harsh drone

Distraction

First Part: Brave
Second Part: Breathing Space                                                           Third Part: Plotting                                                                        Fourth Part: New Arrangement                                                       Fifth Part: Spinning

Part 6 in my developing Roman/Virgil University!AU

Tag List: @extremepenguin10@interstellarroadkill@jadorefreedom@flowersheep@helpimafangirlposts@imthenewproxy @isnt-that-wizard@panicitssammyanddean@serenity0092@ekkosoundspn@datonerougecookeh@intriguedslytherin@squashymoon-wink @thatdamfangirl12 @artidan@queensire@softbludemon @hopefullyalways @lucky-clover-cannot-hear-you@phanandothertrash @saltequeen @smiles-and-fandoms@faydedtruely@justanotherpurplebutterfly@thisimmortalnerd@dinohunter5904 @pippa-frost@viva-la-nordics @invisibleninjah@usernamestakewaytooeffinglong@scouttheoneandonly@cutecatwhiskers @xix-leiloves-xix@musicphanpie-b@shipperofallthings-vk @v-blue-writer@protaganope@onehundredphans @theatrenerd273 @phantom-opera@memelovingsun @huffletough@axapanda53@musiclover152002@pies-cakes-and-gays @silver-owl413@ninja-kitty-more-like-no@cup-of-blue @crazymadredfox @eternal-sanders@deafchildcrossing @thisimmortalnerd@holdnarrytight@anxiousdepressedkid @fancifulfox @gracefullyinsanedancingunicorn@breckein-blog @irish-newzealand-idian-dutch @finding-flanders @broadwaytheanimatedseries

Also on ao3 here


“I could kiss-”

“I could kiss-”

“I could kiss-”

There are only a few possible ways that sentence could end. Virgil knows this. So, as his legs nearly buckle as he sits on the couch, and Logan and Patton go to playfully bicker over the portions of pasta, Virgil tries to list all scenarios. He scrabbles for a piece of paper and luckily finds a notebook and pen just within reach. He takes a breath and tries to think like Logan. Grounded. Calm. (…ish). What is logical? He starts writing, thoughts spooling out faster than his handwriting can keep up with: 

“I could kiss … ?”

“I could kiss myself.”= unlikely. Also impossible??

“I could kiss Logan.”

“I could kiss Patton.”

^??? I mean… possible but… but. He said my name before right? Virgil, I could kiss… he was talking to me right? RIGHT? So. so maybe it’s… maybe…

“I could kiss you.”

^I mean, that sounds… correct? You as in me. So… he was going to say he could kiss me? He could have kissed me. Do I want that- yes. Yes. That was quick. shitfuckshit

“What on earth are you doing?”

Keep reading

10:15PM

It’s Saturday night, just past ten. Rain - harsh against windows, the flat. Something that should be calming - bed, cigarettes and records kind of weather. 

The bedroom - Matty, Penelope, restless. A half empty bottle of wine, now spilling across floorboards, scattered cigarettes. Sheets - a mess, tangled around bodies. Giggles emitting, entertained sounds. 

Play fighting - Penelope, on top, straddling his torso. Wine stained lips - dulcet sounds, laughs when he tries to throw her off. Fingers - curled around his wrists, teeth tugging at metal, indigo flickering over him. 

Swollen lips - prior kisses, marks fading to cool shades, his neck. Fingers - pulling away from his, leaning back. Indigo alight - “That black belt isn’t doing much for you now, is it?”

Beckoning - with both hands, that kind of classic ‘hit me’ boxer stance, hit me, she tells him. A sadistic kind of smirk he knows all too well. Familiar. 

A laugh - shaking his head, fingers through his hair, stray strands that had fallen in his eyes. A sigh - “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, darling - these hands weren’t made for fighting.”  

She rolls her eyes at that, lips curving more, leaning back down. Lips - brushing his, almost scornful - “What were they made for then?” 

Eyes - holding indigo, lips pursed in mock thought, fingers gripping her thighs. Penelope - expectant, loose curls, his face. Fingers - scrambling up her thighs, her ribs, enticing loud sounds - shrieks infused with giggles.  

