#only posting this here because it took longer than planned to draw. and also i like the lineart so

[fresthered]

hey guys. i think you should join that one homestar runner roblox game. do it for the experiences that lead to ideas like this. come on

(featuring @cara-carabowditbowdit and @terrificathlete as coach z and the blue laser commander, respectively. context is that gunhaver passed out because he nearly drowned and the blue laser commander and coach z are trying to hide the body. it was a lot funnier in game, i promise)

[lucky-clover-gazette]

prince's gambit highlights & annotations

chapter 14

indented text is from the book. some quotes have commentary, some do not. some comments are serious, and some are definitely not. most of them will only make sense to people who have read the series. and, like, there are spoilers. so please read the books first if you're interested!

also: part of the reason i'm doing such a close reading is to study cs pacat's style, especially in terms of how she does romance and erotica. there are "craft notes" that might seem weird, like i'm being redundant or restating something rather than analyzing, but those are more things that i want to remember/take away from the writing!

i'm going to tag these longer posts with "sam reads capri" in case anyone wants to read them all at once.

this is a google doc i wrote with overall content warnings for the captive prince series. it's not perfect, but i do think it's important to include.

No Laurent. All signs of recent occupancy had been a handspan away from his own body, suggesting a night spent in close but not transgressive proximity: some kind of self-preservation had apparently prevented Damen from rolling inward during the night; from throwing his arm over Laurent’s torso and drawing them together to make the small tent seem larger than it was. As a result, Damen was in possession of all his limbs, and even had his clothing restored to him. Thank you, Laurent.

The embroidery came later, in the retelling, as the story was told again and again by the men, taking on its own character as it passed over camp. The Prince had ridden out, with only one soldier. Deep in the mountains, he had chased down the rats responsible for these killings. Had ripped them out of their hiding holes and fought them, thirty to one, at least. Had brought them back thrashed, lashed and subdued. That was their Prince for you, a twisty, vicious fiend who you should never, ever cross, unless you wanted your gullet handed to you on a platter. Why, he once rode a horse to death just to beat Torveld of Patras to the mark.

like how this ironic misunderstanding of the events is similar to how damen viewed laurent in book 1 and some of book 2. except now he gets the irony

He looked at Laurent’s tent of silks, the pennants unfurled in the breeze, their starbursts undulating. The distant voices of the men swelled briefly, then dropped away. It would not be like this. It would be a systematic campaign moving southwards towards Ios, building on the support he had from the kyroi factions. He would not be stealing out of camp at night to spin mad plans, to dress in unfamiliar clothes and forge alliances with rogue clans, or to fight alongside pony-riding warriors, capturing bandits improbably in the mountains. It would not be like this again.

:(

‘Keep the prisoners alive, keep the women on side, keep my men from the women,’ said Laurent, as though reciting from a checklist. ‘Come over here and talk geography.’ He came as he was bid, and took a seat opposite Laurent, across the map.

they’re so cute i can’t stand them. “come over here and talk geography” SHUT UP

Laurent did not tend to show any of the usual outward signs of fatigue. The control that he asserted and maintained over the troop was an extension of the control with which he ruled himself. A few tells existed. The words, perhaps.

“the words, perhaps” is such a funny line here. because like yeah no shit, but also how is damen supposed to know when laurent’s words actually reflect his true feelings?

Instinctively, Damen brought his hand up to squeeze Laurent’s shoulder gently—and then stopped. Laurent went very still, as Damen became aware of what he had just done, and that his grip was still on Laurent’s shoulder. He felt the locked muscles like hard wood beneath his hand. ‘Stiff?’ said Damen, casually. ‘A little,’ said Laurent, after a moment in which Damen’s heart knocked twice against the inside of his chest.

one thing i really appreciate about capri is the way that laurent is written, as a character with trauma/baggage who experiences intimacy in a way you wouldn’t expect from the love interest in a romance novel. he doesn’t make anything easy, for himself or for damen. his physical and mental reactions to things are very telling and consistent, and i appreciate pacat’s commitment to honoring that aspect of the character. that way it’s so much more rewarding when we finally see laurent let go of control and experience love that doesn’t hurt him.

i won’t do an official count for “laurent intimacy issues,” since it’s not nearly as clear-cut as “laurent leans,” but if there’s something that strikes this chord with me, i do want to make note of it. just… stuff that i personally appreciate, especially from a love interest in a romance novel, whose whole narrative job—one would expect—is to love the protagonist and have hot sex. but sensitive and traumatized people deserve love and intimacy, too, at their own pace and on their own terms. and laurent has a lot more going on than what damen perceives, or what the romance genre dictates. it’s nice to point out little moments where his issues affect his physical and emotional reactions, because it’s nice to know that those moments 1) exist and 2) don’t make him any less of a romantic lead.

He applied a gentle pressure with his thumbs. He said, ‘You brought me ice, last night.’ ‘This,’ said Laurent, ‘is a little more—’ It was a word of sharp points: ‘—intimate,’ he said, ‘than ice.’ ‘Too intimate?’ Damen said. Slowly, he was kneading Laurent’s shoulders. He did not usually think of himself as someone with suicidal impulses. Laurent did not relax at all, just stood unmoving. And then, at the apsis of his thumbs, a muscle shifted beneath pressure, unlocking a sequence all the way down Laurent’s back. Laurent said, unwillingly, ‘I . . . There.’ ‘Here?’ ‘Yes.’

a lot going on here! made even more complicated by damen’s pov!

damen takes physical intimacy much less seriously than laurent. prior to book 1, he has always enjoyed willing and enthusiastic partners (some of whom were conditioned into that enthusiasm, but we’ll deal with that later), and to him, sex is not a means of abuse or power. prior to book 1, intimacy was never used to disempower damen. laurent, obviously, is very different. pretty much all he knows of intimacy is abuse and disempowerment.

so, being aware of laurent’s trauma and also being fairly perceptive of the signs pointing towards it, i can see here that laurent is fighting a massive battle with himself. because, like, he does want this. but he doesn’t want to want this, because this is something he doesn’t have control over. the fact that he doesn’t throw damen off, and even explicitly asks him to massage a certain spot, is a demonstration of vulnerability that damen doesn't really understand.

which isn't bad or wrong of him, at all! if he did understand more about laurent’s trauma and responses, he’d almost certainly be less confident with initiating intimacy, which is something laurent needs from a partner. it's a lot harder when they're both completely terrified (which damen is, in a different way, but lesser so.) damen is afraid that laurent will bite his head off because he’s a bitch, not because he’s traumatized. and i think that’s a good place for them to be, at this stage of their relationship.

also, the “suicidal impulses” quip is great.

He felt Laurent subtly give himself up to his hands; yet as with a man closing his eyes on the edge of a cliff, it was an act of continuous tension, not surrender.

yeah

‘Like this?’ ‘Yes.’

“he likes that. do it harder.”

Laurent’s head had dropped forward a little. Damen had no idea what he was doing. He was distantly aware that he had had his hands on Laurent’s body once before, and couldn’t believe it, because it felt so impossible now; yet that moment felt connected to this one, even if only in contrast, his current caution against the unguarded way he had let his hands slide down over Laurent’s wet skin.

damen, meanwhile, has recently developed his own intimacy issues/trauma in book 1. these two are a mess

‘Is it so hard to relax?’ said Damen, quietly.

YEAH. IT IS.

‘You only have to walk outside to see what you’ve accomplished. Those men are yours.’ He didn’t pay attention to the signs, the slight stiffening. ‘Whatever happens tomorrow, you’ve done more than anyone could—’ ‘That’s enough,’ said Laurent, pushing himself away unexpectedly.

damen he’s not stressed bc of the war stuff, he’s stressed bc another human being is showing him physical affection and he actually wants it to be happening

When Laurent turned to face him, his eyes were dark. His lips were parted uncertainly. He had lifted his hand to his own shoulder, as though chasing a ghost touch there. He did not look exactly relaxed, but the movement did look a little easier. As if realising that, Laurent said, almost awkwardly, ‘Thank you.’ And then, in wry acknowledgement: ‘Getting tied up leaves an impression. I didn’t realise being captured was so uncomfortable.’

ohhhhh my god. oh my god. so fucking real, every line is so fucking real. the relief of no longer being touched, being back in control. the fuckin, phantom touch on the shoulder—an assessment of the massage, yes, but also… whose ghost is it? damen isn’t asking that question, but i am, and it’s sad. and then the awkward thanks, and the immediate snarky comment to follow up. it’s just so real.

‘I promise I’ll never tie you to the back of a horse,’ said Laurent. There was a pause in which Laurent’s mordant gaze was on him. ‘That’s right, I’m still captured,’ said Damen.

says the protagonist of the “captive prince” series

‘Your eyes say, “For now,”’ Laurent said. ‘Your eyes have always said, “For now.”’

ohhh this line is juicy. because like, yeah, there’s the melancholy yearning context of the last 10 or so chapters, but before? when they were enemies, when laurent was actively hurting and trying to disempower damen? even then, he never showed laurent submission. and laurent clearly noticed. they make me so crazyyyy

‘If you were a pet, I would have gifted you enough by now to buy out your contract, many times over.’

this is more a flaw in my understanding of the pet system, but is he saying that he’s done damen enough favors that if the favors were monetary he could afford to pay off his contract? that’s my best understanding of the line at this point.

‘I’d still be here,’ said Damen, ‘with you. I told you that I would see this border dispute through to its finish. Do you think I’d go back on my word?’ ‘No,’ said Laurent, almost as if he was realising it for the first time.

they drive me insane. the whole “suffering alone” theme—laurent is realizing that he hasn’t been suffering alone, lately, because damen is intentionally staying by his side. laurent may be great at strategic thinking, but he is so used to being manipulated and abused that he doesn’t even consider that someone could be genuinely devoted to him, as a person.

But I know you don’t like it. I remember how much it maddened you in the palace, to be bound and powerless. I felt yesterday how badly you wanted to hit someone.

another interesting re-contextualization of book 1! although it’s not quite an apology, bc i’m sure laurent was aware of the maddening and was probably like “good. this guy killed my brother”

Damen found he’d moved without realising it, his fingers lifting to touch the bruised edge of Laurent’s jaw. He said, ‘The man who did this to you.’ The words just came out. The warmth of skin under his fingers in that moment took all his attention, before he became aware that Laurent had jerked back and was staring at him, blue eyes huge with pupil. Damen was suddenly aware of how out of control he was—he felt—and called violently on his faculties to try to put a stop to—this. ‘I’m sorry. I . . . know better than that.’

“i know better than that” is an INSANE thing for him to say here, by the way. they’re both so compelled by each other and afraid of each other. the amount of work pacat has put into their arc/characterization so far means that scenes like these can have something going on between every single line. honestly i think there’s more going on here off the page, than there is on it

‘No. Wait. I . . . wait.’ Damen stopped, and turned. Laurent’s gaze was edged with indecipherable emotion, and his jaw was set at a new angle. The silence stretched out for such a long time that the words, when they came, were a shock. ‘What Govart said about my brother and I . . . it wasn’t true.’ ‘I never thought it was,’ said Damen, uneasily. ‘I mean that whatever . . . whatever taint exists in my family, Auguste was free of it.’ ‘Taint?’

fascinated by the possible reasons for laurent to say this, in this moment. he uses it on the page to then say that damen is a good and honorable person like auguste, so that’s the easy answer. but if he was just experiencing some ptsd flashbacks, i wonder if this is also something of a grounding statement for himself. because we know who he’s referring to, when he’s talking about bad people on his family tree. it’s almost like he’s trying to figure out how to frame this situation, more for himself than damen—laurent feels protected and cared for in this moment, and the last time he allowed himself to feel that way after auguste’s death, his uncle had taken advantage. so of course he’s picturing his uncle. but this statement, a reminder to himself that damen is more like auguste than the regent, and auguste would have never done anything with laurent in the way the regent had… augh. laurent your brain.

‘I wanted to tell you that, because you,’ said Laurent, as though he was forcing the words out, ‘You remind me of him. He was the best man I have ever known. You deserve to know that, as you deserve at least a fair . . . In Arles, I treated you with malice and cruelty. I will not insult you by attempting to atone for deeds with words, but I would not treat you that way again. I was angry. Angry, that isn’t the word.’ It was bitten off; a jagged silence followed.

this is a laurent apology! no “sorry” necessary. and he’s the closest to telling damen the truth as he’s ever been, but still he stops himself. i wonder if it’s partially out of shame, for how he treated damen. a refusal to make an excuse, because he understands the cruelty of his actions regardless. and of course he has cognitive dissonance to maintain and tactical reasons for keeping the lie going. but still, this is honest.

Then, with a return to his more usual tone, ‘And you don’t need to take watch,’ said Laurent. ‘You sleep prudently.’

of course he can’t just say, like, “sleep well” or “good night.” prudently means carefully, or in good judgment… so like, he’d wake up if something dangerous happened? laurent trusts that? i can’t tell if the statement is an observation or a command. it’s either, “[i want you to] sleep mindfully” or “you sleep mindfully [so you don’t need to stay awake on watch].” hmmm

Damen searched his face, but found nothing in it that he could read, which, he supposed, as he lifted his hands to the laces of his own jacket, was typical.

buddy there is so much subtext going on here it’s okay just get some rest

[missheavenfield1215]

Have you noticed that Beetlejuice and The Corpse Bride have the same climax??

A dead person

Who wants to marry a living person

Although it was against the will of that living person

When I realized this... I couldn't stop drawing

Beetlejuice ~Corpse Bride AU~

*In this AU, everyone is an adult*

*All my drawings are below in this post*

In this AU, Lydia takes the role of Victor, Beetlejuice is Emily, Elder Gudnekt could be Otto, Adam and Barbara would be the Everglot couple (of course, here, they have no bad intentions).

Lydia and her father, Charles, come from the great city of London, to expand their funeral services franchise, in addition to having gone through another marriage.

Charles had Lydia's mother, Emily, who passed away when she was 8 years old. At work, Charles met Delia, who was suffering from a fatal illness, but never told Charles that she was sick. So 4 years after their wedding, Delia also passed away.

To forget his grief, Charles became obsessed with his work and abandoned Lydia in their grief (as she also got along well with her). Lydia doesn't want to get married and hates the idea of being trapped forever in a useless marriage, which will only take away her freedom. Although she thinks that marriage is just a contract, deep inside her, she really feels that if she falls in love, it will only bring her pain and sorrow, just like her father.

Beetlejuice, here called Lawrence Shaggoth, is the only son of the honorable aristocratic marriage Shaggoth. In his youth Lawrence had a preference for men, but despite that, Adam was one of his friends. But when the time came for Lawrence to marry a young woman that his own mother raised so that Lawrence would "become normal." Juno is a homophobic bitch, so after receiving the news that her son was eloping with his lover, she decided to take matters into her own hands.

Juno bribed Lawrence's lover, who really only wanted the young man's money. Juno told the boy that she would pay him whatever he wanted, if he took Lawrence, destroyed him emotionally and murdered him. The boy did so, but the young woman Juno had "adopted", Angeline (Miss Argentina) had witnessed the whole sinister plan.

Juno learned that once Lawrence married, she would inherit everything as stipulated in his father's will. So, to continue with the lie, Juno took a young prostitute to "convince" Lawrence to escape and leave everything behind and thus demarcate him from the surname Shaggoth, since in her eyes, Lawrence was unworthy of such a title. But it turned out that she found out about her affair with a boy, and apparently he was cheating on him.

Lawrence, about to die and feeling betrayed and very scared, recites a poem to calm himself, but he does not know that this poem would be his condemnation and his salvation. Once the conditions stipulated in the poem were met, it would come back to life.

That's why Lawrence needs Lydia to marry him, because then he will come back to life, but he doesn't really have the idea of really falling in love with that "someone" to help him.

Here Adam and Barbara are also aristocrats, but their family name is in decline and they are on the verge of poverty. They decide to adopt Adam's youngest nephew, named Vincent, to prepare him for a marriage with which they can cope with the imminent poverty that awaits their family. They believe it would be best if Vincent chooses his future wife, and he chooses Lydia to marry and she is forced to do so by her father.

Lydia runs away from the engagement after finishing the wedding rehearsal and, as if to mock her father, she says: "I'd rather marry a dead person than someone who doesn't know me!"

It is then that Lawrence appears and proposes to marry him and when he comes back to life, he will help her escape the country and her father.

But neither of them really expected to fall in love with each other when they got to know each other in depth.

But there is the problem of Juno, who no longer has money and it is then that she uses Lydia's disappearance to extort money from Charles and promise him that she will look for the young woman.

And after thinking about all that... That's when I started drawing

"I just want to be alive... And I... "

"I don't want to be alone"

"In this cruel world"

These are small test sketches

Here's a closer shot of a Beetlejuice killed by his lover...

This is Lawrence, moments before his death. When his lover asked him to elope with some of the wealth, Lawrence dressed in his white wedding suit, but it was dyed red when a shotgun bullet pierced his ribs. (yes in the same place where Lydia stabbed him in the musical, both wounds were caused by a stab wound in the back... A betrayal)

Well... I had many things to say... But in essence that is the basis of everything.

This AU really works with any version of Beetlejuice, but mostly works best with the Headcanons of the musical.

[bittybytes]

Still Alive!

This took a lot longer than I thought it would! I was originally only going to draw the drone I call SD-E, but then I noticed this other background drone, which I also wanted to draw, and then I was like, well, might as well make a team while I'm at it. Thus I took Male J and turned him into a separate character as well.

I feel there is a lot I left out personality-wise in these character sheets, but I (for some ungodly reason) refuse to write down ideas and think I will remember everything. So, whatever I couldn't fit in (that I remember) I will put here:

SD-K:

So, to make it clear, I literally only called her SD-K because of the people who reply "K" to long messages and with her personality, it seemed fitting. I wanted her to be very dissociative, and act like she would rather be doing anything else than what she currently is. Some of her personality and Disassembly appearance are inspired by Mandy (Grim Adventures of Billy and Mandy).

SD-E:

I put the most thought into SD-E, mostly because I was only planning to make her originally. My idea with her was to be a sort of SD-J simp. She would absolutely love the passion SD-J would have for the company, and would idolize her for it, which would probably piss off SD-G. I think, I originally made her that way because SD-E doesn't feel strongly for anything herself, so she latches onto what makes other people tick. I definingly see her letting worker drones have final words, before brutally murdering them--probably has a separate 'Wholesome Meter' she needs to fill up or something. Also her name comes from another post awhile back, someone said she looked like an Elizabeth, and I agreed, so I just rolled with that.

SD-G:

I put the least thought into SD-G, my idea for him was to be like a J clone. Which is why I called him G, because G and J sound similar. I figured him and J would have some sort of rivalry, which he is very much losing--not that he'd acknowledge that. Him and SD-K do not get along at all, this is due their roles in the group, as well as, just conflicting personalities, which would kind of forces SD-E in the middle. I feel there is a lot more I could add on to him, but I can't for the life of me figure out the right words.

I will add anything else I remember later. Creating personalities aren't really my thing, I tried my best with these few scenes with these characters that played out in my head. Hopefully they aren't too confusing.

Till next time...

[intheorangebedroom]

Pleased to meet you, epilogue

Summary: It's the dawn of a new life for you and Frankie, amidst the ruins of your former respective lives. He made a promise to you, and to himself: that he would fix everything. But can everything be fixed? Are you ready to let go, and let him? And how will you deal with your homesickness?

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Gabrielle Tourneur (OFC)/French fem!Reader

Rating: disgusting fluff & explicit fifth 🔞

TW: non-descriptive allusions to past abuse and self-harm

A/N: Dear orange besties 🧡 Happy Frankie Friday ❤️‍🔥 This is the end. I am sorry it took me so long, and if anyone is still hanging in the orange bedroom, I am sorry this is so long. It's most likely bad planning on my behalf; it's also because Gabrielle was never meant to stay. I'm so scared I'll never be able to write anything else because this story fucking drained me. It's one thing to smash the keyboard and reblog unhinged gifs, but I'm very uncomfortable expressing my feelings publicly, mainly but not only on account of my ass getting very gothic, very fast. So if I've hidden some dedications at the end 🧡 But I want to say here, to anyone who's ever read and/or interacted with me and/or this story (likes, comments, reblogs, asks): THANK YOU 🧡 From the bottom of my gothic orange heart. Thank you 🧡 I really hope you like this. *presses post now and runs to hide*

Word count: 20k (I– listen, I'm sorry)

[prev] * [series masterlist]

Epilogue: Songbird

Summer

The summer is laced with sawdust. It’s everywhere.

In your nostrils, the blond, warm, toffee-like scent blending with the smell of the overworked electric sander’s gear. It’s in the sound of his boots scraping the kitchen tiles when he comes in through the backyard screen door to get a beer in the late afternoon sun. It’s in the texture of his tanned, freckled skin, soaked in with his sweat, catching at your fingertips when you run your hands over his forearms, before you lead him to the bathroom to get him cleaned up. 

It’s in the longer curls of his hair, on his cap and all of his clothes, and more often than not, it’s on your clothes too, when you join him outside the toolshed, to make sure he’s wearing the protection goggles you bought, and the dust mask he takes off the minute you look the other way. 

And you don’t know it yet, but you will forever associate it with his kisses. Languid, unhurried, they don’t lead to anything more than simply kissing. His hold on your body loose, his large hands spanning the expanse of your skin, his plush lips teasing yours, tongue swirling inside your mouth. You float together for what feels like hours, until you’re left deliciously disoriented.

And no matter what you do, it always ends up in the bed, dusted between the celadon sheets he chose for you. It scrapes at your shoulders and the round of your ass when you arch up from the bed, bucking your hips into his face. 

But that’s August. 

July is spent mostly at your place. 

Your first days together are lost to the haze of your brain. Wrapped in the hushed, draped atmosphere of your small apartment, you let him take all that he needs. His lips only ever leaving your lips for your skin, sucking in harshly, leaving new marks, his kisses more teeth than tongue. 

His body moulded around yours, inside yours. Sweat, spit, spend and slick. His palms relentless, roaming your body. Restless fingers digging into your curves. 

On Monday morning, the drive to the bookstore is tense and silent, his brow deeply creased, that tick of the jaw you haven’t forgotten. But there’s a life for you, here. One that you are looking forward to living. One you have to be able to afford. 

In short, you need to go back to work.

Out in the street, by the double-parked truck in front of the store, his emotions bleed into his kiss, fingers threaded in your hair holding you still in their grip, his bite on your lower lip nearly drawing blood, and you have to whine yourself out of it. 

