#i promise ill post here more once i keep drawing

[mimis9thcircle]

Lovers <3

[bisquuet]

hi! still alive! AN UPDATE: LONG READ :D no new devlin content since im focusing on my oc comic :( ( speaking of comics. remember that other comic i posted here like once and never talked about it again?? yeah.. ) - lets talk about that. will i ever go back to that comic? -yes, when? i don't know.. i realized i went into the comic very.. unprepared.. or less prepared than i thought i was. so it got me second guessing things and getting confused..!! i have a VAGUE idea of how I want it to go, or atleast i DID, now im not so sure.. I think i need to sit down, splurge out my thoughts and ideas and go from there,, now i technically have a WHOLE post that is done that was supposed to be dropped shortly after the first one. but i thought to myself, oh ill just work on the next update and once im halfway THEN ill drop the second one! i never got halfway. i ended up just sketching more up ahead and adjusting and ''fixing'' things in the second update. making me loose track of time and getting behind, not only i had school to deal with too! so i just have a LOT of storyboarding of pages...that im slighlty afraid of looking at cuz i know that ill want to fix it but ill be unmotivated to actually fix it.. (bad rawr!!) eventually i have to get to it..!! >< ANOTHER major factor of the delay was my confidence, i wasn't satisifed and even frustrated at times when something didnt come out as good as it did in my head. i REALLY like the first update pages! especially devlins scene! but i think i got too ahead of myself and put WAY too much onto my plate, raising expections, of others and myself, mostly myself.... and I was trying to copy to a manga style, rather than convert my style normally into a manga setting, if that makes any sense. so i wasnt.... 'comfortable' drawing.. i dont know how else to describe it! but ever since then and even before, ive been getting less confident with my art and my style, feeling like its ugly or its getting worse. forcing myself to keep drawing, straining myself trying to make something that looks good to me. i have lots of fun and joy drawing for others, the reason i draw is BECUZ i just want to share what i make! as shallow as it sounds i like creating content for others to enjoy! it makes me happy and proud of what i draw! so. when i make something i dont like, i cant bring myself to show it cuz I dont like it.. others may, but that wouldnt change how i would feel about it. i felt that way deeply with the second update, which is why i kept tweaking it,,, and so I just let myself get caught up with other things.. feeling upset and guilty that I kinda just.. abandonded the comic..! saying that ill pracitce and oh ill do that , i Need to do this and this and this when i havent even done ANYTHING! i think, and i genuinely mean this, i think ive only recently started to ACTUALLY do things.! like development for my OC comic, writing for it, making content and sharing about them to whoever would lend an ear! so in a way the seewar comic walked so that my OC comic could run, hopefully.. so, unfortunately ill be focsuing more of my attention on my OC comic, and i honestly can't promise anything. the only thing i CAN say is that i will share the second update that i finished long ago.., no matter how much internal rawr doesnt want to, i feel like thats the first step to overcoming this fear and dread ive associate with the comic, which is something i DONT want. ill be scheudling to drop this weekend since ill be away.. i dont know when ill actively start working on the seewar comic again becuz i genuinely want to finish it and share it, i just have to not be too ambitious and plan out whats necessary. anyways.. now that school is out im finally paying all of my debts and owed art.. its rough but it has to be done. thanks if you have read all of this,, i greatly appreacite the support, from friends and followers, fossils, (thats what my fans are called wink wink) love yall fr <3

[quinnonimp]

Please tell us more about your tntduo priest/vampire fic I am literally begging you

SORRY THIS IS SO FUCKING LATE LMFAO I NEVER CHECK MY INBOX i rly need to check more often i have so many asks fuck

but aaaa im so glad u wanna know more 👉👈

for once i dont rly have super many thoughts abt an au ? tbh ? like its been very difficult for me to come up with ideas since i dont know that much abt vampires n i dont know that much abt catholicism/christianity

a little of what ive had in mind so far though is cwil is this very lonely priest with no family left who took over the church for his late father - but doesnt actually believe in god all that much, just pretends for the sake of keeping something

then one night some mysterious guy shows up near closing hours and wilbur is already pretty scared for no other reason than just the vibes . they dont talk but after a while of wil staring the pretty guy just gives him a big smile and leaves

the mysterious guy is vampire cquackity, hes just here cause he was hiding away from a hunter (probably ctechno filling this role)

in this universe vampires arent particularly affected by religion itself but just weakened by faith . quackity couldnt feel anything coming from the church, so he assumed it was empty since it was late anyway . turns out there is someone there ! but it doesnt effect him, and quackity realizes the priest himself has no faith, and becomes very interested

because of this new found fascination quackity decides to come back at a similar hour every day, and luckily for him barely anyone is there on weekdays/past 6pm, so he doesnt have to worry about being weakened (and especially not for hunters since they wouldnt expect a vampire to be in a church) . wilbur and him still havent talked but quackity still has fun observing his behaviour, and wilbur just feels a teensy bit less lonely having someone come back so consistently and every single day while he closes

one day however when wilbur decides hes finally gonna talk to this guy, quackity isnt there, and wilburs so confused as to why he feels so sad about it . why does he miss the presence of this stranger hes never even talked to ? he spends the whole rest of the night distracted thinking about the mysterious guy

the next day at around 3-4am when wilbur enters the church to start his day, he sees the presence he missed so much yesterday

though wilburs not as happy as he should be, as the stranger is covered in blood next to a corpse and about to jump him

so yea idk ive been trying to work on the fic, hopefully i actually manage to get smth cool outta it and post it but we'll see !! for now im just drawing the blorbos

if anyone has extra ideas n whatnot or wanna ask more abt the au feel welcome to do so, i cant promise ill be very interesting but i will be very glad to answer lmao

[corvusunnx]

uhhh ig ill post my little fanfic and see how it goes

im obssessed with rain so i need to write about him. im already on the third chapter but i dont want to post everything all at once 😭

uh,, edited this bc i COMPLETELY FORGOT TO ALSO POST THE FIC HERE (under the cut)

Y/N's POV

i've been a sibling of sin as long as i can remember. copia took me in when i was young, raising me alongside other siblings. they've all helped me grow as a person, some more than others, but they all care about me, and i care about them just as much. one in particular, sister carie, has been nothing short of a mother for me. she's always been there for me and was always there to teach me what was best, and went easier on me than i've ever been towards myself.

"y/n! are you almost ready?" her voice passes through the cracks between the door and wall, a gentle knock rattling the door ever so slightly.

"almost! I promise I'll be out in a second!" i rush to change into my uniform, an elegant black and white outfit which resembles that of a nun. today's the day a new ghoul is summoned, and dew will finally become a fire ghoul. my heart pounds with excitement. once i rush out to the hall im greeted by the ever so kind and smiling face of carie. i look around, seeing brothers and sisters alike, walking through the halls, chatting about what they think the new ghoul will be like. the new water ghoul.

"I bet he'll be just like dew, charming and talented!"

"I wouldn't mind a tall water ghoul for once"

"do you think he'll be friendly?"

all sorts of guesses and questions fill the usually silent halls, echoing from the floors to the giant stained glass windows. the colors and pictures in the thick glass sparkle in a way that almost seems magical. i can never seem to get tired of them. carie takes my hand and leads me to a room that i've never been to before. it's dark once the two of us enter, not a window nor light hanging from the ceiling. the dim lighting from a few candles is all i see, carving out copia's face from the shadows. dew stands beside him, his back straightened and his hands held behind him. his tail is motionless behind him as he stands, not even moving his chest as he breathes. it's like he's a statue.

i find my way to a seat with carie and chat quietly as everyone else makes their way to the room. once the last few people arrive and seat themselves copia begins to speak, raising his hands as animated as ever. his hands swing in the air with his words.

"hello everybody, I'd like to welcome you to yet another summoning!" He bows and soaks in the cheers and clapping of the audience. some ghouls sit in the front, just as stiff as the way dew stands. they all remind you of a gargoyle, the way they stay unmoved once ordered to do so. "tonight, ifrit is being replaced as fire ghoul by our dear boy, dewdrop! not only that, but we will be getting a new water ghoul!"

once again, the siblings erupt to screams and cheers in response to copia's words. its almost deafening, but you smile and join the madness. copia first decides to transition dew's element from water to fire, which honestly suits him better. he draws blood from the ghoul, who doesn't even move as to wince. the only movement from him is a slight involuntary twitch of his tail, as a response to the pain. the blood begins to trickle down his arm as copia steps away.

copia gestures for ifrit to join, now standing to face the smaller ghoul, not nearly as still and postured as dew. copia then traces blood from ifrit, then mixes it with that dripping from dew's arm. though ifrit is unbothered and is given permission to walk back, dew is unable to stand as still as before, shaking, and even groaning and yelling from time to time. he tries his best to show the pain he's in as little as possible, trying to keep his dignity and ego intact. flames burst around him, smoke filling the room. his growls are still heard despite him being completely unseen.

after what seems like forever he finally calms himself, exchanging nods with copia and sitting down. his body is still trembling from shock, and ifrit nudges him and shoots a finger gun in his direction. i can almost see the proud smile through his mask. dew looks a bit relieved as he sits with ifrit, his tail now swaying behind him.

"alright! round of applause for the little guy!" everyone claps, and dew turns his head to see everyone. his eyes light up as he watches the various smiles and waving hands in the air, the siblings cheering and shouting his name. he feels special, and proud to be a new fire ghoul.

"now... what you've all been dying to see." copia pauses for a moment of suspense, scanning around the room for all of the excited and overjoyed faces.

"the summoning.. of our new water ghoul!"

he walks to the pentagram drawn into the floor and recites chants he's memorized from before. some siblings join eagerly, almost in attempt to boost some chance that they will get a ghoul close to what everyone wants and hopes for. a glow which resembles that of fire shines from the ground and it opens, a figure crawling from the space. no growls or screeches sound from the creature, which catches a few people by surprise. most of the time ghouls try their best to intimidate and inflict fear upon humans, but this one is quiet and calm. his eyes glow blue, a pretty and bright one, like that of a clear ocean's water. his body is covered in fins and gils, and copia hurries to cover him, since he doesn't have any clothing.

"cover yourself, newbie! you don't want to put on the wrong kind of show." copia laughs, getting a few chuckles from the crowd. he throws a pair of sweatpants to the new water ghoul, a quiet smack before it falls to the ground in front of him. the ghoul quickly listens, pulling on the loose pair of pants just before the smoke can clear and show too much of him. his face is an almost greyish blue color in embarassment. is that what it looks like when ghouls blush? i think to myself, my eyes frozen on him. he has long, dark hair, but not as long as dew's. his eyelashes are thick, perfectly framing his big, beautiful eyes. a tooth hooks on to his bottom lip as he stands awkwardly, still proccessing everything that is happening.

"say your name for us, newbie!"

"rain..."

"louder! this is a big room!"

"my name is rain."

"give it up for rain!"

just as always, the siblings, and this time the ghouls all cheer and applaud the new water ghoul. he stands awkwardly beside copia, not quite knowing what to do. many siblings rush to greet him, some with gifts in hand and some not. the majority are intimidated and just turn to leave, which is expected when a hellspawn is literally summoned before your eyes. carie and i typically work with the ghouls, so of course we have to run over to him and introduce ourselves. we are the last of the siblings to greet him so the ghouls all stand close behind, waiting to say hello to their new bandmate.

carie is the first to speak, bowing to rain politely.

"Hello rain! I'm carie. me and my friend here usually help around with the ghouls, so you'll be seeing us a lot." she smiles and gestures to me as she speaks. her voice is as soft as her personality, one that you could never get tired of listening to. her hand gracefully sways as she points to me, like a leaf dancing gently in the wind.

"uhm.. hi." his nervousness tugs a small chuckle from me while i walk closer to properly say hello. i bow to him once the two are done greeting each other, putting on my most welcoming face. i grab his hand, already extended for a handshake. he's extremely skinny, the grey tone in his skin has a hint of blue in it. his gils are absolutely beautiful. i shake his hand with slight eagerness in my eyes, beginning to speak.

"I'm y/n. I hope I'll get to see you a lot in the future."

"yeah." his face serms to turn into a deeper blue than the rest of his skin, but it's hard to tell from the dark lighting. dew makes sure to be the first ghoul to greet him, pushing past the others and making his way right beside me and carie.

"enough of the humans. us ghouls are the ones you're gonna be spending the most time with." dew paces around rain, as if observing him. "hmph. I guess you'll be an alright replacement." his tail brushes against rain's arm as he makes his way back to where he was before, standing in front of the new water ghoul.

"alright, y/n. let's head back and let them get to know each other." carie smiles.

[riwooga]

Hi!! Sorry for disappearing on everyone

I really appreciate all the people who've stayed interactive and also the people who've sent me asks and messages to check upon me!! That was seriously so unexpected thank you 🥺

But I figured making a quick general post was probably a good idea to clear stuff up

So long story short... I am not dead, I am okay, and no I haven't abandoned DOL as an interest nor decided to never draw it again! I promise! I'll try to return eventually just some health issues!

And under the cut I'll go further into details about my health, so if you don't wanna hear about that, that's totally fair! <333

Be rest assured I’m okay! 💕

But.. For the ones who are curious.

I have in general been on sick-leave with stress for 2 years, mostly dealing with mental health struggles, and mild physical symptoms.

However, my physical symptoms in particular worsened slowly due to a lot of stuff that's just too complicated to get into lol,,,, but it basically all culminated here in February where my physical symptoms have stayed bad™ since, and kinda just… keep getting worse because of my own stubbornness.

Much to my own dismay, I ended up having to actually go to the doctor, which I've put off for a long time,,,, I've already been there numerous times and am also waiting on being sent to 4 different special-clinics that can hopefully also help figure it out, on top of waiting to get into therapy again

But yeah uh there's been a lot of testing, with little results.. For now we're looking at it being most likely that I'm some sort of chronically ill. Right now the suspected ones are POTS and ME/CFS.. Maybe fibromyalgia but I don't personally see the connection on that one-- but we don't know yet. (And it'll likely take a good while to figure out sadly)

My symptoms have, as I said, stayed pretty bad, and in turn my energy is hard to put onto drawing as a priority, when even just as much as standing up takes energy.

But I do still really wanna draw and I do intend to come back to it once I hopefully get a bit more stable again!

So I just wanna say please don't worry about me, it's definitely far from deadly, it's just,,, a major inconvenience and it's been a lot of strain on my mental health in turn. While I am still desperately hoping for a cure or a fix... My doctor said quite firmly not to expect either-- but that there's small chances of eventually lessening the symptoms. So that's what we're hoping! 🥲

Once again thank you to the people who’ve been checking up on me, I really do appreciate that so much 🤧💕💕💕💕

[axoqiii]

ok i might go on a rant here, but i love love LOVE your art omg.

i absolutely adore the way you color and shade. your drawings honestly feel like a drawing in a sketchbook where ur like "hm maybe i should add markers/colored pencil to this" AND THEN THE DRAWING TURNS OUT LOOKING MAJESTIC. the way you draw is so round, which 1) makes your drawings look SO CUTE and 2) makes it feel like your drawings would squeak like those dog toys (which is good!! your art evokes positive emotions!!!!)

not to mention your amazing taste in fandoms??? prsk AND mcyt (specifically hermitcraft, life smp, and qsmp) AND ducktales???? AND AMPHIBIA????? ok i might have been stalking ur account but it's honestly hard not to WHEN YOUR ART IS SO COOL

both your doodles and your polished drawings look STUNNING and it's like woah how did you do that??? /pos your doodles give that cozy colored pencil vibe that i kinda mentioned earlier. and again, THE WAY THAT YOU COLOR AURAFEUKSHGJK. your art makes me want to violently explode (in a good way). your doodles are like if marshmallows were turned into drawings and then mixed with an awful amount of love and those round stars that u would doodle on the free space of homework

and then your polished drawings are also so amazing. they're so vibrant, and they're like when you go to daiso or some stationery store and you find this pen that you fall in love with and do all of your drawings with (i'm using a LOT of similes to describe your art but i promise it's in the best way possible). and i love love how you do backgrounds, whether they're simple or not. like this akito drawing was just so cute and it felt like a pack of stickers exploded onto your drawing (again, similes but they're meant in the best way possible). and can i just say that i LOVE the use of screentones in that drawing and also the way that you drew akito's name in the corner. it just scratches my brain in such a good way. also that grian dtiys oh my god???? the background. the shading. the coloring. the line art. THE SHADING. i love it so so so much

i only brought up two of your drawings specifically, but each of your drawings that i've seen have made me feel all warm inside until I MELT AND EXPLODE EVERYWHERE /pos i absolutely adore your art style and all of your art and i'm really sorry if this whole thing was overwhelming but i just have so many words for your art, and i mean each and every word wholeheartedly. keep up the great work because you're doing FABULOUS

btw your pinned post said that drawing requests are open, so if you can/want to, can you draw tsukasa from prsk? thank you :)

this is so???? sncbdjfhebfb????? /pos this is making me SO happy thank you so much!!! genuinely!!!!! dont even worry about going on a rant every single word of this made me tear up a bit because of how nice it is :((((

thank u for taking ur time to pick apart my art and for all ur kind words abt it! i say this so much but it means the world to me when someone tells me they appreciate what i create 🥹 esp noticing all the details makes me feel very happy that someone notices all the things i like to add to my art! it really inspires me to keep drawing more :D

sorry i migjt be repeating things pahah im overwhelmed in the best way possible!!!! thank u!!! sm!!! shakes u back and forth!!! im gonna be thinking abt this and smiling for the next month omgjfjg

in response to the tsukasa drawing request, ofc ill draw him for ya :D since this post is getting a little long ill post it right after this ask and link it here! once again, thank you so much for the kind message <3 :]

(here it is!!)

