12 Works by selfetish
Listing Works
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in the eye of the beholder by selfetish
Fandoms: SPY x FAMILY (Manga), SPY x FAMILY (Anime)
15 Jul 2024
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“Did you read the onboarding papers?” You didn’t, did you?
“Yes, sir.” No.
Yor is hopeless. If a small insignificant lie such as this is enough to make her sweat and squirm in humiliation, Twilight surmises, just imagine the fumbles during fieldwork. What was Handler thinking when she recruited Yor? Surely, it wasn’t for her acting, nor her attention span. He had heard it a dozen times from Handler’s mouth—“She knows what it means to survive, Twilight”—and by now, one would think he’d gotten the memo with how much she was drilling it into his head.
Twilight, though normally a quick learner, could not fathom Handler’s words as he scrutinized Yor’s face. Brows plucked. Mascara smudged under her waterline. Lips pink and glossed. When he thinks about those fifteen minutes wasted on personal vanity, an irrational rage overtakes him.
Lessons in drama, empathy, and upper-class conditioning taught by a jaded spy.
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show me your chest on mine by selfetish
Fandoms: SPY x FAMILY (Manga), SPY x FAMILY (Anime)
20 Jun 2024
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“I haven’t made some terrible mistake, have I?” she laments, voice nearly breaking as he lays her down on the mattress, head supported by his open hand.
Silver tears spill and pool at her clavicles. And maybe he understands. She is twenty-eight and she will never be soft. She is still grieving the woman she should have been just as Rowan is sixteen—will be sixteen forever—and Twilight grieves a childhood so short-lived.
An active imagination and late night contemplations.
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Ash closes his eyes. Years of waiting culminate in weightless dust, soon to be swept away by the living. This earthen smell will fade. It will be overtaken by home-cooked meals and citron peels. Silence will forsake to Sunday radio static and the slow turnings of a page. Behind curtains, it’ll be the push and pull of their noses as they love each other sore, cutting into the pristine sheet of white starlight.
Slowly, they’ll imprint this house until it has become theirs. Ash waits for that day.
Or, the steps to remedy a fragile soul.
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Twilight called to her softly, called again to stir her. She could only sigh.
A hand slid from her back, up to her side, trailing to trace the curve of her face. Twilight hesitated. Yor pushed herself against him as if to feel for pressure, for validation that this warmth was his. The grip on his shirt loosened when she was sure that she had made it home. After a deep breath, Twilight stroked her jaw, coaxing her to spare him a look—just one—to know that all was right.
All was not right.
A wife in tatters.
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“Yor.” She screwed her eyes shut and gripped the lapels of his suit jacket tight. Yor would be good. She resisted that primal urge to jerk her arm, kick her leg. “Yor?” She would be good.
Yor craned her head upward and peered through a kaleidoscope. One Loid, three Loids, five—every single one of them peering at her, into her, beyond her. Her lips parted as she traced the movement of Loid’s hand on her back, brazenly turning skin into gilt down the bend of her spine. She tried her very hardest not to gasp.
“It’d be best if you turned around,” he started, cool as ever, “so I can zip your dress up.”
A girl in waiting finally in motion.
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Ash Lynx was the sort of cool that oozed Schlitz and lemon-lime seltzers. Was the sort of rad that left Tootsie wrappers and denim under the soles of his Converse wherever he stepped. He was as smart as an apple in the way that he was both street and pillow fluent, and that he didn’t need to rely on his trigger fingers to rip and tear. Was cruel, calculating. Always on target. Always one shot, one kill. He was Ashie on the weekends, Aslan Jade behind closed doors. He was as bitter as sumatra beans, sweet as molasses once you got to know him physically, emotionally, spiritually.
To many, Ash Lynx was a conniving bastard. Tortured genius. Stone cold fox.
To Eiji, boyish.
Stories from Apartment 705 on 59th Street.
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“I like being with you.” No holds barred. “You’re my buddy. You’re my pal. You deserve to hear it sometimes.” Eiji lolled his head to AJ's side, resting on his shoulder. “I feel like myself when I’m with you. I mean, who else will listen to me rant about the snooty dog piles I see on Architectural Digest?”
“That all I am to you? You goon.” He playfully pushed Eiji’s head off of him. He unfurled from his shelled position and melted into the cushions, staring up with a grin on his face. He laughed as he stared at their reflections on the disco ball. “Look at us. Two young stallions, rambunctious rapscallions, lonely on Valentine’s Day and pouring their hearts out to each other. Damn. It’s sad.”
“There’s gotta be some kinda subtext I’m not picking up on.”
“Exactly what I was thinking.”
He blinked slowly. “So, anything you’d like to confess to me, AJ?”
Friendship expressed through vellum drafts and sales pitches.
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His fingers look pretty up close, so slender and knobby at the knuckles. Each of his nails are cut in neat ellipses and blush the faintest of pinks. Ash would call them delicate, but the pads of his fingers on his jaw feel terribly rough and calloused— probably from the fiberglass of his pole or reckless burns from a stove. But they hold the same charm as when they handle cameras and tend to every inch of him with meticulous care and considerate deftness. He almost leans into his touch. Almost.
Everything is tended to, even the tiniest of parts. His eyelids, the dip of his cupid’s bow, curve of his brow and his ears. He caresses his helices and behind them as if they were seashells he had plucked from gilded sand. He wipes his cheek steadfastly, enough to erase the freckles dotting there.
Ash feels completely and utterly bare.
Ash walks home, and dreams, and loves.
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“Let’s stay a while longer. Please,” Ash whispers, moving his pinky so that it touches the knit of Eiji’s mitten. It’s enough to excite him.
“Don’t you think your trick to get me to hold your hand is a little outdated?” Eiji takes his right mitten off and interlaces his fingers with Ash’s.
“You’ll freeze,” he says. Despite his warnings, he silently wishes he doesn’t let go. Eiji feels like home. Ash squeezes Eiji’s hand like he’d disappear forever if they part, that he’d fall into the interdimensional space and never experience this cloyingly intimate moment ever again.
Ash and Eiji conjure up a blizzard.
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It’s three AM. Ash is convinced he’s asleep. He pinches his leg, once, twice, and feels the pangs of reality reassuring him that his feelings had been reciprocated.
“Hypothetically speaking, if I were to kiss you right now—"
“Does it always have to be hypothetical?” Eiji groans.
“No." Ash smiles. “No, it doesn’t.”
Ash realizes diners aren't so tacky after all.
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“How romantic,” chirps Eiji, tilting his weight into Ash’s palm. “A kiss in the rain.”
“Check that one off your bucket list?” Ash jokes.
“Almost.” Oh. He’s serious. “Gene Kelly had an umbrella. And he knew how to sing and dance.”
Ash and Eiji ditch a gallery party to fulfill their cliché, chick-flick dreams.
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“I can’t believe you. I planned the day out, baked you a nice chocolate cake from a box, and this is what I get,” grumbles Eiji, though he’s not serious by the way he innocently pecks him square on the mouth. Ash smirks against his lips, wrapping his arms around him as Eiji plants purposely wet smooches there over and over again. “Angry birthday, Ash. Angry, because I’m not happy.”
Ash forgets his own birthday.
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