You offer Suzanne a short apology, disarming in its sincerity. 

“I’ve been very ill, but I’m better now,” you say, and she silently nods because it is quite plain to see. You are better. There is life in your face and light in your eyes. She can’t possibly miss the marks on your skin, but as usual, she chooses to keep to herself and you carry on with your tasks and your day, quietly humming. 

Going through the backlog that built up during your absence, your mind wanders back to his kiss, its urgency contrasting with your relief. Beyond the tiredness weighing down your bones, deep down, you had been waiting for him. Like you always did. Sitting at the pitch-dark bottom of your exhausted heart, the knowledge that he’d be coming.

When you leave the store in the late afternoon, you find him there, standing across the street, arms folded over his chest, his tall figure, dark and intense, leaned against the truck’s hood. 

Goosebumps break out along your arms when you step together into your apartment, chilled air hitting your skin. On one of the bedroom window sills, the ancient AC unit is softly droning. Behind you, Frankie leans down to kiss the raised skin on your nape, whispering, “I fixed it, hope you don’t mind.” Not giving you time to answer, he nips at your neck and tugs at your shirt, but you turn around and stop him with your searching gaze. 

“Please, Frankie, talk to me.”

The night slips away in whispers, two quiet voices rising from under the baby-blue sheets in the cool darkness. What went down at the bar, who said what, how he got hit. When he’s done, you press him further than you think yourself able to handle, for his sake, but all he gives you is, “I don’t regret anything” and “I will fix it.” You believe him.

In the silence between his words, you lie still. You listen, you understand. His needs, the proximity of your body and the soothing contact of your skin, to be cooped up with you in the smallest possible space for as long as it takes for him to absorb the fact that he hasn’t lost you. That he never did. That he never could. 

So, the days pass. Sweat, spit, spend and slick. Stifling heat and sleepless nights. 

You bite your tongue every time you look at his weary face, every time you want to argue that the daily three hour commute to his workplace is far too long. He’s not flying yet. So you let him. 

Until July 23rd. 

Off on weekends, he picks you up on Saturdays, but today is Thursday and a quick shudder of panic runs down your spine when you step outside into the scorching heat and find him parked there. You scrape your knuckles in your haste to roll down the iron shutters, but it’s only when you join him that you realise what’s different: he’s waiting inside the truck. 

Elbow propped on the door through the rolled down window, he starts the engine as soon as you get in and the entire hold lights up with his smile. 

“Hey baby, how was your day?” he beams from underneath the brim of his cap, “Wanna go for a ride?”

When he pulls out an hour later onto a Brooklyn street you don’t recognise, your heart is pounding too fast, already. You have a notion of what this might be about, but you can’t bring yourself to hope you are right, even when he turns to look at you with that smug grin you haven’t seen in a long while. 

“Where are we?” you rasp, your voice cracking around the words.

“Climb here, baby, you’ll get a better view,” he smiles, tilting his head down and slapping a hand on his thigh. His smile deepens, to his dimple and to his eyes hidden behind his aviators, at the familiar, tell-tale sight of your pulse thrumming wild under the soft skin of your neck. 

But your chest feels too heavy, it’s pinning you down, tears prickling your eyes at what you’ll see, so he unfastens your seatbelt, then his, and reaches to haul you onto his lap with that easy strength, that surprising softness. 

The steering wheel bites into your lower back and you can’t peer out the window, instead you crumble onto his chest, your fingers twisting his shirt and your face buried in his neck, your own personal safe place. And anyway, you don’t need to look, you know what’s out there. 

A tall brick building, its brown facade streaked with iron fire escapes. 

A dry sob quakes your frame, and you feel the pressure of his large hands on your back, their warmth flowing through you. You remain limp in his embrace until he can talk around the memory choking him. That of a young man, driving up to basic training in his sister’s VW, wondering where he would have taken you if you only had more time to spend together. Daydreaming on the promise of later. 

More time then. Now years to erase. Rewrite and live again.

“Alright baby, alright,” he breathes into your hair, “how ‘bout we go to Coney Island?”

It’s bright and busy and loud. It’s rowdy teenagers laughing over the crashing ocean’s waves. It’s neon rainbows and blaring pop music and kids’ high-pitched screams on convoluted rides. It’s his hand splayed wide and protective in the small of your back, steering you through the crowd. It’s cotton candy on his lips, and sticky sugar on your fingertips; it’s a black and white photo booth stripe underneath the Wonder Wheel, split up in two, the upper half tucked inside your wallet, where a torn paper with faded ink used to be. 

It’s your life, now, and for the second time, you’re not standing warily on the outside. 

That night, he drives back to his place. That night, he’s out of the truck in a beat and you barely have time to climb down before he grabs the back of your head and the swell of your ass. He tastes of candy apple, sweet and sour, licking into your mouth, and his scent fills your lungs. He carries you inside with your arms around his shoulders, fingers digging into the strong plane of his back. 

That night, in many regards the first, you don’t make it to the bedroom. He puts you down in the living-room and he throws a couch cushion on the floor, shoving you down onto it, kneeling between your thighs, tugging roughly at your clothes and you scramble on the smooth leather to undress him. 

Leant over you, his grip on your wrists a bruising one as he pins your arms along your sides, fucking into you at a blinding pace, sweat dripping down his sideburns, your legs entwined around his, your breasts bouncing with each thorough trust. 

“Fucking look at you,” he grunts, again and again and again, and you come so fast, so hard, your back arching off the leather at a painful angle, but he doesn’t slow down. He fucks you through your high, and when you come down he’s already asking for “another one, give me another one.”

—

The phone keeps sliding down between your sweaty fingers. You swap hands, waiting for Dolores to pick up through what feels like a thousand ringing tones. 

The relief in her voice is audible, which confirms what you expected: she’s heard about the fall-out between you and Rosie. And soon enough she’s scolding you as if you were still the schoolgirl she first met 20 years earlier, and you realise you missed the mother nearly as much as you did the daughter. 

“Dolores, I just need to find out if she’s working next Tuesday. We need to talk, but I’m scared she won’t answer if I just call her. I need to see her, Dolores.” 

Her voice drops to a conspiratorial tone. 

“Just come home for dinner on Monday night, ok?” 

You get there half an hour early and wait, sitting on the edge of the couch, the back of your thighs sweating on the crocheted quilt draped over the cushions. 

A whole month without talking to each other, the longest ever you’ve spent without communicating in a way or another. Even back when you had no money to spare for transatlantic phone calls, you had never let such a long stretch of time come between you. 

You shoot up at the sound of her keys in the lock, looking at Dolores with sheer panic, and it doesn’t help that she reciprocates your look. 

Rosie darts inside the cramped apartment, grumbling in Spanish about parking in the Lower East Side, and stops short on the living-room threshold at the sight of you. 

Your rehearsed speech remains stuck in your dry throat. She crosses the room in two strides, dropping her bag to the floor, rushing to hug you with all of her strength. 

You breathe in her scent, shea butter, white musk, eyes shut to hold back your tears.

“Oh, Gabbi! I thought you went back home, I got so fucking scared,” she whispers, and under your clenched fists, her back is heaving.

Home. Did you always have so many of those? 

There’s a lot to unpack, but neither of you will let the other one talk, let alone apologise. Strongheaded as ever, Rosie, however, makes sure you listen. The panic that triggered what she calls her “disproportionate reaction.” The guilt and regrets behind her silence. Her misplaced pride. 

Atoning has always been easy for you, too easy, in fact, but you offer her words that have never passed your lips before. Words you now feel confident enough to fathom, and pronounce out loud: “I do need you.”

The two of you speak in turns until Dolores sits you down at the dining table, and then you keep talking with your mouths full. She’s cooked enough food to feed you both for a month, but you still eat most of it. 

It’s past 11pm when the chatter subsides. Stifling a yawn, she offers to drive you home. 

“I’m not sure, Rosie,” you start, uncertain, apologetic, “it’s quite the detour. He lives way up north,” you add as a way of explanation. 

“And is he going to succeed where we all failed and get you to drive your own car, Gabrielle?” 

You giggle with sheer delight because everything is different but nothing has changed, her beautiful black eyes alight with a mischievous flicker when she pulls out her phone to type in your new address. 

—

“Wouldn’t it be cheaper to just buy a table from Ikea or something?” you risk, putting on the construction gloves he’s handing you. You look down at the solid oak planks sticking out of the truck’s tailgate the two of you are about to carry to the backyard through the kitchen. 

He huffs and pauses dramatically, with an ostentatious roll of his eyes.  

“It would be cheaper, Gabrielle, but it wouldn’t be good. My girl is not eating off some cheap wooden melamine in her own home.”

Considering his frugal lifestyle, you were surprised to find out money is not really an issue. His pilot income, while not extravagant, is still sufficient by most standards, and it adds up to his veteran pension, making for a comfortable living. However, you know there are monthly installments for the mortgage. There’s food, electricity, gasoline and all this goodman premium quality wood.

You’ve offered to pay him a rent and share the common expenses, which has earned you another huff, followed by a sarcastic, “sure, I’m gonna have you pay fucking rent. How about you keep your money and get a car, big girl from a big city?” 

The suggestion punctuated by a nonchalant wink, before his plush lips found the slope of your shoulder, with a sharp scrape of teeth. 

You’re Alice, falling down the white rabbit hole, discovering him all over again, only everything feels safe because you know you’re landing in your own private wonderland. 

His quiet confidence, his occasional cockiness. His deadpan jokes quietly delivered under his breath. And the deeper you dive, the more you learn, the more you melt. 

His humble selflessness, his kind attention to others. His practical, methodical, efficient thinking. His sharp mind and keen eye. His determination. What little remains of the hermetically sealed lid, and the hard shell underneath the soft one. The limits to his patience, too. A threshold not to be crossed, but only where others are concerned. 

His playfulness when he whispers filth into your ear at the most unexpected moment, in the most inappropriate places.

It’s all intoxicating, unknown yet familiar. 

You’re like a flower seed that has lain dormant for years, finally blooming under his benevolent care. 

Nights are short and the right kind of exhausting, and you’ve never felt better. You dress in colourful shades: daffodil yellow, marigold orange, poppy red. 

As soon as you moved in, at the end of July, it started with shelves for your numerous books to join his collection. Most of the novels in two editions: one in French and one in Spanish. The Master and Margarita now standing in view, next to Le Maître et Marguerite. 

More shelves in the bedroom closet for your clothes and shoes, and a large standing mirror to check your outfit in the morning. 

Electric shutters installed on the bedroom window, so you can sleep in the dark – your shocked gasp met by another soft huff, when you found out about the price. 

And one Sunday morning, a dusty cardboard box he brought in from the garage. The orange curtains flowed out of it in a musty puff of air, dust particles floating in a sunbeam and you smiled at each other in silence, crossed-legged on the hardwood bedroom floor. 

You closed the distance between you to straddle his lap, the position quickly becoming a habit to deal with just about anything, from joy to frustration to fear to contentment. 

At the bottom of the box sat a green plaid shirt. He pulled it out as you wrapped yourself around him. 

“Doesn’t fit me anymore,” he murmured against your temple. “You can have it back, baby.”

You handwashed the shirt and the curtains with unnecessary care, and helped him hang the latter on the bedroom window. 

They clashed violently with the rest of the room, and you stood in silence, wrapped in their orange glow, Frankie’s chest pressed to your back.

Just like your grandmother, his mother was a seamstress. She’d sewn them. 

“It was her favourite colour,“ he’d said. And he’d never mentioned her again. 

You looked at them, unsure. Hadn’t you already lived too much of your life in the past? 

“The colour’s really– loud, Frankie. Are you sure about this?” you murmured. 

He lowered his face into the crook of your neck, as he so often did, and his lips brushed at the shell of your ear, the thin hair on your nape standing with the rush of air when he spoke. 

“I can’t wait to fuck you in this light, baby.” 

He pressed his body harder at your back so you would feel just how much he meant it, expertly unfastening your button fly, his hand inside your jeans shorts, travelling down your belly where heat spread in its wake like a wildfire.

You leaned back into him, closing your eyes and smiling at his appreciative grunt when the tips of his fingers met the dampness pooling in your sensible underwear.   

“You’re gonna sit on my cock now, Gabrielle. I want to watch you come in the orange.”

Afterwards, as you basked, naked, sated, exhausted, in the familiar glow, you tried and failed to affect a casual tone to ask him about the one thing that had been taunting you since you’d first been in this room, back in June.

“Why is this bed so big, Morales? How many women have you fucked in here?”

He’d scrunched up his face, feigning hurt before flashing his dimple.  

“Believe it or not, just the one with the French accent.”

—

Some time around mid-August, you come home from work to a faint smell of fresh paint hanging in the house. The loud, now familiar buzzing rumble of the Makita guides you to the small office next to the master bedroom, where you find him looking dishevelled and bright, his grey t-shirt stained with white paint, the power-drill cooling in his hand. 

The walls are clean, freshly painted in a luminous white. Underneath the single window overlooking the backyard, where he’s hung the blue drapes, a small wicker sofa is covered with a plastic screen he hastily lifts off and starts folding. Your two Modotti prints hanging on each side of the room, one over a tiny desk where he’s placed your laptop and a round cactus in a blue china plant pot, and the other over a breathtakingly beautiful mahogany display cabinet, that already contains all your photographic treasures. 

“I didn’t make this,” he explains sheepishly, tilting his chin toward the piece of furniture as you run your fingers over the sophisticated marquetry work. “Izzy helped me find it. D’you like it, baby?” his left hand twitching nervously, the plastic screen creasing noisily. 

You shake your head awkwardly in the middle of the cosy room. It looks like you. A refuge of your own. Love and gratitude swelling in your chest, laying heavy on your lungs. At a loss for the proper words to express a feeling so simple and earnest. 

“Frankie, I never… I never had anything so beautiful. Why– what is this all for?” you murmur, your voice unsteady.

“For when you need space,” he simply answers with a sweet, puppy-eyed face.

—

With early September comes the relief of cooler nights, and Frankie launches himself into yet another building project: lounging chairs for the backyard. 

“Who taught you how to do all that?” you keep asking, and he grins bashfully, the shadow of another dimple on his left cheek, his answer always the same. 

“I don’t know, baby, I just taught myself.”

Of the two wide, sturdy chairs he’s crafted, you only use one. Evenings are spent stargazing, sipping beers and talking, your bodies intertwined, sunk into each other’s scent. Oblivious to the street noises, hiding away in a world of your own. 

When you join him in the backyard with two beers on a chilly Friday evening, nothing indicates it will be any different. Until you lay your head on his chest and feel the constricting tension inside it. 

Is it because of your insatiable fascination with everything that touches him? Curiosity killed the cat, your mother would always tell you, enough that you ended up living your life forever treading on the edge of most relationships. 

Is it because he found his own equilibrium readjusting your imbalance? 

Whatever the reason, from the moment you curl up into Frankie’s side, you can tell something’s off.

Pressing yourself closer to him, you slide your hand under the hem of his t-shirt and bring it to rest over his scar, grounding him with your touch.

Only then, Frankie starts talking. 

His childhood in San Diego, growing up with a hot-tempered sibling and the shadow of a mother, her melancholy, her obsession, her passing… all the way back to his parents getting married. The happy memories only borrowed, reimagined through faded photographs. Absence, forever unanswered, hanging over him like a chiming mobile. The father he never met.   

Holding your breath, intently listening to a story he had so far only ever told in scraps, you’re struck by the realisation that both of you grew up without a father. Gone, already, before you were born. 

Under the canopy of the purple urban night sky, Frankie, at last, confides in you about his ghosts, his fears, his rage. About the strangeness of moving through life with questions in lieu of bearings, of being older than his father will ever be.

And when he’s done talking, when his words have run dry, you take the hand he runs over his face and bring his palm to your lips. You hold on to it tight for balance as you climb on top of him. Vulnerability altering his face and it carries you back to a windy Brooklyn street on a forever ago Monday morning, it slices through your heart, bittersweet, sharp-edged. You once felt so helpless to erase the crease of his brow. But that was forever ago. 

You lower your lips to it, and with a kiss you absorb all the pain it withholds. In the still of the night, in the near darkness, a fleeting light glimmers in his dark eyes, the sliver of a swelling tear. 

You cup his face, and you whisper, “I’m so proud of you, Francisco Morales. My man.” 

He sucks in a sharp breath. It trickles down your spine. 

You tug lightly at his shirt and he offers no resistance, sitting up and letting you slide it off above his head. 

Another kiss to the side of his nose, to the edge of his jaw, to the heart-shaped bare patch of his beard. Down along his neck, and he’s the pliant one, for once. Over the slope of his shoulder and to the dip between his collarbone, his suprasternal notch, where you lick and linger. Your palm pressed to his scar. 

A scrape of your teeth over his nipple and you feel him thicken between your hips, until his hands grab hold of your legs and he rasps, “Not here.”

He carries you back inside your home, through your kitchen and down the hallway to your bedroom, your legs hitched around his waist. Lays you down onto the bed where he spent too many nights avoiding sleep so he wouldn’t dream of you. 

In the heat of your mouth, under the caress of your hands, with the sway of your hips, Frankie is whole again. 

—

Autumn 

Your happiness makes him giddy. A grown man, a veteran, and every time he looks at you, shuffling over to the bedroom, a dance in your steps, or when he hears you sing along some classic rock tune as you prepare coffee on Sunday mornings, he’s fucking giggling.

He’s done some things he would have deemed ridiculous, no, downright crazy, only a few months ago. He’s picked his T-shirt from the laundry basket after you’d slept in it a couple of nights, and wore it to work. He washed his hair with your shampoo to carry the scent of you; he kept it long because you asked him to. He’s taken this colourful thing you tie your hair with, and wore it on his wrist all day, breathing it in every time he’s alone.  

He, who’s never been late anywhere, can’t make it on time to work anymore, despite waking up earlier than ever before, because he can’t tear himself away from the sight of your tranquil, sleeping face. 

And in the evenings, he brushes your hair. He’s discovered a birthmark on your nape, a little red fleck hidden in your hairline. On some days, he can’t think of anything else, counting down the hours until he can see it again. Press his lips to it, eyes closed in rapture. 

He doesn’t give a fuck how it looks, or what his friends or anyone would think if they knew. He’s longed all his life to experience that blissful balance with you. The one you two settled in so rapidly, with such ease. 

By 4pm, he’s done with his working day and he drives home. This once was a dreaded hour, but not anymore. Evidences of your presence are scattered all over the house. 

In the bathroom of course, your French cosmetics and lotions neatly aligned in the small cabinet, two towels, two robes. The small room constantly smells of you. 

In the bedroom, in the way you leave the bed open when you leave after him in the morning, the comforter folded over, in stark contrast with his military bed-making habits. 

In the living-room, whatever book you’re currently reading lying on the coffee table. Framed pictures of you and Rosie smiling at him from the bookshelves.

Foul smelling cheeses in the fridge. Your tin mug drying on the rack next to the sink. Two knives, two plates, two forks. 

A house that feels like home, at last. 

Instinctively, he understood your need for independence and learnt to navigate it. A big girl from a big city indeed, he’s known it all along. You’ve only had yourself to rely on for most of your life. And he gets it. 

So in spite of his primitive impulse to provide for you in every way, he refrained from protesting when you expressed the will to pay for food, and gas whenever you get the chance. You can be stubborn, if you need to be. He’s learnt that too. 

You sometimes go to the movies alone, or visit art exhibitions, and there are the occasional girls' nights out in the city. 

When you come back home afterwards, it’s a real treat, one he can’t get enough of. He feasts on your buoyant tales of what you’ve seen, experienced, discovered or learned, on your eagerness to share it with him. He could listen to you for hours. He does.

Some other times, however, you feel small, your anxiety crawling back out from within, settling to the forefront. You’re still the same girl he met, vulnerable, incredibly courageous. Seeking his reassurance. 

And he’s equally happy to make sure you get both space and safety. The single most important purpose he could ever be entrusted with. 

Out in public, in the street or amongst friends, you two never hold hands. There’s a modesty about you and him. 

Still, it’s always his hand in the small of your back before crossing the street or going through thick crowds. It’s brief, stolen knowing glances, fingers intertwined under a diner’s table. 

When you think no one is watching, you tuck yourself into his side, his large hand gripping your hip. As if you can’t live in the open, yet. As if you’d rather hide your happiness from the rest of the universe, lest it be taken away again. 

And there are his eyes; they always find yours. Watchful and intent, years of training and acquired instinct put to use to protect you, keep you close. 

But your behaviour doesn’t matter, anyway. The organic pull between your two bodies is far too obvious to conceal. 

He hasn’t stopped, he never will, leaving marks on your skin. Blooming flecks of his love peeking out just barely from under the collar of your shirts, for you to carry and never forget you are his. You squirm in his hold when he pulls in your skin, hard suck, sharp teeth, squirm and whine in pleasure-plain. 

He brands you. He admits it now. His love flushes your blood to the surface of your skin. He does that to you. You let him. 

Something alien, unbridled, something he can only identify as pride has him puff out his chest whenever he sees you in his clothes. 

As if he hadn’t built rows of shelves to accommodate yours, it seems you’re always wearing his. None of his plaid shirts are safe, you even wear them to work, only to change into one of his t-shirts the minute you come home. 

He pretends to mind, knowing you love that game. Only one day, in early October, you dig up a military tin trunk containing his army stuff in the garage, and you start wearing the things you find in there too.

The first glimpse of you in a green jersey has his stomach turn. Too upset to speak, he watches you leave with it for the day, willing his disapproving glances to be eloquent enough. 

But a portrait of him in his dress uniform pops up on your desk, next, in a brand new fancy frame. And a little over a week later, on a Sunday morning, he walks in from the backyard to find you in a US Air Force shirt, one of his early ones, and the fact that it actually suits you, fits you like one of your own thrift store swag, oversized in just the right way, has his temper simmer. 

He walks straight to the stove where you’re cooking scrambled eggs, his boots thumping heavily on the tiles. A sweet smile curls your lips when you turn around to face him. However sweet, it doesn’t stop the words from shooting out of him, nor contains the anger in his warning. 

“Ok look, I don’t want you to wear those– things, Gabrielle. I don’t want any of it to touch you, entiendes?”

The Spanish slips right out of him, but you hold up your smile, and hand him a mug of freshly brewed coffee. 

“I really love the Morales name tag,” you simply state. 

He grabs the mug by reflex, thrown off by your unfazed reaction. Raising on your tiptoes, you place a kiss on the bare patch of his jaw. 