[sparklecriticism]

FAQ

Please read the FULL THING before sending an ask. It’s not that long I promise you. Or maybe it is I keep editing it

What’s your name?

That’s top secret, just call me Mod Polly

Pronouns?

He/him, I have others but I’m not giving myself away THAT easy

Do you hate Sparklecare?

Absolutely not, if I hated it i wouldn’t have made this blog. I just think the fandom is god-awful and that the comic has so much wasted potential. I still regularly keep up with the comic’s updates, follow the blog (alongside the blogs for Kittycorn’s other various projects), and enjoy making fanstuff for it. I am heavily critical of all my interests, especially indie projects since I KNOW those ones don’t have to go through censors and shit.

If you don’t hate it, then what’s this blog for???

This is for me complaining about the fandom, and criticizing the comic. This is essentially a diary of bitching.

I don’t like this blog

Block me, this is my personal diary of bitching. I remember I was in your shoes once, and didn’t like to see criticisms of Sparklecare, so I 100% get it.

Were you sparklecrit?

No. Leave them out of this. They clearly feel remorse for their past actions. Now me on the other hand, I feel bad about none of this XD

Are you gonna post the preboot link?

Absolutely not. I’m not going to disrespect Kittycorn’s wishes. Like I said this is only my personal diary of bitching, nothing more.

Is your main [tumblr user]?

Wouldn’t you like to know, weather boy?

Thoughts on mspec lesbians/gays/contradictory labels in general?

Cool as shit. Do what you want, conservatives want us dead. Polly is a bi lesbian also, she told me this herself.

Thoughts on the preboot?

It’s way funnier and way less “clean”, I’ll give it that. However, the reboot does a better attempt when it comes to characters, keyword attempt. I still miss Knot though.

Favorite character?

If I said my actual fave, I’d be given away. However, I love the side patients/side characters in general.

Least favorite character?

Uni. She’s treated by the fandom like she can do no wrong, and it feels like people only draw her. Because of this it sorta ruined her for me as a character. Sorry Uni.

Favorite ship?

Honest to god I see good chemistry/potential in all of them. I’ve never really been interested in Sparklecare shipping on its own but I enjoy doing it to analyze the characters and whatever the fuck

Least favorite ship?

Barruni. It’s the only one I see 0 chemistry or interest in, sorry. No hate to anyone who does ship it though!!

What about Cuddles?

Cuddles doesn’t feel like a character to me. He’s not interesting enough for me to hate that much. I don’t like him either, by any stretch of the imagination. I just forget he exists.

What do the tags mean?

“Fandom bitching” is for bitching about the fandom, “reboot bitching” is for bitching about the reboot, “comet bitching” is for any bitching regarding the Cometcare AU askblog, which will probably be few and far between let’s be real here, and “preboot bitching” is for bitching about the preboot because I WILL criticize the preboot as well. All criticisms/bitching will be tagged “sparklecriticism”. “Not bitching” is for general posts, and “Polly speaks” is for general posts from Polly. “Sparkleposting” is about my general, standard Sparklecare posts, usually regarding the version of it that exists in my brain. The "asks" tag is self-explanatory, and "your bitching" is bitching sent in by VIEWERS LIKE YOU!!!!!!

Are you trans/queer/nd/mentally Ill/disabled?

I’ve been a fan of this comic since late 2021, what the fuck do you think. Yes to all 5.

Will you be tagging character neg?

No. This is sparklecriticism what did you expect. I will however tag ship neg as “[ship] neg”, though you’ll probably only see that for Barruni.

Are you a troll?

No.

Why are you doing this???

I believe anything worth a damn is worthy of criticism. I also want to see if anyone else agrees with me here. Sparklecare is a spinterest of mine, I care about it a lot. It’s why I’m so harsh on it.

Sparklecare’s a spinterest for you?????

Yes, in fact the day I developed it as a major spinterest is the day I started being more harsh on it.

Why don’t you read better comics then?

I do, actually! If you wanna hear the comics I like send me an ask-off anon and I’ll tell you privately :3 webcomics in general are a spinterest of mine actually! It’s why I’m so harsh on them, because I KNOW they can be so much more!!

If you hate bitch on this comic so much, why don’t you make your own comic??

I already did, actually! I’m not sharing it to keep my privacy, but I do in fact have a webcomic! If you wanna see it, send me an ask off-anon and I might send you it in private

How would you feel if someone made a criticism blog based off YOUR comic???

I’d feel honored, honest to god. I would encourage it if you guys knew who/what the fuck I/the comic was

[sunny-sideup-4]

My review on Good Omens Season Two (also posted to Amazon Prime Video Reviews)

This season, this show in general, is beautifully written, directed, and executed. I can't perfectly describe how the story and characters just grab ahold of your attention instantaneously and keep you drawn in the entire time. There is never a dull moment. You become fully invested in the storyline and form a connection with the characters in a way that I, personally, haven't felt in YEARS. Despite the fictional nature of this story, the characters truly feel real and deal with very real internal and interpersonal conflict. This season was a reminder that we don't magically get fairytale endings-- we work for them. We make them ourselves through hard work and dedication. Through growth, change, and communication. I eagerly await the next season.

Now here's the special bit only for Tumblr: I have rewatched this show several times from beginning to end. I have watched it in it's entirety with my girlfriend and begun watching it with friends as well, with the intention of them becoming inspired in the same way I have. This season singlehandedly reignited a spark I had lost in 2020. In 2019, I was diagnosed with several chronic illnesses and began treatments for them in 2020, one week before the pandemic shut down the world. Learning I would forever live in a vessel that would always be sick... was soul crushing. Though things were starting to look up for my health through treatments that helped me manage my symptoms, I had lost the creative fire that roared at the very center of my being. It would come back in short little bursts of easily put out embers. I would write or draw or paint for a few days and then stop for months at a time, only to fall back into the never ending routine of going to work then coming home to lay on the couch in a deep depression that felt inescapable. I found other ways to be creative that were fulfilling- like crochet. I've deeply enjoyed the feel of yarn and hook moving in tandem to create a beautiful piece of fiber art to gift to others or keep for myself. I've enjoyed the peace it gives my over-active brain. There is no room for wild, unruly thoughts when my hands are constantly moving.

However, it never felt the same as it did when I was creating entire worlds in my head to escape into. It never brought the same sense of joy. It was fulfilling but not in the same way that set my soul ablaze. Good Omens Season two has opened a new chapter for me. It unlocked the prison cell that my creativity had been locked away in to rot. I am writing again. I am bringing ideas and stories to life. Plotting the the downfall and glorious uprising of characters once more. I feel alive again. I feel whole again. While I may keep my stories between myself and my close-knit chosen family, I finally have new stories to tell again. Thank you Neil Gaiman, @neil-gaiman. Thank you Michael Sheen and David Tennant. Thank you to the other actors and the crew that worked on this show and brought this story to the screens of the world. Thank you to Terry Pratchett, may he rest in peace, for his part in creating this story with Neil Gaiman. Thank you for telling a story that reaching into my chest and started my heart again. Thank you for telling a story that I could relate to. One that reflects parts of myself that few others can see. I don't think I will ever be able to say enough thank you's to convey how grateful I truly am.

To anyone who shares a story similar to mine- I see you. Keep fighting, keep growing, keep changing. Keep searching for hope in every crack and crevice of the world until you can even just the tiniest of slivers and let that help you to keep going until you can find yourself again. Until you can find your spark once more. I promise you that it's out there somewhere. Sometimes you will find in in unexpected places... like I found mine again, in Good Omens. Don't give up. Please. Please keep searching. Don't leave any stone unturned.

[doitinanotherlanguage]

April 2023 Wrap-up: 1930s

(You can read more about the challenge on my post introducing the challenge. Basically, Reading Through the Decades is a year-long reading challenge where we read books - and explore other media - from the 1900s to the 2020s, decade-by-decade.)

Another month gone by! I really appreciated going through the 1930s, learning so much. The more I read and learn about the 30s, the more I keep drawing (worrying) parallels to it and the present day. (idk i’m just feeling pessimistic and shitty bc we’re going to have a more right-wing government in Finland than we have had since the 1930s and we’re seriously gonna be so fucked 🙃)

Anyway.

What I Enjoyed This Month

📖 Lumikadun kertoja (2017; “The Storyteller of Snow Street”), Katja Kaukonen -> Lumikadun kertoja is a novel taking place from 1937 to 1942 in Poland. Bajek, the eponymous story-teller, arrives in a small Polish city, where he has been sent on a mission to observe and record the upcoming events (i.e. Nazi-Germany invading and occupying Poland). He is under strict orders not to get involved in things, but this soon proves to be difficult as he finds himself surrounded by the lively community living in Snow Street. -> This novel has a very intriguing premise since it’s made apparent in the beginning that Bajek is no ordinary man, but instead seems to be some kind of an angel. This novel made me think a lot about the choices we make, especially in difficult situations, and to question passive observation in politically effed up situations. 

📖 It Can’t Happen Here (1935), Sinclair Lewis --> This is a novel originally written and published in the 1930s as fascism was taking over all around, particularly in Europe, and the book also gained a sudden upsurge in popularity in the 2010s when Donald Trump became president of the US. The novel is a cautionary tale about the fragility of democracy and an alarming look at how fascism could take hold in the US. It juxtaposes sharp political satire with the chillingly realistic rise of a fear-mongering, anti-immigrant president who promises to make America proud and prosperous once more. --> This novel is very much of its own time yet it also gives so much to today’s reader. The back cover of my edition describes it as “a cautionary tale of liberal complacency,” which is a very apt description.

🎬 Als Hitler das rosa Kaninchen stahl (2019; When Hitler Stole Pink Rabbit), dir. Caroline Link -> A Jewish family has to flee from 1933 Berlin, navigating unfamiliar lands and coping with the challenges of being refugees. The story tackles prejudice, exile, displacement, and adaptation, as told from the perspective of a nine-year-old child. -> This was a very touching film about being a refugee, based on a book about the author’s real-life experience.

🎬 Cradle Will Rock (1999), dir. Tom Robbins -> This historical drama film fictionalises the true events that surrounded the development of the 1937 musical The Cradle Will Rock by Marc Blitzstein. It’s a social commentary on the role of art and power in the 1930s, particularly amidst the struggles of the labour movement at the time. -> I love love love stories about people making subversive art and taking a stand. Labour activism and socialism is my jam, and this is also a fun ensemble movie.

📖 Huhtikuu (1932; “April”), Saima Harmaja -> This is a poetry collection by the young Finnish female poet Saima Harmaja, who died of tuberculosis at only 22 years of age. The poems are about world-weariness, the frenzy of youth, illness, loneliness, love, nature, and death. -> This was an impulse-loan from the library, and I’m so glad I stumbled upon it! Harmaja’s poems are so very touching and lovely. I particularly adore the poem “Syysilta” (”Autumn Evening”), which is a pretty, nostalgia-tinged poem about regretting not having kissed someone in the past.

🎬 The Group (1966), dir. Sidney Lumet -> Based on a novel of the same name by Mary McCarthy, this movie is about the lives of a group of eight female graduates from Vassar from 1933 to 1940. It is a social satire that touches upon controversial topics such as free love, contraception, abortion, lesbianism, and mental illness. -> I really want to read the book now! This film was super interesting; although I found the group of upper-class women endlessly snooty and a bit boring, but the topics addressed are nevertheless fascinating. And it’s always fun to find older movies that centre women!

[fueled-by-sour-brite-octopuses]

Okay, so. Um. you remember how I said I had a crush on Ratchet? well. I. went and made an oc for this whole business. I haven't finished drawing her yet but ill post a progress picture sometime soon and I came up with a whole thing for her. Here's an explanation of the story:

Doctor Doctor: This is in here as a joke because both characters are field medics and im a CRINGE NERD who thought it would be funny to start off a playlist that ends in one characters DEATH with a PUN >:E 

Theme of Laura: It’s just sort of the vibe I want for them. Awesome but a little wistful and nostalgic.

The Dark Side of Indoor Track Meets: Fossil “going too far” and upgrading herself but never letting herself heal, always pushing her body farther, desperate to do everything she can to minimize casualties and keep the wounded alive. The “if theres complications pull the plug out” part could be about the thing she and Ratchet were working on on Cybertron or it could be about something else, idk.

Touch-Tone Telephone: Fossil gets excited about things and makes it everyones problem!!!! She info dumps and gets lost in her ideas and rushes ahead with them (She tests everything on herself) Her enthusiasm is charming. It borders on mania. 

The Data Stream: A little bit more of Fossil mania! Science is filled with so much passion and delight she can’t help getting a little bit wild about it. It has less to do with the song’s words and more to do with its vibe.

The Wonder: The project she and Ratchet worked on. It was a huge machine to put large amounts of Autobots in stasis so they could stay alive/not get worse while medics worked on the more dire cases. The two of them became close while working on it. This combined with all the work she had to do in the field trying to rescue/keep alive injured Autobots got her frustrated with her limitations and she started thinking of herself as expendable (every shot she takes is a shot they don’t have to)

Drago or the Dragons: The project started to fail and it was going to destroy the entire field hospital. Panicked, Fossil and Ratchet attempted to salvage it but things just kept getting worse and worse. A Decpticon bioweapon started to ravage the wounded and they were stretched too thin. 

Arch to Achtilles: Ratchet and Fossil had to evacuate the field hospital before the project exploded but the crowded ships made the bioweapon spread faster and almost all of the injured/sick Autobots started dying/going into critical condition from the infection. 

The Final Countdown: Fossil desperately tried to activate the project, which would keep injured Autobots in mass stasis so that they could be revived and rescued later, but the Decepticons found the hospital. She finally got the project activated and got about 3/4 of the Autobots into stasis and they were stabilized, then tried to cover Ratchet’s evacuation. She got severely injured, but Ratchet fully evacuated the hospital and she dragged herself to a ship that jettisoned off into space. She may have yelled some vague love confession at him or something. They were shouting over comms about the plan and he lost contact after she promised to meet him in space. 

Helicopters: Fossil was trapped in space for thousands of years, worrying about Ratchet and the survivors and rewiring and upgrading herself over and over for maximum efficiency (blocked pain receptors, extra optics, sensors, stronger armor, repeating guns with auto-aiming on her shoulders so she could fire at Decepticons while leaning over injured Autobots and doing first aid)

Africa: They’ve reunited after thousands of years! Fossil is still thinking about the field hospital disaster and is thrilled to see Ratchet alive but so much has happened since then that he barely remembers her. 

Captiva: Fossil and Ratchet are going on missions together. Fossil loves the high stakes, she’s doing more fighting and more science and she’s under less stress. She’s studying Earth life and doing research and working on various projects and helping recover Energon and things are doing great! She and Ratchet are rekindling their friendship now.

Murexa: More cool missions! Lots of action and her being trigger happy

Jenny: This is an absolutely WILD tone shift but this is her rekindling her friendship with Ratchet except now she’s crushing HARD and she doesn’t exactly know what to do about it except pine. Maybe theres a Big Moment of Tension on a mission. 