He had her on her back in seconds - curls, falling loose from her hair tie, tangled with sheets, tshirt ridden up, skin on skin. A wicked kind of smirk, “Would you like a demonstration?” 

Fingers - trailing back down, her hips, inside of her thighs. Focus - on him, a smile, lower lip caught between her teeth. Not attempting to move, he cocks his head, a teasing sort of lithe - “Is this a surrender, Penelope?”

Indigo - flashing at that, a hiss of - “Never, Matthew.”

Darting up - mouth aiming for his neck, his hand, her throat. Misjudgment - her mouth. A sudden sound - between a whimper, a squeal. Hands covering her mouth, leaning down towards her thighs. 

Matty - an immediate flood of worry, guilt curdling, his stomach. Gravitating to her, quickly - “Alright, love? Let me see.” 

No answer, shaking her head. Guilt - doubling, rushing from his stomach, filtering out. Fingers, his hand - along her back, striving for comfort, silent apologies, soft kisses - her bare shoulder, where his tshirt was hanging off. Over and over - gentle repetitions. Mumbles, against skin - “Baby, let me see. Was an accident, I’m sorry.”

Waiting - giving her a few seconds, still no answer. Shifting - hands gentle, trying to coax hers away from her face. She pushes him away, and he sighs - impatience beginning to bubble. 

“Don’t be nasty. Said it was a fucking accident, Penelope. Let me see.” 

Eventually - indigo catches him again, a bit glazed. Red - blood, her lip, chin. Teeth - her lip, when his hand collided. 

Quiet - a moment or two, the rain harsh, drone of the telly echoing. Air - thick mixed feelings, nonrhythmic heartbeats. Matty - something other than guilt surging. Familiar. 

Fingers - slightly shaky, her lips, collecting blood - smearing red. Feeling - short breaths, warm air. His other hand - fingers curling, the back of her neck, closer.

Her breath - his lips, soft kisses, moving to her jaw, kisses following. Trailing - red, smeared. Apologies - mumbles of ‘sorry’ between kisses, echoing into skin. 

Penelope - shoulders trembling, face hidden - burrowing into his neck, and he thinks she’s crying. Guilt - spiraling stronger, gentles kisses to her head, shushing her. He thinks it’s odd - knowing he hasn’t hit her that hard, knowing she wasn’t one to cry over a little blood. 

It takes him a few minutes - noticing the lack of heat on his skin, tears. And the more he listens the more he realises the soft sounds resemble her giggles more than crying. Confusion - pulling back, laughs - louder. A questioning look - eyes flickering over glazed indigo, red lips, blood. 

Penelope - leaning closer, lips, his lips - warmth. Before - a whisper of, “sucker.”

A twinge of pain, shooting. Penelope - a harsh pinch to his inner thigh, sensitive skin. Eliciting - a low hiss, hands making a grab for her. But - shes already gone. Giggles echoing - following her out of the room.  And - he’s off after her, nearly slipping on the split wine. 

Down the hallway -  “Oi, get back here!” 

The slam of the front door - reverberating around the living room walls. Where he stalls - George, some new girl he was interested in, the sofa, telly.  Glancing over at George - watching with mild interest, rather than his girl, confusion, a hint of concern. 

“Little bitch pinched me and ran off,” - in form of explanation, following her out of the flat, front door left ajar. 

George - a shrug, picking out a toffee from the pack of Revels between them, offering it to her, knowing they were her favourites, eyes shifting back to the telly, Doctor Who. 

“You get used to it.” 

Explanation - highlighted by Penelope’s squeals, giggles. Somewhere in the hallway outside, Matty catching her. And George can only faintly make out, a snide comment. 

“You’re about to see exactly what I can do with a belt, baby.”  

And George shakes his head, only hiring up the telly. Typical. 

Dance It Out

A/N: This is just a little something something that I thought of one day. I submitted a request for it to @imaginingcriminalminds but I decided to just write it myself. Basically, you are dancing with your headphones in while wearing your underwear and the team barges in because they believe that you are an unsub’s target and then Hotch can not seem to take his eyes off of you.


Some days, being a teacher was hard. No, every day was hard. With 25 kids in your class, all hyper and youthful, with a seemingly limitless supply of energy, you were exhausted every single day. But it was worth it. It was worth all of the pain and suffering that you endured day after day, just to be given the chance to teach the innocent children that you dealt with.