“I’m proud of everything you ever did, Francisco,” you add in earnest. “But I’ll take it off, if you don’t like it.”

The blunt honesty of your answer immediately deflates him, and he swallows thickly at the first sliver of your skin when you unbutton the shirt to reveal your naked breasts. 

—

Familiarity hasn't killed this miracle. Even when, in the intimacy of your house, you’re never more than two feet apart. Skin on skin from the moment you rush home at night until the moment he ruefully passes the door in the morning. 

On his lap is where you sit most of the time, and he fucking loves it, sliding his hand underneath the hem of your clothes, pecking kisses in the curve of your neck, under your ear, where the scent of you is heady, feeling the weight of you shift against his body when you talk. 

Your hand on his thigh when he drives, his arm on the back of the seat when you take the wheel. Brushing your teeth side by side before bed. Curled into his chest, slouched on a pile of pillows to watch movies on his computer (he’s offered to buy a television, but you declined). Your legs propped over his when you read together on the couch. 

At night, in the ridiculously oversized bed, your bodies lie entwined. You need him around you to fall asleep, need him to crush you with his weight, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

“You run so hot,” you mumble with delight, seconds before tipping over into unconsciousness, your voice heavy with your day. 

You taste so good, he murmurs against that spot he likes too much under your ear, his kisses rippling in shivers along your skin; you taste so good, he moans into your mouth, never sated, never pulling back first; you taste so fucking good, he grunts into your cunt, pinning you down on the rumpled linen. 

You’re here, at last, for him to love and to revere, for him to taste, taste, taste.

He had you in his truck, pulled over to the side of the road in a rainstorm, on the way to an upstate farmers market. He had you in the garage, against the hood cooling down. He had you in a bathroom stall in the Guggenheim, his mouth fastened over yours to keep you quiet, his fingers buried inside your cunt. 

He has you in the storage room in the back of the bookstore, more often than he should, when Suzanne’s not there on Saturday afternoons and he can’t wait for you to come home. When you come around him, he calls you his good girl. 

He had you in your room; you sat him down on the wicker sofa, rucked up your pretty dress and rode his thigh clad in raw denim, “Remember the first time you made me come, Francisco?” 

He gripped your ass so forcefully your skin bore bruises for days, and you gave him that sound, that two-tone moan, straight into his ear and then you dragged your teeth along the column of his throat. He flung you down on the carpeted floor and fucked you limp. 

He had you in the bathroom, more times than he can count, and in there, whether rough or languid, he always fucks you with a delightful, ironic revenge. 

He ate your cunt on the dining table like you were the main course in a fancy dinner, and then he flipped you over and fucked you so hard you cried out his name. 

He brought your shoulders up against his chest, clasped his hand over your mouth and fucked you harder. 

You bit his fingers and clung onto his arms, your nails carving lovely pink crescents into his flesh, your entire body jerking when you came again, your cunt gripping him and you sobbed as he filled you up. 

He dropped to the floor, exhausted, chest heaving, drenched in sweat, and you crawled over him, curling into his side. 

When he fucks you with such feral rage, you’re soft for days afterwards, as if relieved by the reminder of his intensity. And just like with everything you need, he’s only too happy to provide. 

“Frankie—” you breathed out, but you trailed off and you hugged him tighter, and he thought you were about to say it, those three little words you spoke daily in a million different ways but never with actual words. 

But you stopped short, once again. 

He often wonders if you’ve ever told them to anyone. To Rosie, you might have, even Will, perhaps. To Ben, he’s now certain you didn’t. 

He can’t tell why it’s so important to him to hear them. After all, he’s never pronounced them either. Not in English. Not when you’re awake. 

But this isn’t only about a shared feeling. He knows your family never taught you how, and the thought makes his body ache. 

—

In the weeks leading up to Halloween, you grow more and more excited, decorating the house, scheming about matching costumes. It doesn’t even occur to him to deny you any of it, he’d dress as a pink bunny if you asked him to. Even though, given what you have labelled “your fascination for all things morbid,” he can tell a bunny isn’t in store. 

Here he is, falling in love with you all over again. Your childlike enthusiasm, your unabashed enjoyment, your bubbling excitement. These are the things he lives for. 

At long last, he gets to introduce you to his sister on Halloween’s eve. Out of town for most of the summer, Izzy’s invited over you for dinner, but the evening doesn’t play out in the least the way he thought it would. 

You pretend otherwise, but your silence betrays your nervousness on the drive to Manhattan. His doesn’t talk either, tense and anxious until you get out of the truck and he can splay his hand on your back, feel you loosen under his touch. 

For weeks, months, he imagined the two of you vibrantly sharing your similar views on politics, when in fact the interaction remains polite and policed, at first, nearly distant. 

Until you zero in on a couple of old pictures displayed in his sister's apartment, in the hallway to the bathroom. 

Izzy’s entire demeanour shifts. She’s delighted to provide you with embarrassing anecdotes on “babyface Frankie.”

“Look at this lanky teenage boy,” she grins, and Frankie, a grown man, a veteran, Frankie feels his heart skip a beat and trip over the sight of your wide eyes filling with tears. 

Back at home, in the dark bedroom, you open up. Tucked under the comforter, wrapped in his arms, with your head resting on his chest. Those are the moments in which the words you had to swallow down all your life come easy. 

“It’s because of the dead,” you begin. “It’s almost like a promise. That they can come back and walk amongst us for one night. I know it’s childish of me, but I would— I would like to see my grandparents again. Especially now. I can’t even lay flowers on their grave.”

He pulls you in closer. Waits for you to keep going, hoping you will. Guessing you are being mindful about his own ghosts. Adamant not to press, he simply gives your hip a light squeeze. 

When you resume, your voice drops lower. And you tell him everything. 

Your mother got pregnant during her senior year in high school, and sought an abortion her mother didn’t let her get. Taking you in when you were born, she watched as your mother left home in rebellion. 

“It was wrong of her. My mother had the right to decide,” you say in a little voice, and the implication makes him physically sick, a foul taste sitting in the back of his throat at your resignation. 

You go on to describe your happy, albeit short years with your grandparents. The orange curtains, summer vacations by the ocean, your grandfather teaching you how to read a map and ride a bike. 

And how it all ended abruptly with your grandmother's death. 

You had to go live with your mother, then, and as you briefly recount some of your most difficult moments, you make excuses for her. It wasn’t that bad. I was too sensitive as a kid. I wasn’t her choice. She was only 23 then. 

Your father had long bailed, and again you provide reasons and excuses. You chuckle sadly when you mention two half-sisters. “Strangers,” you say. 

You’ve long severed ties, with all of them, and it’s probably better, you say. For your mother, anyway. For you too, you have to believe. Some days, some days still, you can’t help it. You look her up on social media. Just to see. Make sure she’s ok. 

Frankie listens. His heart bleeds inside his hallowed chest. Pieces of you falling into place to the muted sound of your voice, your words crawling under his skin. 

I’m sorry. 

Please. 

I never had anything so beautiful. 

And when your voice dwindles at the evocation of a step-father coming into your life when you were seven, when you finally fall quiet, what Frankie hears in your silence makes his inside curl and burn up with a vengeful rage. 

But you’re done talking for the night. You circle his waist and soon, your breathing evens out, your body easing into sleep with little, jerky movements. 

Frankie lies in the opaque darkness of the room, clenching his jaw until the physical pain takes off a bit of the edge. Eyes wide open to the memory of the first time he touched your breasts, on loop in his brain. 

Is the man still alive? You certainly are wise to keep that part to yourself. You really do know him well. Because that would be the one kill he would never regret. 

The following morning, he stays in bed until you wake up, and you don’t question his presence, even if he should already have left.   

He follows you into the bathroom, steps with you into the tub and washes your body, towels you off, brushes your hair. 

You let him. 

—

“How old is Santi, again?” you ask from the bedroom. 

Frankie spits the mouthwash into the sink and straightens up with a heavy sigh. 

You know how old Santi is. But there’s something else on your mind, something that’s been eating at you, causing you to be distracted since the invitation to the party arrived in the mail. Something that’s compelled you to avoid eye contact since you came back from work, today. Something you’re keeping to yourself, probably trying to protect him, if he had to guess.

“He’s turning 37, baby,” he answers, imperturbable, buttoning up his worn denim shirt, leaving the last two buttons open.

“Oh yeah, right. Yovanna told me she invited Rosie,” you continue, “but she didn’t mention who else’ll be there—” you trail off.

There it is. Who else will be there. Or rather, who won’t be. 

“Too many people for comfort, that’s for sure,” he chuckles, stepping out of the bathroom to join you.

Standing in front of the large rectangular mirror he’s built for you, you’re fiddling with the little strings tying your dress at the waist, and the sight of your silhouette in profile has his breath hitching. You don’t often dress up, but tonight you’re wearing a black wrap dress that looks like an oversized smoking jacket, with a plunging neckline and a whole lot of leg. 

You wore dresses all summer, short or long, but as the days got shorter and the air got cooler, you went back to jeans and pants only. 

“I don’t like tights,” you explained once. 

And whatever you wear is fine; he can snap your fly open with two fingers, but seeing your legs clad in the sheer black material does something to him. Something that shoots straight to his cock.

“Damn, baby,” he whispers, and it’s all he manages.

“I don’t know,” you wince, “I have those smart black trousers, perhaps I should chan–” but you fall quiet because he’s come to stand behind you, his broad frame towering over your tall one, his head dipping into your neck. 

His mouth stops half an inch short of your throat, and the magnetic pull it exerts on your skin lifts his lips in a satisfied grin. He draws back, the movement imperceptible, and it’s as though your skin reaches out. Like witchcraft. 

“Frankie, would you like me to wear fancier clothes?” you ask in a small voice, finally looking him in the eyes through the looking glass. 

You lean your head back to rest against his shoulder, and he reaches for your legs, his palms lightly trailing down over the smooth fabric.

“No, baby” he starts, and he watches the goosebumps breaking along your neck at the sound of his voice. “What I want is irrelevant, you wear whatever makes you feel good. Only tonight, I won’t mind if you decide to wear that,” he finishes. 

His calloused fingers span up your thighs, catching at the thin material, all the way to your mound. The tights press into it, and it’s fucking delicious. When you close your eyes, two of his fingers travel downward along your constrained folds, and the low grunt that rumbles from his chest is met by a whimpering sound you can’t hold back. 

His left hand slithers under the side of your dress to find the swell of your breast, teasing your nipple with his thumb.

“We’re gonna go to this party, and everyone there will be looking at you in this dress. Your breasts… your legs… your eyes… your smile…” a stroke over your seam with each word whispered into your ear, and your eyes flicker, you buck into him, “and I’m gonna look at them looking at you while I decide how I’m gonna ruin you and these fucking tights the minute we come home.”

He dives into your neck, pressing his plush lips to your soft skin, giving it a hard suck for good measure. 

Santi and Yovanna’s place stands out from the row of neatly aligned houses. Light pouring out from every window, music, warmth and laughter spilling into the bleak November night. 

His hand finds your back when you climb out of the truck and join him on the sidewalk. You’re wearing shiny black heels he didn’t even know you had. They make you taller, slightly shifting the familiar landmarks of your body at his side, and he thinks the entire party will be able to see it on his face. 

Pride, like the sun reverberating over the surface of a placid ocean.

It’s that ability of yours to overcome your fear, to go headstrong against it. He won’t ever get over it. You’re more courageous than some men he’s fought alongside, and he often wonders if this could be the main reason why Will held you in such high regards. 

And yet, you’ve chosen him to be the one who gets to hold you when you can’t be brave. Most of his life now revolves around being worthy of that.

But tonight, you carry your head high.

All of Pope’s friends and colleagues will be here, save for three of them, and their absence will, most certainly, noticeably stand out. 

Yovanna personally called Frankie to inform him she had taken it upon herself not to invite Tom. Ever the suave diplomat, Santi kept loosely in touch with him after the incident at the bar. But he knows from Santi that Yovanna strongly disapproves of the lasting bond between them.

On the subject of the Millers, however, Santi remains tight-lipped. Frankie assumes they still hang out on a regular basis, probably on Friday evenings, at the bar, where himself has become persona non grata. And he bears no resentment for that, not towards anyone.

However, and even if he would never admit it to you, he misses the two men. He misses the bar, and perhaps most of all, he misses the fight nights. Benny’s jokes and Will’s expressive silence.

He’s texted Benny. Back in September, for his birthday, and his message remained not only unanswered, but unread. He tried again, a week later, and then a third time, to no avail. 

He tried Will, next, and the phone rang out for what felt like a whole minute before he got sent to voicemail. The next morning, Will called him back during his morning commute. A smooth move for a clever man, Frankie thought. He hung his head as he listened to the short, non-committal voicemail that didn’t require any follow-up. Not exactly a rejection. Definitely nothing of an invitation. 

He can tell you miss him too. Miss them. Small telling details permeating your daily life. You change the station every time CCR comes up on the radio. A wistful sigh that punctuates your impressions of an art exhibition. 

So when the invitation came, he picked up his phone again. 

But he knows your presence tonight implies a choice on Pope’s behalf. You’re smart enough to have it figured out, and he doesn’t need to ask you how you feel about it. He hears it in your short replies, sees it in the taut line between your shoulder blades, feels it in the tight squeeze of your small hand around his —a first, in public. 

And yet you step into that party with your chin up and he wills his confidence to seep into you through his touch, to convey it with the pride lighting up his eyes whenever they set on your beautiful face.

Trust me. I will fix it.

The front door is open and you step together into the crowded living-room, where the furniture has been taken out or pushed against the walls to make space. 

Santi rapidly walks up to you to greet you warmly. Beaming, clean-shaven, sharply dressed in a black suit, black shirt, no tie, he looks perfectly at ease in this social setting. But then again, he’s at ease everywhere, whether it is a luxuriant jungle or a parched desert.

Behind him, Yovanna flutters from guest to guest, shining bright as a Tuscan summer sun with all the standing lamps bouncing over the golden sequins of her short, long-sleeved dress. In his peripheral vision, Frankie catches your relieved smile. When she rushes to hug you, you hand her the bottle of champagne you bought two days ago. 

“I don’t know the first thing about champagne,” you’d said, “I just took the most expensive one,” an apologetic shrug he eased up with a lingering kiss. 

Yovanna takes your jackets, complimenting your outfit, and you slowly small talk your way through the crowd over to the other side of the room, where a bar has been set up and a young woman with short dark hair and tattooed hands mixes drinks. Frankie recognises her from the bar, where she sometimes works as an extra. 

He watches over you, intently, through the endless parade of familiar faces coming up to him for a chat. Veterans, friends, vague acquaintances, and nearly all of them enquire about Benny’s whereabouts. 

Your tense body feels small, pressed up against his side, and your grip on your glass is white knuckled. Every so often, he gives your waist a discreet but hard squeeze, and flashes you a reassuring wink.  

Rosie walks in about an hour later, cheerful and bright in her deep-green jumpsuit, moving with confidence through the room to join you and turning heads along the way, as if it were her own birthday. 

A quick peck on your lips, on Frankie’s, and she turns her attention to the barmaid to order a mojito. You untangle yourself from him, and begin to sound more like yourself as you chat with your friend. Soon, you’re too absorbed in your conversation to notice his glance darting toward the front door across the room every time someone steps in. 

A couple of hours into the evening, the alcohol helping, people get loser and louder, and Pope cranks up the stereo. Frankie hangs down his head to hide his grin at the familiar, aggressive playlist, that Yovanna promptly changes. 

Rosie has left your small group and is chatting animatedly with a young officer he’s seen working with Will at the VA, confirming Pope’s invited everyone he’s ever met. 

You’ve already had two whiskeys while he’s still sipping on his first beer, when he feels your hand travelling down from his side and sliding into the back pocket of his jeans. 

Your gentle grasp on his ass broadens his dimpled smile, and he basks in your gaze for a brief moment, before he turns to you. 

“You’re so pretty, Francisco Morales,” you whisper, and he gets the feeling that you waited for him to look at you to tell him just that. 

“Ok,” he chuckles, “are you drunk?”

“Just a little bit,” you concede. “But I don’t need to be drunk to appreciate what I see.” Your voice drops along with your smile when you continue, “I— I look at you, and I can’t believe you’re mine. Are you really mine?”

Frankie takes your glass and puts it down on the bar next to his bottle, so he can grip your hips and steer you toward the wall. You may be a couple of inches taller than usual, but he still towers over you, and his broad shoulders hide you from the rest of the room. 

“I’m yours, baby,” he murmurs. “All yours.”

His lips brush your cheekbone, and he cherishes the slight tremor of your skin under the tickle of his whiskers. It is new. It belongs to your new life together. 

“Would you still ask me to leave with you?” you ask again, bunching his shirts with shaky hands. 

“I would ask you over and over again a million times, Gabrielle,” and he presses his forehead against yours, “I wouldn’t change anything. Except for the rain.”

He places his palm over your collarbone and his thumb comes to rest on your pulse. 

His fingers slide and curl around your nape. Time stills, fading out the sounds and lights of the room around you. He presses his lips to yours, pulling you flush to his chest, and you immediately open up for your man. 

The smooth, malty taste of the whiskey blends in with yours, it goes up to his head and shoots right down to his cock as he licks into you with the same need and hunger he once did on the fire escape, swallowing your doubts along with your moans. 

He does want to leave with you, he wants to leave with you right now, spare you the pressure and the plastered smiles, take you home, brush your hair, feed you. Massage your body from your feet up to the crown of your head, rub your legs through those goddamn tights, feel your slick dampening them, have you come in them once, twice, if he can pace himself, watch your legs twitch in pleasure in the sheer black fabric.  

But he has to wait. Wait just a little longer. There might still be a chance. 

His self-control wears thinner yet when you push away from the wall to mould your body into his, when you whine as you meet the growing bulge in his pants, your leg hitching up along his. Is it a trick of the mind, that he can feel the smoothness of your tights through the thickness of his denim? 

Fuck he can’t give in, he has to wait, stall for more time, the injunction coming from the back of his brain, barely reaching his consciousness. 

He’s already fucking your mouth with his tongue when Pope’s voice rings out on his right, music and lights leaping back into focus, like sandpaper grating his senses. 

“¿Qué haces, pendejo? Jesus! Get a room! It’s not that kind of party.” 

Frankie quickly pulls away from you with a gritted “fuck,” but not so far that you can’t bury your face into his neck. 

Pope’s smug laughter drums on his nerves, adding to his frustration, and he’s about to lash out when he feels you giggling.

As if summoned by Pope’s sarcasm, Rosie appears beside him. 

“They’re unmanageable,” she quips, “you just can’t leave them unattended.”

“Oh, yeah, you’re one to talk!” you retort with a smirk. 

Drawing away from you, he’s reaching for your glass when he sees your features drop. Your eyes widen, strained on the front door, and in an instant, it’s all over your face. Your mouth falls open, you suck in a sharp breath. He doesn’t need to turn around to check what —who— you’re looking at. He knows. He understands. He no longer has to wait. 

Rosie and Pope see it too, whipping their heads to the left to follow your gaze, but you're already walking forward, quick, steady steps. Frankie pivots slowly, in time to see you fling yourself into Will’s open arms.

Oblivious to the couple of men coming to greet him, he picks you up with ease, splayed fingers across your back, and one of your heels drops to the floor. He closes his eyes, for the briefest moment, squeezing you tight in his brawny embrace. 

Frankie doesn’t hear you, but he catches his friend’s answer, spoken through a wistful, brotherly smile that transforms his entire face. 

“I missed you too, Elle.”

—

The dam breaks. The minute he parks in the driveway, the fucking dam gives. 

“Keep your seatbelt fastened,” he orders and he kills the engine. 

With a quick, deft gesture, he unbuckles and slides next to you over the truck’s bench, caging you with his upper body, sinking his face into the curve of your neck to inhale, deeply. His breath pushes back out of him with a grunt like a threat. It rumbles in his chest first, before it rattles inside his throat and fans over your skin. Your skin that raises and reaches out for him. It’s your scent, your smell, and he wants it to be his. 

In your sitting position, your folds feel denser, trapped inside the black nylon material of your tights, and you grab the door handle when he starts rubbing fast circles over your clit, threatening grunts into your neck, scraping teeth, lapping tongue.  

You come in a matter of minutes, head shoved into the headrest, lips pinched to bite down your throaty moans, breathing heavily through your nose, the windows blurred with a transluscent fog. 

He carries you inside, swung over his shoulder, it’s playful but it’s not, it’s a want, it’s a need, a fire that flares in his loins, a dam that finally gives.  

He tosses you onto the bed and you bounce with a little shriek. He takes off his boots and climbs onto the mattress, kneeled before you, strips you down to your tights, knocking your hands away every time you try to undress him, until you understand what he needs and you lay back on the bed, become soft and pliant and let him take it. 

There’s an indentation at the base of your throat where he sank his teeth while you came under his hand in the truck, and the heat in his loins settles down a bit. 

The nylon of your tights brushes smooth and sleek when you rub your legs together, pressed knees, shifting hips. 

Framed by the dark halo of your hair, your face looks pale and eerie, like the slippery ghost he used to dream of, sunk into a restless sleep after rage-fucking women he did not see. 

He parts your legs with his frame, spreads your hips with his breadth. The nylon is dense and brushes louder under his calloused palms and digits, heavy and hot and underneath, your skin too is burning. 

The need to feel you is too heavy, the scent of you heady, he wants it to be his, his scent oozing off your skin, organic evidence that you’re his. He slides off his t-shirt, unbuckles his belt to ease off the pressure of the scorching hunger, it burns in bright anger between his hips, he doesn’t know how to tame it.  

He crawls above you, dives onto you, teeth and tongue and spit and need, scraping your earlobe, your jaw, your lips, biting into the column of your throat, biting new marks and new indentations, would you still ask me to leave with you?

His in every scenario, every dream, every reality. 

Between his lips, the hardened peak of your nipple is hot, still cooler than his mouth when he wraps it around the hard bud and sucks it in, squeezing your other breast, calloused palm, calloused fingers, his.

His teeth find your hip, the soft swell of your flesh, the hard bone underneath and you writhe and arch up into it, his name rumples your lips, the K rips from your throat, ripe, hot, thorny. 

His forehead presses through your tights and into your belly, the little swell of it below your navel, sweat dampened curls of his hair leaving a sweat dampened spot, his scent permeating the fabric, infusing your skin. 

He pulls back, calloused fingers hooked under the back of your knees catching at the nylon, sliding your calves over his shoulders, smooth fabric, hot skin, bright need. He spits on your clothed cunt and rubs it in, blends his saliva with your slick, hot, liquid, sticky.