Maps: Slow-down moment in the middle of a firefight! Ratchet realizes that he has romantic feelings for Fossil. I need to set up things from his perspective more but I made this in like three days so I haven't been thinking about it for all that long

Social Climb: The Autobots are celebrating a big victory and oh?? whats this?? Fossil asks Ratchet to dance and there’s Romantic Tension????? Ooooooooo 

Everybody Wants to Rule The World: They’re relaxing and doing science together

Intro to the Radio Room: Fossil has shifted gears from feeling responsible for a bunch of injured Autobots to feeling responsible for just a few. She trusts Optimus but after seeing her teammates get hurt, thinks assassinating Megatron is the most efficient way to end the war and protect everyone. she’s trying to convince Optimus to let her do that. Because Optimus is Optimus he decides it isn’t worth the risk so she and Arcee set up a plan to get her onto the Decepticon Warship to try and assassinate Megatron secretly.

Kryptonite: The other Autobots try to stop her and she fights them carefully and makes Prolonged Desperate Eye Contact with Ratchet before she gets onto the warship.

Making Your Way Home: She gets severely injured attempting to kill Megatron. He almost slices her in half and she hurt him too with her repeating gun and broke one of his arms but she’s bleeding out in the hallway. Bulkhead and Bumblebee drag her through a ground bridge and Ratchet starts trying to save her. 

Slow Waves: Fossil is on the brink of death. Ratchet is operating on her and she reaches up to touch his face gently. They stare into each others eyes for a minute and he sets her hand aside as he decides to do a Synth-En transfusion to save her life.

Mandus: She survives and they kiss or something idk how romance works

[gongedtornado]

intro post time babyyy:

will update this overtime

last updated: April 10, 2024

kazzys-conundrum -> gongedtornado

please be sure to at least read the tags, DNI, and “Ask to Follow” sections! thank you!

general info

- yarida • silas • kazzy • goose (or any nicknames (bolded means bost preferred!)

- 20, mixed filipino !!!!!!

- he / she / they / it / thing / thingy / creature / floro / piranha / plant / and many more!!!!!

- artist!!!!!

- professional shitposter. (putting way too much effort/detail in my shitposts.)

- heads up, i yell sometimes (all the time lmao). also i cuss and might make crude jokes. also i tend to scream in tags alot

- tone indicators please

- very socially awkward and mentally ill. i tend to get overwhelmed very easily !!!! i have a hard time interacting because i’m incredibly shy. i promise i’m not ignoring you !! i’m just severely ill in the head, overwhelmed, and busy a bunch <\\\3

- i work a lot so once again, please don’t take it as me ignoring you !

- i will tag things if needed or if i feel its neccessary !! (ex: suggestive jokes, eye contact cw, and so on.)

- (this applies to moots and people that follow), but if you need a specific thing from me tagged, do not hesitate to come to my askbox or dm about it! i will gladly tag accordingly, though do keep in mind i might forget sometimes. i will try my best

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tags to find my thingies:

art - “kazzy scribbles”

screaming about thoughts - “kazzy caws”

headcanon schtuff - “brainshart”

shitposts - “shartposting”

vents/rants - “kazzy complains” (watch me be sad in real time! /j)*

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things i need tagged with “kazzy/silas/yarida don’t look” , “kdl” “sdl” or “ydl”. (any of the names work, just put “[name] don’t look” (if that makes any sense)

• roblox doors game (specifically the visuals. text posts are fine)

• generally unsettling or uncanny visuals. especially with heavy eye contact

• knack (playstation game)

• flag discourse

• posts with transphobia in it

• h*zbin/h*lluva content + anything relating to v*vziepop

OTHER SHIT THAT KINDA MAKES ME UNCOMFY(??) (TW FOR THE LAST ONE)

• being referred to as ‘child’ unironically. if its for a joke, then go for it! but if you like. genuinely refer to me as ‘child.’ please Do Not. especially if you’re younger than me. not only does it make me irked as all hell, but it makes me feel incredibly frustrated. essentially just don’t infantilize me i’m an adult and would prefer to be taken seriously from time to time.*

this also goes with being treated as a child. while i’m aware i may act childish from time to time, do not fucking babify me. do not woobify me. do not treat me like i am a little kid. i will fucking bite you. i am an adult, treat me as such.*

• being called “sister” or “mom.” ANY OTHER NICKNAME IS FINE!! if we’re close and its for a joke, by all means- go for it. but please dont call me “mom”, “sis/sister” unironically . i will send an angry swarm of bees to your home

• being referred to as ‘smol bean’, ‘small bean’, ‘a cinnamon roll’. i will literally turn you into a smoothie so help me god.

• coming into my dms to ask for requests. unless i know you or we’re close, please do not come into my dms to ask me to draw your requests. i’m just going to ignore you.

• (TRIGGER WARNING)* actually this is a really heavy one but if you joke about s/a i am straight up hard blocking you. that shit is not funny. it will never be funny. you’re weird. get out GET OOOUTT. FUCK YOU. /srs

DNI/DNF

- basic DNI criteria

- pr0ship

- zo0philes

- dream stans/supporters (IF FOR WHATEVER REASON YOU STILL SUPPORT DREAM, FUCKING BLOCK ME. NONE OF YOU ARE WELCOME HERE. GO AWAYYYY)

- terfs

- trans/nonbinary fetishizers

- ai “artists”

- those with the intentions of befriending for free art

- those who say “its just fiction/its just a drawing” literally shut up

- those who say “its the internet, things happen” to excuse shitty behavior

- She Who Will Not Be Named (you know who you are.)

*if you’re asking yourself “is it me?” i can garuntee it’s likely not you. this is very targeted at Someone.

- if i just generally get bad vibes from you or think youre super fucking weird i’ll just block you

- extreme h*zbin/h*lluva enjoyers and v*vziep*p dickriders. please get off my page.

ASK TO FOLLOW:

- irls. if you know me irl, awesome! but ask me first

- under 15 (if you’re 15, you’re good to go! but anywhere younger, absolutely not. i genuinely do not want to be mutuals or interacted with people who are in middle/elementary school. this is for both of our safetys. 😁)

- h*zbin/h*lluva fans . i likely won’t interact with you too much since i want to stay away from the fandom as far as possible but if you wanna follow uh. ask plssss

EXTRA:

- DMS OPEN! (unless specified not to dm. this will be located at the title, if not its own post.)

- COMMISSIONS: closed until i figure out paypal.

- ART REQUESTS: closed, sorry i don’t really do requests that often.

- ART TRADES: VERY HEAVY MAYBE, but feel free to ask! i have specific rules i follow for them too uhhhh

- TAGGING/MENTIONING IN POST: totally fine, similar rules as DMS

- RP: ummm!! sometimes ! but all i ask is that you don’t yell at me for taking time on responses, i might be busy, didn’t see it, or just generally do not know how to respond. also please don’t force me into doing one

[writefightandflightclub]

Six Ways to Sunday: Marc Spector x fem!reader (part 1/2)

Summary:

Yeah. It was only ever meant to be a one time thing. Just a one night stand. A casual Tinder hook-up with no strings and even fewer feelings.

Clearly, you had both decided that once wouldn’t be enough; but you’re still not sure you’re on the same page about what qualifies as too much.

Rating: EXPLICIT. This is 18+ ONLY. Minors DNI. 

Genre: Smut with some plot (bear with it), some light angst.

Characters: Marc focussed, a cameo from Steven, fem!reader. Written when Marc and Steven have more communication going than they do by ep 2′s close. 

Word count: 9k

Author’s note: I’ve opted to post this fic in 2 parts, so this part of a larger whole. It can totally be read as a standalone too, though I hope you’ll be excited to read part 2 as well? This is set up to part 2′s resolution - I just couldn’t finish them both just yet, so the split made sense for me - and hopefully for you, because this is already 9k! This is written after I saw ep 2 and before 3, so I have very little of Marc’s characterisation to go on. I was inspired by how Marc is protective of those in his life, and how sometimes that results in them being pushed away. I wanted to play with Marc doing his utmost to keep someone at arm’s length. How he might manage to fulfil some, ahem, needs but bury others. In this part, it plays out as explicit smut (and okay, I admit to a component of this being rather self-indulgent PWP), but I promise an emotional arc is buried overall, between parts 1 and 2 :o) Nervous to post but hope you like?

Warnings: VERY EXPLICIT ROUGH SMUT, from the get go, fully consensual, inc: public/risky sex (p in v), daddy kink; pain kink / blood kink / exhibitionism if you squint; slight age gap implied(?) - mainly as Marc calls reader “kid”, once, but I see him as doing this with anyone even slightly younger than him given how worldly he is- they are 100% plenty more than of age; fingering; oral mentions. Hook-ups / casual sex partner situation. Condoms, mentions of bareback. Marc being emotionally witholding. One moment where onlookers see what’s going on (reader obscured from view) and they make a non-consensual sexual comment about reader - the narrative quickly moves on from this. Not proofed very well. Sorry, if this is a mess - I’ve been ill, so this all may be one long fever dream anyway :P

GIF: by the amazing @damerondjarin 🧡

By clicking to read more, you are agreeing you are over the age of 18 and agree to read adult themes, as per the warnings above. Minors, DO NOT INTERACT.

You let out a ragged moan as you feel the swell of him splitting you apart, his fat, contoured head punching aggressively at a spot so deep inside of you that the edges of your vision blur, whiting-out like the soft edges of the moon. Fittingly, besides Marc, the round, full, bright spot is your only spectator in this tucked away backstreet, shining down on you from above the staggered constellation of rooftops beyond.

Hinged at the hips to present your rear to him, to place yourself at his mercy, you rake your hands down the wall for purchase as you feel your knees almost buckle and betray you with this divine swell of him, scraping textured, mottled brick and carving a hundred tiny crescents into your palms. Perfect little blood moons. The singing sting only takes you higher and you wane for him already, adjusting hurriedly – impaled on his dick - before he starts to move. You know all too well how that taut body of his holds enough power to knock you right out of orbit.

From behind you, you hear a perfunctory grunt from Marc as your walls grip and writhe on his length, subtly correcting angles like some divine geometry; and then, he is drawing out of you, inch by unforgiving inch. His hands clamping into the gathered meat of your hips – and you brace yourself. You brace yourself for the full force of him slamming his length back home, remaking the shape of you from within.

You don’t have long to make this count, not here, in this dark, public corner, but luckily – he’s long enough for the both of you. If anyone could make this count, you believe it’s him.

You whimper then, tears spiking in your eyes with sheer, unabashed relief as he finally fucks into you like this, the motion slamming your whole body and sending ripples through your flesh. Again and again, he slams you, picking up the pace and spearing you on the thick mass of him.

Your flimsy heels struggle for purchase on the rain-wetted concrete, one foot languishing in a puddle - but you can scarce care. In fact, as soon as you push your ass back to meet the force of his thrusts - his hands digging harder into the meat of your hips - you couldn’t care less about the dismal back street. Not the odour of old beer bottles or the drip of leftover rain from the gutters. Not the shush of the 47 bus in the adjacent street nor the distant shouts of drunk revellers making their way home.

You do not care about anything but this. Not as soon as Marc pulls you down on him so deep that you feel the slap of his balls and the bracing of his thighs against yours, his hot skin clammy against you as he slams home hard. You can hear your arousal as he fucks you; an abrupt, repetitive motion which punches sharp, rhythmic exhales from your lungs, your mouth dropping open in rapture and disbelief at the pleasure already tightening and coalescing in your middle like some bound star.

The motion is like a wave – back and forth – in and out, in and out. In and out of your tight, wet, suckering heat. Your necklace pendulums chaotically, the pendant colliding with the soft cushion of your shuddering breasts, lifted from out of their lace cups by his greedy hands only moments before. Your nipples are still wet with his spit, your breasts bitten and sucked until your nipples became puffy and your clit had ached for equivalent attentions.

It strikes you how exposed you are for him, here like this. Your ass bared with your skirt hitched up over the globes of you, your breasts bouncing and swaying with every brutal snap of his hips. Your arousal leaking from you and coating your inner thighs – coursing down his balls as he fills you with every inch he has to give. As much as you try to hold it together, it is unravelling you, your core a pool of pale, molten moonlight for him; your juices leaking from you and dripping down his straining shaft, the night air kissing coolness against your hot, slickened skin.

You let it happen. Marc is the one who is in control here, as though you are merely his avatar; some externalisation of his needs and wants. That’s okay, though. You give your body to him willingly, as your needs and wants in this moment overlap so closely with his, they are a circle; as bright and clear as the celestial object looking down on you now, shrouded by clouds like a mask over that lit face.

In case you were getting too comfortable, Marc fists a hand in your hair, pain needling over your scalp and causing your body to arc for him like a bent stem, spine curling. The angle of penetration shifts and immediately, his urgent thrusts begin to spark a pleasure that’s hot and bright in your centre; one which threatens to engulf you as he opens you up for him, like his wanton night-blooming flower.

It feels good. But more than that it feels hot and sweaty and thoroughly sordid. He’s taking you in some dingy back street from behind, like he couldn’t physically wait to have you. Like the quickening of his desire grew too stark for propriety. Like the need you inspired within him, with your lips working his hot throat and your fingers teasing the bulging shaft of him through his trousers, was too pressing to wait until you could ride the DLR home, alight at your stop, politely bypass your roommate, and spread you open on the crisp white Egyptian cotton of your sheets, until you were a tangle of limbs with him.  

No. Marc had to have you now, urgent and raw and ravenous. He had to have you here. Had to remake you in the shadows. In the dark. He called you his fox, once, for you are his nocturnal animal. You think he is a wolf. He is just one man, seemingly so solitary, but he hunts with the precision of a pack, seeing from every angle. His eyes hold secrets. Tell of many facets working as one. He takes you down on his teeth and you know it is coming, but God, you relish that chase.

Your hair still tugged taut in the claws of his fingers, he twists your head towards him, wishing to see the pleasure play out on your face, perhaps. Gasps and puffs of air emptied of sound coming staccato from your lips, painted red as blood. You can’t really see him, but you can feel him, deep in the cavern of you as his thrusts punch your cervix, your whole body glowing with a deep suffusing warmth. Can’t really see much more than a silhouette. A shadow.  

Like a moon before the sun, Marc’s dense, sculpted body eclipses the warm and yellowed ambience inside the pub, his form hunched - broad and muscled - between your body and the back door as he pumps himself into you. The pub which you had left for dead as soon as the swell of your desire has spirited you away from there, leading you to abandon the merry patrons and the craft IPAs and sticky floor in favour of this quick but very necessary dalliance.

It was a no brainer.

Your need had been just as urgent as his.

It’s not elegant, like this; but, it certainly is efficient. There’s no romance about this, certainly. It’s dirty and it’s sordid and you’re getting railed unceremoniously behind a stack of crates; but God, it’s good.

He smacks your buttock with his strident palm and a sudden sting radiates across your skin, the sharp, percussive sound bouncing off brick as you swallow you moans down into your chest.  

You’re getting close, and Marc’s pace shows no sign of relenting.

Maybe it -this- shouldn’t be enough for you - this hasty fuck with your skirt hitched up above the cushion of your arse, entirely undignified – but, somehow, it’s more than. Marc makes this seem like everything you could want from a man. Everything and then some. Maybe it’s because he’s so fucking-

-You spit out an abortive moan.

- because he’s so fucking deep.

Of course it feels like enough, when he’s giving you almost more than you can take.

He’s giving you everything he’s got and yet, somehow, he still manages to seem so withholding. Barely any sound emanating from him. Only a series of harsh, sawing puffs of air. A peppering of restrained grunts as he has you convulsing on the needy mass of him, your eyes practically rolling back into your head with how good it feels to be taken like this.

The strangled sound you make when he smacks you again is alien to you, a yowl caught in your throat like a rabbit in a snare; but still, you want more. Always more.

And so, you rail against his punctuated thrusts, pushing your buttocks back in rhythm to meet that determined, urgent snap and angling of his hips. He’s giving it to you hard.

So hard that the grip of his hands is almost too harsh, digging into your middle like he could mould you into any shape he needed around him. So hard that your earring has shaken free from one ear, dropping to the floor. That the breasts he man-handled from the lace cups of your bra are bouncing far more violently now. So hard that he makes your body feel like a rag doll. Makes your mind blank out, as though you could forget who you are.

You’re full of him. So full.

He’s not gentle with you, not in the least. There are no roses here; but then again, Marc’s learned all too well how much you can take without breaking. He’s learned how much you like the thorns.

You don’t have long left. Not long at all before you-

“-Oh God.”

“There are no gods here, baby,” he bites off, his voice pleasingly hoarse and scolding. Sunken with need and exertion. “Only me.”