Sometimes, you just kind of had to let loose. You were very good looking and fit, especially for somebody in their early thirties. You always had a passion for dancing, but not real, competitive dancing, no, you loved to just dance like no one was watching. On Fridays you often frequented bars and clubs in your area and you would spend the entire night just dancing.

Unfortunately, today is a Wednesday. Wednesday is a school night so there is absolutely no chance that you are going out tonight. Still, you danced. Nothing could really stop you from dancing. Maybe that is one of the reasons why you liked it so much: there were no rules, it was always just do whatever feels right.

When you got home, you immediately stripped yourself of your clothes. At lunch, a boy had spilled applesauce on your shirt and at craft time, a girl had poured glitter all over your pants as she missed her card that lay on the table several inches away from you. You immediately pulled your shirt off, choosing not to have to live with the crusty applesauce stain splashed across the front of it. Then you slipped off your pants, you did not want to have to stare at glitter again until the next day when craft time resumed and you undoubtedly would become glitterized again. It left you naked except for your underwear. You opted not to change or add any more clothes. This was your own house after all. That is the beauty in living alone: if you want to walk around in nothing but your underwear, nobody is there to stop you.

You strutted into your kitchen and opened the fridge, you allowed the cold air to flow slowly out and surround your skin. The sting of the cold felt good after the hot, sweaty day that you had, running around all over the school. You grabbed a water bottle and a yogurt, then closed the fridge back up again. You set your food and water on the counter and went to fetch your phone. Once you had your phone with you, you put your favorite playlist on shuffle and put your headphones into your ears. Then you turned the music up really loud, blocking out the harsh monotonous droning of the world that rest beyond the comfortable, shielding walls of your home.

You peeled off the foil lid of your yogurt and grabbed a spoon from the silverware drawer, taking your first bite. You slipped your phone into the waistband of your underpants.Then, you started to dance. It was slow at first, as you adjust to the beat of the music, but you soon became swaying frantically in time with the music, jumping up and down, twirling in circles where you stood, all while holding the yogurt in your hand and simultaneously eating it.

You danced merrily through your kitchen, stuck in your own mind, blocked off from everything else by the music that pounded in your ears. It was because of that that you did not hear them announce themselves at your door. You did not hear the knock or the words that they shouted. But you did  notice when they barged into your home. You were terrified and embarrassed. It was understandable to be both of those things, though, for three strangers had come rushing into your home, guns drawn, while you were dancing in your underwear.

The first person to enter the house was a dark, good looking man. He had a small amount of facial hair and a bald head. He was noticeably very strong, with very large muscles, and wore causal pants and a dark green tee shirt. You noticed the vest that he wore, titling him as FBI. He barely registered the fact that you were only wearing your underwear. He acknowledged your location and then moved onto the next room, shouting “Clear!” as he went through your house.

The person that followed the man was a woman. She had short, dark hair that was pulled into a ponytail and was obviously very pretty. She wore a three quarter length purple shirt and nice pants. Just like the first person, that rushed into your home, she barely acknowledged you before moving in the opposite direction of the dark toned man and shouting the same word.

Finally, the third person that entered was another man. He walked in with an air of such nonchalance that he was obviously the leader of the group. He wore a nice dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, nice work slacks, and casual leather work shoes. You could not help but not how handsome he was. This man had strong features and muscles that you could see underneath his shirt and vest, pulling at the fabrics. His hair was clean cut, furthering his appearance as the leader and boss. Instead of searching through your house like the others had done, he went straight to you.

The handsome man introduced him as SSA Agent Aaron Hotchner. He explained to you that he and his team, the BAU, believed that you were to be the next target of a killer that was raping and murdering female teachers that dealt particularly well with young kids. It was a lot to take in and you nearly forgot the fact that you were still wearing only your underwear.

But then, you noticed the attractive leader was looking you up and down. It was obvious he was trying to refrain from doing so but he was struggling. You blushed a dark crimson color, an attractive guy was checking you out in your underwear. This was definitely not how you expected your evening to go.