His strokes are not gentle, they’re rough and needy, your fingers gripping his wrist to ease the roughness and he frees it with a twist, strong hand raising your arms above your head to pin them into the soft mattress. His face right above yours, sweat beading at your temples, on your pinched brow, his sweat dripping into your mouth, opened slack, your tongue pulled out and greedy. 

You come as rough and hard as his strokes, your head trashed back, corded neck, folded in two, twitching legs like squirming snakes of nylon wrapped over his shoulders. 

His forehead pushes down on your collarbone, infusing you with his sweat and his scent, where he can feel your orgasm blazing through your bones and your flesh and your skin.

The heat grows brighter between his legs, angrier, consuming, swelling along his cock, thickening. The urge to taste, and he pushes up from your heaving chest, releases your arms, your fingers a frantic scrabble over the white sheets. He’s pulled back in, instantly, drawn to the wet spot between your legs, dark and leaking nylon covering your cunt. 

He dives in to cup it in his mouth, too hot and burning, to taste it, claim you, and it’s a bite, instead, rough and needy, and you jolt, his name scratching your throat like sand, “Frankie!” and he sucks in, rough and needy, saliva and slick, too hot and burning, would you still ask me to leave with you? 

He sits back to undress your legs, the nylon a smooth drag along your skin when he peels it. He’s holding his breath, holding his spit, the taste of you and him swirling around his tongue, coating his palate.

His mouth travels up your leg from ankle to hip, in bites and licks, your skin hot, hot and smooth and tense between his lips, hot skin and hot lips, and he bites into it, sharp, unrestrained. 

He sees it flicker across your face and in your eyes, wide and glazed, the moment you register what he’s doing, when he twists the sheer black fabric around your wrists, tugs on it, elastic, raising your arms above your head, shuffling along your body, your head caged between his thighs, and ties it to the headboard.

He hears it from the outside, the voice that comes from the back of his skull to ask you if “You ok with this?” and when you nod, the voice insists. 

“Words, Gabrielle,” a warning and a need. 

“I’m ok, I want it, please–” you breathe, sand in your throat. 

“You don’t ever have to say ‘please’ to me.” 

He steps off the bed to get rid of the rest of his clothes, eyes strained on you, hot and flushed and tied up and burning under the dark halo of your hair, bruises and marks of bright red scattered over your skin, you can leave all the marks, high-pitched two-tone moans of your want and your need carving his chest, his. 

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” more growls than words, kneeling between your spread legs, spread folds shining and slick, pressing on your knees, down on the mattress with both hands, calloused palms, calloused fingers, smooth, burning skin. 

The back of his two middle fingers slides along your seam, liquid and sticky and it’s an easy glide into your pretty cunt, hot and burning, deep and slow and then rough and curling, dark eyes sunk into your dilated pupils.  

“Wanna taste how good you did for me, baby?”

You nod and he growls, curling deeper inside, so you nod again and you “Please, please Frankie please—“

“Don’t fucking say please to me, Gabrielle, I’ll give you everything you need,” and he pushes his fingers into the heat of your mouth to smother the word, calloused fingers, hot tongue gliding and swirling, a sharp bite of your teeth and he hisses, would you still ask me to leave with you? 

“I got you, I got you,” more grunts than words, and he lines himself up, doesn’t wait and sinks in, sinks his thick cock into your tight cunt, down to his base, rough and needy, sweat dripping down his back, high-pitched moans. 

Large hands framing your hips, keeping you still under his thrusts, bruising, sliding over your belly where he’s shoving his cock into you, Frankie, can you feel yourself inside me? Slowing down just enough to feel you trembling around him, soft walls, warm cunt, grinding deeper inside under his palms.

“You feel so fucking good, Gabrielle, I can feel your sweet pussy fucking squeezing me,” his eyes drawn to the odd angle of your shoulder blades poking under your skin.

His hands find the headboard, bracing forward, lying heavy into you and he thrusts in and out, rough and needy, your legs bracketed around his waist, your knees hitched along his torso, hot, smooth burning skin, sweat dripping, “oh god, Frankie.” 

“That what you needed, baby? For me to fuck you like this?” ramming into your cervix, tight cunt clenching, hot, wet, his. 

Your head pressing into the pillow, you push away from the comforter, clutching his cock, hard and thick and ramming, and you nod, and you remember, you say “yes, Francisco,” and he’s fucking losing it, pounding harder, sinking deeper. 

Calloused fingers curled around the headboard, white knuckled, taut muscles shifting under his skin. 

Your high rips through you, through a cry, two-tone moan, eyes rolling, empty bound fists clenching, arms jerking against their binding, hot tight cunt gripping him in its endless flutter.

“Frankie, Frankie—“

“That’s it baby, just like that,” growls and grunts and words, “just like that.”

Years spent and wasted wishing he could carry you inside him, before he started wishing he could rip you out like a poisonous seed.

Your heartbeat pulsating under his chest and your cunt thrumming around his cock, the air you draw in gulps filling his own lungs, limbs entangled, sweat on sweat. This is as close as it gets to slicing his chest open to fit you inside it. 

Static fills his brain, the room spins around him in orange waves and he comes like a whip, hot, liquid and sticky, pumping his seed into you, further, deeper, teeth clenched, eyes shut, a hissed curse in Spanish, through waves of orange. 

His. 

—

Winter

Everything you once dreaded, everything he once hated, you are now looking forward to experiencing, side by side. 

It’s not your first Christmas with Dolores and Rosie, but it’s the first time you don’t feel like a rescue puppy, stepping inside the camped apartment with your arms full of presents and your man at your side. 

Everywhere you go, you feel legitimate. 

Everywhere he goes, he feels at ease. 

For once, Izzy’s in town for New Year’s Eve, and he doesn’t think twice before accepting her invitation to what she promises will be a quiet and cosy family dinner at her place.  

She ends up so drunk, Frankie has to put her to bed before you can go home. 

Fairly tipsy yourself, you sober up fast when he carries you over to the bedroom and bluntly declares he’s going to fuck you into the next year.

“Which one?” you joke, “cos technically it’s already next year, big man Morales.”

“2050, baby,” he answers with a cocky grin, unbuckling his belt. “Now get naked and spread those legs. I wanna see everything.”

January brings snow and icy northern winds along with the prospect of flying again, his six-month probation drawing to an end. 

And one evening, it brings you home late, freezing cold, and particularly irritated. 

“I had to wait 15 minutes for that damn bus because of the snow,” you fume, hanging your damp coat on the wall rack by the door. “How does this fucking country get so fucking hot in the summer, and so unbearably cold in the winter?” 

He briefly considers arguing it’s not as much the whole country as just some states, but he wisely opts for compassionate silence. 

You turn to face him, pointing a menacing index in his direction.

“You know what, America? You win. I’m getting a fucking car.”

“Don’t call me America in front of Izzy, if you wanna live long enough to drive that car,” he advises you with a raised eyebrow, his smile widening to his dimple.

He takes the following Tuesday off, and the two of you head back to Autoland, where a blond woman about your age welcomes you and introduces herself as Julie. 

A brief conversation is all it takes to ascertain that Julie is far more competent than Gary could ever dream to be, but the sheer idea of having to explain what you’re looking for once again prompts you to enquire about him. 

“Oh, Gary’s in jail,” she tells you with a hint of a smile. “Embezzlement. Didn’t end well,” she adds, and her lips stretch into a satisfied grin. 

Twenty minutes later, you leave the dealership with a decent bargain and a pre-owned Ford Fiesta in forest green. 

It’s only when you come home the next evening, your hands warm and your clothes dry, that Frankie measures just how relieved he actually is. 

And you won’t admit it, in fact, he’s fairly certain you make a point of complaining about finding a place to park near the bookstore, but he can tell you’re happy too. Happy and proud, because the following weekend, he catches you calling Will to tell him you’ll be picking him up at his place to drive together to the Met.  

A four-month hiatus hasn’t altered the tightly woven fabric of your relationship with Will. You fall right back into your cosy routine of monthly trips to the city to visit exhibitions, followed by drinks and endless talks at McSorley. 

Emboldened by his blunt questioning habits, you don’t walk on eggshells the first time you find yourself alone with him.

“How is Benny doing? Does he know we’re seeing each other, today? How does he feel about it?” you ask after quickly gulping down your first half-pint. 

His steel blue eyes dive into yours and you do your very best not to shrink on your wooden chair.

“Benny’s fine, ok? He’s good. He–” he seems to consider his next words before he continues, “We had a few conversations about it. It’s not easy, he doesn’t really wanna talk. I told him about your history with Fish. He’s still a bit angry, but he’s coming around. I think deep down he understands.” 

He pauses, and when you don’t say anything, he keeps going. 

“But I don’t think he’ll be able to hang out with him for another couple of months, at least.”

Hang out with him. No mention of you, there. As often with Will, what lies within the silence matters as much as his spoken words. 

You get it. You can’t have it all. But you are genuinely relieved to know he’s doing well. And that there’s hope for the two of them. 

It doesn’t occur to you that you only hear what you want to hear.

—

The first banging noise jolts you out of sleep. You sit upright in the bed, dishevelled, confused, not quite awake. Your heart is pounding painfully inside your rib cage, pulsating in your eardrums.

Instinctively, you reach for Frankie. Your hand fumbles under the comforter, only to find an empty spot where he should be lying next to you, and you whip your head around to his side of the bed.

It’s the middle of the night, yet it’s not as dark as it should be. The living-room lamp is on, casting a feeble light inside the bedroom, enough for you to distinguish Frankie’s dark silhouette standing awkwardly by the bed, slowly opening the drawer of his night stand.

Another rattling sound comes in from the kitchen. Metal on tiles. Your sleep-dazed brain identifies the noise as that of one of the bar stools being dragged across the floor. Frankie tilts his head in your direction and silently brings his index finger to his lips. 

Now you’re wide awake. 

Panic trickles down your lungs in icy streaks at the realisation that someone has broken into the house, but it doesn’t compare to the horror that seizes you when Frankie stealthily pulls out a gun from the open drawer. 

He’s still looking at you, the yellow glint from the hallway reflected in his ink-black eyes, his finger pressed to his lips. 

Before you can process what’s happening, Frankie’s moving toward the corridor, his gait precise and absolutely silent, broad shoulders hunched and tense in his downward hold of the gun with two hands. You want to protest, tell him to stay here with you, but your entire body has gone rigid, disconnected from your brain. You’re glued into place. 

Eyes opened so wide they might pop out of your skull, you watch him disappear into the hallway, and in the dead of the night, you can hear the door of the fridge being opened. 

Years from now, you will still remember thinking that this is a fucking nightmare.

You brace yourself for gunshots, a fight, more clatter, but it’s Frankie’s voice that comes in next, resounding into the January night, angry, loud and… surprised?  

“What the fuck, man?”

It snaps you out of your trance. Untangling your legs from the heavy comforter, you climb down the bed and slip on your sleeping shorts before you dash towards the kitchen, and you’re still walking down the short hallway when you hear him.

“Oh fuck, ‘m sorry, Fish, ‘d’ I wake you up?”

Benny’s booming baritone. Audibly shitfaced. 

You see Frankie first, standing in his black boxer briefs, his gun hanging from his hand. Following his angered stare, your eyes fall on Benny, who’s tall silhouette is partly hidden behind the opened fridge door. His face peeks out from above it, a nasty-looking bruise blooming red and purple around his right eye, accentuated by the angled shadows. 

His gaze is unfocused, dazed, and when he sees you, an unfamiliar melancholy blurs it a deeper shade of blue. He closes the fridge, a tall boy of IPA in his hand, and he straightens up like a little boy at Sunday school, his lips curling around a drunken smile.

“Hey, baby. How are you?” he slowly slurs. 

“Jesus fuck,” Frankie grits, hanging his head, and your mind reels, you’re not sure how to handle the situation. In fact, you have no idea how to deal with it.

Walking up to your man, you curl your fingers around his forearm, and the tension you find under your touch does very little to temper down the alarm flaring in your chest. Your hand slides to his wrist, his own hand a tight grasp around his weapon. You don’t dare lower your eyes to it. And it’s probably just a trick of the mind, the way you can see it shine from the corner of your eyes under the crude ceiling light. 

You don’t dare look at Frankie either, so you keep your eyes strained on Benny, who’s swaying on his legs, and ask in a shaky voice you don’t recognise, “Hey Ben. What are you doing here?” 

“He still got a spare key,” Frankie growls in his direction, and you hold on to his wrist a little tighter. 

“Won my fight, tonight,” Benny drawls with pride, as if this were a perfectly rational explanation for his presence in your kitchen at 3 am, and, visibly satisfied, he proceeds to crack his beer open.

“And how the fuck did you get here, Benjamin?” Frankie asks, his tone so aggressive it makes you jump.

Benny takes a long sip before he simply shrugs, “Drove my car, the fuck is this question…”

“Oh god,” you breathe out, and between your clutching fingers, Frankie’s muscles loosen. 

Finally looking up at him, you’re shaken by the emotions playing across his face, far more complex than the upfront annoyance in his voice. 

Frankie himself is not sure how he feels. 

Relieved, at first, to find Benny instead of someone else, something worse. Fuck knows he could have shot down a stranger on sight, had they tried to come anywhere near you, and he’d rather you never see what he’s capable of with a gun.  

Why, then, is he shaking with anger? Is it, deep down, the relief to see him at all? Could it be because Benny came to see you, and not him? 

Most of his jealousy and resentment towards his friend had been drained out of him when you curled up on his naked chest, back in your apartment, over half a year ago. 

He’s well aware of the lasting affection you continue to harbour for his friend, that the concern plainly etched on your face at the moment only serves to demonstrate further. And if it’s not exactly pleasant to think about, his confidence and the daily evidence of your shared love sweetens that bitter knowledge. 

What’s a lot more difficult to stomach, however, are Ben’s lingering feelings for you. He can’t blame the man, he himself never got over you, and he had fifteen years to try to. 

“He’ll come around,” Will had promised. Only Ben’s little stunt tonight makes it impossible to ignore any longer the one thought he has so far deliberately avoided. He broke his best friend’s heart, with a self-righteous determination, without an ounce of regret. 

Benny takes a step in your direction, beer dripping on the tiles from the can, askew in his bruised hand, and Frankie sighs heavily. 

As you release his arm to go to Benny, he tries to slide the gun in the back of his jeans before realising he’s in his underwear. He sets it down on the kitchen table, where it hits the wooden surface with a muted thud. 

“Aww baby, I really missed your face,” Benny mumbles as you grab the can from him, handing it to Frankie. 

“Ok, let’s get some water into you,” you answer, holding his shoulders straight to deflect the incoming hug. 

You lead him to the couch on the other side of the room where you sit him down, while Frankie fills up a tall glass with tap water, and you wait for him to join you to whisper, “We can’t let him go home like that, baby.”

Benny’s muttering incoherently, and Frankie bends over him, taking his legs to pivot him into a sleeping position, his feet sticking out of the couch. 

“No, of course, not. He’s gonna sleep here. I’ll drive him home in the morning.”

He lets you take off Benny’s sneakers while he returns his gun to the night stand drawer, but when you don’t come back to the bedroom, he can’t resist the urge to go see what’s going on.

He’s still in the hallway when he stops short at the scene before him. You’ve draped a plaid over Benny, already fast asleep, and you’re threading your fingers through his hair. A token of your affection, a tender gesture he saw you demonstrate before. In public. You lean down to place a soft kiss on his forehead, and when you stand up and turn around, your eyes find his, instantly. 

He doesn’t wait for you, he can’t, not when he knows you’re seeing right through his gritted teeth, right through the nauseating guilt sitting at the back of his throat, and he goes back to bed, where you soon join him. 

He opens the comforter to let you in next to him, and as you slide underneath it, you tell him, “Scoot over, Frankie baby, tonight I’m the big spoon.”

—

If there’s one thing Frankie has always envied Ben for, it’s the speed at which he pulls through any type of hangover. Mild, brutal, soul-destroying, it makes no difference. The man’s up at the crack of dawn, and by 8am sharp, he’s out the door for his daily run.

Maybe it’s the age difference. But Frankie was never this prompt to recover, even when he was younger. Maybe it’s good genes. He’s seen Ironhead getting shot and still complete the mission with dashing excellence. 

Today, however, as Frankie leaves the safe-heaven of your body, warmly tucked under the duvet, and walks into the living-room with a pack of Tylenol, a little after 6 am, he finds Benny quietly snoring. 

His bruised eye has turned a violent shade of purple, bloody crusts flacking around his injured knuckles. 

Frankie knows exactly who Ben was up against last night. A bulky giant of a man, a force of nature, a major household name in the MMA circuit. 

He’s been keeping track of Ben’s defeats and successes. This victory is one that counts. Important enough for him to get hammered in celebration. So important, he had to get behind the wheel and come to tell you about it in person. 

It’s another two hours of aimless silent roaming around the house, brooding, mulling over what he’ll tell him when he wakes up, if anything, before he decides to start cooking breakfast. 

When Benny begins to stir on the couch to the clanking noise of the frying pan, Frankie focuses on the stove, keeping his nervousness in check. In his peripheral vision, Ben sits up with a hissed curse, and gulps down two tablets with water.

He’s just done lacing his boots when Frankie places a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon in front of him on the coffee table. 

Keeping his eyes to the floor, Benny mumbles in a thick voice, “Thanks, but I’m leaving.”

Frankie’s answer shoots out of him before he can think it through. “She’s gonna want to know you ate something.”

Benny tilts up his head toward him in slow motion. He meets his eyes with a cold, hard stare, and Frankie wouldn’t be surprised if he leapt from the couch to take another swing at his face. 

He holds up his gaze, until Benny lowers his head and starts eating up. Cleans up his plate in complete silence and drinks up to the last drop the mild coffee Frankie’s prepared for him.

And when he’s finished, he gets up without a word and walks towards the front door to pick his jacket from the floor. Fiddling with the breast pocket, he pulls out a keychain and places it on the kitchen table as Frankie observes him, jaw cocked to the side, arms folded over his chest. 

His hand is on the doorknob when Frankie speaks again.

“You had 5 hours of sleep, man. I don’t think you’re sober enough to drive,” he says, pushing up from the counter. 

“Yeah, right,” Ben huffs, “I’m not leaving my car here. Not coming back to pick it up.”

“Alright, let’s take your car, I can ride the bus home,” Frankie says, grabbing his cap from the coat rack.

—

Somehow, he can always tell whether you’re awake or asleep if he’s with you inside the house. Today, he knows you hear them leave together. 

The drive is tense, to say the least, Ben’s leg bouncing up and down nervously as he shifts, restless, in the passenger’s seat, darting sideways glances at him, most likely waiting for an opportunity to lash out. 

But the early Sunday traffic is fluid, and Frankie a smooth driver, leaving him nothing to grasp. 

When Frankie pulls out in front of his house, Ben’s out of the car before he kills the engine.  

In turn, Frankie unfolds slowly from the low seat. The crisp January cold bites his cheeks when he gets out and locks the door. He risks a glance in Ben’s direction. 

“Hey, Ben, wait up,” he calls, white puffs of his breath swirling from his lips.  

Benny stops and reluctantly turns around to face him.

“Congrats on your win, last night,” he offers. 

Ben answers with a dismissive, “Sure,” and Frankie throws him the keys across the roof of the Mustang. 

He snatches them mid-hair in a smooth catch. A bittersweet reminder of their past synchronicity. Their ability to communicate wordlessly. 

“You wanna talk about it?” Frankie asks quietly. 

“What, the fight? Which one?” Benny sniggers. 

“Ok,” he nods, ducking his head under the brim of his cap.  

Ben takes a step towards his front door, but immediately turns around.  

“You wanna know what really hurts?” he barks, his loud baritone thundering in the empty street. “Why didn’t you say anything? After that first night at the bar? You let me fucking parade her to you, guys, and you didn’t say shit.”

“Yea, I don't know, Ben,” he whispers, hanging his head. “I’m sorry. I really am.” 

“That’s all you gotta say? I’m sorry?” Ben retorts, crossing his arms. 

“Look, it’s complicated—“ he starts, but Ben interrupts him.

“I was supposed to be your best friend, that’s pretty fucking simple to me.”

“Ok, listen,” Frankie counters, raising his head and looking straight at him, “I don't know what you know, or what Will told you, but I thought she’d forsaken me. I guess I didn’t see the point of telling you. And by the time she–” he reconsiders, tongue darting to lick his bottom lip, careful not to imply your responsibility, “by the time I found out what really happened, it was already too late.”

“Yeah, well, it still doesn’t add up, Fish,” he argues, prepping his forearms on top of the car roof. “If a girl ghosts you, why wouldn’t you warn your best friend?”

Because she’s not that kind of person. Because she seemed happy with you and you with her. Because I never quit loving her. 

Because I could never give her up. 

“Like I said, man, it’s more complicated than–” he tries again, but Ben cuts him off, again, adamant to get it all off his chest, and if his tone is not exactly aggressive, it’s not particularly friendly either.

“Ten years. Ten years we’ve known each other. We went through fucking hell together, and you still fucking chose her over me. Twice.”

“Yea well, I went through another kind of hell for losing her, Ben, you just gotta take my word for it,” Frankie states with a pointed finger at him and a warning in his rising voice that Ben seems to hear, because he leans back just a bit. 

He softens up to add, “But it’s done. So now what?”

“Fuck, Fish,” Benny answers, softer, “if it was that bad, why’d you never say anything? You never mentioned her, not once! I’ve seen you wasted, high as a kite, buried in pussy and you don’t share that?”

“No, Benjamin, I do not share that. Not with you. Not with anyone.” 

He marks a pause, inhaling the cold morning air to maintain control before he can continue. 

“Look, I'm sorry I did you in like that. I let you down and I feel shitty for handling the whole situation like I did. You were my best friend. You still are. But I’d do it all over again to get her.”

He winces at his poor attempt at an apology. 

Benny remains still for a beat before he leans again over the car roof, joining his hands. 

“So it’s like, true love, and shit?”

“Yea. True love and shit,” Frankie nods.

“Well, this I understand,” Ben concedes, unusually quiet. “She’s something. You lucky son of a gun.”

—

Everything you once dreaded… 

Well, you’ve always dreaded January. It once freed you from Éric, but you still associate the dark, short days with loneliness, and a fast, spinning downward fall into depression. This year, however, you haven’t thought about it once. Not until this morning, that is, when the looming dread rose anew, expanding inside your constricted chest, hindering your breathing. 