“Marc!” you correct, saying his name like a prayer all the same. Feeling the strain and tremble in your parted legs. The legs he had unceremoniously kicked open when he had spun you against the wall, hinging your hips to pert your heat towards him. Your spread legs with your red lace knickers stretched down around your parted knees, damp with the slick of your first release. You feel the echo of it now. The memory of where Marc had curled his hand like a crescent moon and beckoned your orgasm to him with ease. The feel of his girthy digits thrust inside of your slick. Buried up to the knuckle.

Now, you chase your second wave of pleasure, and he controls it like a moon would drag the tide. You feel a sea inside you roll and swell, entirely at his mercy, and you wish to soak him with it. Soothe over the sand in his throat as he expels guttural noises of pleasure. Over the heat of him, his sturdy body against you, his warmth bleeding through where he contacts you.

“Shit, Marc!”

Encouraged by you, his hips slam into the cushion of your bare ass so hard from behind that you have to brace yourself more thoroughly, palms splayed as wide as they will go against the mottled brick wall, and the sting as the rough texture drives pinpricks of pain across your palms only driving you higher. You keen a sliding note from between your lips, rough yet musical like the scratch and slur of a bow over strings - your core pulling just as taut.

You hear a commotion at the mouth of the alley which threatens to tear you from this bliss; but Marc is already reacting, slowing his thrusts slightly and waiting for the revellers to straggle by. You groan angrily – but not at the chance of being observed; rather at the subduing of his pace - and Marc chuckles darkly at your evident distress. He kneads your ass as you buck and writhe it on him in search of greater friction. Smooths over your flesh where only moments ago whips of his palm had marked you, the sharp smack bouncing off brick and ricocheting into your head.

“Marc! Fuck! Please! Don’t stop!” You shuck out the words, voice hoarse with desperation. You’re sure he’s trying to protect you but why can’t he understand that you don’t care. You don’t care who sees you. Let them watch. Let them watch how he fills you so full that you are overflowing.

“Sssssshhhhh”, Marc scolds, the sound filtering in to the shell of your ear, and with his hot, discombobulated breath sawing across your neck you realise that he has drawn your limpening body closer to his, back now flush to his sturdy, sculpted chest. “Be quiet for me, huh, pretty girl?”

You can barely think coherent thoughts any longer but you nod. You’re nodding and he’s tipping your chin, up and back, until your head is reclined against the junction of his dense, muscled shoulder. His hand is winding around the front of your throat, palm clammy with sweat and heavy with the scent of you; from where his thick fingers worked the seam of you open for him.

God. This is how he – as one wolf - works like a pack. His dick, his hands, his mouth, his tongue. His voice. All conspiring to take you down. To take you apart. All working as one to dismantle you. It feels premeditated. It feels systematic. It feels unstoppable.

Ragged breaths saw in your lungs now, your eyes falling shut with the weight of this incomprehensible need. The shift in position is a relief, the muscles in your arms and back aching from bracing against his sex, muscles cramping with the pulse of lactic acid under your skin.

You whimper, trying to beg for him to fuck you hard again but unable to get the words out, the slower drag of him through your heat teasing you deliciously, stoking your release.

God, he feels good.

The sturdy trunk of him up pressed up against your back. The meat of his muscled quads hard and smooth, tensing against the back of your legs as he fucks up into you - just shallow enough to make you want to curse him and just deep enough that you forget how.

Still, you cannot see him, which seems like a crime when the man is so fucking beautiful. But, you can smell him - the exertion evaporating from his body. Can hear him - the ways he is coming undone too. Percussive grunts. The chaotic jangling of his belt buckle as he fills you. You envision his jeans shoved down around his ample hips. Can imagine his peachy bum and thick thighs clenching – more than one full moon on display tonight.

Then, hooking one forearm under the crook of your left leg and shuffling you closer towards the wall, he draws your knee up to the side, meaning he can penetrate you just a little deeper. Fuck. That makes all the difference.

You scream for him as he picks up the pace again, balls resuming their rhythmic slap against you. “Too much?” he asks, knowing fine well it isn’t. Knowing exactly what he’s doing to you. You can’t see it, but you can hear the crescent-shaped uptick of his lips. Can hear how amused he is by how easily he is able to dismantle you. He knows all the ways how.

“More!” The words are punched from your lungs. “Give me more, Marc. Please. Harder.” You wring a pretty moan from deep within your chest as he snaps his hips up hard, and you barely know how you’re still standing on one flimsy stiletto but between your palms -rebraced against the wall - and his sturdy, muscled form taking some of your weight, you aren’t moving anywhere. At least, nowhere except deeper on to his shaft as he fucks you into oblivion. As he finds the rhythm that you want. That he knows you need.

This. This is how it goes. This is how it always goes. He’s going to take you apart; but, this is a well-matched fight. You’re also going to make him come undone. You are determined, that you will dissolve his restraint into chaos.

He drops your leg then and walks your body forwards, driving his hips and feet with you until he’s pinning you in place with his own weight. Until you are cramped helplessly between him and the wall, nowhere to go and nothing to do but keep taking it, his thrusts shallow and languid once more – the calm before the storm.

He loves teasing you and you hate him for it.

Still, for someone you claim to hate, you sure are fond of Marc right now. It certainly sounds like it. Indeed, you submit more pretty moans to him, flowered things, and meanwhile, he remains inscrutable as ever. You’d barely know his own end was close unless you’d learned to interpret the signs – clues he leaves, like some forgotten glyphs littered over his body. You think you must be the only one fluent. You can feel the ramping tension in his limbs, the discombobulated pace of his breath, the harsh set of his jaw. Still, he aims – as always, Lord knows why - to obscure the hold you have over him, and so, when he speaks again, the cracks in his voice are all smoothed out.

“Are you ready for a real fucking, beautiful?” His voice is rich and full-bodied now. Brimming with warmth and flavour, like the whisky you had tasted on his tongue as it had shoved over yours. “Gonna be a good girl for Daddy? Take my dick hard until I spill for you?”

He fucks up into you, just a little harder to foreshadow the rougher pace of his sex.

“Please.”

With your plea submitted, Marc buries himself into you as deep as he can go and he holds there for a moment, his cock twitching and needy inside you as your walls tighten, clamping around the head of him. Coiling up. Preparing to drown him in the flood of your release.

“I didn’t hear you.”  

“Please, Daddy,” you beg, intoning a husky, throaty submission to him.

Shit. Fuck. Shit, you can barely fight it any longer.

He knows how that gets you. Calling him those things. Having him stay so calm and sure while you become chaos around him.

Again, he fucks you harder. Faster. He’s fucking you deep now, his hips snapping and pistoning and setting a brutal pace. You whimper pathetically, noises throaty and high-pitched. All undone - in such contrast to his deep, American smooth. His cool calm and his steady pace as you barrel ever closer to your end. Closer; and he keeps filling you. Keeps driving himself into the depths of you.

You are impossibly wet for him now. So wet and slick and accommodating that he groans. That he has to bite down and bury his head in the junction of your shoulder so that he stays quiet too. So wet, that he has to fight not to slip out of you, even if -at the same time- it feels like he’s filling you airtight, forcing your juices out of you since they have nowhere else to go.

“Mmm. Daddy,” you praise, twisting your head and straining to capture his lips, that amused crescent uptick gone from his lips and his whole face instead weighted by his pleasure. His face harsh planes, stern and shadowed, the pale moonlight joining you and stooping to kiss his brow. His high cheekbones and prominent nose, painting him with an ethereal glow like a fingertip through settled dust.

His tongue shoves over yours, and you swallow down his subtle, delicious moans, his thrusts becoming lazy and sloppy and you know that he’s close. Know you are dismantling him too, with less precision than he has shown you, but with equal force.

“When are you going to pull it together and fuck me, Daddy,” you tease, you chide, you tempt, and he laughs deliciously then. A dark but rich sound that promises you shouldn’t play with him; not unless you’re sure you can handle the consequences.

It’s not that you want this over with, no. Not that you want it to end. You don’t. It’s more that it’s a rush. Having him in the shadows like this. Making him spill over with his need for you. The fact that he keeps coming back for more when this was only ever supposed to be once. He could get it anywhere he wanted it; you’re sure he could have his pick. But he keeps coming back for more of you. You wish to feel that desire, that need, that want, shooting up into you. Want to be awash with it. Want to hold it in your centre like for a moment he could be in your orbit.

All that, yes, but most of all, you just want him to fuck you as hard as he can give it to you, and almost harder than you can take it.

He obliges.

You weaken as he hits your sweet spot, over and over.

“Please,” you keen, and he knows what you need. Always does.

He growls as he shoves his fingers past your lips - and you know what to do. You lave your tongue over them, sucking on them. Wetting them so he can move them down and rub your clit in circles; waxing and waning in a cycle which has you dizzy, your pleasure spinning you out of orbit. He plants a wet, biting slap to you the mound of you which had aftershocks zipping through your body.

He’s fucking you now, alright. Fucking you so hard it’s like he hates you. Or, maybe, like he hates himself. Like this is all he can allow himself. All he deserves. He might be cast in moonlight; but he only gives himself to you in the dark. In pieces, like there’s more of him you may never have. A crescent - a slice of him, despite that he is not at all broken. Despite that he must be entirely whole. Despite that you feel full with him. You only ever see the face he wishes to show you.

“Come for me,” you plead, unable to last out any longer, and wanting to tip over the edge together.

“Make me,” he rumbles, voice full of grit and seeping into every crack and every weakness in you like a shifting sandstorm. “Wring it out of me.”

“Marc!” Another plea as his hips snap against your ass, obscene noises filling the alleyway and your head. His name slips past your lips on a wave of praises and curses and expletives.

“Ah ah,” he scolds, and his voice is as deep and as dark as the shadows coalescing around you. You swear he must be grinning like a jackal with his next words readied in his mouth. “You can call me Daddy.”

Fuck. And there it is. That’s enough for you. That is more than enough for you to clamp down on him; or, it would be, but it is, in fact, the soft kiss he plants on the spot beneath your ear – in the next moment - which turns out to be your final breaking point. Which has you convulsing wildly on his length. Gushing over the fat head of him. The softness of his lips on your neck the act finally tipping the scales (those scales which have been seeking balance all this time) in your favour.

You shiver with it, and find your release, Marc chasing you soon after, his hips jerking and stuttering entirely out of rhythm. You offer your mouth to him for hungry, devouring kisses, tongue sliding over his as he comes undone. A taste of iron floods your tongue, as though he has bitten down hard enough on his own lip to draw blood – perhaps in attempts to stave off his end. God, you love that you can make him come undone. That he has to fight it, not to give in to you too soon.

Well, he gives in to you fully now.

You feel Marc’s thick length spasm deliciously inside of you, filling the condom, the pulse of his seed zipping from his balls and emptying inside of you drawing jittering aftershocks from your cunt.

God, you wish he could truly shoot himself up inside of you. Paint your walls with his spend until you were weeping with him. Claim you in that primal way.

Still twitching, on his softening length, another’s voice rips you away from this moment all too abruptly. “Wheeeyyyy! We’ve got a full moon out here tonight lads,” a reveller announces, spilling out from the pub’s back door, no doubt getting an eyeful of Marc’s behind. “Getting some action, fella? Fancy giving me a go of your missus next?”

Christ. Talk about timing.

You scramble for your modesty; but meanwhile, Marc is eerily calm, one hand clamping and pinning your hips flush to him with an iron grip. The other, gently tilting your head away, preserving your modesty via anonymity, and via the protective mask of his own body.

“Go back inside,” you hear him intone, his voice dripping with dark and threat, and directed towards the group of onlookers.

You are moments from panic -especially given your position of vulnerability - when, to your surprise, they obey. “Yeah, alright fella. Didn’t mean nothin’ by it.” You might wonder how he had such power over them, were you not equally caught up in doing his bidding. In fact, you can fully understand their obedience. Marc has an edge to him; sharp enough that you would not dare cross it for fear of being cut. Still, at the same time, you have never feared him. Not once. He is restraint around you. Protective. Only ever wielding the blunt side of his power. Only wielding it in ways you like.

Once the group has retreated, Marc holds the base of the condom and slips himself out of you -an easy glide. Bereft of his fullness, you feel pleasantly used up and fucked open, your pool of slick cool against the night air.

As you catch your breath, chest heaving, he swivels you around carefully, propping you with you back against the wall. He pulls your skirt down quickly to cover your modesty, even before he sees to his own pants, tucking his softening, sated roll of cock away with a one-handed slip of leather belt through its buckle. In the other he holds the condom, which he discards next– almost dropping it down a drain before looking perturbed and mouthing “fishes”- into an adjacent bin.

Then, he crosses back to you, watching you with interest as you quickly pull up your knickers, a struggle as the silky, lacy material sticks to your heated, clammy thighs.

Marc hums and moves his body close to you now, those delicious eyes raking over you - heavy lidded half-moons. Dark planets pulling you into their thrall.

“Mmm. Marc,” you hum with satisfaction, looping your arms around his middle to pull him flush to you, grateful of his warmth as the night chill claims your heat. You kiss the stray bead of sweat from his temple, gathering it on your tongue as though it is the last pearl of water in a desert. The only thing which could quench you, and your lips linger there.

“You good?” he asks smoothly. “Wasn’t too rough?”

You shake your head, and he chides you for your lack of clarity. “Use your words, Princess.”

“’M good,” you confirm.

He nods once, satisfied with that, and your gaze sweeps over the planes of his face. The face which looks sharp and shadowed when it counts, but always marginally softer in these fleeting moments after. As though you could muster power to have him soften further, you lift your palm, pressing it flush to his face, tenderly scraping it down his cheek.

You don’t have a lot of time. You know how you need to drink him in before it’s too late.

However, your gesture has the opposite effect than intended. As you contact his rough brush of stubble, you feel a soft sting. “Ah shit,” you curse, pulling your hand away and glancing down at it. You recall how you had dug it into the mottled brick. How it had retaliated by carving out little crescent indents, your palms now flecked with red; a constellation of tiny blood moons.

A weight settles on Marc’s brow as he reaches to inspect you for himself. “Why didn’t you say?” A hard swallow trails down your throat as Marc’s tone becomes scolding, a sharper edge settling on his features. His strong jaw twitching. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“But I like it,” you coo, making your eyes big and batting your lashes to counterbalance your challenge – albeit to little avail. The weight on Marc’s brow becomes an increasing burden on his features, casting his eyes almost entirely in darkness beneath the heavy set of it. You sigh, a shiver tracing up your spine like a cold finger, matching his demeanour. You’re not exactly surprised. This. This is how it goes. There’s the blissful peak, and after that, it usually sours quickly. “That bothers you, doesn’t it?”

“I need to be able to trust you. To tell me if I go too far.” His features contort with what you can only interpret as regret. As though maybe he’s had enough dealings with pain for a lifetime and he would prefer not to cross paths with it again.

Still, you fold your arms over your chest. He has the audacity to talk about trust here? Really? “Too far according to whom?” you bite, and you watch him chew on some unspoken words. “I know my own limits better than you do, thank you very much.” He huffs out air through his nose. Looks down at the floor. “Anyway. You can trust me.” What remains unspoken is heavily implied. That he is altogether more aligned with secrets than you are.

He smiles, but it’s not out of joy. It’s a tired, jaded thing. Thin as paper. Still, he reaches up, looking you in the eye and jostling the point of your chin between his thumb and forefinger.  “Don’t do this again, kid. It doesn’t lead anywhere good.” His tone is so deliberately smoothed and free from cracks that you can see right through it. He’s trying to placate you. Subdue you.

Well, the first problem is that he knows just how to do it. Has it down to an art. And, the second problem is that you don’t entirely mind; because unlike your lines of questioning, that usually does lead somewhere good.

“Now.” He winds his hand between your legs, finding that damp strip of material – the pad of his index finger skimming over your plumped, clothed clit. “Do you want me to give you another one? Or do you want to go home?” Placating you. Case in point.

Still, you defy him. “I want to go home.”

You search conscientiously for any flicker of disappointment you are able to discern in his face; but it’s too dark and he’s too good to let his mask of indifference slip, even for a moment – if it truly is a mask he wears at all.

“Well. That was pretty fun,” you breeze, pushing off from the wall. “Think that’s in the top three fucks that I’ve had in an alleyway.” That’s a lie. You’ve never fucked in an alleyway before. And, if you’re talking top fucks, Marc currently occupies spots one through 28. (Given that’s as many times as you’ve had hook-ups with him, his record is pretty consistently good. Gleaming, in fact.)

You examine his face now, for any hint of jealousy or bruised ego at the insinuation he many share the leading rank with some other of your conquests; but your comment seems only to have amused him. Maybe he can see through you, already?

