#arcturus-procyon

[sylentee]

envy/wrath

Envy: Something I wish I was better at.

       “Trusting in my own decisions, especially when it comes to the well being of my unit... but also I kinda wish I could tie a cherry stem with in my mouth? I get half way and I dunno what happens.”

Wrath: Something that gets me angry.

“Being blamed for something I did not do. Shit pisses me off, because then it comes down to you not trusting my word and friendships, relationships, everything is based on trust.”

[a-doomed-moon-blog]

∯

“I just wish I could read your mind. You’re this strange thing I don’t understand and if I could just get inside your head for a minute and figure out what you need..” 

[keelerr-blog]

Jeez Keeler, so cruel. "For someone who was so generous on Valentine's day, you sure are a dick now."

          ❝ For somebody who’s supposed to be a house-trained puppy–––– ❞

          ❝ ––––you sure do like to PISS ON THE CARPET. ❞

[sylentee]

#3 #7 #11 #15

3:Which parent(or guardian) does your muse prefer?His mother since that’s the only parent he knows, although he doesn’t dislike his Dad or anything. He just doesn’t know him, plus his Mom was pretty awesome despite the hard time he gave her with his antics. Blowing things up in his backyard was not something she was fond of. 

7:If your muse had the opportunity to turn into the opposite sex for a day, would they take it? If so, what would they do?Yes and anyone who says no to this question is a liar. ...knowing Erebus... he’d probably want to know what the deal was with women’s underwear and try on a bunch and just see how much stuff he could get away with that he can’t do as a girl. He’d probably try masturbating. It would consume a good chunk of his day. He would not try and have sex (unless it was Porthos).

11:How important is family to your muse?Ahh, I would say pretty important, but he’s more of a you chose your family type of guy, so his friends are blood to him. He’s horribly loyal and he’d do anything for them. 

15:What would your muse say to their younger self if they could go back in time?“Don’t fuck Bassama. She’s going to try and get you to have a threeway with her brother.”“BB pellets will ricochet off that tree and hit Jessica in the eye, when you do it (because you’re an asshole and it’s funny) RUN. She’s going to kick your ass in front of everyone the next day.”“...When you meet Nicholas, tell him how you really feel as soon as you can.”“When you meet Myles, don’t password protect all his datapads. It will start a prank war that goes too far and you both end up in the brig.”

[keelerr-blog]

❤

▛ five times ⚬⚫⚬ accepting! ▟

❤  five times my muse says they don’t love yours, and the one time they admit it.

i. 

          When you were sixteen years old, you threw yourself at your mother’s feet and begged her not to leave you. Even now, some eight years later, you still remember the way you choked on your tears, the way you screamed until you were hoarse, PLEADING with her to stay, to please give you one more chance, that you’d will yourself better, somehow. You’ll never forget the look in her eyes, how COLD it was, how impersonal. You could’ve borne the teasing and insults and rejection of the whole world on your scrawny little shoulders and thought nothing of it ( because your head was always a nicer place to live, anyway ), but when Mama went away, your little heart broke in a way it never had before. You’ve always tried to take everything on the chin, but this time you COULDN’T. You cried into your pillow until you got sick, and then you cried again, cried until you had nothing left; out of the ruins of what was left of you, you began carefully sculpting your walls, because if you kept everyone out, then NOBODY could hurt you, and the familiar pain of loneliness has always been far more palatable than the exquisite agony of losing something––––someone––––whom you so badly needed.

          YOU’VE ALWAYS BEEN THE ONE THAT NOBODY WANTED. So in many ways, you aren’t surprised when Encke doesn’t want you any more, either, when he leaves without so much as a ‘goodbye,’ taking with him all the little dreams and visions of the future that you’d so tentatively allowed yourself to have. It’s not the first time you’ve felt terrified and ALONE in a universe that’s far too big and empty. You don’t cry this time, though, not like you had back then when Mama went away; you’ve long since run out of tears to cry. This time, you just take the picture you had of the both of you on shore leave, the one you’d displayed so PROMINENTLY on your desk, and sweep it into the trashcan. 