The fluffy duvet drawn up to your chin, you’ve lied still as the dead, your ears strained to the sounds coming from the other side of the house. 

You fully woke up when Frankie left the bed, depriving you of his reassuring heat, after three hours oscillating between sleep and consciousness, always acutely aware of his unnaturally stiff body lying wide awake between your arms. 

You mentally followed his barefoot stride, amplified by the early morning peace, the events from the previous night flooding back to your tired brain like rising waters. 

Listened to nothing but silence for an excruciating long time, the growing tension emanating from him thrumming along the walls all the way to your hiding place. 

Hiding, is what you were, and once more your mother’s reproachful tone rang out in your head, “tu ne fais que t’enfuir.” 

“I’m a big girl from a big city,” you murmured to yourself. You were not hiding, they needed to talk, you were merely giving them the necessary space, but nothing you told yourself could ward off your anxiety. 

When you walked into the living-room, after they’d left, you scrunched up your nose at the acrid smell of alcohol. And something else. Something you didn’t want to remember, so you pulled the curtains and opened the two large windows to let in the brisk winter air.   

That’s when you noticed his phone, face down on the console by the front door, where he leaves it when he comes home. 

You disposed of the leftover coffee in the sink and prepared a fresh pot, strong, to your taste. 

While it brewed, you folded the plaid and straightened the couch cushions. You cleaned the stove and washed the dishes, wiped them dry and returned them to their cabinets. 

When there were no more traces of Ben’s presence in your home, you stood by the counter, staring blankly at the microwave, double dots blinking between the red digits. 

Now, it’s nearing 11am. You’ve been alone for three hours. 

Uncertain about the distance between Frankie’s house and Benny’s place, you’ve no idea whether Frankie’s absence is too long or perfectly normal. You could put your mind at rest, even just a bit, if you only checked it out on your phone, but the idea itself irritates you. You’ve lived here just a few months shy of three years. When will you be as capable of navigating the city as you are in Paris, going about the metro and streets on sheer instinct, visualising entire neighbourhoods and calculating routes without the support of technology? 

Driving your own car is bound to achieve that, you tell yourself, stepping gingerly into the tub. 

Why does the entire house feel colder when he’s not there? This is nothing unusual, he’s rarely home when you get ready for work on weekdays, and it’s a beat before you realise you’ve left the living-room windows opened. 

The water runs over your face, set to scalding hot and high-pressure, and you wish it could drain out your thoughts. Perhaps, if you’d see them floating at your feet, you might be able to sort out your feelings. 

When he pulls out in the driveway 20 minutes later, he steps in through the front door to find you sitting by the kitchen table, arms crossed and shivering in one of his sweaters. There’s little to no difference in temperature between outside and the room, he notes with a frown, and his eyes land on the table in front of you, where his black gun stands out against the clear wooden top. 

He stills, fingers on the brim of his cap, elbow raised mid-air. 

He’s in so much fucking trouble.  

“Hey, baby, how–” he starts, before you cut him off sharply. 

“Are you ok?” you ask, more briskly than you intended. 

You clear your throat, willing your hoarse morning voice to sound softer when you ask again, “You’re not hurt or anything, are you?”

“No, baby, I’m good,” he answers, taking a few long strides towards you. “I’m sorry, I meant to call you before I got on the bus, but I think I left my phone here. And the ride home took forever, I don’t know how you had the patience to…”

He trails off, standing in front of you in his jacket, awkward and rigid. For the first time ever, he’s not certain of what you need. And something tells him he’d better step back until you’ve expressed it yourself.

The tension hangs heavy between you, but once your eyes have scanned his face and confirmed he’s alright, your lungs open up just a notch. 

Unfolding your arms, you lower your hands onto your lap, rubbing your clammy palms dry over your denim. 

His eyes quickly flicker to his gun and back to your face, and he takes another step closer.

“Ok,” you shoot, straightening up in your chair, your gaze plunging into his, “can you please tell me why we have a gun in the house?”

It’s not the question that’s driven you mad since they left the house earlier, but this one is considerably easier to formulate. 

His demeanour shifts immediately. He straightens up, planting his hands on his hips. 

“Listen, baby, it’s perfectly legal, alright? I got a permit, and you know I know how to use it.” 

He has the good sense not to point out the gap between your respective cultures, fully aware of your position on the matter of gun control anywhere in the world, but you’re standing up already, stubbornly facing him. 

“Whether or not you got a permit doesn’t make any goddamn difference to me, Frankie. I want it gone.”

He lifts off his cap, slowly runs his fingers through his hair, and you falter. 

This is not going the way you imagined, you didn’t intend to come at him with such aggressiveness, and your tone doesn’t reflect your confusion, certainly none of your fears, it only gives away your conflicted feelings. 

Sucking his teeth in, he tilts down his head, and his eyes disappear. 

“The gun’s not going anywhere, Gabrielle,” he hears himself state, and his point-blank refusal to comply derails you completely. 

“What kind of threat is there that requires that you keep this thing in here?”

“Intruders, burglars, some junky high on bath salts…” he enumerates, shaking his head.

You mirror the movement before you counter with what you expect to be a foolproof argument.

“And what if Benny did something stupid? He was drunk, what if he’d jumped you, for a joke? What if you’d hurt him?” 

Frankie's head shoots up, dark eyes devoid of all light staring you down with a hard gaze that has you swaying on your feet. He’s never looked at you like that, except… Except that first night at the bar. 

And like that first night at the bar, he can’t stop his mind from reeling into the wrong direction, despite your face telling him something entirely different. 

“Is this what this is about? You’re concerned I might have hurt him?” 

“Of course I am!” you answer, puzzled by his reaction. “Look, I’m sure you don’t need a gun. If ever someone breaks in, you can probably subdue them–“

“That’s Ironhead’s thing,” he cuts in.

“Well, you can knock them out, then–”

“That’d be Ben,” he all but spits out.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Frankie!”

You throw your palms up in irritation, tears gathering at the corner of your eyes that only fuel your exasperation.

Back in June, in his truck, he’d told you that he’d been too quick on the trigger, more often than not. Is that what you’re hinting at? Are you doubting his ability to keep you safe?

“Gabrielle, just drop it, ok? I’m asking you to drop it,” he warns, his voice a low threat that brooks no argument, and in turn you dig your heels in. 

“I can’t just drop it, Frankie, I’m sorry but–”

“Please,” he grits through his clenched jaw. 

Something gets stuck in your throat. You’re trying to breathe underwater. It’s escalating too quickly. 

You try to blink the tears off your prickling eyelids before they start running down your cheeks, you want to stab your nails into the back of your arms and draw blood, but the urge to touch him overthrows everything and you place your hands on his chest, palms down, splayed fingers, anchoring your body to his, grounding him to yours. 

“Frankie what’s happening, are we fighting?” you articulate around a repressed sob. 

His hands go to yours instinctively, covering them entirely, and he can’t tell which one of you is shaking, can’t explain how what he means to say is so far removed from the way he expresses it.

“No– no baby, no we’re not fighting, I just need you to understand–” he tries, but it’s too late, your words spill out in moving waves.

“Please, I don’t wanna fight, please, Frankie, I’m sorry, I’m sorry Benny barged in like that, I’m sorry, I don’t want him to hurt you anymore, I don’t want you to hurt yourself—“

“Baby, I’m fine, I’m ok,” he says, comprehension downing on him as your first tears roll down in rivulets to hang from the line of your jaw.

He closes the distance between you, cupping your face to rub them off with a stroke of his thumbs, standing so close your eyes flicker between his. 

“I’m sorry I overreacted—”

“Fuck no! You didn’t over— hey, listen to me Gabrielle, you didn’t overreact, I did,” he says, holding your head up when you try to hide. 

Your hands slide underneath his jacket and find the plane of his back, you bunch up his t-shit in your fists. 

“You just gotta let me watch over you the way I know how, baby, that’s all I ask, that’s all I need, for you to let me take care of you. I know you’re a big girl from a big city—“

“Oh but I’m not,” you cry, pressing your face into his neck, your next words muffled against his collarbone, “I’m scared, you left the room and I got so scared, and I don’t know if I’ll ever fit in here, there’s always something to remind me I don’t belong—“

The spectre of your departure resurfaces and Frankie hisses a sharp breath, a Pavlovian reaction to a pain stimulus. He focuses on the shape of you between his arms, the scent of you enveloping him, the taste of you only a kiss away. 

Broad hand cradling the crown of your head, he leans into your ear, his voice dropping to a low, soft murmur. 

“Last night was scary. You’re exhausted, we both are. We can talk about it later, ok?”

“Don’t leave me, Frankie, don’t leave me alone, I need—” you sob. “Merde, I feel so fucking stupid.”

His lips brush a smile against your temple, eyes closing at the contact of your skin. 

“Hey, I got an idea,” he says. “How about we take a trip to Paris, this spring? You can show me around the city? What do you say?”

He’s been thinking about it for a while, but has so far found himself physically unable to discuss it with you. The whole idea could backfire. What if going back there reminds you of everything you still miss? 

You’d said a purpose. And a goal. 

Between his large cupping hands, your face feels like an evocation, and he’s drawn in, endlessly, on a loop, back to you, to your skin. 

To the way it trembles between his pursed lips. A peek of his tongue to harvest the salty beads of your tears, to swallow the fear and sadness he vowed to see disappear, and you cling onto him with a murmured plea. 

“Take me to bed Frankie, plea–“

“Don’t you fucking say it,” he growls, and he crashes his mouth onto yours. You open up for him, sliding the thick jacket off his frame, knocking the worn-out cap off his head. 

—

The weak January sun, white and crisp through the treasured curtains, fills the bedroom with a hushed shade of orange, weaving together past and present. 

His first thrust inches into your tight warmth slow and measured, and he pauses between your hips to let you adjust. 

His hand a gentle grip around your jaw, he turns your face to the side and traces open-mouthed kisses down the column of your throat, a tender suck at the base of your neck, a hard bite on the slope of your shoulder, it makes you writhe underneath his body, crushed into the mattress by his weight, and you keen, legs bracketed around his waist, knees folded high around his torso, heels digging into the meat of his ass, urging him deeper. 

You need him rough and you need him now, you want to feel sore tomorrow and the day after, you want his girth remodelling you into the shape of him, only him, forever him.

But he controls the pace. Attuned to your reactions and the sensation of your clenching walls around him, clutching him, blending pain and pleasure, your entrance catching along his length. 

He shifts above you, tilting your head further to the side, the hardened tips of your nipples a soft drag against his skin, and you can’t breathe with his chest crushing your chest and he knows it, knows you want it this way. He moves inside you. Just a bit, not enough. You moan and you hear it through your need, through your want, like you’re running a fever, like a tiny, needy animal.

“Shhh baby,” he purrs in your ear, forehead to your temple, “I can’t move, I have to open you up for me.” 

The words scorch your skin. You burrow your nails into the taut muscles of his back, eyes shut so tight under your pinched brow you see stars, his lips raising goosebumps all over your body on their trail along your jawline.

“Frankie Frankie Frankie–” you say Frankie like you say please, and your cheek sinks deeper into the pillow.

“Shhh, you're gonna get it, baby, you're gonna get it.”

Your hips buck against the restraint of his mass, and it slips out of you, inaudible, weak and quick, too quick for you to stop it.  

“You looked so hot with that fucking gun, I–”

He stills with your earlobe trapped between his teeth, licks it better before he lets go.  

“What did you say?” 

The unwilling confession, making sense of your earlier fury. You shy away from the truth, a whining “non” stuck inside your throat, you try to hide from it, from him, the heels of your hands covering your eyes when you breathe out, “Nothing.”

His smile curls into your skin through a scrape of his whiskers, and he sinks into you, sudden, rough, deep, all the way down to the centre of you. 

You bite down your moan, pleasure-pain, head trashed back into the pillow, clenched teeth corded neck, pinned down underneath the overwhelming weight of him and everything he means to you.

“I heard you,” he groans, grinding into your heat, “I heard everything.” 

Everything you once dreaded. The contour of your fears, retraced, redefined. Innocuous, beyond the confines of his arms. 

—

Spring

“Can you fly this plane?” you whisper excitedly, adjusting your seatbelt. 

His eyebrows disappear in the overgrown curls hanging low on his forehead. He stills in his seat to stare at you.

“Baby, it’s a Boeing 767.”

“So yes?” 

The stewardess announces the imminent take-off for Roissy-Charles-de-Gaulle, her words nearly unintelligible through the buzzing noise of the overhead speakers.

“No, I can fly military aircraft, like C-12 Huron or MH-60 Black Hawk or–”

“So you could probably fly this one too?” you cut in. 

“No, Gabrielle, I can’t,” he huffs in disbelief.

“Have you ever tried?” 

The crease between his brow deepens, his eyes searching yours, scanning your face for any trace of teasing. 

“I– what? ‘Course not!”

“Aha!” you exclaim, triumphant. “So you probably can. You just don’t know it.”

He watches you bend forward to place a thick book in the seat-back pocket in front of you, and shifts his hips once again, trying to accommodate his breadth into the seat, before his eyes fly back to your face. 

His heart leaps into a painful somersault, like a punch in the sternum that radiates up to his neck and down to his gut. Backlit by the plane’s oval window, your dark profile looks like the Victorian cutout portraits in your treasure cabinet, and it’s like he’s known you his whole life and the ones before, like he’d find you in every reality he’s ever known, and all the ones he hasn’t. 

He lowers down his head, remembering to breathe. Something settles down inside him. A gnawing anxiety that had been steadily flaring since he’d book the tickets. He’d find you. In every reality. 

“Do you really need to be this fucking cute?” he mutters.

“I’m not cute, Frankie, I’m serious! Now tell me, how do you feel about spending the next 7 hours crammed into this seat?”

A flash of pink as the tip of his tongue peeks between his parted lips. A wink.

“It’s ok. I’m used to fitting into tight spaces.”

—

Small. 

Everything looks small. 

The entire city has changed. New, modern infrastructures, subway lines extensions, bicycle lanes everywhere, roadworks on every corner and a new mayor.

All of it, small. 

The streets are too narrow, the ceilings hang too low, the cars look like toys and the buildings like doll houses frozen in time because nothing measures up to Frankie’s height, breadth, or dimple. 

The man shrunk your old world when he expanded your horizon.  

You walk down the streets that saw you becoming who you are through happiness, loss and pain, strutting about like you know something no one else does. 

The Airbnb you picked is on the south side of the place Gambetta. The Marais was appealing. More expensive but more central, fancy but not too much, but you finally decided against it. The 20e arrondissement is your neighbourhood, your home. It’s where your grandparents are buried. 

There’s something incongruous, bordering on comical, about playing house with him in the tiny, typically Parisian apartment overlooking the Père Lachaise. The kitchen’s a corridor, and there’s no way for him to fit comfortably inside the shower cubicle. The bed is a full size, and if you knew not to expect anything bigger, Frankie’s eyes widened in bewilderment at the doll-sized bedding. 

“Gonna break that thing,” he grunted, testing the mattress. 

The first time you step into the métro, you take in the particular stench, and the realisation that you missed even that pulls at your chest with a sharp pang. But the nostalgia is smothered by the sight of Frankie squeezing into one of the narrow seats of the line 3.

The first couple of days are spent sightseeing the touristic landmarks of the capital, following the military schedule you’ve drafted. You don’t even try to hold back as you recount the many anecdotes behind every famous church, park or building, giving him what you self-derisively label, “the leftist historical tour of Paris.” 

If there’s one place where you’ve always had enough space to be you, unapologetically so, it’s with him. 

Here, you don’t need any maps, apps or directions, and Frankie diligently follows, listens, asks follow-up questions that prompt more thorough explanations, drinking up your self-confidence. 

Sure, Paris is nice. But it’s not the buildings he's looking at. 

His big girl. Growing up on her own in this big city.  

Hiding, yet standing tall on that fire escape, your heart rabbiting under the pulse point of your neck, bravely withholding his gaze. Leaving the party with him, your smaller hand squeezing his bigger one as he parted the crowd for you, for the two of you. 

He’s only ever had eyes for you. From the very beginning.

With his preference for modern art in mind, you’ve arranged the third day around the visit of Beaubourg, then the MaM halfway across town, which will bring you near the Eiffel Tower, you announce over breakfast, and that’s when he gently puts his foot down. 

“Baby, take me to Orsay, will you?” he asks softly. “I wanna see that blurry painting you told me about. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I don't really give a— I don’t really care about the Eiffel Tower and all that stuff. I’d rather go to the cemetery. Or see your high school.”

You look up from your tartine, a toasted piece of bread stuck in your throat that you try to gulp down, and you stare at him blankly. A fixed, intense gaze that has him flinching, creasing his brow, has he fucked up the whole thing now?

“You wanna see my high school?” you repeat, and when he nods, you add quietly, “Do you really need to be this fucking cute, Morales?”

Your high school, your university, the bars in Pigalle and Ménilmontant where you hung out as a student, your favourite bookstores, antique stores, bridges, museums, artist’s studios, paintings… 

It’s been decades since you’ve walked the narrow, quiet lane where your grandparents rented a three-room apartment. Years of repressed emotions have confused your recollection, and you breathe uneasy and short because you don’t recognise the grey stone building where you supposedly spent your first years. 

Frankie holds your hand. You lean into it. 

Later, walking in silence towards the family grave along the pebbles alleys on the east side of the Père Lachaise, you keep your head down and the tendon in Frankie’s jaw is pulled taut, ready to snap. 

But his gaze, strained on you, is warmer than the late March sun that draws pale, ephemeral patterns under your feet through the lush green foliage of the century-old chestnut and lime trees. 

His arm wraps around the haunched slope of your shoulders. It’s heavy. Grounding. He draws you in to his side, and pecks a kiss on the crown of your head, your hand sliding inside the back pocket of his jeans. 

You look up at his sharp profile, and he’s more beautiful than any of the works of art you’ve shown him this past week, more beautiful than anything you’ve ever seen. 

The bare-patch on his jaw calls to your lips, but instead you reassure him, “I’m good, Frankie,” because his bashful, dimpled smile makes you, because in his arms, you are. 

The sprawling, romantic necropolis has remained the same to you, a place of solace, a refuge, a hideout. 

The wardens are blowing their whistles to signal closing time when you reluctantly leave the cemetery. It’s cold now, the sun has given up and recessed behind pearly grey clouds. 

Back in the small rental, Frankie follows you to the cramped bathroom when you go wash your hands. He watches you, leaning against the sink counter, crossed ankles, crossed arms. Tense muscles and knots.

“Where’s your mother now? Does she still live in Paris?”

Your eyes dart to the door frame on your left, on instinct, but Frankie’s massive frame is preventing any form of deflection or escape. Your body stiffens, you focus on your hands.

“Last I heard, they moved to a new fancy apartment they bought in les Batignolles. That’s in the 17e arrondissement,” you add, like that means anything to him. “But I’m not taking you there, Frankie, I can’t.”

“Not asking you to, baby. I want to know if he is still around.”

Your chest hollows under his words, hands clutching the beige towel. The faded scar tissues on the back of your arms itching like a million microscopic blades picking them open.

Everything you never said, never told anyone. Everything you convinced yourself never really happened, or wasn’t really that bad. Everything you kept inside, thickening the walls of your heart, weighing you down, because the only person you needed, and who you asked for help, had called you a liar. 

Under his creased brow, his eyes are black as midnight sky. They’re looking straight into you. Contemplating that thing you lost, like a constituent piece that fell off and you replaced with something else. Aloofness, distance. Orange curtains. 

He pushes himself up to his intimidating full height and you recoil involuntarily, but he doesn’t let you. He grips your face with both hands, his palms scorching your cold skin, and between them, you’re fully exposed, bared, left with nowhere to hide, nowhere to bury your secrets.  

“I will hurt anyone who tries to hurt you, Gabrielle. Do you understand? Say that you understand.”

His words are quiet. Firm, steady, collected. 

“I understand,” you whisper, and you clasp his wrists so you won't feel the ghost weight of his gun between your hands. “I want you to.”

He nods. 

“You are mine.”

You nod. 

You know you are. 

—

Everything looks smaller. 

Shrunk down by his height, breadth and smiling eyes. 

The city hasn’t changed. But you have. You know something no one else does. 

—

The day before you fly back, you meet for lunch with Laura outside the Hôtel de Ville. 

She hadn’t minced her words –she never does– expressing her disappointment when you’d announced you wouldn’t come back at the end of your hiatus. But everything has long since been forgiven. 

Sitting across the dark-haired woman in her early fifties, you chat excitedly over sushi you forget to eat. Crammed into a ridiculously tiny metal chair on your left, he feels the bespectacled gaze of your former boss scrutinising him.  

Within hours after you landed in Roissy, your accent had thickened. Today, it has reached an all-time high. It’s the longest Frankie has ever heard you speak in your native language. 

Your voice sounds higher, in French. You speak so much faster, with a lot of hand gestures punctuating the throaty sounds cascading from your pretty lips. He focuses on his chopstick skills, trying his very best to ignore the growing bulge in his pants. 

It’s clear the two of you are more friends than colleagues. You had described her as your mentor. And from the dynamics he observes, there is obvious mutual respect. Which partly explains your instant hatred for Tom. 

Laura thinks you look different. You might have put on some weight, you say. She shakes her head, grinning knowingly. That’s not what she meant. 

Under your shirt, nested in the curve of your neck, sits a bruise in the shape of his teeth, blood underneath the surface of your skin blooming like a red peony. 

The waiter clears the dishes and Frankie walks up to the counter to pick up the tab. 

Laura leans closer to you over the narrow table. 

“Je comprends que tu n’aies pas voulu rentrer [I understand why you didn’t want to come home],” she starts, and with a tilt of her chin towards Frankie’s solid figure, she adds, “Bien joué, Miss Tourneur [Well done, Miss Tourneur].”

She gladly agrees to give Frankie a tour of the Bibliothèque, a historical institution situated on the fourth floor of the central city hall. In the elevator, your heartbeat gallops up your throat. The life you chose, the life you once led. 

The spacious reading room’s concave wooden ceiling is like the upside-down hull of a ship. When you step in, you’re overwhelmed by the faint musty smell of old books, mingled with that of the dusty carpets. You missed that too, but the feeling no longer tears at your chest. 

A few former colleagues come to greet you, and you watch Frankie and Laura from the corner of your eye as she explains, in her approximate English, what your work as a librarian entailed, praising your skills and knowledge. 

Frankie watches you too. He knows he’s doing a poor job of concealing his pride. He couldn’t care less. 