Fuck. Maybe next time he’ll even make you admit it. Edge you for hours until you admit it to him. That he’s the best you’ve had.

If there is a next time, that is. Being his booty call is a precarious game.

Normally, you can handle that he never expresses anything much back to you – his face impassive. No gushing praise for how well you take him or how good you feel on his cock. You would barely know he enjoyed you at all - aside from the obvious, the straining mass of him and gush of liquid – if it weren’t for the fact he keeps coming back for more. Coming back to you.

Yeah. It was only ever meant to be a one time thing. Just a one night stand. A casual Tinder hook-up with no strings and even fewer feelings.

Clearly, you had both decided that once wouldn’t be enough; but you’re still not sure you’re on the same page about what qualifies as too much.

Marc places his broad palm on the small of your back to gently encourage you back inside, and you allow it. “Did you bring a coat?”

“I’m not living in Newcastle anymore. What do you think?” Marc looks blank. He doesn’t understand the reference. Why would he? He’s not from around here. “Newcastle,” you explain dryly. “Residents famed for not wearing coats on nights out?” Still nothing. It’s a regional stereotype, and sometimes brandished unkindly, but even so, some of your friends from up there would genuinely give you shit for this. Would call you a Southern softie. “Yes,” you concede in a monotone. “In the cloakroom.”

Marc’s hand becomes a little more insistent on your back, and for some reason it irks you. It’s like now that he’s taken what he wanted he can’t wait to be rid of you. For that, you shrug him off you. And, you don’t want to say it. You don’t want to push him. But you can feel it bubbling up in you. This desire for a little more. “You know. We could grab a drink if you-“

“-We did what we came to do,” he says neutrally. Probably things he’s doing you a favour too. Stopping you before you can humiliate yourself further. “You know I don’t do pillow talk.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes, hard, as you head deeper into the warren of pub corridors. “Pillow talk? Please. When was the last time we fucked in an actual bed?”

Annoyance twitches on Marc’s face. “You know what I mean.”

Your expression grows bitter in turn and Marc sighs, cupping a hand on to your elbow and gently moving you to a dark corner next to the stairs, planting his feet and coming to face you. “Look. This is just sex, and it’s all it’s ever going to be.” Wow. Not pulling any punches here, is he? You pinch your lips together in a tight line, and as tears ball in your eyes his face softens marginally. You think you detect just a hint of sympathy in his tone. “I’m sorry to be cold. But I don’t want pleasantries. I don’t want a girlfriend.” You dip your chin and gaze down to the floor, hoping he can’t see how much that stings. It’s not that this is news to you – not at all. He’s been upfront with you from the start, and Marc is nothing if not consistent.

It's just that, gradually, you have found yourself wishing that could change. Would a soft cuddle and some chat after being railed into oblivion be too much to ask for on the odd occasion? Would it really?

Marc brings his forefinger beneath your chin, gingerly tipping your gaze back to him. His touch is tender, but you know better than to expect that from his words, and inwardly you brace yourself, your fists clenching and reminding you all over again of the sting in your palms. “I don’t want to chat. Become buddies. I don’t want to know anything about you, don’t need to know anything about you, other than how to make you come six ways to Sunday.” He shifts his hips a little closer to you, winding one arm around your waist and so help you, you hate yourself for being so weak that a heat crawls and crackles beneath your skin from this contact. “If that bothers you, you’re free to stop. But it’s good, isn’t it? This thing we do?”  

Fuck.

Are you? Free to stop? About as free as the sea is. Looks like it - that great expanse of water. Looks wild and unstoppable and ferocious; but, the moon drags it in line, every time. Always entices it back to smash itself upon the rocks. You feel a tide within you drawing you to him, and you’re not sure that you have the strength to escape it.

Still, he’s not wrong. It is good – this thing you do. Even now, a heat curls in your belly at the memory. You exhale a breath in concession, and Marc perhaps gives an inch too. Perhaps realises that just a smidgen of aftercare wouldn’t be remiss, and he searches your eyes in something which could pass for apology. You feel embarrassed that you have tears balling there, but you still loop your hands around his neck regardless as he offers his arms for a hug. As his big warm hands smooth your back.

“You did so well, Princess,” he coos, his prominent nose nuzzling into the cushion of your cheek. His lips skimming yours for a fleeting, almost sweet kiss. Almost. “So good for me, huh?”

There he goes again, eh? Placating you.

His lips dip for another kiss but you wilfully shake yourself out of your stupor. You paint on a thin smile and brace your hands on his shoulders, pushing him away from you. He immediately steps back, creating space, looking a little put out. Well, good.

“Walk me to the tube?” you ask perfunctorily, tilting your head in direction of the ladies’ toilets. “I need to piss first,” you say bluntly. There’s no elegance in this – any of this – so why put up a charade? You have no masks to wear. That’s his domain. “Will you just let me wee in peace?”

He nods efficiently. “I’ll get your coat.” You fumble the cloakroom ticket from your handbag and pass it off to him, and then you head your separate ways for the moment.

It gives you a valuable moment to gather yourself. You wee. Wash your grazed hands in cool water. Fish some unsightly mascara goop from the corner of your eye. You splash some cold water on your still heated cheeks, and then you smooth yourself, so that by the time you step out into the corridor – Marc holding your coat – you feel almost as inscrutable as him. Just as unbothered.

He helps you shrug on your coat and the banality of the action almost makes you laugh. Almost.

Then, you head together out into the street. You link your arm into the crook of his elbow so that he can support some of the weight of you, the balls of your feet starting to ache in these flimsy shoes – one of them particularly soggy still from languishing in that puddle.

You walk in silence, letting Marc navigate to the nearest tube stop and not giving much thought to anything else. What’s the point, anyway? It’s not as though he wants to make conversation. He’s made that abundantly clear.

Indeed, his words from moments ago replay in your head, but now one choice phrase sticks out.

You huff out a small laugh, directed nowhere in particular. “Six ways to Sunday, eh?” Marc turns his head towards you. “Well, you certainly have that down.” You’ll give him that.

He says nothing, of course. Doesn’t even deign to look smug about it. It irks you, that. His impassivity. And then all of a sudden you can’t help but fling your words out on a surge of emotion. You are trying to be more like him, but it’s wrong, isn’t it? That won’t do. You’re not the same. You care.

Your tone drips with ire, all your complaints bubbling up at once. “Why do you keep doing this, if you hate it so much?” You mean all of it – your whole arrangement - but why put himself through this, specifically? The prolonged walk to the tube? Can’t he just shove you in a taxi and be done with it?

“I don’t,” he says coolly. “I… don’t hate it.” There is a beat as you try to suss him out. “Why do you?”

You tut and huff and you don’t even care what he thinks of you at this point. “Why do I what?”

“Keep doing this. If you hate it.”

You swallow. You allow a stretched silence, the only sound you make for a few beats is the relentless clacking of your heels against the pavement.

You don’t hate it. Not exactly.

A troubled frown settles on your brow. Fuck, what are you even doing?

You’d told him earlier how you like things that hurt. That you know your own limits for pain. But, you’re starting to wonder if that’s as true as you thought it was, given that this -this arrangement in and of itself - is starting to hurt you. You know all the right safe words for the physical stuff, sure, but when it comes to your heart? Apparently, you just don’t know when to quit. Don’t know how to get out before you get bruised.

God. You wish sometimes he could be another man. Someone who would cuddle you and buy you chocolates. Who wants a girlfriend. You knew what you’d signed up for, it’s true, but you hadn’t known what you were getting yourself into. And now, you can’t see your way out of it. How could you, when you only ever see him in the shadows. Your path is not illuminated.  

Oh well. Fuck it. You double-down on your frown. Pick up the pace of your steps. “On second thoughts, I think you were on to something, Marc. Let’s not talk.”

Indeed, that’s how you arrive at the otherwise deserted tube station; wordlessly. You shuffle to the platform, wincing at the pain in your feet and aching body, and flick your eyes up to the illuminated sign. Three minutes before the arrival of the next train.

You don’t have much time.

Time seems to slip away faster all of a sudden, like sand through your fingers. You’re already thinking ahead to your day tomorrow. About what time to set your alarm and what you have in your calendar. You’re already compartmentalising Marc away. Consigning him to the dark. Burying him like some treasure that you might later excavate, but that, for right now, you need to forget all about.

You could forget he was there at all - if he didn’t reach out for you, his hand finding the small of your back again. “Text me, when you get home safe.”

You don’t fight your eye-roll this time. “What do you care?”

You hear his long sigh then. You realise all of a sudden, under the artificial lights in the underground station, how tired he looks. Still, he continues to be just as stoic and withholding as ever. You want to be bratty and petty and provoke him, but you know it would be futile. It would be like meeting a wall of stone. A blocked entrance to a tomb, where his cold, dead heart must languish within.

Besides, what use would it be trying to appeal to him? You feel like you have more to lose here than he does. Marc is pushing you away, and it’s all too deliberate – he’s made no bones about that - but you can’t have him thinking he’s pushed you too far. After all, for better or worse, you need this again. You need him to come back to you. “When will I see you again?”

His voice stoops a little with apology. “You know I can’t make any guarantees.”

You make a point of looking ahead into the blackened mouth of the tunnel. Looking away from him, as though you can’t wait to get away. “I won’t just sit around any wait by the phone, Marc.”

It’s frustrating. You have to deal with his weird fucking schedule again? Really? Disappearing for days or weeks? He’s straight down the line about the fact he doesn’t want more than a fuck from you… but, damn. Everything else? A big fat question mark. You’re not exactly naïve, though. You like to think you’re actually quite perceptive as a person. You know fine well he has stuff to hide – though you’re not entirely sure you want to know what it is he’s hiding, anyway.

You look at the sign again and he follows your line of sight. Two minutes left before the train. Marc looks perturbed by that fact for the exact opposite reason that you are. Two minutes for you to needle him. Well, whatever. You’ve tried. You’ve tried to give him your soft side – and he doesn’t want it. It doesn’t matter what you do. “Are you seeing anyone else?” you ask as casually as possible. You hear the tension laid out in his breaths before you see it on his face, finally looking back at him. No doubt, he must think you are jealous. About to spin some wild theories about his whereabouts when you don’t hear from him. “Relax, Marc. I just ask because… the condoms. If we didn’t need to use them it’d be...” He quirks an eyebrow at you, prompting you to finish that thought. (Ah, yes. Fucking. The one topic of conversation that’s safe with him.) “Well. That’d be… fun. Wouldn’t it?”

You paint a devious smile on your pretty mouth and you watch with satisfaction as a hard swallow trails down Marc’s corded neck. There is a beat. There always is. But, then he answers you. No mirrors or deflection that you can tell. “I’m not seeing anyone else,” he says plainly.

Your mouth falls open, and you close it quickly.

Honestly? That surprises you. You watch desire weigh him down, his eyes growing hooded as a result of your proposition. “Aren’t you?” he asks with the level of casual you had attempted to muster. “Seeing anyone else? Alley fucking champions one through two?”

A devious spark lights your eyes. Good. So that comment did get under his skin a little bit, then? You answer him with reciprocal plainness. “No.”

Heat brews in his gorgeous earth brown eyes at your statement. “Would you like that? Me shooting myself inside of you?”

You look at him levelly. “I’d like that a lot.” His desire, in turn, warms you, your core turning molten all over again.

This. This is all he wants from you, and this is all of himself he’s prepared to give, but isn’t this enough? Even a sliver of him is enough to light your glow through the lonely nights. A sliver of him – a mere crescent - shining down on you? That is better than the dark, you think. So much better than the dark.

You look at the sign. One minute.

You’re running out of time.

So, hastily, and with a devious half-moon smile to rival his best, you slip your damp silken, lacy knickers from your legs, stepping out of them and stuffing them into his jacket pocket. You lean forward to whisper into the shell of his ear, your voice and your scent fanning over him. “Something to remember me by, Daddy.”

His curls are whipped about his deliciously dumbfounded face by the rushing air in the tube, as the train whooshes in on its approach. You take satisfaction in your timing. In the fact your little act has blindsided him. Indeed, you watch him pile his restraint on like armour, like a mask, his nostrils flaring and his tongue darting out hungrily along his lip as you spin away from him. You step aboard the tube as the hideous, jarring beep sounds, signalling that the doors are about to swallow you up.

When the signal sounds, Marc looks primed to pounce. He looks after you with regret. Like he could jump through those doors and wrestle you on to the floor right there. Instead though, he has two little words for you. “Text me,” he says sternly, before his hand shoves into his pocket. No doubt searching for how soaked your panties are. Feeling how wet he had made you; for it was all for him.

Settling in a seat, in the interior of the train, you deliver him a wolfish smile through the window, texting him a message which he opens immediately. “Perv.”

He smiles then. Actually smiles at you, eyes eclipsed with mirth and surprise - and still that lazily blazing heat. He gives you a wink, and he pulls his fingers from his pocket to smell you on him, your stomach flipping with desire as he does so.

God, he makes your blood run beneath your skin like a pack of wolves. Chaotic but focussed. Animalistic and wild. The clamour and pulse of it unrelenting.

You see him typing again on his shitty phone. “Text me. When you’re HOME SAFE.” You look up at him and he dips his chin pointedly. Raises an eyebrow, signalling that you should not dare disobey him. Not on this occasion.

“Alright,” you type back. “But no-one says ‘text’ anymore, old man.”

He smiles again, and for the first time it is a soft thing. Lingering as you watch him shove his hands into his trouser pockets, preparing to slink off into the shadows without so much as a wave.

This. This is what you don’t understand about the man. He’s caring in so many ways. He’s respectful. Never prepared to compromise on your physical safety. Straight up in that he has never tried to trick you; has always been honest in his intentions. But, his eyes are harbouring so many secrets.

Still. For the first time, tonight, you wonder if they were finally harbouring some secrets about you. For the first time, you wonder if you have finally managed to crack his façade. To see a glimpse of who he might be beneath the mask.

You watch him slink away, but for just a moment your attention is diverted by a rowdy group of hens, with whom you share the carriage. They distract you for a moment, with their colourful sashes and booming laughter, and when you slant your eyes back, Marc is gone.

“He was a bit of alright,” one of the friendly and rather tipsy women pipes up, practically drooling in the direction of the window. “Is he your bloke?” Her eyes are a little glassy. A little unfocussed.

You look between her and her pals with a taut smile. “Not really.” You too look out of the window now, a little wistfully, picking the spot he disappeared into as the train pulls away. “I don’t think that he belongs to anyone.” You shake your head, dismissing the thought before it drags you down. You pull your coat around you, and nod politely towards the bride. “Congratulations on the wedding.” Her face apples with an unrestrained joy. You wonder what that’s like.

“Thanks chick,” she grins, and then, just like that, you are on the outside again. The group forgets you, descending back into their own bubble of giggles and jokes.

Naturally, as you sit and wait for your stop, your thoughts wander. Naturally, they drag back to Marc; like you are the tide and he is the moon. Every now and again, he keeps emerging from the dark. Holding this power of you. You never know if you’ll see him again.

It was only meant to be once, and that means you’re already out of time.

He always disappears from your grasp.

In fact, the only way you’d know he was ever there at all -that he enjoys you - is the dull, continued throb between your legs. That’s the only thing you have to remember him by, and that will be gone by morning.

Just like he always is.

***

The next day, Steven puts his hand into his pocket, expecting to find a little box of tic-tacs.

“Oh, bloody hell,” he curses instead, as he unfurls the intricate red lace underwear between his fingers.

As a mirroring hot-red heat blooms up his neck, he looks up into the bathroom mirror, clearly awaiting some sort of explanation.

Marc’s face peers back at him from within the reflective surface, looking all bent out of shape – as he so often does. Maybe that’s just his face, Steven thinks, never one to judge. “They don’t belong to you, buddy,” Marc warns, in that robust, smooth tone of his.

Oh? A little possessive of these, is he? How telling.  

“Yeah? Is that right?” Steven says animatedly. “’Cause they don’t strike me as belonging to you either, mate.”

Marc tilts his head. A concessionary move he hopes will invite no further questions. But, he musn’t forget. This is Steven he’s dealing with.

“Has Marc-y gone and got ‘imself a girlfriend?” Steven sing-songs, abruptly shoving the knickers back into his pocket as the bathroom door opens, to guard them from sight.

When the other man enters the stall, Steven glances back to the mirror, to see Marc shaking his head. Quite adamant that that’s not what’s happening here. Not at all.

Steven grins, knowingly. A little too knowingly for Marc’s liking.