          You’ve lost track of how many hours have slipped by unnoticed while you stare at the wall, your eyes wide and round like dinner-plates, the look in them vacant and LOST; you don’t even notice when he’s come in at first, not until he addresses you quietly, the tone of his voice indicating that he knows something is wrong. He looks you up and down, his gaze gentle and concerned, like he’s trying to read you, trying to suss out what’s left you ( you, the cool, composed, PROFESSIONAL one, perpetually unruffled and unfazed ) in this state. When he sees the photo in the trashcan, HE KNOWS; all at once, his hands are resting tenderly on your shoulders. You don’t even realise you’re crying until you’ve soaked through his top with your tears; he’s holding you close, like you’re actually something with value, like you––––stupid, useless you––––could ever mean something to someone.

          By the time you’ve run out of tears to cry, he’s still there, and he’s holding your hand tightly.

         You want to say those three little words that nobody ever says back to you, but you stop yourself before they can so much as make it into the back of your throat. Those words do NOTHING BUT HURT, and it’s too premature anyways, isn’t it; besides, someone like him would NEVER love someone like you back. So you keep your mouth shut and claw at his shirt instead; though your face is twisted in an expression of sheer AGONY, every little sob of yours hardly makes a sound.

ii.

          You’ve come to know him better in the time that’s passed since the day your world came crashing down around your shoulders. Previously, he was just ‘Porthos’ to you; now, he’s ELIOTT, and by all measures, both objective and non, HE’S BEAUTIFUL. On some level, you’d always realised it, but it was a realisation that stayed mostly in your subconscious––––until now. 

          The Sleipnir’s docked in the port of some nameless little Earth colony, resupplying after a hellish few weeks, and for your part, you fully intend to enjoy your few hours of liberty before it’s time to round up the rest of your Navs and herd them back aboard the ship. You suppose the place you’ve docked ISN’T HALF BAD; it’s nothing like Earth, but you’ve always been fascinated by these worlds you’d only previously ever known in books. Here, the sky is not blue, but a vivid purplish-red. Three suns hang low across the horizon, partially obscured by clouds, and overhead, the strangest birds you’ve ever seen circle in the tepid air, squawking lazily before alighting in tall palm trees whose fronds come in every colour imaginable. Your boots have sunk into the pastel sand, and you wonder if you’re having a FEVER-DREAM, because this place looks every bit like something Dr. Seuss would have dreamed up. You stand there  a w e s t r u c k  for quite some time, before you hear a familiar laugh coming up behind you. IT’S HIM; he’s sun-kissed already ( you don’t know how he does it ), and he grabs your hand and drags you off the beach, laughing and saying something about a local pub that you’ve just GOT to try. You’ve always liked your whiskey and your gin and your scotch, but you like HIM even more, and when his fingers lace between yours like your hands were meant to be joined in precisely this way, you almost blurt it out again. But you check the impulse and instead romp up the beach after him, laughing and kicking up sand, and the way your heart feels SO LIGHT in your chest is a prospect you find equal parts thrilling and TERRIFYING.

iii.

          You’ve been inviting him back to your office more and more, now; you like to listen to him talk, like to watch him do anything, really––––and he seems to like your company, too. You share your scotch with him and he laughs at your silly little jokes, your best attempts at humour. You’re no longer ‘sir’ to him, except in jest; you’re not even KEELER any more:  you’re Sören, and you’ve never liked your name as much as you do when he’s the one saying it. 

