Feb 25, 2023
I JUST WANT TO STAY IN THAT LAVENDAR HAZE
a tw.iyo.r edit for @scythed ♡
seen from Russia
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from Brazil
seen from Australia
seen from Mexico
seen from Mexico
seen from Mexico
seen from Australia
seen from Australia
seen from Netherlands
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Japan
seen from Russia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Germany
I JUST WANT TO STAY IN THAT LAVENDAR HAZE
a tw.iyo.r edit for @scythed ♡
stiles is hesitant at best when @scythed has him sit down at the kitchen table with his eyes closed. ( last time he did that, he opened them to a dead squirrel on his bed. he liked the sentiment, but it’s made him more cautious with blindly agreeing to her directions. ) upon being prompted, he drops his hands and is met with the sight of possibly the worst birthday cake he’s ever seen, illegible handwriting and wax melted onto the unevenly spread icing. but a smile spreads on his face without a beat missed, standing from his seat and pulling her in for a close embrace. ❝ thank you, ❞ he mutters into the crook of her neck, pressing a kiss to the tender area. ❝ no wish necessary. ❞
startercall ✧ . yor forger ( @scythed ) ft. loid forger , accepting
while the forger household winds down for bed, twilight makes quick and grisly work of extracting one last bullet fragment over a bathroom sink, ignoring the uneasy churn in his stomach when he digs a hooked needle through the angry flesh. the stitches are sloppy and syncopated, but enough to stay the bleeding, he thinks; efficiency eludes him where the buzz and flare of fluorescent light is deemed just as unbearable as the task at hand. he's too eager to turn them off, showers the mess and fatigue of a day's work away guided by moonglow and memory alone.
within the briefcase, thrown gracelessly onto his reading chair, latex and body paint waits for a second dressing. he hasn't the energy for it tonight, opts for a long-sleeved sleep set instead; in a dark navy color to soak up any blots of red, should he knick the stitches by morning or fail to keep his laundry out of yor's reach. frankly, it's the injury that concerns him least. headache, nausea, sensitivity : he knows what that spells, and knows it's the beating that was taken ( " from a burly pro wrestler, who refused to get his shots " ) that's keeping him awake tonight -- even if all he wants is to sleep.
soundless footfalls make their way past yor and anya's bedrooms, and, unsurprisingly, bond is found in the living room, curled up on the couch he told him to get down from at least a thousand times before. ( to no avail, clearly. ) twilight sits beside him with a relenting sigh and single pat on the head, then empties out a puzzle on the coffee table as quietly as he can, to pass the time as much as to self-monitor his cognition. on a bad day, it might have taken him five minutes to get through, but on a bad night, his focus can hardly piece the borders together, and he's unsure if it speaks to the severity of his concussion so much as his failures. idle, in the quiet, it's all he can think about.
in all his years, this was the closest he'd ever gotten to not only having his operation blown, but his secret cover, too. he was lucky to be alive; lucky to still have a home to even come to. he knows bad luck isn't to blame for a close call though. all of it could have been avoided if he hadn't made the decision to take a bullet instead of a shot. ( why did you hesitate ? ) he stopped asking himself that question the moment he stepped through the door, too relieved to find his peace was no longer in jeopardy; here, he stops asking again, the moment the answer turns on a light. ❛❛ yor, i-- ❜❜ he squints and frowns, too aware again of the swelling around and behind his eye. ❛❛ i hadn't meant to wake you. sorry, could you maybe dim those down a little ? ❜❜
continued . . . ✧. from here : yor forger ( @scythed )
the proverbial w.i.s.e. handbook certainly doesn't offer solutions for what to do when your fake wife inquires about another ( dearly departed ) fake wife. the only tell that loid had been caught off guard by the question is the faintest nervous twitch in his jaw; not because he didn't have an answer ( an agent wouldn't have made it this far without anticipating every question ) but because he couldn't deduce the reason she'd ask it in the first place.