Well, well, well. The mercenary has many secrets, including from Steven; but it seems you are no longer one of them.

You can’t possibly know yet, just how significant that fact will be… and the truth is, neither can he.

TO BE CONTINUED.

Part 2 is here!

[sukifans]

aahhh I’m so excited I love your writing!!! your sokka “help me” fic is one of my favs ever I seriously think about it at least twice a week. in a similar vein, would you be able to combine prompts 10 & 12 for sokka x fem!reader? thank you!!! :)

SOKKA + “can i try that new chapstick? i wanna have a taste” + “i hadn’t noticed but my sweet, funny, goofy best friend is kind of hot, especially since they’ve been on this fitness kick”

⇦ 𝘔𝘈𝘚𝘛𝘌𝘙𝘓𝘐𝘚𝘛

“nastiest skank bitches” Group Message

loml: ladies, i need a girls night

loml: desperately

babygorl: god i’m down, this semester blows

fugly slut <3: i’m in!! always here for a girls night 🥰

loml: y/n??

you: gals. pals. as much as i would love to...

fugly slut <3: ughhhhhhhhh

babygorl: you better not be blowing us off for sokka again istg

you: 😅

loml: TRAITOR BITCH

fugly slut <3: HOES BEFORE BROS

babygorl: WHORE

you: bruh.mp3

you: he’s coming by after the gym to help me with my physics homework!!! I NEED THE HELP PLS I PROMISE ILL BE THERE NEXT TIME

babygorl: lying is a sin y/n

babygorl: sinner

loml: if sokka’s gonna b there maybe she’ll be sinning in........ other ways...... ahaha

loml: fuckboy_emoji.jpg

fugly slut <3: when you gonna tap that fr

you: NEVER LITERALLY NO EW

you: HE’S MY BEST FRIEND

you: UNLIKE YOU RATS

fugly slut <3: he do b kinda yummy tho liiiike 👀

you: STOP

loml: yeah he’s hot sorry queen

you: HE’S NOT HOT

babygorl: i almost hate to admit it but...

babygorl: his biceps 🥴

fugly slut <3 emphasized “his biceps 🥴”

loml loved “his biceps 🥴”

you: hey! i hate u guys! jsyk!

fugly slut <3 disliked “hey! i hate u guys! jsyk!”

babygorl disliked “hey! i hate u guys! jsyk!”

loml disliked “hey! i hate u guys! jsyk!”

babygorl: uh huh yeah sure

loml: yall hear sumn?

NEW MESSAGE from sokka :^)

“hey i’m omw up!”

you: whatever you guys suck

you: i gtg

fugly slut <3: AND YOU SWALLOW

babygorl: bye girly!! get that bestie dick!!

loml: save a car, ride an engineering major >:)

you: desgostang.jpg

You dropped your phone onto the bed next to you with a groan. Your friends really and truly could be such freaks about your relationship with Sokka—or lack thereof. They’d been especially adament ever since he started some stupid bet with Zuko about who could get the most “gains” by graduation, incited by Aang making the mistake of commenting on Zuko’s more pronounced muscle mass.

Idiots.

That’s what Sokka was. Your idiotic best friend, who was funny, and sweet, and intelligent. You loved him, of course, but not like that. And he was not hot.

Definitely not.

The pounding on your dorm door interrupted your musings before Sokka let himself in, dropping his gym bag on the floor and kicking off his slides. His hair was loose and still damp from his post-workout shower and he wore slim joggers with a loose muscle tee.

“Hey!” He smiled brightly when he spotted you sitting in your bed. “What’s up?”

“The usual.” You moved your legs out of the way so he could flop down onto your mattress. “How was the gym?”

Sokka groaned. “Cardio. I’m already sore.” He stretched his arms up to fold behind his head, pulling his muscles taut.

Hm. He does kind of have nice biceps...

You shook yourself internally. Thoughts like these had been creeping out of your subconscious for weeks now, no thanks to your rabid friends.

“My leg’s been killing me, though,” he continued, rubbing his opposite foot across the skin that covered that metal pins and plates holding his bones together after a nasty break in high school. The leg often still gave him problems, ranging from the dull ache he could ignore on the day-to-day, to throbbing pain that left him limping.

You frowned, looking away from his arms to meet his eyes. “You should probably rest up before you hurt yourself,” you said.

“I’ll be fine.” He shrugged and propped himself up on his elbows. “Gotta catch up to Zuko, y’know.”

“Why? You’re already taller than him.”

“So? I wanna be more yolked, too.”

You rolled your eyes. “Buncha dumbasses.”

Sokka quirked an eyebrow. “You want this dumbass to help with your physics homework or not?”

“Haha,” you chuckled nervously, “just kidding, buddy! I meant Zuko and Aang. You—definitely not a dumbass. Nope.”

“That’s what I thought.” He shot you a smug look as he pushed up to sit cross-legged across from you on the bed. He held his hand out with a dramatic, world-weary sigh. “Alright, give it here.”

You opened your laptop to pull up the website that hosted your homework practice problems. “You know I love you, right?”

“Mhm,” he hummed, grabbing a notebook and pen from your desk to work out the math as you handed over the computer. He paused before standing to retrieve his bag, plopping it on your desk chair so he could root through it and pull out his glasses case. You felt your cheeks warm a little when he set the frames on the bridge of his nose.

Fine—he was kinda cute. You could concede that without having to dig too deep into your somewhat jumbled feelings for your best friend.

But you would certainly not “tap that.”

Well...

No. You would not.

You watched his eyes flick over the screen as he tapped the pen against his chin, catching the cap between his teeth while he thought about the formulas he’d learned in a past semester. He nodded to himself and started scribbling out a diagram and the math to go with it. You found yourself a little mesmerized by the way he simply just knew what to do, confidently scratching away at the paper as easily as one might write the alphabet. Your eyes trailed from his long fingers and calloused hand sweeping over the page, up his toned arm (lingering on his bicep a little longer), and to his face. He chewed at the inside of his cheek in concentration, sometimes parting his lips to murmur the logic to himself.

For someone who often said a lot of stupid shit, he sure had a pretty mouth.

You considered what he might do if you snatched a fistful of his shirt and yanked him into a kiss. Would he shove you away and leave? Awkwardly but kindly reject you? Or, would he kiss you back—throw the work out of the way and grab your face to coax you in deeper? Maybe push you back onto the bed and—

“Okay, so basically—”

Jesus Christ, get a fucking grip.

“—from the problem and draw it out like this to apply the formula, yeah?”

Sokka looked to you expectantly and you blinked at him as your face burned. “Sorry, I zoned out. What did you say?”

“C’mon, I know you hate physics but you gotta at least pay attention to me if you wanna pass,” he teased, shifting close enough that the sides of your bodies pressed together. Was it getting warmer in your room, or was it just your best friend?

He launched into the explanation again and you nodded along while internally willing the blood to leave your cheeks. Even as your thoughts ricocheted around inside your skull he managed to break it down in a way that somewhat made sense. He sat back and watched as you slowly worked through the next problem. You glanced up when you heard a soft pop to see him applying chapstick.

“Is that a new flavor?” you asked.

“Yeah, chocolate orange or something.” He held the tube out to you. “Wanna try?”

Fuck it.

Before your rationality could catch up you pressed a hand to his cheek to turn his head and pulled him in for a kiss. Your lips only slotted together for a brief moment before you pulled back to stare wide-eyed at each other. You could feel the fire creeping from your cheeks down your neck, mirrored in the reddening of his tanned skin.

He blinked. You blinked.

The chapstick slipped from between his fingers. Rationality arrived late.

You bolted.

“Uh, see ya later!” you shouted as you threw the door open and rushed out of the room.

“Wait, (Y/N)—“

You didn’t stick around to hear the end of his desperate call. Even thought it was your dorm and you were barefoot you still raced down the hall, wincing at the sound of a door slamming behind you.

“(Y/N)!”

Damn that lanky bastard. You were booking it and he was already hot on your heels. You barreled into the door leading to the stairwell and almost made it down the first step when he grabbed you around the waist and yanked you back. Despite your struggles, the arm hooked across your middle was unyielding until he pushed you into the corner and crowded you against the wall, hands caging you in from either side. Your heart was racing and you weren’t sure if it was because of your escape attempt or that he was close enough you could smell his body wash and deodorant. It was almost enough to make your head spin.

“Sokka, I-I don’t know why—I’m sorry, please, I shouldn’t’ve—“

“(Y/N),” he said firmly and your mouth snapped shut. “Why did you run away?”

“Uh, I—well, um...” You shrunk down against the wall and swallowed hard. “I-I don’t know.”

“You didn’t even give me a chance to respond.”

“Look—“ You paused and stared at him once you processed what he said. “What?”

He laughed, dropping one of his hands to brush against your cheek before threading into your hair to cup the base of your skull. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?”

With that he surged forwards and kissed you enthusiastically, making you gasp into his mouth. You balled your hands into the front of his shirt to keep yourself steady as you melted into him. His free hand pressed into your lower back to bring you in closer. His tongue slipped out to tease at your bottom lip and he chuckled when you had to quickly grab his shoulders as your knees almost buckled.

“Get that,” he murmured against your lips, pressing his forehead to yours as the two of you gasped for air.

“Oh,” you breathed, “that.” You hummed happily when he kissed you again, his stubble scratching against your chin and under your palms when you cupped his face.

You both looked up when a stairwell door somewhere above you slammed open, followed by a group of jostling male voices. Sokka grinned when you glanced at him with wide eyes and shiny, swollen lips. You tried to hide behind him as the clamor bounded closer and closer. The group of guys rounded the next flight and gave shouts of recognition upon seeing you two standing against the wall.

“Sokka!”

“Hey, man!”

“Hey, guys,” Sokka said, holding his hand up in greeting.

“What’s up?”

“Oh, is that (Y/N)?”

“Nice, dude!”

“Ah, yeah...” He sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck and you raised an eyebrow at his turned head. They all cheered and congratulated him, slapping his back as they passed and disappeared down the next set of stairs. When Sokka met your eyes again you cocked your head.

“Who were they?” you asked.

“Honestly, I’m not sure.”

“Sokka.”

“My reputation precedes me, what can I say?”

“Mine doesn’t.”

“Well—“ he suddenly became very interested in the underside of the stairs above you “—my reputation may or may not involve talking about you. A lot, apparently.”

“Huh?”

“I don’t do it on purpose!” he interjected quickly, taking your hands in his. “It’s just—I dunno, I guess I think about you a lot, so...”

“Oh.”

“Fuck, okay, that sounded weird.” You laughed a little at his embarrassed floundering. “I just mean, like, things that remind me of you or, y’know, stories that involve you...” he trailed off, flushing at your amused smile. “Stop it!”

“Stop what?”

“Making fun of me!”

“I didn’t say anything,” you giggled, hooking your arms around his neck.

“You’re still laughing at me,” he whined, lips turning into a frown. His hands slipped back down to your waist.

“You’re cute.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Without preamble, he ducked down and hoisted you over his shoulder as you shrieked in protest. “Sokka! Put me down!”

“No can do, baby; we have unfinished business to attend to.” He said as he marched you back in the direction of your room.

“You’re gonna finish my physics homework?”

“Nope.”

Oh.

A/N: 2k words bc, again, i have no self control. thank you for the request!

ATLA TAGS: @hotgirlazula @octophopi @blazedbakugou @protect-remus @akiris @sunflowerazula @wooscottoncandyhair @chewymoustachio @ohno-caroline @sunflowerr-mami @1vitamin @ladylizzieofdarbyshire @u-4iia @nymeria-targaryen @tommy-braccoli @dizzy-miss-lizzieeeeee @a-sloppy-bitch @nomin-rights @siriuslyslyslytherin @starryncn

SOKKA TAGS: @fiantomartell @avatarayeaye @zvkta @sher-lockedmarvel @grandmascottlang @captainshazamerica @yuesallura

[tennessoui]

FeralObi anon here. How do you come up with these so fast?? Are you an infinite number of ideas and worlds in human-shaped form? I love both of those ideas. The first one kills me tho, Obi gets his first kind touch in years from lil Anakin. Also you can have lil Anakin coming home one day with a skulking, snarling nonverbal murder puppy and saying brightly, "He followed me home, can I keep him?" Schmi thinks this is definitely worse than the time he brought a krayt dragon home.

ah! hello! yes this is the first idea of a feral obi-wan who meets anakin when he's still on tatooine. i will also still do the second idea because like. i liked them equally as much rip me

but i told myself these were going to both be very short snippets and instead this one is uh 2k so i'll post the second one tomorrow instead of tonight!

(ficlet where obi-wan is captured by pirates/unspecified forces at a young age and then tortured for a decade before he escapes to tatooine when anakin is like 6. obi-wan, after a decade of torture is....not alright in this fic though he's only here at the end) (2k)

Shmi had known that when she sent her little Anakin away to follow after the stern-faced, warm-eyed Jedi Master, that this would not be the last time she ever saw her boy. She couldn’t explain how she knew, just as she had not been able to explain how she became pregnant, but she knew beyond a doubt that one day, she would see her little boy back in her arms.

She just hadn’t known it would be so soon.

“He died, Master Jinn died,” Anakin mumbles into the front of her dress, unwilling to move his head far back enough from her hug that he could talk clearly. “On Naboo. And the stupid Jedi council refused to train me even after I was so amazing in the air. Mom, I destroyed a blockade! Entirely! And they wouldn’t--they didn’t--” his little face scrunches up and then he’s bawling into his hands.

A slave, a born slave, knows intrinsically the injustice of the galaxy. It is not often they know hope.

“Oh my boy,” she whispers, smoothing a hand over the top of his head. She has questions. She has so many questions about everything he’s just said and what those strangers have put her son through, but the most important thing is a question she cannot wait until he has cried himself out to ask. “Is your chip gone, Ani? Did they remove your transmitter?”

Because she had sent him away from her so that he could be free. And that had been her own twisted version of hope, that her son could know a life she never would again. If the Jedi masters had proven to be just like every other master in the world, she would find herself sobbing into her own hands.

“Yeah,” Anakin sniffles and wipes at his ruddy cheeks, pulling back a few steps. “They removed it and everything. And--”

He pauses and drops his satchel to the ground in front of her. “They gave me credits. To buy you. For my trouble.”

He spits out the last three words like they’re the most disgusting thing in the entire world. As if Shmi’s freedom isn’t laying at their feet, mere centimeters away.

“Republic credits are no good here,” she hears herself say faintly.

“Padme, the handmaiden you met, she talked to the queen about me I guess,” Anakin mumbles, kicking his feet. “And when the queen learned that the Jedi didn’t want me even after all that, Padme says the queen says I’ll always have a place on Naboo. Me and my family. And then she took the Jedi credits and gave me these instead. It should be enough, Mom.”

Shmi sits down on the floor. With shaking hands, she opens the bag and looks inside. Yes. Yes.

There’s more than enough.

There’s enough to buy her freedom and take her boy away from Mos Espa. There’s enough to take her boy away from Tatooine completely.

“I…” she says. “Ani, I…”

“Padme said she’d send a ship for us,” Ani reports as if their lives are not changing right in front of their eyes. “In two days ‘cause I told her it might take a little bit of time to get Ben to come with us. But we can’t leave without him.”

This is said fiercely and with his arms crossed tightly over his little chest.

Shmi stares at him.

“I’ve already left him once!” Anakin says, stomping his foot. “But that was okay, because I knew you would bring him food and water and stuff. But if we’re both gone, no one’s going to be there for him.”

Shmi bites at her lip. There’s a lot of things happening very quickly right now, and she doesn’t know how to process half of them.

Her son has come back, after only being gone for a week and a half.

He has apparently either endeared himself so much to the queen of Naboo that she was willing to give him the money necessary to buy his mother from slavery and also promise him sanctuary on her planet. He says he’s done this by single-handedly ending a blockade, which is something she just cannot even think about right now.

He has told this queen--queen--that he will gladly live on Naboo with his family. Yes. Alright.

His family seems to include his imaginary friend, Ben.

Anakin has been talking about Ben for years now, ever since he was six and a half years old and sent by Watto to retrieve any scraps he could from what looked to be a crashed pod in the Wastelands. She’d let him ramble on about the ghost of a friend, because she’d known it to be something all children go through and experience. She hadn’t thought Anakin a lonely child, not with the friends he made in Mos Espa, but she’d always known that Anakin had a wandering spirit, ill-suited for Tatooine. If he liked to imagine an older man from a strange world hiding in the caves of the Wastes, then she wasn’t going to say anything.

