers. 

his response is a lie.  his apology, though, is genuine. 

@mutav

The Good Doctor is kind-eyed and soft shouldered, wrapped in cotton and sunshine. The Good Doctor is-- not, is tired and Tired and howling emptiness. 

“Do you.” Soft, like mustard gas rolling down a hill. There are things that could happen, would happen, if he survived his Obligations.

He loves her brother more than the reminder of his first, worst failure, more than the taste of her deer heart’s blood. ( Roderick S. Kasun is a menace with a history of unpredictable pranks, of recently divided loyalties. Anything could happen. Anything could happen. )

Here, compassion ( cruelty, cruelty, he knows what kind of thing he is ), his burning hand over hers. He touches her so rarely ( so terribly ). She wishes he did not have to die and he wishes that he did not have to die or had already died or that everything else in the world would go to fill the blackness in his chest.

His eyes draw away from the scenery outside the bedroom’s solitary window as her fingers snap him from his reverie. His breath stills as she traces his collarbone, his jaw; there’s something about the way she touches him that always leave him frozen. 

( Never in a bad way. He loves the way she touches him, but he’s not sure he’ll ever admit just how much he does. ) 

He only catches a fleeting of her face before she’s crushing her lips against his in a kiss that he’s swift to return. He’s quick to bring a hand up to her jaw, his own fingers tracing against it similarly to the way she did to him. When he pulls away there’s a sleep-tinged smile that lazily meets his eyes. 

“What’d I do to earn that?” 

@mutav & @lcgistics // send ' ● ' for my muses reaction to yours sucking/licking their finger. // accepting. 

he’s not expecting it. 

his right hand is occupied with a pencil, etching shadows into a drawing of francis curled up on his bed - an image that’s been burned into his memory. his left is free until hers curl slowly around it and lift it. he ignores it right up until the moment he feels her lips slide around his index finger. 

immediately, without thought and only base instinct, he gasps. his eyes dart over to her, slide down to her lips wrapped around his finger, and fuck.

fuck. 

the pencil slips from his fingers as his own lips part, his vision blurring out everything but her, his senses focused only on this sensation. a moan slips past his lips as her lips move down further, her tongue sliding across the skin, but he can’t bring himself to give a shit. 

“fuck, frank.” his voice is already breathy. if there’s one weakness of his that gets him the most it very well might be this one. “you little tease.” he leans back against the couch, still watching, the sketch forgotten. everything else forgotten. he groans again, then reaches for her. a hand bunching up the fabric of her shirt to pull her into his lap. 

@mutav & @lcgistics // ask my muse about a relationship of their’s with another muse. no questions are off limits. they will answer anything. // accepting. 

he tries not to think about it, but when he does he can’t ignore that small pang of something that feels like jealousy swell in his chest. maybe it’s not jealousy. it could be nostalgia, but he can’t say.

it’s similar to how he could never say who they were when they were together, when they weren’t together. who they are now, who they will be five years from now. 

( sometimes he knows when she’s with rod. he doesn’t know why, but he can just ... he can feel it, and that irritation, that something like jealousy, that nostalgia, burns a hole right through his chest. ) 

but he keeps his face a neutral mask as best he can. he lifts his shoulders in a shrug, then reaches for a cigarette like the question just rolls off of him. it’s nothing. it’s no big deal.

( what a lying sack of shit. ) 

@mutav & @lcgistics // twin peaks ask meme // accepting 

the anger, the jealousy, the hurt - it all rolls off him like a crackling lightning storm. ( naturally. how else do his emotions operate? ) he can’t help but stand there in stunned silence, leaving the aftermath of his, their, yelling to settle heavily on his shoulders, and he feels like slumping down to the floor, but somehow he manages to stay on his feet. 

her words echo around in his head, bouncing around painfully from one point of his skull to the next. it feels like a migraine is building, the air smells like ozone. one fist clenches at his side as if it’d be enough to stop the small spark of lightning from emitting from his fingers.

( it isn’t. it cracks louder than even he was expecting. ) 

they’ve never spoken deeply about their relationship. it’s never really been anything more than a good fuck and someone to spill your deepest, most intimate secrets to. that should be a sign that he needs her, and that small angry voice in his head knows it.

that small angry voice is in full control..

sam wright needs francis bauer. he hates it. he hates needing anyone, but he needs her, and, fuck, she doesn’t need him apparently. oh, fuck you, frank, he wants to say. 

there’s an unfamiliar pang in his heart and the pain flickers across his eyes. when he’s this emotional it’s difficult to hide behind the carefully crafted mask that he’s built for himself. 

“well, fuck okay.” he tries to level out his voice. impassive. neutral. it’s all in contrast to his body language, the look on his face, the connection they share that they know nothing about. ( the connection that lets them know everything about each other, lets them feel everything about each other. ) “then call me when you fucking want me, or don’t call me at all. maybe that’s for the fucking best.” 

his feet feel like lead as he turns away from her, the muscles of his back coiled tight with anger and hurt and frustration and hurt, hurt, hurt. he grabs his jacket from her couch and drags his lead feet to her door. 

“bye frank.”