Before you leave, you lead him up to the rooftop of the building through narrow metal stairs. Culminating at a 48 metres height, in the very heart of Paris, the vantage point offers a breathtaking 360° view over the urban canopy of tin roofs. 

“Whenever I’d get a chance,” you tell him, “I’d come here for my lunch break.”

“Hiding again?” he grins. 

“Hiding again,” you admit, “but not only. I’d look up at the clouds, and if I was lucky enough to see a plane fly by, I would pretend you were flying it.”

Years of chasing the shadow of him, years of searching for traces of you. 

—

“Thank you for bringing her back!”

Rosie’s attempt at casualness is not fooling either of you. Frankie flashes a mock military salute and hauls the luggage into Rosie’s car trunk, hiding his grin behind the decklid. In all fairness to Rosie, he wasn’t so smug himself, on the day Pope drove you to the airport. 

It’s not a long drive from Newark, but the car progresses slowly through the late afternoon traffic. The New York City skyline stands out in orange hues. Everything is too big again. Too large. Too tall. But it’s fine. Everything’s on scale. 

The keys to the house jingle in your hand before Rosie exists the New Jersey turnpike, and you’re first to pass the front door, Frankie heaving the luggage behind you. 

You’re so exhausted you could sleep for days, but you’ll have to open the store tomorrow at 10am. 

Frankie goes straight to the bedroom and you hear the heavy thud of your suitcase hitting the floor, followed by the softer one of his rucksack. 

When you join him, bringing two glasses of water, you find him lying on the gigantic bed, arms sprawled, staring blankly at the ceiling. 

On scale. 

“Did you enjoy yourself?” you ask him, crawling onto the bed next to him, curling into his side. His arm wraps around you. 

“I sure did. That tour guide really knew her shit. Easy on the eyes, too.”

You chuckle tiredly, his chest rising and falling slowly under the palm of your hand. 

“Could we go to Rome, next year?” you ask. 

“We can go wherever you want, baby.”

“Even— even San Diego?”

He pauses for a beat before he answers. 

“Sure. Anywhere you want.”

You scoot closer to tuck your face into his neck, and you lie together in silence for a little while. A pleasant heaviness is slowly claiming your weary limbs. 

“Why does the trip back always feel longer?” you mumble. 

“What are you talking about?” he shakes his head, a smile in his voice, “You slept the whole flight.”

Your cheek resting against the slope of his shoulder, your hand on his thigh, one day he would tell you, that being airborne with you had been the best part. 

“It’s true,” you shrug, “I guess I just couldn’t wait to come back home.”

***

Bonus: Frankie & Gabrielle 🧡

Source

****

Dedications 🧡

Kelli. You started all this, but where do I start? I don't know if you remember the first letter you ever sent me, and what it said, and I don't know if you remember when I first told you about this orange bedroom idea, last summer. But I do. You’ve held my hand, like you always do. Your guidance and validation and support saw me through. Because you’re impossibly generous, with your time and patience and advice, you’re unbelievably kind, intelligent, talented and insightful. I’ve learnt so much from you already, about writing, about myself. You inspire me to reach higher. It's exhausting, but I love you for it. Oh yeah, and you beta-read this fucking monster too! Everything that is good in me this story, is good thanks to you. You turned my black heart orange. Kelli, I love you 🧡 @frannyzooey

Dreamy bby, my purple beauty, my beloved, my angst master genius, how many times have I come to you crying and whining and complaining, telling you I was giving up? Please don’t answer, it’s too fucking embarrassing. You kept my head above water, with love, kindness and humour. What did I do to deserve you? Beats me. Also I'm sorry but I love you more. Ha! Thank you 🧡 @dreamymyrrh

Ren, you’ve pulled me out of the ditch in a heartbeat more times than I care to count, because you are a genius and a wonderful friend. You are the reason I found a home in this fandom. You are my Reine, and I adore you. Thank you 🧡 @the-ginger-hedge-witch 

Nicole my love, I know I’m repeating myself, but you are the first person ever to read the first chapter of PTMY. I sent it to you for your opinion, but really for your encouragement because I was absolutely terrified, and you delivered, you always do, you beautiful, beautiful friend. Thank you for your investment in this story and its characters. Watching you go from team Benny to team Frankie to team Benny and team Frankie again is seriously one of the greatest achievements of my life! Thank you 🧡 @nicolethered

Cee my darling. You gave me the final push to press post and you haven’t stopped encouraging me and supporting me since. You've lent a patient and kind ear to my doubts and fears, you’ve given me the most thoughtful feedbacks a friend could ask for, you let me stand on your shoulders, you give me strength to stand up for myself. In many ways, I carried on because you gave me the validation and self-confidence I so desperately need(ed). Thank you 🧡 @fuckyeahdindjarin 

Deadmantis. Girl, Frankie really owes you one, because Gabriele stayed mainly thanks to you! I owe you an even bigger one for the love you’ve given them, and the orange bedroom. You know them like no one else. Your asks have fuelled me, they still do. I could never repay you, but please know that I am infinitely grateful to you. Thank you 🧡 @deadmantis

Lua. You rascal. You gave me the levity I so badly needed in a thick river of ANGST. I’m very selfishly hoping you never stop making me guilty by dropping Benny into my ask box. A million thank you 🧡 @pedrit0-pascalit0

And to my two favourite Anons, 🍻 and 🥖, I fucking love you to pieces. Thank you thank you thank you 🧡🧡🧡

****

Taglist (thank you 🧡):  @elegantduckturtle  @mashomasho  @lola766  @flowersandpotplantsandsunshine  @nicolethered  @littleone65  @bands-tv-movies-is-me  @the-rambling-nerd  @saintbedelia  @pedrostories  @trickstersp8  @all-the-way-down-here  @deadmantis  @hbc8  @princessdjarin  @harriedandharassed  @girlofchaos  @gracie7209  @mrsparknuts  @mylostloversbookmarks

[cerealforkart]

I made myself these little dress up dolls because everyone’s getting changed all the time, here’s the first batch, outfits pre-episode 13

Design notes under the cut

[part 2] [part 3]

Lincoln

* I would first of all like to thank Lincoln for being shaped like a model (long boy) and thus very easy to dress up

* I forgot that Link needed to tear off his sleeves to make Normal a diaper in lesson 14, so in lesson 11 he grabs a sweater when I assume he goes home between escaping the FBI and returning to school

* Lincoln is so comically tall the Teeny costume (which I just moved from Normal to Link and edited to match Link’s pose) only reaches his knees. It actually looked so stupid that I had to edit it to make the Teeny costume slightly longer in the legs

* Link has two roombas in his room, he’s a clean boy, he isn’t walking around Taylor’s house in his bare feet, he doesn’t trust like that, it’s sock time

Scary

* I actually originally planned for Scary to have more piercings, but I forgot to add them in lesson 1. Let’s just say her mom won’t let her go crazy on the piercings, from what we’ve heard in rad facts (wouldn’t let her get a tongue piercing or learn guitar) that sounds in character

* I wanted to do the Shit Garden logo on Scary’s shirt like one of those metal bands that only people who like metal can actually read, but I only have so much time and patience

* I want so badly to play with Scary’s hair more, but I haven’t really had the chance, I hope there will be more excuses to give her different styles in the future, I like the braided bun for fancy occasions a lot

* Big T-shirt and shorts are peak pyjamas, love it for her. Also, you don’t need to know how long I spent trying to come up with something for her shirt to say

Normal

* Don’t tell anyone but I kind of miss drawing Teeny’s big stupid head every day, it was easy comedy

* I did actually draw a Jimmy Buffet design on the shirt before scribbling over it, you can barely see if you look closely

* I don’t actually have anything to say about Normal’s dance outfit so I guess I’ll just take this opportunity to talk about my Normal design in general. He was the one it took me the longest to land on and I’m still unsure if I’m happy with him, I want his hair to be long enough to just sorta hang and be greasy, but not so long that it will get in his face too much and I still consistently fail on it

* Not much to say about his sleepover fit either. Froggy :)

Taylor

* I had originally planned for everyone to be wearing their bracelets on their left wrists but in episode 8 it’s mentioned that Taylor is wearing his on his right, at that point I think I had only drawn Taylor’s bracelet once so it was easier to just change his and let him be a special boy (also, they keep the bracelets on post-FBI because Taylor never really has an opportunity to take it off and the others wear theirs in solidarity)

*After Lesson 10, Taylor swaps out the crest of friendship from Digimon to wear his dad’s ring of swapping as a necklace, he tends to grab at it when his dad or the topic of betrayal comes up

* I hate Taylor for his dance fit. No longer my favourite son

* Not really a design note but I watched the Sailor Moon dub in three parts on youtube with my little sister huddled around our home computer after school, we’re real OGs

Hermie

* I finally decided to add the Joker makeup to my Hermie design, I found a powdery sorta brush to use for it so now he’s a true clown. Good for him I guess

* You may notice that I’ve tweaked my Hermie design and his colour scheme just a little bit. This is because white Hermie is dead and you know what? Good for him. I also made his hair a little wavier for Scam, you’ll start seeing the updated Hermie design (as if you can tell there’s a difference other than the very slight change in hairstyle) in lesson 16, because I drew the lesson 15 pages before episode 23 came out and I wasn’t going to go back and change them

* Stupid Joker tie. Hate it

* No sleepover fit for Hermie. Tragic. They need to have another sleepover and include him

[amethystina]

Oh man!! The latest chapter!!! The angst was angsting, pain was paining, heart is wrenching, tear is falling, it was soooo mean, but do it again!!!

It was the longest chapter and ironically the most painful chapter as well. Have I said how much I love slow burn and angst and this fic hits home everytime?? Likeee woah I just LOVE how this fic is LOOONG , nowhere near close bc that means I get me read it longer lol.

And I feel like I would never be able to appreciate how much hard work you put in Who Holds the Devil.

I am guessing it is now Ga On's turn to pursue Yohan and Oh man I can already imagine how much he is gonna suffer while doing it 😭 or maybe not (bc he tends to be pretty straightforward at times and impulsive as well) but I believe it's gonna be pretty hard bc Gaon has so much shit to get together and Yohan, my man, already gave up (poor him) so gaon trying to persue him or rather seduce his sugar daddy would look very suspicious to him. Nevertheless I am exited to see Gaon try and miserably, comically and hilariously half fail bc he will succeed eventually as Yohan is too much of a loser for Gaon lol. I am excited for future chapters and definitely wouldn't complain about more angst lol.

It was necessary for this to happen, otherwise the story would go nowhere and most importantly Gaon and Yohan would go nowhere, their problems will never be solved. Sometimes hitting rock bottom is crucial to develop in life BUT I would hate it if it happens to me, hope I will be able to get my shits together before that happens ( or maybe it already happened but I am not relizing it or not acknowledging it much like gaon but he is better than me ngl at least he has the courage)

This became a rant about me naur 😭

Lastly I hope you have a great day and things work out for you 💕

Also idk if it's your cup of tea but My Happy Ending kdrama is sooo good and worth giving it a try. It's a psychological suspense drama hehe. I am soo invested in it nowadays so couldn't help recommending you as well 💫

It was a painful chapter, yeah. And I'm both relieved and heartbroken to finally have it out there. As someone who doesn't actually like angst, this chapter was a struggle in more than one way. But it's necessary if I want their relationship to move forward, so here we are.

At this point, writing Who Holds the Devil has sort of turned into a second job, not going to lie. I still enjoy it, make no mistake, but I have to plan all of my other hobbies around it since I feel an obligation to post somewhat regularly. Like, I've been postponing drawing for the past two weeks because I wanted to get this chapter out (that's how long it took to edit, yes) but drawing is the thing that helps the most with my depression symptoms (that have made an unwanted reappearance due to my burnout), so I've been struggling quite a bit. And now all I want to do is draw for a couple of days.

So yeah. I can't lie and say it's not a lot of work, both in terms of planning, writing, editing, etc., but also how it affects the rest of my life. BUT I just love it too much to give up on it ;)

And yes, Ga On will have to be the one to pursue Yo Han now ;) Or, well, eventually. He has to wallow and overthink things a bit first because, well, Ga On. If overthinking things was an Olympic sport, he'd win the gold for sure. But he WILL give Yo Han what he wants in the end, I promise.

In short, the "the only way after hitting rock bottom is up" saying is pretty apt in this case.

There's still hope, so just hang in there :)

I looked at the plot for My Happy Ending but I admit it didn't really catch my attention. But that could be because I don't really watch much right now? I'm too busy writing and drawing. I'm also trying to finish a drama I started ages ago called Mad Dog. Which, let me tell you, it's disorientingly gay for a drama about insurance fraud. But unlike The Devil Judge I'm not sure if they're actually AWARE of how gay it is? (especially since it's from 2017)

But, like, if I had a penny for every time I've watched a drama in which a traumatised, older man brings home a reckless, bratty twink after said twink got injured — under the pretence of protecting him from more harm — only for the twink to start snooping around his house before deciding to charm the dude with home-cooked food and then just doesn't leave I would have two pennies. Which isn't a lot, but it's still weird that it's happened twice.

Also, what the heck do they want me to think when they have these kinds of angles when the two dudes are arguing?

That looks questionable both in and out of context. BUT that could also be because Woo Do Hwan could have sexual tension with a goddamn rock. Rarely have I seen a man with so much "fuck me and find out" energy as his character in this drama.

But the twink also has a romantic plotline with the woman on the team, at the same time as he's living in the older dude's apartment and giving this poor dude all kinds of conflicted feelings because he's a widower who's lived alone since his wife and kid died and suddenly there's someone in his apartment cooking him food, nagging at him when he comes late and drunk etc. etc. Like, bruh. It really sounds like the twink is his new wife? And I am SO CONFUSED because the drama plays it so straight (without the "hint, hint, nudge, nudge" winks that The Devil Judge had) that I'm about to have an existential crisis.

Fellas, is it gay if this is the face you make when you're told you're not actually living with the man who took you home to keep you safe after you almost got murdered but then you accidentally behaved like his concerned and doting wife?

Asking for a friend.

(and don't even get me started on the whole "Bring Your Twink to Work Day" scene)

At this point, I'm half convinced I'm gaslighting myself into thinking this is gay when it's actually just a really heartwarming story about a really deep bromance that I'm too queer to understand.

ANYWAY. Thanks for the rec! But I'm not sure if it's my thing and I'm really bad at watching things right now. But I'm thrilled to hear that you're having so much fun with it! I'm happy for you! :D

And thank you so much for the lovely message 💜

[mystic-blue]

// babes the brain rot is SO real...anyway @leona-draws made this post a little bit ago and i've been thinking about it ever since from @ashwii and their celestial au. enjoy >:3c

The concept of a 'day' in space when you were the manifestation of a celestial body meant very little.

That being said, Leo thought he was just having a bad 'day'. More stars than usual were blinking out of existence, and the ache was near debilitating. He didn't leave the solar system because his brothers were still here, but he did distance himself. Leo hated watching them watch him on bad 'days'. They meant well, wanting to help in any way they could, but none of them really understood exactly what was going on. None of them lost a part of themselves every 'day'.

Maybe it was the pain, or the distance, or the fact that Leo was dwelling on the pity he was trying to avoid - but it took him longer than it should have to realize what was happening.

There was no exact science to it, but sometimes Leo could tell how far a dying star was from him. He hadn't exactly been blocking it out, but he was actively ignoring it in an attempt to lessen the pain. When the next one cried out - their agony a brief, abrupt thing - it finally clicked. They had all been quick, and now Leo could realize, in a linear path.

Something was consuming stars, and it was heading their way.

Which meant it was heading for Raph.

Whirling in the direction of Raph's gravitational pull, Leo pushed himself through the lingering burn of gaseous death toward home. If he moved fast enough, maybe he could head the threat off at the pass. He didn't know exactly what he would do when faced with the unknown threat, but as long as it didn't reach his brothers, it would be fine.

He didn't let himself think about what could happen if he wasn't fast enough.

Leo swung around Saturn's rings as he laid eyes on the culprit. A swirling, writhing black hole was creeping ever closer to where Raph, Donnie, and Mikey were. Amidst the center of the swirling void, glowing yellow eyes peered out, lit with insatiable hunger. Tendrils of the vacuum reached out at the edges, grasping for anything that might cross the black hole's path.

Even from a far, Leo could feel the tug of gravity at his limbs, a threat and a promise.

"Hey!" Leo shouted through the empty volume of space, catching the black hole's attention. "This is private property, ugly. You must have missed the signs."

He had a half formed plan based on the ingrained knowledge that this thing could not be allowed anywhere near Raph. Leo also had no idea why he sounded infinitely more confident than he felt, but he always had been better at putting on show than his brothers.

"Mmm," the black hole hummed, the eyes at the center turning more fully toward Leo - away from Raph. The sickly yellow orbs flit over the glimmering spread of stars at Leo's fingertips before observing his face again. "Perhaps you will sustain me longer than that pitiful Sun."

In any other situation, Leo would have laughed in this thing's face for thinking Raph was anywhere near "pitiful". As it were, he found himself falling back on humor regardless of the knot of anxiety in his gut.

"Wow, I'm flattered," Leo crooned falsely, flipping the tails of his mask over his shoulder dramatically. A shower of stars tumbled off the ends and flickered away a few seconds later.

A daunting grin cracked through the inky blackness, a yawning maw of a vacuum that only strengthened the tug of gravity. Leo felt himself lurch forward and he strained to fight back.

"Hey now," Leo said, his bravado faltering. "Can't I at least get your name first?"

Despite his struggles, a grasping tail of darkness caught around Leo's ankle, tugging him closer. Letting out an instinctive yelp of surprise, Leo jerked forward suddenly with the pull of gravity, only allowing more of the darkness to wrap around him. He struggled, shoving the darkness back where he could, trying to burn it away with whatever power he could summon from nearby stars. It seemed to work for a bit, but the black hole learned his tricks and started to consume the energy first.

Leo's limbs grew sluggish, his attempts at freedom weakening.

"Know this, little pest," the black hole hissed as it drew Leo ever closer to the central maw. "Know that you have been defeated by Kraang, devourer of stars."

Leo opened his mouth to quip back, and found he barely had the strength to breathe. The edges of his vision began to fade out into darkness, or maybe that was the black hole consuming him.

He hated to leave his brothers like this. He wondered if all the stars in the universe would disappear with him. Would he return when a new one was inevitably born, or would a new entity take his place? Would they be better capable of protecting his brothers, protecting the stars?

"Hey, ugly!"

Donnie?

"Get away from my brother!"

Mikey, followed by the telltale icy burn of a comet streaking past Leo and impacting the black hole. It must not have been expecting the attack, because it was stunned for a moment before the comet was consumed.

It was startled long enough for Leo to be pulled free of it's grasp.

Warm hands, nearly burning actually, wrapped around Leo's biceps and yanked him away. One inescapable vector of gravity traded for another, this one warmer and infinitely more comforting.

"Leo?" Raph's frantic voice said above him, as Leo was held close, away from danger. "Leo, are you okay?"

Lethargic and trembling, feeling colder than he could ever remember being, Leo forced his eyes open. Raph's face hovered above him, blazing and familiar and creased with worry lines.

"'M good," Leo mumbled, fumbling to reach up and pat his brother's face.

Wait...was that his hand?

Suddenly far more aware than he had been before, Leo sat up unsteadily in Raph's hold and stared down at his arms. His hands shook as his breath caught in his throat, numb with disbelief. Where his limbs were normally covered in sparkling, shimmering stars, endlessly glittering - was nearly void. A few lone mites of light sparkled weakly near his elbows, and near his knees on his legs. But aside from those, his limbs were stripped bare of brilliance.

"No," Leo whispered, voice strained and cracking with grief. "No, no, no no no no!"

He twisted violently in Raph's arms, trying to pull the tails of his mask around to check them. When he found them only weakly illuminated, Leo feebly tried to lay eyes on his own shell.

"Leo, Leo, hey! What do you need, what is it?"

"They're gone!" Leo all but sobbed, fighting weakly against Raph's hands as his brother tried to steady him. "The stars, my stars, they're gone. What about my shell? I need to make sure they're okay, I need to know what happened!"

"I got you, little brother, hang on," Raph said, his voice low and soothing despite the quiet horror on his face. He turned Leo around, warm hands still burning against Leo's arms. He was quiet longer than Leo would have liked him to be.

"Raph," Leo all but begged into the silence between them. Mikey and Donnie were still holding their own against the Kraang, the sounds of fighting a hollow, distant ringing in Leo's ears.

"There are still some there, Leo," Raph said quietly, his voice unsteady. "But there's definitely less than usual."

Leo couldn't bear to think if that meant his stars out there in the universe had suffered because of him. Were they gone, too? Why couldn't he feel anything besides paralyzing numbness and a bone deep chill he couldn't shake? Had they perished because of his carelessness? Where was the accompanying pain, the physical manifestation of his failure, of never-ending torture?

"Leo!" Raph's voice pulled him back, Leo blinking his brother's blazing face into focus. "We need to get rid of that thing. Can you fight or do you need to sit out?"

"I can fight," Leo rasped, curling his trembling hands into steadier fists. "I have to."

He wouldn't let the Kraang get away with this.

[the-sky-queen]

March version drawn by @estellardreams

With my tumblrversary (and new sona design 👀) coming tomorrow, I thought it would be fun to look back at all the different versions of my sona throughout the years!

July 2023 version

December 2023 Version

March 2024 Version

Closeups and breakdown under the cut! :D

Version 1! This was the original drawing of my sona that I made for a story I was writing with my friends wherein we ourselves were the main characters. This drawing has the same straight cut bangs that I had back then. I designed the dress to be simple and not overly flashy. It's supposed to be white with gold borders. Then we have the wings, which have always been my favorite part of my sona, the gold feather necklace, and the gold band hidden under my bangs which was supposed to act as a crown. I also hid my hands behind my back because I didn't want to draw them. XD This design was supposed to mimic my irl appearance and it did fairly good job! The only thing missing is my glasses from back then.

Version 2! This one was an updated take on the first version. My art style had changed a bit, so I wanted to draw a better looking picture of my sona. Other than the art style, not much has changed here. The design is still essentially exactly the same. My hair got longer though.

Version [????] I didn't include these in the history pic because I forgot them, but these were two iterations that I did in between version 2 and 3 for thumbnails on my YT channel. They're both once again trying to be an accurate representation off my irl appearance (though once again my glasses weren't included. The first one was an attempt at a chibi art style which I never did again. The second one sat unfinished in my sketchbook for a while before my cousin visited one day and offered to help me color it. We took a picture of it on her ipad and then traced and colored it in whatever drawing program she was using. I played around a bit with the shirt, making it a white into black gradient and brought back in the feather motif because I've always liked feathers. This one stayed my profile pic on yt for a long time.