( the last thing operation strix needs is for her to start suspecting my first marriage was a sham too. could that be what camilla was going on about ? yor seemed upset by the discussion when i got there. )
eyes still fixed on the traffic, loid turns a corner off the main road, contriving a less congested route home, and treads the conversation with the same ease of direction. ❛❛ i was still completing my residency then. our hospital was much smaller, always short-staffed, so i'd work longer hours, and didn't usually have the chance. ❜❜ the lie comes naturally enough, but the need to effectively kill this topic demands further improvisation. ❛❛ . . . if i did, she'd still be here. ❜❜
the widower card is not one he pulls lightly, but he found any sob story dissuaded most from ever bringing up his dead wife again. even so, it was difficult to pretend at emotions he couldn't even begin to understand. love and marriage were things an agent couldn't ever imagine for himself, and while loss wasn't an entirely foreign concept, necessity bade those feels to be locked up in capsule and buried deep under concrete too. he calls to mind other ghosts in the stead of a beloved: three soldiers, a mother, all the dead that surrounded him after his hometown was shelled. the memory strikes at something earnest and painful, but it still rises in his throat as a discomfort more than anything else when he finally continues.
❛❛ she was walking home from work when a bomb went off at the square she'd pass on the way. i was still at the hospital when they started rushing in with the survivors. i thought they called me into emergency for an extra set of hands, but . . . ❜❜ a red wash creeps in from the dash as the car crawls to a stop, and loid makes the mistake of looking over at yor. she trusted him. too much and too often. and he didn't deserve to have his deceit consistently met with her warm kindness.
now he hesitates to continue, not out of grief, but a sudden sense of shame that he hadn't felt since he was a boy. a boy who hated lying. who still wished he could take it back. but he swallows and wills himself to look ahead again to avoid her gaze as he presses on with wavering resolve: ❛❛ she, um . . . she died a few days later. ❜❜
🎞️ ext. nonverbal prompt ─ ft. twilight & yor @scythed : ( 16 )
a holiday party at camilla's wasn't exactly his idea of fun. . . but he supposed if it made yor happy to have him there, then for the sake of safeguarding the forger family's stability, he'd fish out a polished ensemble to match his festive green tie and don his most agreeable smile without protest. however, prudence would also bid him to take full advantage of the opportunity to meet the other city hall clerks. scope out who might reveal their discontent over one too many cocktails, and let sylvia know which prospects to approach in her search for a new informant.
upon their arrival, a hawkish blue gaze scans the faces in the room, and while he appears jovial and by all intents off-duty as he follows yor through their rounds of first greetings, he's matching detailed profiles to each guest. scrutinizing every word and inflection in the conversations held in the corners. it's why the sudden convivial clamor when they enter the dining area jars him. and why he hadn't thought to notice they'd just walked right into the most cliche trap known to man. dominic eggs it on from across the table :
don't think you can escape that mistletoe, forger ! if you don't kiss your wife, i'm reporting you to the secret police for crimes against christmas !
he looks up, and sure enough the sprig hangs precariously from a butcher's twine. it connotes a holiday jape meant to keep spirits entertained. ( but it'd be unwise to take that chance. he's a friend of yuri's. and could have been asked to test our legitimacy again. ) twilight knows what needs to be done. but loid hesitates when he looks to yor, searching for an out she'd be more comfortable with. but she does not wait for it. there's no wind left in him, no words that can take shape in the aftershock of a soft but powerful hand suddenly pushing him back against the spine of the entryway, determined to protect the ruse.
he feels a bruise already forming, the way a drop of cabernet soaks up in a napkin, and if he were an honest man, he'd say it's not so much a concern. he'd deign to admit that he's wondering, with gnawing anticipation -- when she leans in, when he watches her lips fall gently, when she's hovering close enough to breathe in her perfume and feel the heat from her cheeks -- if their kiss might taste like the color purple too. like mulled ports and sugar plums. like quiet nights and a whispered secret . . . but then their hostess pushes through, lugging a hot plate of karrage chicken and a scowl that shoots to kill.
how many times do i have to tell everyone to stop loitering here ! honey, they're not loitering. it's the mistletoe, i-- i don't care, dominic ! just move it ! . . . sorry, you two. do you mind if i --
MR. & MRS. FORGER ( ON SATURDAY FM ) ft. @scythed
📻 good morning, mr. & mrs forger ! you are now listening to 128.5 saturday fm. the sakura flowers are blooming. so go on ! grab your special someone, take a drive through park avenue, and enjoy another hour of commercial free music !