“You have been leaving him food, haven’t you, Mom?” Anakin asks, almost accusatory. “I told him to expect you and everything.”

No. Shmi has not been traveling to the edge of the Wastelands every day during her precious few hours of free time in order to leave food to be picked apart by womp rats and desert critters and not her boy’s imaginary friend.

“Ani,” she says cautiously, quietly, “we cannot...we won’t be able to bring Ben with us when we go.”

Anakin, predictably, does not react well. “Why not!” he yells, backing away from her even further and looking as if she is the enemy. “Padme’s fine with it!”

“Aren’t you a little old for imaginary friends?” Shmi asks desperately, feeling cold suddenly even though the heat of the mid-morning sun has not abated at all.

If anything, her son looks more offended. “He’s not imaginary! Saying...saying that he’s not coming with us...is...is a bunch of poodoo!”

“Anakin!” Shmi gasps.

“Come on,” her boy says forcefully, grabbing at her hand and tugging her towards the door. She gets on her feet reluctantly and has half a mind to pull back just because he needs to learn that this sort of behavior is not okay, war hero or not. “We’re going to buy you from Watto. And then we’re going to go visit Ben!”

---

Buying her freedom takes less time than Shmi Skywalker ever thought it would. It feels distant as well, as if it’s happening to someone else.

It doesn’t help that her Ani is impatient and surly by turn, spilling the coin out onto Watto’s counter and barely waiting for him to finish counting it before he’s looking at the price of renting a four-person speeder parked outside.

“You won’t survive out there on your own,” Watto sneers, even as he’s passing her the kill-switch of her own slave chip. “Days. It’ll be days until the Hutts find out there’s a newly freed slave with no connections out there in the open. Ripe for the pickin’.”

Watto doesn’t have to tell her any of this. She knows. Gods, does she know.

But Anakin seems so sure about possessing the favor of the Queen of Naboo, or at least her handmaiden, which might be close enough to the same thing. She thanks Watto--she thanks him and then doesn’t even know why--and meets Anakin outside.

He’s bouncing around the speeder, little hands clutching his satchel to his chest. “Good!” he says when he sees her, hopping onto the machine and putting the parcel between his feet. “I got Ben something called a fig on Naboo, but I don’t know how long it’ll take for it to go bad. Apparently they’re sweet.”

Shmi goes along with it. Shmi doesn’t know why she goes along with it, but she does. She can see this is important to her boy, and though she’d rather spend the afternoon and early evening saying goodbye to her friends, she will allow Ani to say goodbye to his imaginary friend. Maybe she’ll even talk to it. “Hi, hello, I’m so glad you’ve enjoyed the imaginary blue milk and delicacies I’ve left out for you this past week and half. Oh no, it was no bother. My son insisted.”

The ride is quick--Anakin has always been a driver to push the limits of any engine he comes across--and before she knows it, he’s dismounting on a piece of desert and rock that look exactly the same as the last four pieces of rocky terrain they’ve past.

“Ben!” Ani calls, satchel clutched firmly in his hands as he makes his way deeper into the crevices of the landscape. “Ben, it’s Ani! I’m really sorry that I left! Ben? Ben! I’m back now! Ani’s back!”

It’s actually...quite pathetic, to watch her boy speak so pleadingly to the cold stone faces of the rocks around them, but if this is what he needs to do to say goodbye to his life on Tatooine, Shmi won’t say a word.

“Ben--” Anakin draws in a breath to call again, but then there’s movement out of the corner of Shmi’s eyes, and something jumps from the rock down to land on her boy.

She screams and darts forward, but the thing on top of her son snarls at her in guttural warning.

“No, Ben,” Ani coos, stroking at the face that yes, is human, now that it’s not in unnaturally fast motion. “That’s my mom, Ben.”

Ben--Ben??--growls anyway, pinning the boy--her boy--beneath him with his legs and arms.

“She’s fine,” Ani murmurs gently, one hand reaching up to stoke over the beginnings of a beard on Obi-Wan’s face “Oh Ben, I’m sorry.”

The man on top of Shmi’s child finally looks away from her and at her boy, which is both better and worse.

“Ani,” Ben drawls out, as if the word--or perhaps forming the word--hurts him.

Anakin is happy. Shmi can tell he’s happy without even being able to see much of him. It’s like the very air vibrates with his joy. “Yes!” her son says. “Ani. Ben.” He taps the man’s chest. “Ben. Ani.”

The man buries his head into Anakin’s hair, hands rubbing up and down his sides and his arms and his face.

Shmi needs to say something, wants to say something about this strange man touching boy like he owns him, but the memory of his growl and the flash of his golden eyes stops her from stepping forward.

“Anakin, get away from him,” she hisses instead of stepping forward and tearing the stranger off of her son. She has the distinct feeling Anakin wouldn’t let Ben go anywhere, not with the way his little hands are holding so tight to the man’s shoulders. The man’s shoulders that are covered with one of her old tunics that Anakin had told her became unsalvageable after its last wash.

“No,” Anakin says, tightening his hold on his...friend. “He says you didn’t give him food the entire time I was gone! He’s hungry.”

Shmi thinks there’s a very good possibility that this Ben is going to eat her, but she knows not to say anything of the sort. Not when it’s two against one.

“He hasn’t said anything!” She cries instead.

Anakin huffs at this and pats at the feral’s head. “Maybe not to you, but he talks to me.”

Shmi stares at him and wonders if there’s something she’s supposed to be doing or saying here. The man won’t allow her to tear him off her child, she knows that automatically. But she can’t--she doesn’t know--

“Anakin,” she tries, desperately.

But Anakin doesn’t even look at her, too busy petting over the man, who has at least allowed him to sit up. “Hey, I’m sorry, I thought she would,” he tells him in an undertone. “I really thought she would, but I’m back now. I’m not going anywhere without you again--”

He extends his hand and Ben presses his cheek against it with enough force that it pushes him back slightly.

“You’re coming to Naboo with us, Ben,” Anakin promises, clutching at the ends of the man’s long hair. “Or I’m not going at all.”

To Shmi, it sounds like a threat.

The way her son’s eyes flash an unfamiliar golden color makes her feel cold as a Tatooine night. She shivers, but no one notices.

[cazimagines]

Never break the chain

Synopsis: You were Zemo’s devoted girlfriend, he would take you all over the world and treat you to everything you want in life however that all changed the day Sokiva fell. Consumed by anger Zemo went off the deep end trying to avenge his fallen country and you last saw him being escorted to prison. Years later you became really ill and there was only one thing that could save you. After a lot of searching you finally managed to get your hands on some super soldier serum which saved you however Zemo is now out of prison as is determined to finish what he started no matter what stood in his way.

Warnings/Tags: Bad Zemo, Mentions of guns, Toxic relationship, Almost cried while writing this, Hits in the feelings, Lots of angst, So much angst, Mentions of death

Word count: 1.7k

Author’s note: Hello my fellow masochists *cough* Markiplier *cough*, I for one thrive on sad moments in fics, ones that break my heart. I live off angst and I am sure I am not the only one in this so I have written this angsty Zemo fic. There is no fluff here just sadness so you have been warned. I’m going to write a really sweet and fluff filled one shot after this as an apology. Also warning this relationship is toxic so like obviously I don’t condone Zemo’s behaviour in this, he’s meant to be a dick here.

I got inspired to write this from a song so like if you want extra emotions listen to this: https://youtu.be/1A8YpV1tfsQ

This is also being posted on my ao3 account under the name Casmad

The wind blew sharply against you, the coldness of it scratching your skin. Your eyes water up slightly at the harshness of it and you wrap your arms around your body trying to warm yourself up. You looked out over the cliff, looking over now the deserted area you once called home. Sokovia. Its beautiful landscape is broken and torn apart. An echo of how magnificent it once was. You raise your hand to touch the chain that hung around your neck. A reminder of the past.

“Darling I would be honored if you wore this for me. I have a similar one I’ll always keep around my neck so that even when we are apart, there’s a part of us that will always be together” Zemo asks nervously, swallowing and glancing from the necklace in his hand to your face.

You put your hands onto his, taking the necklace, “I’ll never take it off”

Zemo’s face broke out into a smile, his eyes shining as he wraps his arms around you and pulls you into his chest. He holds you closely as you close your eyes melting into his presence. He kisses the top of your forehead and rests the top of his head on yours. “My beautiful moon” he murmurs

A tear slowly slipped down your cheek as you thought back to better times. You had been so happy with him. You two had planned your whole lives out together. The Baron and Baroness.

“Would you care to accompany me to the ball?” Zemo asks, holding his arm out to you.

“Oh I don’t know should I?” you joke, holding your chin in your hand as if questioning it, making Zemo chuckle.

“If you do I promise you can be in charge in the bedroom tonight,” he says as he leans into you. You grin back at him, raising your hand to his suit jacket and pulling him towards you for a kiss. As you feel his lips on yours and his hand rests on your hip you smile into the kiss. As you pull back you swell with happiness seeing a rosy tint to Zemo’s cheeks.

“I suppose turning up to to a ball on the arm of a Baron has its perks”

Zemo laughs and pulls you into a side hug placing a kiss on your temple.

“What would I do without you” he hums to himself as he admires you “My moon”

Everything made sense, everything fit. You couldn’t imagine a life any different till it happened.

You and Zemo had been away visiting a local country when you heard of the news. You collapsed on the floor screaming at the tv as Zemo was on the phone already organizing a trip back home. When you arrived your heart broke seeing all the destruction. Zemo was holding your hand but he let go. It was all gone. Everything. Your whole life had changed just like that.

You wipe the tears away from your cheeks yet they continue to flow as you remembered what happened after. The madness and desire for revenge had consumed Zemo. You tried to stop him. You really did but what could you have done?

“Helmut, please. This isn’t healthy...this...this isn’t you!” you cried as Zemo was preparing his attack on the avengers

“Y/n I have to do this. There is no other way” he angrily replied, refusing to look at you.

“I can’t support this” you whisper, grabbing a hold of his arm. “I can’t watch you do this”

Zemo looks at you, his face forlorn as he watches the tears fall from your eyes. He pulls you to his chest wrapping his arm around you and kisses the top of your head, stroking your hair. “I’m not asking you to moon”

You leave the warmth of his arms and watch as he grabs his bags and walks out of your room, giving you one last glimpse of goodbye before he walks out of your life.

That was the last time you saw him in person. The next time it was on the news as he was being arrested. In the end, his plan had succeeded. He split up the avengers but then what? It didn’t bring anyone back. Sokovia was still dead and you were left behind while he was locked up for life.

You close your eyes, squeezing out the remains of your tears, preparing to leave this cliff looking over your deserted town when you hear the sound of a click. You let in a sharp breath of recognition. Slowly turning around your eyes adjust to the barrow of a gun and the person standing behind it.

Zemo.

He still looked the same as you remembered. Though if you stared closely you could see lines showing his age starting to appear, the bags under his eyes were bigger than what they once were however after all this time it was still him. He even wore that ridiculously over-the-top coat that you always stole from him.

His eyes however were different, when you always looked into them in the past they seemed warm, like the feeling of drinking hot chocolate. You could melt in them but now they were stone cold. Emotionless. Like he wasn’t even there.

“Zemo…” you breathed out focusing on him

“I planned to eliminate all superheroes” he states

You shake your head at him, “Zemo please”

“I’ve almost completed my plan to rid the world of superheroes, of ‘super soldiers’”

“Please let me explain,” you say starting to take a step forward to him but he quickly raises his other hand grasping the gun, holding it in both hands now and pointing it at you making you stop in your tracks.

“How could you,” he spits, his lips drawing back in a snarl “How could you become one of them!”

“I had no choice” You rasp, tears starting to flow from your eyes again, “I would have died otherwise”

“THEN YOU SHOULD HAVE DIED THAN TAKEN IT” Zemo shouts

The colour drains from your face, your eyes widen in shock staring at him. His jaw tightens as he glares at you. You both stand there in silence taking in what he had said.

Wiping the side of your tear-stained cheek you smile sadly at him, sniffing, you step forward again resting your forehead against the gun.

“Okay” you simply say, your throat feeling like sandpaper as you utter those words

Zemo glares at you, his finger resting on the trigger. The gun starts to shake as he clenches his face in anger.

“DAM IT” he shouts, throwing the gun to the side. His hands grab onto your shoulders roughly, causing you to hiss in pain.

“Why are you doing this to me y/n. How could you do this to me” He snaps.

You were too shocked to reply to him, causing him to get even angrier. His eyes swarmed with tears and when one threatened to fall he pushed you back and turned away so you wouldn’t see.

You shakily let out a breath you were holding in and collapsed onto your knees. Your heart was beating rapidly against your chest and you clenched the sides of your body with your arms in comfort.

Zemo turns back around to you, hatred in his eyes. “I’ve come so far, killing so many just to be stopped here”

“Because you refuse to kill the woman you love” you implored in hope but he shakes his head, “No. Not that”

“Yes, yes that Zemo!” you say shakily getting back up off the ground. “Zemo I still love you though by gods I shouldn’t. We made a promise to each other” you affirmed holding up the chain around your neck, “We were forever Zemo”

Zemo’s finger brushed up against the chain that had been hanging around his neck for the past seven years. They wrap around the chain and in one swift motion, he pulls it off his neck, breaking the chain and throwing it to the ground.

You stare at the broken chain on the floor, your heart dropping. In just one notion it was like all those moments you two spent together were worth nothing. It had led to nothing.

Zemo grabs ahold of your chain and pulls you closer to him, “The truth is, my darling moon, that you don’t love me either”

You try to argue back to him but he raises his finger to your lips, “ah”

“You want to know how I know?”

You don’t say anything, staring at him confused, he leans towards you and automatically you close your eyes however he instead he puts his lips to your ears,

“You’ve been calling me Zemo instead of Helmut”

He lets go of the chain, pushing you away from him again, the force knocking you to the ground.

You think back over your conversation. He was right. When had you started referring him to his last name rather than his first name? You had always called him by his first name before.

You look back up to him, your eyes watering and noticing the tears starting to fall from his eyes.

“I spent years in that prison imaging what it would be like to finally get out. To hold you in my arms once again. To have what we once had. It was the only thing that kept me going in there. You can’t even begin to imagine the pain I felt when I found out the truth. The pain of your betrayal. I hated you. I...I” his voice cracked as he started to cry more

He keeps trying to stop letting out a sob yet his mouth can’t help but frown and his face contorted. “I thought I could stop the pain by getting rid of you but I can’t. Even though I can’t stand looking at you I can’t kill you”

He swallows and looks away from you to the chain on the ground, “I don’t want to ever see you again.”

You could have said something then. Called out to him. Spoke sense to him. He might have even listened but you didn’t. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t try to stop him. You couldn’t even look him in the eyes.

He turns his back and starts to walk away but stops for a moment, turning his head slightly.

“Goodbye y/n”

[mxvladdy]

Lost Affections: Part 3

Ayyyyoooo. Here is the last part to @marymaryroo's request!

On to the next one :)

Magic is a beautiful and powerful thing. It permeates the Devildom like an eternal fog. For the residents, it is as common as breathing. From the strongest of their kind down to the lowest inhabitants, it is integral to their culture and daily life. Mistakes and accidents happen daily with young and old alike learning or experimenting. Magical rebounds and mishaps mean very little to them, especially the brothers. From the Celestial Realms down, they have seen it all.

Sometimes they forget that to you, magic can be a volatile and dangerous.

Beelzebub

Beel would never call himself accident-prone. He didn’t trip and stumble like Belphie when sleep deprived. He most certainly wasn’t as bad as Mammon when he was without his glasses or contacts. No, he would never say he was that bad. While not clumsy he knew he could be careless, especially when food was in the picture. He didn’t think twice about eating random things. It did hurt anyone, not physically. Sure, Luke and Satan got a little put out when he swiped something, but it didn’t hurt them.

He just forgets sometimes that you are different. You and he go together so well he forgets that you aren’t a demon. You don’t have the steel stomach or fast recovery time that he has. You make up for it. When you go out to eat you always research the place ahead of time. Does the place have non-enchanted food? Human grade options? If not, you make sure that Beel has his fill before taking him somewhere more appropriate for your stomach. Neither of you thinks about residual contaminants.

His life with you unravels with kisses. It is a slow, inconspicuous death. It builds over time with each brush of his lips to yours. Neither of you notices the taste of magic clinging to his mouth or tongue, neither of you thinks of the implications of all the weird potions and food he samples.