Version 3! Massive skip in time and drawing style here! This one was designed specifically so I could have an updated sona for when I joined tumblr. (I planned getting my account for months before I finally worked up enough courage to actually do it.) Once again, I wanted this sona to be an accurate representation of what I look like irl. Though THIS time I'd finally gotten contacts so the lack of glasses finally made sense! I'd also gotten a new style of bangs so I incorporated that into the design as well. I brought back the feather as a necklace because I've always liked it. Though for whatever reason I got rid of the wings???? Why. Why did I do that. I love them so much! I shortened the length of my hair back to something closer to version 1 as well. And fun fact about this one! By this point I'd gotten decently good at drawing Sonic characters, so I used my knowledge of how to draw them to draw this version of my sona. XD I wasn't concerned anymore about drawing in a realistic way and leaned into a more cartoony artystyle.

Version 4! honestly, this one was just me wanting to do a Christmas version of my sona. XD Gave myself a cozy Christmas sweater and a Santa hat! I also took my favorite golden feather and tucked it behind my ear. I honestly really like how it looks! (I also messed up the shade of brown for my hair, but oh well.)

Version 5!! Estelle drew this for me and I still love it so much!!!!! I didn't request this of her, she just drew it! I mentioned in a post that I needed a new icon since it was MARCH and I was still using my Christmas pic. XD Next thing I know Estelle is kicking down my door asking me if I wanted her to draw me a new icon. I made sure to specifically request that she include my wings since I'd finally realized how dumb it was that I'd taken them out. But other than that, I let Estelle do what she wanted and I'm SO happy with how it came out!! I really wish I'd used this one for longer, but then April Fools came along and I hopped on the pointing Sonic icon bandwagon. XD But anyway, I'm still very happy and thankful to Estelle for drawing this for me. :D

Annnnnd that catches us up to the present! What will the new version look like? You'll have to wait for tomorrow. :D

[labyrinthofsphinx]

Statistical Outliers

Part 7 of drabble. I'm calling it. I'm just writing them long now. Also, this one has Valentino and Angel, just as a heads up. Nothing graphic but a warning. Also a little suggestive because, again, Valentino.

“Welcome to the show everybody! Hope everyone’s been having a marvelous week!”

Vox spun in his chair, greeted to the captive audience behind his televisions. The morning show was a fan favorite, always has been. Honestly, he takes a lot of pride in it. It’s just him for the most part, spouting off whatever relevant nonsense there was for the time. He gave a brief recap of what was going on in the world above, something he had to sneak in from sources that actually went up there. If he got a few details wrong, eh, no big deal. It’s not like anyone can fact check him down here anyways. For the newly introduced to Hell, it was a good way to grab their attention. And that only meant more viewers in the long run.

“Coffee’s done.”

The kid ran over into his monitor room, pulling his attention away from his cyber studio for a moment. The smell of warm coffee jumped up to greet him, and he gladly took it off the kid’s hands. Ah, as perfect as last time.

“Still a crap cup of coffee.” He said. The kid didn’t believe him anymore. He just swayed happily in place as Vox kept taking sips.

He kind of wanted to squeeze the ever loving hell of out him. He settled for roughing up the top of his fur.

“Hey, I just fixed that!” He tried to bat back the invading assault, but Vox had much bigger hands and a much longer reach. There was little he could do.

“Yeah? Complain to someone who cares.”

The programs went on, switching from news, to commercials, to the morning sitcoms. He noticed the kid paying attention to his spy drones’ footage, of his fellow hotel mates dragging themselves out to go look for him again. Alastor noticed the camera. He posed for it, the smiley freak. He flicked the footage away, switching it to the camera just outside.

Velvette was there, pacing. She was deciding how she wanted to start this, Vox knew. Was she going to try for the innocent act? Was she going to storm in raging? She had a hundred different faces for her followers, but Vox fell for exactly zero of them.

Delighted, he took another sip of coffee.

“Don’t say a word.” He told the kid.

Bang! Bang!

“Vox! Open the fucking door, now!” Brattish it is then! Wonder how long she’ll keep it up. “And fix the fucking Wi-Fi! It’s been buggy all day!”

“Be there in a moment, Vel!” He lied. “Still running some new security features into the mainframe. The Wi-Fi will probably be a little spotty for a while!”

“Ugh!” She screamed. “Is my toy in there with you? I couldn’t do my morning post without him!”

Vox rolled his eyes playfully. The kid had to cover a laugh with a hand.

“Yeah, he’s here! Not to worry, I’m taking good care of him until your done with all those projects you’ve got!”

Bang! Bang! Bang!

“Give him back right fucking now! He’s mine! You gave him to me!”

“And I’m just taking him off your hands until you’re less distracted, Vel! If you have more than enough time for pranks, surely you can finish those clothes for Val, draw up plans for the next season, and throw out a few more ads for our products.” Act like a child, don’t be surprised when you’re treated like one.

His sharks have taken a special interest in the kid, and not in the ‘I want to eat it’ way. It was rare that Vox let someone into his space for long. Even Vel and Val were only momentary intruders. Sure, they saw them in the conference room, but they tended to ignore them since nothing fun ever came from the conference room. The kid couldn’t have been more enchanted by his vicious friends. He didn’t touch the acrylic on Vox’s orders, but he was getting as close as he could and ogling.

“Vee, come on! That’s not fair!” She called out, a little more pained this time.

Ah, already switched from ‘Vox’ to ‘Vee’. The Wi-Fi thing must really be bothering her.

“Can’t be helped! Not to worry, the update is almost done.” He lied again.

He gazed out into the sea of his audience. Many of them had those headphones of his, quite a few of them had the eared version. Some odder cases seemed to be trying to make the standard one look like those special editions, but the ears were wrong and didn’t glow right. He noticed though another new fad popping up. Long shirts and oversized hoodies with homemade designs on them, especially running up the arms. In particular, different tread marks seemed to be of interest. Huh. One look at the kid explained that one.

It wasn’t widespread yet, but he could see the pattern before it emerged. Velvette would pick it up in no time, patent it, and let it sell like hotcakes. Well, best let her get started on it then.

“Darling,” Velvette’s voice was much softer this time. He did always like being called ‘darling’. Something about it just rubbed the right way. “please open the door? The prank was just a stupid-”

The doors opened themselves. The kid gave him a look, a joke hiding behind his lips. Vox quietly shushed him.

“My dear, I’m sorry about the wait. You know how absorbed I get into things.” He said, swinging his chair around as she walked up the catwalk. “The update should be done now. Let me know how it works.”

She checked her phone for a second, then brought herself back to look at him.

“You’re not still mad? Right?”

“I wasn’t mad to begin with! Only concerned. Can’t have my best girl stressing herself out and pulling herself too thin. Next time, if you have an issue, just bring it up. You know I’ve got a fix for everything. Especially ways to de-stress.”

With that, he snapped his fingers. His former technician that had been dangling above the shark tank, paralyzed by a complete excess of volts running his system, was unceremoniously dropped. The kid pulled back in silent horror as the man was quickly ripped to pieces. He looked like he was going to hurl. That’s what you get for mistaking his sharks as friendly dogs, he wanted to tease.

Velvette watched with half interest. Then, from the blue, she jumped up and kissed the side of his face. Her black lipstick left an obvious mark, but she didn’t wipe it away. Must be feeling slightly possessive then, he assumed. She pulled him in for a quick pic, being sure to get the kid in the background looking around the room. She didn’t post it though, instead made it her new screensaver.

She was still for just a moment, then she stole his coffee mug and took a sip.

“Ugh, Vee, you have the worst taste in coffee.”

Velvette was the type to go to a coffee store and make the barista regret ever getting up in the morning. If she was at the bar, she was just as bad to the bartender, especially if the drink didn’t look good enough for Voxtagram. His tastes were a lot more simple. Nothing he drank ever made her happy. She still insisted on trying it though, almost every time. Lipstick stains on his mug and his face, she was finally content enough to head out.

“Cutie pie, come on! We’ve got work to do. Val’s whores aren’t going to dress themselves.” She called the kid over with a flick of her finger. He didn’t immediately follow. Instead, a silent exchange happened between him and Vox.

Yeah, go with her. She’s fine.

And he bounded after her.

When the door closed again, Vox took to his chair. Vel’s lipstick added a sweetness to his drink that wasn’t there before. He always liked how it tasted, but maybe next time not in his coffee. Before him, Hell kept turning. The morning news gave way to the TV specials and his reality shows. ‘Yeah, I Fucked Your Sister, So What?’ was showcasing a double feature, two sisters and one guy. He’s not sure if they were going to kill each other first or their so-called man.

Whatever the case, he scrolled through some of his other work in the meantime. A few inventors tossed ideas up to him, hoping to gain favor and get their products endorsed by the biggest tech name in Hell. Most of them were scams, and not even well-hidden ones. He put a special tab on these ones and set them aside. He had a special show for those types, one where he, Velvette, and Valentino sit in hotseats, picking apart people’s designs and ideas. Vox already did all the work behind the scenes. He knew which ones were worth the investment. It made for good television whenever all three of them seemed to agree that an idea was great, and it also was just as good when an idea was so bad that they dropped the presenter into the tank below.

It made everyone feel like they had a shot at getting a contract with the big bosses, if you were willing to bet it all.

And, personally, he always loved watching them squirm, even when he knew he wanted the product.

It wasn’t too long later that he decided that he really ought to check on Alastor’s loser squad. Now that the kid was gone and he didn’t have to see the sad eyes, he brought it back up.

He nearly had a heart attack.

Alastor’s malicious sneer was dangerously close to one of his drones, too close for the camera to survive the onslaught of his dark magic.  Symbols and green wisps of evil started to strangle the life out of the little machine. Al’s yellow teeth contorted like a snake and goblin shark hybrid.

“Hello, old pal.”

Vox disconnected the drone. He just completely shut it down, dragged the code from the mainframe. If he even tried hacking in, the whole system would fight to push him out, considering it the same as a virus.

Everything is fine, Vox. You’re fine. Deep breaths.

The kid’s still here. He’s fine. He’s with Velvette.

…but just to be safe.

He found him right by Vel’s side, holding a bunch of clothes in his arms as they climbed down the levels in the elevator. See? He’s fine. Nothing bad’s going to-

Wait. Were they going to Val’s studio?

He spat out his coffee. Vel? What were you doing? You can’t take him in there with all those…well, Val’s people.

It got worse. It got so much worse. Because Angel Dust was there early, already on set and already ready to jump into that sultry little dress Vel made for the movie poster.

Oh, no. No, no! Bad! Very bad!

Vel, do something! Get him out of there! Wha-! No! Don’t just walk away! That dime store whore doesn’t not need your attention as much as the kid does right now!

Vel walked off to dress the girls, leaving the kid holding a great big pile of clothes, in the middle of Val’s set. Angel Dust looked like he had the wind dragged from his sails. Even the makeup could only do so much to cover up too many sleepless nights. He dragged his feet and sat down in his studio chair, a sigh ripping from him.

“You know, I really wish on days like these that I wasn’t trying to stay sober.”

Apparently, those big ears weren’t just for show. Despite everyone else in the room, and the smooth music, and the re-wind of Val and his director’s cut of the film, the kid lit up.

“Angel?”

The spider reacted like someone just shot something hard straight to his brain, like he might be concerned he was going crazy. All eight eyes sprung wide as the kid put the clothes down on a nearby loveseat.

“Drift! Oh my God! You’re alive! Holy shit!” He leapt up, arms open wide to grab him.

Panic leapt into his chest. He didn’t know the specifics of Val’s deal. Did it only apply if Vox handed him over? Did it only mean they had to ‘try’ to find the kid? What did he specifically mean about the return policy? There were too many ‘ifs’. Far too many for Vox to let this go any further.

He tore into the wires, moving as fast as possible. Lightning could move almost as fast as light could. Even following the current, Vox made it in more than enough time to rip right out of the nearby camera and directly in between the two of them.

All around, everything buzzed. The lights flickered. His rush left a small wake of rumbling sound, echoing with the acoustics of this place. He kept a smile plastered to his face, but anyone could tell it was more of a threat.

Angel, surprisingly, jumped straight from shock to rage.

“You motherfucker-!”

“Now, now.” Vox started. “Let’s not do or say anything you might regret.”

“Ah, Angelcakes! I see you’ve met our newest little pet project.” Val sauntered over from his director’s chair, stepping up behind Vox. His four arms dipped down. Two of them grabbed the kid by the shoulders, keeping him snugly in place. The other two played with his face, grabbing his muzzle much too hard and forcing him to look up at him. “He’s just adorable. The perfect little plaything.”

The kid was shaking. He couldn’t struggle from Val’s grasp, and he’s not even sure how much he could breath with Val holding his face like that. Worse, how Val had said that. Even to Vox, it sounded wrong.

Which is so weird, because he knew that Valentino had no interest in kids, ever. Not because he was bothered by it or something, but more so because kids weren’t ‘sexy’.

That didn’t change the fact that, that had creeped the fuck out of Vox.

And if it had creeped Vox out, he can only imagine what Angel’s mind jumped to. Soul contract be damned, Angel looked ready to tear Val’s face off.

“If you touched that kid, I swear to god-”

“Val.” Vox interjected. His new speakers drowned out any other sound in the place, including the rest of Angel’s little rant, just in the nick of time. “A word. Alone.”

Valentino was a little too pleased with himself. He put the kid down slowly before directing Angel back to the set. The whisp of smoke formed a chain for a second, tethered to the spider’s neck.

“Sit right there and don’t move. I’ll be back in a minute.”

While Val was doing that, Vox leaned down to the kid quickly.

“You okay?”

“He can’t do that to Angel.” He argued, coughing as he wrung his hands by the harsh lines now imprinted on his neck.

“He can do whatever he wants to Angel. He owns him.”

“That’s not fair-”

“Fair or not, Angel’s an adult. He made his own decision.” Did he really believe that? Sort of, consent was always questionable with addicts. “But if you don’t want to get him or yourself into worse trouble, don’t move. Don’t go to Angel. Just stay right here until I get back.”

It destroyed him on the inside, Vox could see that. All he wanted to do was run over and check on his friend. But, thankfully, it seemed like he trusted Vox’s judgement enough to heed his warning. He stayed still, tail pulling between his legs as the surrounding employees just seemed to notice what was going on.

Vox gestured for Val to follow him to Angel’s dressing room. It was mostly soundproof, for obvious reasons, which made it ideal for what Vox had in mind. Val strolled in, but not before giving one last look between the two hotel mates. It made Angel’s skin crawl again.

“What is it, Vox? Can’t you see I’ve got things handled?”

Handled? That was what he counted as ‘handled’?

He slammed the door shut behind him, shocking Valentino.

“Oh, Val. What do you think you’re doing?”

Reflexively, the moth backed up a bit. His antenna flicked in alarm. Vox could be scary when he was angry. And when he was truly pissed?

“I was…I was…” The words seemed to die on his tongue for a moment. “I was securing an asset. I want Angel back and you’re getting too attached to that brat and-”

“You want Angel back?” His voice warped as he stepped too close to Val, where he had no room left to back up. “Is that really what you want?”

“Um…yes?” He sounded uncertain now.

Vox’s teeth bared too wide to seem friendly.

“No, Val.” He said, his voice coming back down. “You don’t want that.”

“Yes, I-!”

He grabbed his collar, pulling him down to Vox’s height for the time being.

“No, you don’t. You don’t want to force him back like that. You want to prove him right? That the only reason he is here was because he had to be? No. He should want to come back to you.” His harsh grip turned softer, claws combing through and dancing towards the line of his neck. Val gulped.

“You want him on his hands and knees. You want him begging to be back in your arms.” While his one hand teased, and plucked the first button off Valentino’s shirt, his other hand wrapped around. He dug into the flesh of his back, just by the base of his spine. Val squeaked and dragged himself closer.

“But…but the kid-”

He chuckled.

“Were you worried I forgot about you? You?” Vee tower was his plaything. It was all an extension of him. Like an arm, he could twitch the nerves to pull as he pleased. Holographic screens played across the walls. The whole room beamed with light, before flicking to different scenes.

Valentino posing for a shoot. Valentino with blood on his hands and fresh gun smoke in the air. Valentino stretched out across his lounge, counting his money. Valentino laid out on Vox’s sheets, inviting him over with a lick of the lips.

“You’re a star, Val. My star. You think there’s ever a moment I’m not watching you? You think that there’s another soul in this decrepit place as intoxicating as you?”

Valentino eating his chocolates a little too slow. Valentino ruthlessly tearing apart a rival. Valentino dancing around the room in the morning wearing Vox’s robes.

“There’s no one like you, Val. And there’s no one that can take my gaze off you.”

He pulled down, dragging him into a dip. Instinctively, Val’s legs flew up to wrap around Vox. His whole body shuttered with delight as poison dripped hungerly down his face.

“Oh, you’ve ruined me.” Valentino said, almost groaning. Vox knew he’d be thinking about this and only this for the rest of the day. His arms interlocked around Vox’s neck.

“Not yet. Maybe tonight. But I don’t want to hear any more nonsense about me not keeping my eyes on you.” Vox teased.

The way Val was looking at him now, the minute they started making out no other work would be achievable today. And, if Vox had it his way, Val wouldn’t be able to walk afterwards.

“Now, we really have to do something about yours and Angel’s new deal.”

“Oh, screw that. He can come back when he begs for it.”

That’s exactly what Vox wanted to hear.

…

Composing himself to look somewhat professional was harder than he expected. Val had messed up his jacket in his pursuit for purchase on his back. He’d also messed up his bowtie, something he’d unfortunately neglected to notice until after the kid gave him a funny look.

“Angelcakes, back to shooting.” Val directed with a wave of his cigarette.

Angel’s face dropped in panic.

“Val, the deal. What about our deal? You’re supposed to give the kid back!”

“Correction.” Vox interrupted. “The deal was if I found the kid, and I gave him to Val to give to you, then you’d come back to work, fulltime.” He went over the specifics with Val right before walking back in. He was a stickler for wording. “And I don’t feel like handing him over to anyone.”

He walked up behind the kid and, purposefully, put his hands on his shoulders a little tight.

“I think I’ll keep him.”

The spider’s eyes all focused on Vox, fury rising in his throat.

“You think that I’d just let that happen? Oh, Smiles has been wantin’ an excuse to knock your head off. Just wait till I tell ‘em.”

“Nobody is telling anyone, anything.” Val mentioned.

“Oh yeah?” Angel challenge back.

“Oh, yeah.” Val confirmed. “If you try anything, there won’t be a kid left to rescue, Angelcakes.”

The kid was being so well behaved, mouth zipped tight. Angel could assume from what Val said that Vox had his contract, and the kid’s attitude only played into it. Was it worth the risk of the kid getting his soul ripped apart?

Angel’s face fell.

Yeah, didn’t think so.

Then, surprising Vox, the kid ran over and grabbed Angel in a hug.

“It’s okay.” He swore. “It’ll be okay. I promise.”

A few tears slipped out Angel’s face, especially when they had to let go. Vox snapped his fingers, and the kid ran to his side again.

“We’re leaving.” He said. If Vel wanted him back, he could pick him up from Vox’s room again. Val blew him a kiss as they walked back into the lift.

When the doors closed, a weight pulled off his shoulders.

“Thank you.” The kid looked up at him, and odd truthfulness to his words that shook something in the core of Vox’s head.

“…for what?”

“For saving my friend. I’m not…it’s not worth the price he’d have to pay.” He pursed his lips. “And he never would’ve let me go unless you made him. So…thank you.”

Despite himself, a grin pressed to his face.

“I didn’t do it for him. Maybe I’m getting used to the annoying buzzing sound of your voice. It’d be a shame to get rid of it now.”

Oh, fuck me. The kid was happy now. Cuteness aggression was a bitch. He kinda felt like squeezing him until he popped.

“I like your voice too.”

He grabbed his muzzle and playfully closed it.

“Shut up, kid.”  

Part 1/ Part 2/ Part 3/ Part 4/ Part 5/ Part 6/ Part 7/ Part 8/ Part 9/ Part 10

[aspenvelaz]

Intro I guess?

Minors are welcome on this page so please keep things here at least somewhat appropriate, aka no sexual content on my page, thank you.(this disclaimer is directed at very specific asks which I will not be answering and have blocked the account sending them but I felt the need to put this here, if it you can see my posts then don’t worry about it because obviously you didn’t do it, just keep doing what you’re doing love y’all)

ALSO I AM WORKIN ON DRAWING ALL MY CHARACTERS SO EEE

CHARACTER INFO AND RULES BELOW THE LINE

RULES:

I cant handle the tight enclosed spaces even through characters it’s very triggering please don’t

No nsfw

Basic respect

ASPEN:

Aspen is a dead 15 year old. They had an…interesting life. I will be using they/them for their character. They don’t have the greatest understanding of normal interaction and get thrown off easily. They’re Mexican/Italian because I am and it would be weird to me if my OC was from a culture I know nothing about. They have a shit ton of bio siblings but the only ones with rp blogs so far are @noxie-velaz and @mara-velaz(these blogs are no longer active so I took over the characters on @velaz-kids) and @mictlans-residents. Aspen and Noxie anre twins but Noxie died a few years earlier. Mara is the eldest sibling. Aspen is a bookworm who likes food more than most other things. I plan on adding lore as I go so this’ll probably get edited.

BABY ASPEN(Chal):

I dunno how long they’ll exist but basically just mini Aspen with the name Chalmecacihuilt or ‘Chal’. They’re a little shit.

ESME: me! I exist! It’s literally just me. Idk how long rp me shall exist either.

ZARA: Chal’s girlfriend! Made of porcelain!

Mod note: send me asks to cure my boredom I beg of thee

Mod status: alive. Ish

This is a mod Esme blog.

My other blogs:

@leo-velaz

@velaz-kids

@m-the-god

@bloody-monkey

@dead-queer-bitches

@not-kids-of-m

@some-psychos

@e-reblogs-shit

@angels-maybe

@totecs-throne

@ask-lucifer-morningstar owns their soul

Children:

@headlessdeaddancer

@astro-raven-power

parents:

@alastor-the-demon

Siblings:

@mara-velaz (inactive)

@noxie-velaz (inactive)

@leo-velaz

@velaz-kids

@mictlans-residents

Snek:

@daru-velaz-the-snek(incative)

Fiancé:

@bloody-monkey

Lore:

[mysticsparklewings]

Mystic's Museletter - Long Time, No Type!