          And perhaps unsurprisingly, it isn’t long before shy touches and sidewise glances become something FAR LESS INNOCENT. He sneaks up to your office one day and sits you on the desk, teasing your legs apart with his broad, gentle hands; he holds you close against him before kissing a slow, teasing line down, down, down––––down your slender torso, past your narrow waist, your powerful thighs. You tremble from head to toe, your hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt, tugging shyly at his hair. This time when you beg, it’s because YOU WANT MORE, more of his soft, warm mouth wrapped around you, more of that  t h i n g  he does with his hands, that thing that makes you see stars behind your closed eyes. You come quickly, crying out in your mother tongue, stopping just short of a confession to him, an admission of the depth and breadth of what you’ve begun to feel for him. Because you know it for what it is, now, and although you’re TERRIFIED of the implication, for once in your life, you decide to throw caution to the wind.

iv. 

          Your twenty-fifth birthday comes and goes without fanfare. You’ve been hard at work for MONTHS ON END, now, and it’s beginning to take its toll on you. You’re looking more and more exhausted with each passing day, the circles under your eyes growing more pronounced––––if anyone cares enough to notice, that is; most of them DON’T. And then one day, you’re feeling PARTICULARLY down, like perhaps you’re getting sick in the bad way again, because every single fibre of your being is  a c h i n g  with a fatigue too dreadful to put into words. You drift from your desk to the little couch shoved away in the corner of your office and, shivering, curl up into the tiniest little ball that you can, closing your eyes and hoping for some semblance of sleep to grant you even an hour’s relief from this discomfort.

          And while sleep doesn’t come, HE DOES; it’s like he’s got a sixth sense about you. You can feel your lips quivering when he lets himself in and makes a beeline for your tiny form. He scoots you over gently, then tucks up next to you, stroking your hair, rubbing your back. He tells you stories, talks to you gently until you’ve stopped SHAKING WITH PAIN. You lose track of how long has passed––––you even urge him to leave, to go take care of himself, because he must be tired, too, but he WON’T; he insists on staying right here with you and on holding you just like this, your face pressed against the nape of his neck, his strong arms wrapped around you, holding you close.

          There’s a stinging in your eyes; your lips tremble, HEART POUNDING in your chest. You ache so badly from the desire to tell him, but you don’t, because this is the only good thing you have in your life, and you’d rather continue on with him not knowing, than tell him and scare him away. Perhaps that means he’ll NEVER know, but you’d rather bear that pain than the pain of loss; at least one of these you know you can handle.

v.

          You’ve always found him beautiful, but he’s absolutely BREATHTAKING like this, bathed in the early morning sunlight that comes drifting into your little hotel room through an open window, curtains dancing lazily in the warm springtime breeze. His hair is messy and tangled, eyes at half-mast, a soft, gentle smile tugging his lips up at the corners as he presses the tip of his nose against yours. The both of you lie where you’d fallen the night before, a mess of tangled limbs and tangled sheets, sore and spent in the best of ways and naked as the day you were born. Outside, there’s a LITTLE CHICKADEE twittering away in the treetops, and you can’t help but giggle at its call:  chicka-dee-dee-dee-dee, hey-sweetie, hey-sweetie. You lean in and whisper in his ear that it’s your favourite bird, ask him if he can hear it call out ‘hey-sweetie, hey-sweetie.’ He strokes your cheek and says that he can.

          And for awhile, the two of you lie there in perfect silence, wholly immersed in the moment and in EACH OTHER, his fingers tracing the contours of your cheekbone, of your jawline, tucking locks of your wavy hair behind your ear. You BREAK THE SILENCE FIRST; your voice is low and tremulous when you do. You tell him that YOU’RE GOING TO BREAK HIS HEART SOMEDAY, because you’ve always come with an expiry date, and he shouldn’t get any closer because he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you, and you don’t want to hurt him. He holds you even closer, then, cups your tearstained cheeks in his hands and kisses you fiercely; when he pulls back, his eyes are glassy, too. He tells you he ISN’T GOING ANYWHERE, that he’s known for a long time that you’ll break his heart, and HE ISN’T AFRAID; he wants to love you all the more while he still can. Because he does love you, and he wants you to know that, do you know it, Sören, do you believe me when I say it?