It starts small, you forget simple things about him. When his club activities ended, or what his favorite post-game drink was. He brushes it off, it’s trivial really. You are busy and these things can happen to the best of them. He keeps brushing off the nagging worry until he can’t.

It comes to a head one night at the door to your room. “Beel?” You yawn, pulling your robes closer around you. “What’s up?” You glance down at the box of snacks and pillows in his hands. “Did I miss something?”

“It’s date night.”

Your brows shoot up, facing heating. “What.” You sputter. Beel frowns, placing the box at his feet. With slow movements, he places his hand on your forehead. You were a little warm.

“Mmmmm.” His hearts flutter with nerves. Was his little human sick? He ignores the way you stiffen when he touches you. “Do you need a doctor?” He asks bending down to look you in the eye. He catches a whiff of something when you exhale. It is faint but clings to your breath, it’s sickly sweet and sharp to his nostrils. “You need a doctor.”

Without a second thought, he grabs your arm and drags you out of your room. His food forgotten in the hallway with your protests buzzing in his ears. “Beel...Beel!” You stumble after him. He ignores you each step he takes determined and picks up speed. Before you know it you are sitting next to Gluttony in Purgatory waiting for Solomon, beyond confused and anxious.

You fidget on the couch, peeking glances at the troubled look on the red-heads face. This wasn’t like him. He was a man of few words, sure, but this was new. Beel left you to your devices mostly, a few polite conversations here and there, but you two never hung out a lot. You zone out when he starts talking to Solomon. You were still half asleep from Beel waking you up. You had been sleeping so soundly beforehand. “Are you alright?” You jerk awake unaware that you started dozing again. Solomon crouches in front of you.

“I think so?” You had no idea what this was about. “I’m just tired.” The mage says nothing to you, instead turning to glance at Beel. He jerks his head to the door, a clear signal for the old demon to wait outside.

With one last pitiful glance, Beelzebub leaves the two humans to converse. “Now then.” Solomon rounds his piercing eyes back to you. “Tell me how's your stay in the Devildom?”

You tell him confused but willing to play along with his odd request, the sooner you wrap this up the sooner you can go back to bed. An odd feeling of missing something begins to grow as you tell him. Soon you began to fumble, the harder you try to recount something the harder it was to collect. You still were convinced anything was seriously wrong but the growing look of concern on Solomon’s face was making you think otherwise. “So,” You finish rubbing your knees with sweaty palms. “I’m I dying or something?”

He laughs dismissing the notion with a wave of a well-manicured hand. “No, no your soul is still firmly in place.” He rubs his chin. “But you have lost your memory, only when it comes to Beelzebub though. It is very peculiar. Have you ingested anything weird of late? Done any experiments with Satan?” You shake your head. To the best of your knowledge, you have been really careful with your food intake while down here. Devildom foods were delicious but had potential side effects for you and Solomon.

Solomon nods. He figured that. “Could I draw some blood? It sounds to me like you might have trace contamination of some kind. Diavolo and I discussed that this might happen but I wish to double-check.” Well, that’s worrisome, you nod and begin to roll up your sleeve. Solomon bustles collecting a few vials and a mouth swab for extra measure.

“Thank you.” He smiles looking at the samples with scientific glee. “I will let you know what I find. Until then, I guess just go about your regular day. Unless you feel ill, in that case, come to me immediately.” With that, he leaves you depositing you back with Beel.

The walk back to the House was more subdued, both of you were confused as to what to do next. “So,” You flounder. “We were-are an item?”

He shrugs looking down at you. “Yes. We’d hang out in your room on Saturdays, and get brunch on Sundays... do you still want to?”

You shrug feeling awkward. You felt nothing but platonic friendship to the large demon, though Solomon did fill you in on what you apparently have forgotten. “If you want to? I’m up now, and too nervous to sleep.” Beel grunts clenching his fists at his side.

“No,” He shakes his head. “You should rest, even if you can’t sleep. This is overwhelming. I’ll see you at breakfast tomorrow?” You feel bad. He sounds so hopeful when he asks, like a good night’s sleep was all you needed to fix whatever this was.

You reach for his big hand and squeeze it. “Sure, Beelzebub. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He lets you go watching you head back into the house. Running on instinct he turns and heads into the dense forest surrounding the house. He needed to hunt for a bit.

That’s how his twin finds him, gorging himself on the fauna of the forest. Belphie’s socked feet pad loudly over the dried grass and scattered bones of the once lush lowlands. “You know Lucifer is going to be pissed. It takes forever for the wildlife to come back after one of your benders.” He tosses his oversized pillow onto the dead grass and lays down. Belphie doses for a moment, the sound of his brother’s many mouths and whistling of wings a white noise to him. Up until an obnoxious locus landed on his nose.

“Beel.” He flicks the bug off his face, shooting the swarm coating his brother’s skin a sour look. “What’s going on?”

Forgot. Me. One of his mouths rattles out, flecks of meat and vegetation falling from between crooked and jagged teeth. Another opens near his rib cage to speak. They. Don’t. Love. Me.

“I’ll kill them.” Already Belphie is back on his feet. He feels for his brother and his plight, but the thought that you betrayed him after you promised to never hurt Beel took precedence. The storm of bugs goes quiet, all the millions of eyes now turn to him. They jerk and twitch in unison before converging back on the mass of leathery gaunt skin of his brother. His human form takes shape slowly, shiny wings and many mandibled skulls melding together to create his flesh.

Beel grabs Belphie’s shoulders. His claws dig into the soft fabric of his nightshirt. “It’s not their fault.”

“Then who?” Beel chuckles weakly at his brother’s blood lust. He couldn’t deny that he felt it too, but he had no idea where to channel this anger.

So he ate. It calmed him a little. If he could get into the village and eat there...no. The last time he siphoned the emotions from the populous at large Lucifer got mad. The whole of the Devildom had to shut down for a good week to recover. He rubs his stomach a feeling of agitation growing in the pits of them. “Don’t know. Solomon is taking a look at it.” Belphie snorts a sneer growing on his lips. “He is helping, Belphie.”

“Sure-right. That boy meddles in all shorts of shit he shouldn’t. Careful he doesn’t try to bargain with your skin for this.” He eyes where your mark rests on his brother. It would be a perfect lure to entrap his twin in a pact.

Hmm.

No, none of this would do. Belphegor would rather die than let some human-like Solomon meddle anymore in his family’s affairs, and as far as he was concerned the moment you started seeing Beel you were as another sibling. ���Come on. Let’s get you back to the house. I’ll bring dinner up to our room.”

After settling Beel under the covers of his massive bed Belphie went on the hunt for more food in the kitchen. He stops by your bedroom door picking up the box of goodies still left in front of it. He piles more things into the box when he reaches the kitchen. Swiping up snacks at random Belphie piles the box sky high. His hand stops over a few of your favorite human snacks. Should he? Honestly, it was a blind shot in the dark if it would comfort his brother or not. After a bit more debate Belphie puts the chocolates back, a different idea already turning in his head.

Back in their shared room, he listens to his brother run down the last week between huge bits of sweets. As he recounts every little thing that has gone down they both began to notice just how strange you have been. Both twins sit in the aftermath of Beel’s words, a wasteland of wrapper and silence stretching between them. “Think it will come back?” The twins lock eyes, Beel’s large and unsure but simmering with foolish hope.

“Possibly.” Belphie grits out, breaking their eye contact. He could never lie to his brother, at least not to his face. “Get some rest. I’m sure someone will have a plan in motion by tomorrow.” He’ll set his plans in motion tonight.

Lying in wait some hours later Belphie listens through the walls of the massive house for your quick little human heartbeat in your bedroom. He matches his shallow breaths with yours feeling yourself slip into slumber and his realm. Once you are completely under he drifts off himself.

He enters your dreams and scowls unused to stumbling inside of a dreamscape. Your dreams are muddled and clotted with stick webs of confusion and hazy memories. Odd bits and pieces of images drip around the edges of your mind. This place was a disgusting mess. With a deep sigh, Belphie begins trudging through the quagmire.

He peers around making note of the black holes in your mind like canvas ripped from their frames. Rotten magic assaults him from all sides. Stopping in front of a particularly deep gash in your mind he rolls up his oversized sleeves finding what he was looking for. He knew this memory was in it, just on the outskirts of the scene playing out. He could knit this rip back together easily, after that it should give him some clarity on the others he couldn’t place.

This was going to take a lot of energy. No one would notice if he stole some energy to get things started. Belphie smiles to himself already tapping into Lucifer's dreamscape, taking a bit more than he needed. You deserve only the best after all.

__________________

“Morning everyone.” You chirp plopping down in your chair. The brothers reply with groggy acknowledgments, completely unlike themselves. You look around at the bunch. “Are you all ok?” The group grunts collectively yawning or rubbing their weary eyes.

“Tough night.” Lucifer looks up from his newspaper. He was half-dead in his chair, a cup of coffee shaking in his hands. Asmo sits beside him looking on the verge of tears as he gently pokes his swollen cheeks and eyelids. The only two that seem to even be remotely coherent were the twins. The youngest of the two sleeping oblivious to the turmoil of his siblings while his brother stares at your every move. “Good morning Beel.” You nod feeling awkward in this shared space.

“Morning.” He smiles at you, a few crumbs clinging to the corner of his mouth. Something ticks in the back of your mind at his look. A foggy image comes to mind. It feels like a dream, but so real at the same time. It makes you nauseous, a weird sense of dejavu fighting its way to the forefront. “You ok?” He puts a hand on your shoulder.

You blink noticing the room at large turning their gaze to you. You nod, reaching across from him for some leftover food. The moment a bowl of cereal was in your hands Asmo swept you up in a conversation about his “fading” looks. You don’t think of Beel and your predicament for the rest of the day, not until Solomon invites you over to his hall for tea.

“You were poisoned.” He states simply over his sorry excuse of scones. You pause in the middle of trying to break a piece off on the table.

“I’m sorry?”

“Nothing to apologize for, unless you did it intentionally.” He laughs. “It appears to be through slow ingestion over a long period of time. The levels in your blood are staggering but not lethal. It looks like the magic took root in the temporal lobe-much like a tumor, really quite fascinating- and has been eating away at the memories of the person, or in this case, a demon that poisoned you.” Beel had been poisoning you? Solomon waves his hand at your look of concern. “I am quite positive that it was not intentional. Mind you he does find the most wondrous things to shovel down his gullet. The fact that it mixed perfectly into a potion instead of a lethal toxic is sheer dumb luck on your end.” You breathe a sigh of relief finally tossing the baked good away as a bad job. Well that's...something. At least you’d be alive to stumble around your apparent “forgotten boyfriend”.

“Any chance of fixing this?”

Solomon shrugs. “Possibly? I need more time to figure out exactly what components are involved in your test results. Then making a tonic to undo all the magic is another thing entirely.”He discusses a few other options with you for a few hours, going over in great detail the ins and outs of potion-making. Soon the windows of the sunroom grew dark, the glow of the lamps outside growing brighter so you could see the pathway back to the house.

“I better head back.” You stretch looking out into the pitch outside. Hmmm, if you remember correctly Levi should be off of work by now. He said to call when he was done to come to pick you up. As if on cue a sharp knock on the door disrupts you. Instead of a shock of blue hair, you are greeted with orange. “Oh-hey Beel.”

“Hey.” The corner of his mouth twitches in a facsimile of a friendly smile. “Ready to go?” He picks up your forgotten school bag and takes your sweater from the coat rack. With a well-practiced motion, he slings the bag over his shoulder and holds your sweater open for you. He obviously did this a lot before…

You stare back wide-eyed at Solomon who only smirks, nodding at you to hurry up.

Out the door and into the chilly night you sneak a peek at Beelzebub walking quietly beside you. He catches your look and raises a brow. “Sorry.” You feel your cheeks heat a little under his thoughtful gaze.

“About?”

“All of this.” You wave at yourself. “Please don’t feel obligated to hang out with me. Until we can get this settled. I don’t want to hurt your feelings.”

Beel grunts, stopping in his tracks by a low garden wall. “I was hurt-am still hurting.” He admits. “But this isn’t your fault, so what good does it do to blame you for it? Even if you don’t remember me as your partner, you still remember me as a friend...right?” A warm smile spreads across his face when you nod. “Then I’m ok with this. I haven’t lost you completely and even if you don’t ever feel the same way about me anymore, I think I will be ok.”

“I- thank you Beel. That means a lot.”

“Of course.” He hums. “Let’s head back. I think Asmo left some food out.”

You dream of Beel again, a weird amalgamation of scenes all tossed together in a great pile with you in the middle of it. You could do nothing but watch like a film as they rush by you in a blur. Some scenes didn’t line up right, bouncing around like a scratched vinyl, but it still made sense in a way only a dream could. You play out each dream like an actor, the script coming to you naturally with each little venette. You sit outside his locker room, a basket of food and drink in your lap, your heart fluttering in your chest. You and Beel were watching his brothers on the beach, his broad hands rubbing sunscreen into your skin. Beel walking you back to your room after a long night in the library holding your hand in his strong, sure grip. Saturday afternoons spent hopping from one cafe to the next sampling the sweets and drinks to both of your heart's content.

It grips your heart but slips away with the rise of the young morning moon.

When morning comes the night is nothing more than a few smudges in your mindscape. Yet, a light, sweet feeling stays with you. You found yourself smiling more around the redhead and gravitating to him during the day. He accepts you back with a friendly hug and a friendly ear.

He treats you no differently than you remember. It’s nice. Even if a part of your yearns to see how he treated you when you were more than friends.

You begin to get excited for when your head hits your pillow. The dreams become clearer and clearer each night. Some new pieces show up and fall into place as the weeks progress. You start seeing bits of your dreams in the day too. After-images of you hand in hand with him walking down the other side of the street. The taste of something sweet on your tongue or a familiar scent in your nose.

After one particularly vivid dream, you wake determined not to let the contents of this dream slip through your fingers. This time you dreamt of the kitchen, dirty bowls, and units scattered about the cluttered counters. You had been baking something, and failing miserably.

Sneaking down to the kitchens you pull out all the things you could remember. For some reason, this dream lit a fire in you, like it was the last piece of the puzzle to getting it all back. You don’t think, instead, you just let your body take control. You baked a cake.

Well, it was supposed to be a cake. The center was too spongy and collapsed inward while the sides were dark and cracked. The icing was badly blended and melting from the still-warm pastry. It was almost exactly like the one from your dream.

You stare at it waiting for some great revelation, but nothing comes. Great. Now what?

“I smell food.”

“Gods!” You jerk smacking your knee on your bar stool. Beel’s deep voice scaring you half to death. “Should put a bell on you.” You grin. Beel peeks his head through the door brows furrowed.

“This is familiar.” He walks in pulling up another chair to sit next to you.

“Ye?” You look back at him.

“Yes. This was our first kiss.” You drop your icing spoon. “You wanted to surprise me before a big game.” He put a finger through the thick black and purple icing and pops it in his mouth. “Ah- You forgot the bane extract...I had thought that perhaps you remembered.” The hope in his voice stung your chest.

Oh. You look down at the mess you made, whatever feelings of satisfaction are lost. “I thought I was forgetting something, but my dreams are all blurry.”

“Dreams?” Beel pauses reaching for a slice. “You dreamt of this?”

“Yes. Been dreaming about you a lot of late.” You flush. “Little things that are starting to build a bigger picture. I just had this dream of a cake and the urge to make one...so- here we are.” You wave your hand out over the messy kitchen. Sighing plopping your chin down on your palm. “Guess I can sleep on it a bit more huh?” You shoot him a quick wink and sad smile.

“Or just ask Belphie.” He shrugs, taking another large slice of the disaster. “Sounds like he’s been meddling.” That realization hits you like a ton of bricks. Damn, you could have slapped yourself. “I’m sure he meant well, but he shouldn’t force you if you don’t want to. I could tell him to stop.”

What! No! You shake your head. “No. I-I don’t mind it. Solomon has yet to figure anything out, and whatever your brother is doing seems to be helping a little.” Beelzebub said nothing to that and just continued to eat while you started the dishes.

“Do you want to end tonight like we did before?” He asks sometime later, half of the dishes now drip drying in the rack. His long arms box you in on either side holding on to the lip of the sink. His head dips low, his chin resting on the top of your head. Deep down you knew that you could leave at any time. His grip was loose and easily breakable, considerate as ever to your comforts.

You turn to face him, a soft look crosses his face. “And how did it end?” He grins moving closer. You would have to thank Belphie for his interference. Just, perhaps later. You doubted he would want to be in your dreams tonight.