Agent Hotchner tried to keep his gaze focused on your face but he kept finding his eyes lingering on your body. You found that you liked the way his eyes sweeped over you, taking you all in. His sharp features combined with his soft gaze made you shiver. He asked you pressing question after pressing question, until he eventually cleared his throat. “Oh, I am sorry Miss. y/l/n. Would you like to put something on?” You almost did not want your little game with the man to end but you nodded nonetheless and made your way into the bedroom, making sure to sway your hips  a little more than usual as he watched you exit your kitchen.

An hour later, you were sitting in a conference room with Agent Hotchner. His team was working diligently to protect you and the other vulnerable women of the city. He made small talk with you but you could swear that his eyes were still jetting along your body, tracing their way along your long, smooth legs.

When you went back into your room to change, you purposefully chose clothes that were a little bit more revealing than normal but not so much that it seemed you were trying. You wore a navy blue, tight fitting tank top that hugged your curves and short jean shorts that were cut off mid thigh. Before you left, you threw on your little black ballet flats.

Now the two of you were awaiting the call from the rest of the BAU members, informing you that you  were now safe from the malevolent man that had targeted you. You waited anxiously, nervously bouncing your right leg up and down as it was crossed over  your left leg. You could tell that Aaron was antsy about the outcome of what came from the other end of the call. Finally, after what felt like millions and millions of years, the phone rang and Aaron immediately answered it. He nodded and said “Uh huh.” a number of times before he hung up without even a goodbye. He relayed the glorious outcome to you.

You smiled widely, glad that you were safe. Without thinking, you gave Aaron a broad hug and he pulled you into a happy, victorious embrace. When you pulled out of the hug, your gaze met his and your eyes were trapped together for a long moment before you mustered enough confidence, gathering all of the temerity that you had left in you, and stepped away from him.

He seemed greatly disappointed by the fact that you had not gone any farther but he respected you and said nothing. You walked to your purse and pulled out a tiny notebook paper and a pen. You scribbled down the ten digits that formed your phone number and handed it to him with a grin.

“I have noticed you looking at me.” you said “if you call me, you can look at me some more.” you winked at the handsome man in front of you. He smiled at you and blushed a little at the fact that you acknowledged his staring.

“Yeah.” he said “You know, I really liked looking at you.”

He took the paper with your phone number on it and stuffed it into one of his pockets.

That night you got a call from one Agent Aaron Hotchner. It was the first of a long list of calls to that man. In the end, you decided you were definitely glad that you never changed out of your underwear and that you just danced it out.

Performance 2

12/12/14
Trashpad
Poète Maudit

Simple set-up. Touch drone synth, 3 pedals, amp.
Built a heavy, constant layer, then played drones over it. Harsh drones. Breathing techniques. Soft vocalizations.
Walked into the crowd, shared the instrument. Gathered everyone I could in a circle and used their hands.
Walked back and set up a bigger wall.
Let it run.
Shut it off.
Roughly 10 minutes.

Waiting in the Wings pt. 1

I wrote this as a tiny AU that I intend to come back to and update until I feel like it’s come to an end. So, with that in mind, I give you the first installment of my Guardian Angel!Sam AU (endgame sambucky).

Part: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4

Oof.

When he opens his eyes he sees stars. And not the metaphorical kind that falling from such a height probably should’ve sent flying into his field of vision. Nope. He sees actual stars. The glowing orbs humans wish on nightly; his home. They’re so much prettier from afar. He can almost appreciate them better this way. He actually makes himself a little homesick just looking at them so long.

Sam sighs and gathers himself from the forest floor. He hates coming down to Earth sometimes. Aside from being pulled from family, transitioning from metaphysical to corporeal is no fun. As powerful as angels are, they still haven’t derived a method for getting to Earth that doesn’t involve plummeting and hurting all over. So, they drop from the sky like meteors, burning in the atmosphere just the same.

“You think they’d have figured it out after eons, but no. ‘Respond in a timely manner,’ my ass.” Sam huffs and brushes leaves from his arms and back, grumbling to himself as he goes about his business. He tilts his head over his shoulder to look back at his wings and frowns. He’s going to be grounded for at least an hour.  It’s been a while since he’s flown and his wings are a little worse for wear.

Who knew angels had to preen their wings too?

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