          Your breath catches in your throat. Your fingers are digging into his arms so tightly that your nails have left half-crescent imprints there; you aren’t even aware of it. For a moment, TIME SEEMS TO STAND STILL. The breeze blows the curtains back gently, dances across your skin. Outside, the tree branches bend and wave, the sunrise painting the sky in a breathtaking palette of vibrant colour. It seems as if the whole world is waiting with bated breath, just like he is, to see how you’ll reply.

          I love you, you say, exhaling it on a soft breath, one you’ve been holding for SO LONG without even realising it until its familiar weight is gone from your chest. He pulls you in a close embrace, kisses you deeply, whispers your name like it’s a PRAYER. You count his heartbeats, each and every one, memorise the feel of his body pressed against yours, and in that moment you decide that if you can bring this man even one iota of the joy he’s brought you, then yours will have been A LIFE WORTH LIVING.

          Outside your window, high up in the treetop, the little chickadee twitters away once more. Hey-sweetie, hey-sweetie, chicka-dee-dee-dee-dee-dee. 

[telestiial-blog]

LATE BUT ❤ for the five times meme ovo

❤  five times my muse says they don’t love yours, and the one time they admit it.

i. He just had a fight with that lover of his and he seeks company on this man he has met not that long ago but that apparently is always there whenever he needs to talk to someone--- or to just stay in silence but not alone. Eliott is great company when Thomas is barely present, always too caught up in work to pay attention to his younger lover, although Jules is beginning to think that gentleness does not form part of the Commander’s nature. If he were even a little bit more like Eliott--- well, but he doesn’t love Eliott, he loves Thomas.

ii. He is laughing at the most stupid joke he heard in the longest time and he wonders how can this man spill so much bullshit with a serious face... when Eliott’s poker face cracks to give away the phantom of a smile, and Jules can almost swear his heart made a funny pirouette inside his chest... but this is not the man he loves, so that just had to be a mistake.

iii. He is now Phobos, and this is now Porthos. It’s been a long time since they used their real names outside of the security of their well deserved intimacy that they had been working on for so many months, almost years; they are immerse in this friendship that no one else can get in the middle of, that no one can interrupt, taint or damage in any way... unless it’s them the ones doing the damage. Most specifically Jules, when he had bottled enough shit to explode in an ocean of pure violence and obscenity that crashes its waves on the land that is Eliott. We hurt the most those we love the most... but the gentle giant remains gentle even when he is being insulted and attacked, never losing that softness he seems to have an endless supply of -for when he touches his friend, he turns into a trembling man again, when there was a beast now the fangs fall along with the tears and Phobos is just Jules, clinging at Eliott’s arms, to hours after tell himself the way he was feeling about him was just the weakness of the moment.

iv. He sits on that lap that seemed to have been shaped for him when the commander enters the room they are all having lunch in. It doesn’t matter much of anything, whether it bothers those that are around them, or whether it makes it hard to think, they will kiss each other tenderly while pretending love that isn’t there... or that he is so sure doesn’t exist. And in the middle of his acting -he just wants to make Cook jealous and Porthos never refused the idea, always playing along with Phobos’ games-, he thinks how good it would be if he loved Eliott instead of Thomas... but he is quick to tell himself that’s not possible.

v. He is about to break. That is exactly how he feels: fragile, vulnerable, holding a heavy heart filled with secrets he have to keep from spilling but that will eventually break his back--- and his spirit. Because he can’t help to want to kiss more each time his lips meets Eliott’s, or cry each time he looks so divine and handsome that he cannot contain this storm unleashing inside of his chest. He is a miserable man for wanting to deny the most painfully obvious thing... but he fears rejection. Sometimes selfishness is the only way, he tells himself as he gives himself to that man in front, already inside and all around him, holding Porthos’ hand and being completely honest with himself. Those three little words are too heavy on him yet he’s terrified of voicing them, but he is taking the first step and admitting it to himself first. He loves Eliott. 

[sylentee]

Somewhere on the ship, Erebus’ heart breaks, feeling like someone has just said something very hurtful.