This blog entry was originally posted to Ko-fi and DeviantArt and may also be read in full in either of those places.

Hey there Sparklers; It's been a while, hasn't it? 😅

So I suppose I should start with an apology, because I am sincerely sorry that it's been almost a year now since I was doing my regular "Monthly Museletter/Round-Up" Posts [on dA & Ko-fi, doing them here on Tumblr is entirely new], and it's also been a few months now since I was posting art...really at all, let alone regularly.

And because of that, if it wasn't already obvious, this isn't even going to be quite like my former "regular" long-form posts. It's going to be long, which itself isn't unusual, but because of how much there is to cover, I'm going to try and divide this all up into mostly self-contained sections, and have a list of those sections (marked by headers of the same title) beneath this paragraph so you can jump/scroll around and read "the interesting bits" at your leisure:

Overview of Where I've Been

DeviantArt's Changes

Other Things I've Been Doing - Part 1: Ohuhu Again! - Part 2: Social Sites & Dolls - Part 3: Everything Else

Peeks At Actual Art Things I've Done

Wrap Up

Overview of Where I've Been

So what happened? Well, the Monthly blog posts were just a victim of my executive dysfunction—I got in my head about how long they usually take to put together and when I'd miss one or put it off too long, naturally that would mean the next one would take even longer to catch up and it just spiraled downward from there.

Clearly, if I want to continue with those going forward, I need to make some changes to how they work so I can actually do them. At the moment though I don't have any concrete plans, but I have some general ideas that relate more to the next section.

Okay, but what about Artwork? I was on a pretty good roll there, especially with Winx Art, and then...Crickets.

This one I can't even fully explain myself. At first, I know I was largely bogged down by the fact that I just kept missing self-imposed deadlines to have certain pieces finished by, and my motivation to post art was majorly crippled by some Changes DeviantArt Made, but I feel like those two reasons alone don't cover everything.

My personal life has also been a bit of a roller coaster these past few months, but that is somewhat "normal" for me, so I don't feel right blaming it on that, either.

My best guess is those things combined with my usual Post-Inktober Funk™ and made a kind of "Seasonal Burnout," sort of like Seasonal Depression (as is fairly common for a lot of people to experience around the holidays and winter months). I've had plenty of creative ideas and was even able to do some other creative things I'll touch on more in a bit, but the motivation to actually draw was just...not there.

The other reason I chalk this up as "Seasonal" is because as the weather has finally, slowly started to warm up, I have noticed some internal changes with myself...Nothing major has happened yet, but I feel more squarely pointed back in a "Drawing Direction," if that makes any sense.

I think the last piece of the puzzle to get me at least sort of back on track is related to those Changes I mentioned DeviantArt made. So let's talk a bit about that...

DeviantArt's Changes

Towards the end of October—Naturally, my busiest month!—All of a sudden, I could no longer edit Deviation descriptions directly in Sta.sh, which I'm sure some of you Sparklers are familiar with.

This matters because I found writing & editing descriptions in Sta.sh much more convenient than typing them directly on the Submission Page. Mostly for formatting reasons, but also as a hangover from many years ago when I lost a a few descriptions that were written only on the Submission Page, which didn't (doesn't?) auto-save consistently like Sta.sh did.

So. That wasn't good, but I figured out that I could still edit existing Text documents that I had in Sta.sh, so I took to writing the descriptions in an old one of those and would copy & paste it into the final Art description later. But eventually, that method stopped working too. (I think around mid-November, but I'm not 100% sure.)

As of right now, you cannot edit any text of any kind in Sta.sh anymore. You either handle it directly (on the Submission Page for Artwork, or using dA's on-site text editor for written work), or you don't bother.

Now, I'll wholeheartedly agree that on paper this doesn't sound like a big deal. And it really probably shouldn't be. But nevertheless, to cut an overly long explanation short: It is/was for me. It felt like one of the last few threads tying me here, to DeviantArt, snapped.

Again, to cut an overly long explanation short, emotionally, that really hurt. I have more or less been mourning the loss of the DeviantArt I first joined back in 2011 as a result. 😞

And to cut one more explanation short: I've been thinking for a while now that it might be in my best interest to start up a more proper dedicated blog for my long art descriptions, and this blow to the way I write said descriptions on dA really solidifies that. I still have to figure out exactly where said blog will be—possibly here on Tumblr* which is why I'm posting this here now—but I have pretty much made up my mind that it does need to exist, one way or another.

(*I'd stick it over on Ko-fi, but as it currently stands Ko-fi doesn't have great organization or archive functions for older blog posts; If it's not recent it's difficult to find, and that just won't work with the blog-ish flow I know I'd need, among other small issues with Ko-fi's formatting.)

With all that said...I don't really want to say there's still a bit of light at the end of the tunnel for dA because that doesn't really feel accurate, but that's the closest expression I have.

Very recently, DeviantArt announced a new overhaul coming to the Submission Page, and while I have extremely mixed feelings about it (because I strongly suspect this is exactly why Sta.sh has been crippled)...I don't hate it. There are things I like about it, I'm mainly just bitter and fearful about Sta.sh's future.

But I also haven't fully put this "Studio" thing to the test yet—That requires actually submitting art. So, perhaps there is yet more hope than I think...

Other Things I've Been Doing

To that end, you're probably wondering about those "other creative things" I've been able to do I mentioned earlier, and also if there is any "proper" artwork to show for these past couple of months.

I'll go ahead and spoil that yes, even though there isn't much of it, I do have some "proper" artwork things I can show you, but I think (as this section title implies) it'll be better to address those other creative things I've been doing first.

Part 1: Ohuhu Again!

Probably the most interesting to you Sparklers will be the revelation that I'm in very early stages of working on a kind of "Buying Guide" for the Ohuhu Honolulu Markers.

I'm sure some of you Sparklers are familiar with my Ohuhu Chart and the unofficial "ongoing saga" of keeping that thing up-to-date. Some newer Sparkles may also have originally heard of the chart and/or me from the Ohuhu SubReddit, because I've spent quite a bit of time over there helping people figure out the best way to get all 363 of the Honolulu colors...since unfortunately, Ohuhu has made that process kind of confusing. 😅

Very similar to my chart sorting out confusion over how many colors there are in the first place, I want to make some kind of fixed resource I can point people to that would hopefully help clear up a lot of that said confusion.

I don't want to get to specific on the details of the "final" guide at this point since it is so early; Rather I want to just tell you Sparklers the actual work I've been doing to make it happen, and that all boils down primarily to three things:

Collecting and Organizing some text-based information (mostly in the form of Spreadsheets), and I was already doing a fair bit of this before I decided to even attempt making a Buying Guide

Fixing up my marker storage. I keep my Honolulus in their original bags for space-related reasons, but I've been meaning to make dividers for the bags to make everything more stable, and Spare-Cartoonist6276's Honeycomb method was the final push to do that I needed to actually do it. The only real downside has been that it just takes a while to construct each honeycomb section (and I'm not even bothering with the pretty color-matching cardstock). Fortunately, at time of writing I only have 2 sections left to go out of the original 11!

Swatching & Attempting to sort every color in a "Proper" Color Order. This is also something I've been meaning to try anyway and how useful it would be became pretty undeniable as I started thinking about how this Buying Guide is going to work. I'm in Stage 1 for this process—As I finish a honeycomb section, I swatch the markers in that section, so when the honeycombs are done, the swatches for colors I actually own will also be done. This is also different from my usual swatching because I made very basic little cards with holes punched in them so hopefully comparing colors and physically arranging them is as easy as possible. This swatching has been a long time coming though and is also taking a little bit longer because...I don't actually own every Honolulu color! I'm missing about 35, all of which belong to the "Pesky 43" that only come in certain sets. And with other expenses and trying to save up for a new website (yep, that Ko‑fi Goal is still active, folks!), I just haven't been able to justify dropping $130+ on yet more markers to fix that problem.

However, after some poking around and discussion in the wider Ohuhu Community, a Reddit User by the name of JayZedHorse very kindly reached out and offered to send me physical swatches of the missing colors! They are en route to me as I type!

There are still many small ways in which this isn't a completely perfect solution, but it is still a very solid step in the right direction and I am eagerly counting down the days until I have those swatches in hand!

So at the moment I have the small goal of being finished with the Honeycombs and my own swatches before the swatches JayZed sent me arrive; That way I should be able to jump pretty straight into the comparisons and start on color arrangement. But, fortunately, even if I can't be finished with the honeycombs by then, it won't be the end of the world. Both things will get done either way, it'll just take a little longer.

But that is about all I have to say about this Buying Guide that I think you Sparklers would be interested in, for now, so on to the next subject...

Part 2: Social Sites & Dolls

I'll start by saying there are two Social Media sites I've been semi-active on and so people that either follow me in those places or frequent the same communities I do will probably already have a few ideas of the other ways I've been flexing my creative muscles lately. [...And Members of the Sparklers' Club Discord Server will also have seen a fair bit of the same posted directly in there!]

As I sort of mentioned with the Ohuhu section above, I've been spending quite a bit of time on Reddit. It's not my favorite place on the internet, but I do like that I've been able to have long-ish form discussions about things over there that I would be pretty hard-pressed to cleanly fit inside of art posts. That's where most of my writing muscles have been getting their exercise.

The other one, and probably a little more interesting to you Sparklers, is BlueSky, one of the half a dozen "Twitter Replacements" that's been floating around.

To be fair, there were points where I thought either Mastodon or Threads were going to be my "Twitter Replacement" of choice, but ultimately neither ended up sticking with me and I'm not really sure why. It's possible the same will eventually be true for BlueSky as well, but so far even without fresh art to post it's been jiving decently enough with me.

I've mostly been posting Doll Photos over there; Literally the month after I lost the will to keep up with the monthly blog posts entirely, my interest in Fashion Dolls was finally renewed after a probably 5-6 year hiatus with one Karla Choupette.

I'll spare you Sparklers the nitty-gritty details (especially since I think I may be able to delve into them more appropriately in the future 😉), but suffice to say after falling in love with Karla and Monster High finally producing dolls I actually like again that I've been having a bit of a "Doll Love Renaissance" and I have taken probably a gross and shocking amount of photos of small plastic ladies over the course of the last year.

I don't know what it is about BlueSky that's made me genuinely want to share over there—It certainly isn't a massive following or massive amounts of engagement—but there is something, and it's pretty nice when previously I had to really talk myself into sharing anything that wasn't directly art-related over on Twitter.

Aside from just letting you Sparklers know I'm active on BlueSky at all, this is also relevant because I've taken to fairly regularly making things for the dolls—Mostly tiny crochet clothes, but a few other accessories too, like a belt I recently made to cover up uneven stitching on one doll's dress. And sometimes I re-paint details on certain dolls as well, but nothing super dramatic like some Doll Customizers do!

I would eventually like to compile photos of all (or at least most) of the things I've made for the dolls and maybe actually post them at least over on Ko-fi, and maybe here on DeviantArt too, since I am pretty proud of a lot of them and I think they'd be mildly interesting to my audience. But there are no concrete plans for that at the moment, just wishful thinking.

One related thing I do have slightly more concrete plans for though is the release of a Crochet Pattern—I got a little tired of the lack of pants options for the Rainbow High dolls, especially non-skinny ones, so I did some research and muddled together a pattern for some fitted bell-bottoms. I think the pattern itself is pretty much ready-to-go for sharing, but I did want to make one last test pair of the pants first (this will be the third pair in total) just to make sure one of my yarn recommendations works as well as I think it will.

The pattern will 100% be posted in the Ko‑fi Shop when the time comes, I'm just not completely sure if I'll be attempting to post it (or example photos at least) to DeviantArt as well, but...probably. We'll see!

Part 3: Everything Else

There is one more "not proper art" thing I've been slowly chipping away at that I think you Sparklers will find interesting.

...To be fair, there are some other much smaller things that I've shared with the Sparklers' Club on Discord that would also fit in this category, but they're not as interesting and would normally be saved for the "From the Archives" section in a Monthly Round-Up, so I'd feel out of place discussing them here.

Anyway. I've started the maybe-minorly-insane project of maintaining a Wiki for my Winx Club OCs: "The Mystix Dimension."

I've been keeping a running Google Doc with information about said OCs over the past couple of years as I've been doing major redevelopment on them, but I was getting tired of the limited ways to organize everything in that format.

After a lot of research that ultimately ended up going nowhere, I opted for the format I know best. I spent quite a bit of time making pages for my most-used Winx OCs on the Winx Fanon Wiki back in the day, but in the present I wanted the freedom to mess with the Wiki's code to both make it look more like the "official" Winx Club Wiki and also tailor it more to my own specific needs.

The "Mystix Wiki" is still very Under Construction with a lot of stuff missing, but it is slowly but surely getting there and most of the "bones" are in place.

So if you Sparklers are curious about my Winx OCs specifically, you can pop over there and have a look around—Of the information there, there's already a nice sampling that's pretty different from what long-time Sparklers may remember of my OCs from the earlier DeviantArt days when I was posting about them super regularly. 😉

A side effect of the Wiki that I semi-expected though is that it has made me realize how little I've actually drawn of my OCs even though they've been pretty consistently on the back of my mind for months. So I think pretty soon there are going to be more new Winx drawings in the works as I continue to fill out the Wiki. 😆

And speaking of drawings in the works...

Peeks At Actual Art Things I've Done

Now, as I mentioned at the beginning of this post, I definitely don't have a lot in the way of Work-In-Progress (WIP) Drawings, but I do have some that I started on before this unintentional hiatus. While I'd normally save some or even most of the WIPs for a Monthly Round-Up instead, given the circumstances I think it only makes sense to go ahead and share them with you Sparklers here and now.

We'll start with a few that should be recognizable as "updates" from the WIP Palooza that I posted back in August:

Firstly, and this will most likely be the next finished piece I actually post, I did finally polish off that sketch of Karla Choupette in the Winx Club art style. (And this is what I meant earlier when I mentioned I might be able to elaborate on my Doll Renaissance feelings later—The description for this piece would be a good place to do that!)

...I'm not showing the completely finished version here because I would like there to be some surprise when it goes public, and also even after all this time I'm still not 100% on the background I chose. So it could still change before the final post.

But Karla herself I'm happy with. I have no idea if I'll ever draw any more Rainbow/Shadow High characters in the Winx Style, but the door is open if I decide I want to.

Next we have...heh, My Winxsona in the Fan Transformation Formalix, better known as "Winxsona Winter Week 7". Incredibly, unbelievably late for "Winxsona Winter" at this point. But nevertheless, I started on the final two pieces for the series and I do want to finish them!

This one isn't fully finished like Karla, but it isn't too far off. It mainly needs shading and a background...And if I had no clue what to do for a background for Karla, then I have like -5 clues what to do for this one. 😅 I'll figure something out, though!

Likewise, I also have the "finished" sketch for "Winxsona WInter Week 8," or: My Winxsona in the Fan Transformation Dimentix.

Mystic Stars and Above on my Ko-fi already saw this WIP back in July, but this is much further along than you Sparklers saw in the WIP Palooza; At that time I had the concept sketch for the outfit and the wings done, and the pose, but I hadn't drawn the outfit on the pose yet.

The Dimentix wings are also ready for coloring (and the Mystic Stars & Above saw this one already too), but they won't be colored until after I get the flat colors down for the outfit/main image so I have a better idea of what colors should go where:

Again, no clue for the background on the finished Dimentix piece, but push-come-to-shove, I can skip a proper background and just recreate the..."wallpaper" effects that were used for the original Dimentix images made by FlorainBloom back in the day.

That leaves us with the two final WIPs I have to share, but for my Winx-loving Sparklers, I think they'll be the most exciting...

Yes, over a year later, I'm picking up the "series" that technically began with Light that Burns the Sky! 😁

Originally, I wasn't sure "Dark Enchantix" (or, my preferred name that I way overthought: "Incantix") would even be a series, but the response to Bloom and Stella was so positive [the Time Lapse has over 20,000 views on YouTube!!] and I did enjoy the concept so much...Yeah, it only feels right to give the rest of the Winx the same treatment. 😄

​As you can see, I've managed to come pretty far. Tecna and Flora have most of their shading done, so next for them is getting their wings in order, then the background (and I plan to use basically the same background that Bloom and Stella got for everyone, so that shouldn't take too much work). And Layla and Musa are pretty far along too...However, I have gone back and forth a bit on Layla's blues and Musa's golds/yellows.

Once again, I'll spare you the nitty-gritty for now, but was one of the challenges for my "Incantix Vision" from the beginning and is the smaller part of why these two drawings have been delayed so much. [...Y'know aside from the other things we talked about at the beginning of this journal.]

The other thing is that I lost my mojo for these two pieces specifically because I had hoped I'd get them finished by the end of the year to submit to a Winx Club fan project, and clearly that didn't happen. (I did go ahead and submit Bloom & Stella since they were finished, though!)

However, that fan project recently re-opened submissions through the end of May this year, so naturally I'm feeling a bit of an itch to see if I get can them both finished by then, even if it's just the still images and the Time Lapses (which only make sense to make since the first one did so well) have to wait a bit longer.

...Considering it's nearly the end of April now and I'd like to get at least 1-2 other things posted before I jump back into Incantix, and all the other circumstances, I obviously have my doubts about whether or not that will happen. But, who knows, maybe telling you Sparklers about it at this stage will be the extra encouragement I need.

At the very least, you Sparklers now know those finished pieces are coming eventually even if it isn't in May, and that was the main point in sharing the WIPs anyhow.

Wrap Up

​So. Now you Sparklers know where the heck I've been and some of what I've been up to in my time away.

I really didn't mean to more or less up and disappear and I am not happy that I have so little to show for my absence...But there's no time machine to go back and un-do it all, so for better or worse it is what it is.

I am, however, writing this blog post in the hopes that it'll be the "permission" I need to give myself to at least attempt to get back into an art posting rhythm.

As I touched on in the previous section, I do have a vague plan for my next finished piece to post, but it felt kind of wrong to just randomly go back to posting art like the past 4-5 months didn't happen with no explanation, especially over on Ko-fi. So here we are.

And...Beyond that, I really don't know how to end this. It feels a bit cheap to leave on my previous usual blog post send-off when this one is so different in nature...But I also don't consider myself as very good at ending these things in the first place. 😅

I should say though before I go—I really, sincerely do appreciate you Sparklers that have stuck by me in one way or another while I went radio silent. Every like, comment, whatever—I've still seen them all while I was away, and those are the little things that keep bringing me back when I do hit rough patches like this. Knowing that at the end of the day the art things I do matter to someone out there. It means more than I can put into words. So thank you, Sparklers, for just being there.

​Hopefully, it won't be too much longer before I can share some new things with you Sparklers to make it really worth your while. But, until then, as always...

Take Care and Sparkle On ✨

~Mystic~

[lucky-clover-gazette]

kings rising highlights & annotations

chapter 1

indented text is from the book. some quotes have commentary, some do not. some comments are serious, and some are definitely not. most of them will only make sense to people who have read the series. and, like, there are spoilers. so please read the books first if you're interested!

also: part of the reason i'm doing such a close reading is to study cs pacat's style, especially in terms of how she does romance and erotica. there are "craft notes" that might seem weird, like i'm being redundant or restating something rather than analyzing, but those are more things that i want to remember/take away from the writing!

i'm going to tag these longer posts with "sam reads capri" in case anyone wants to read them all at once.

this is a google doc i wrote with overall content warnings for the captive prince series. it's not perfect, but i do think it's important to include.

A hiss of a rock, thrown. Nikandros came up off his knees, drawing his sword. Damen flung out a hand in a motion for halt, stopping Nikandros instantly, his sword showing a half-foot of Akielon steel.

nik. it's a rock. chill the fuck out.

Damianos, prince-killer. His mind, used to battlefield decisions, took in the sweep of the courtyard, and made the commander’s choice: to minimise losses, to limit bloodshed and chaos, and to secure Ravenel. The Veretian guards were beyond his orders, and the Veretian people . . . if these bitter, furious emotions could be soothed among the Veretian people, he was not the one to soothe them. There was only one way to stop what was about to happen, and that was to contain it; to lock it down, to secure this place once and for all. Damen said to Nikandros, ‘Take the fort.’

i like how the book starts immediately with a very clear example of how the status quo has irreversibly changed. damen has no choice but to act as akielion (akielon? whatever) prince/commander, because that’s how everyone sees him now. even if he hasn’t changed at all from how he’d been five minutes ago

Guymar purposefully spat, and for his trouble was backhanded hard across the face with a mailed fist by the Akielon soldier. Damen let it happen, aware of what would have happened if a man had spat on the ground in front of his father.

i think what i said at the end of book 2 holds true here - damen spent prince’s gambit in the romance genre with interruptions from the war/politics genres, but with laurent’s (presumed accidental) outing of him as prince he’s now forced to live in the same world that laurent’s been in for the past two books. like “yep gotta let my former friend and ally get slapped because politics. man if only laurent had known that i was the prince, we could have avoided this :/“

‘We don’t stand together,’ said Guymar. ‘You betrayed our Prince.’ And then, as though he almost couldn’t bear to say it, ‘You had him—’

in all senses of the phrase, laurent very much had damen

Damen said, ‘I made him a promise.’ ‘And when he learns who you are?’ said Jord. ‘When he learns that he is facing Damianos on the field?’ ‘Then he and I meet each other for the first time,’ said Damen. ‘That was also a promise.’

damen reclaiming his princely authority while being so profoundly wrong… embarrassing

He had a sense of holding on, as though if he just held the fort, held these men together long enough to reach Charcy, then what followed— He couldn’t think about what followed, all he could do was keep to his promise.

he is so devoted to laurent that he doesn’t even stop to think that he’s been screwed over. me too damen, as a first-time reader. and even now, on a second read, i'm not sure how much i trust laurent. i've forgotten the intricacies of his plan and i didn't do a close-reading the first time around, so there are certain things i just can't say for sure at this point.

anyway, i actually think d&l have a ton in common in terms of how they express and demonstrate devotion. they both have bleeding hearts, it’s just that laurent’s has had a much longer time to harden. the way he assesses and handles situations is with a detachment he believes is necessary, so he doesn’t lose control, while damen throws himself wholeheartedly into everything he cares about. they have the same fierceness and passion, and while working together they help to balance out their approaches while applying that passion. starting the book out like this, with damen's devotion on full display and laurent's being majorly questioned, is very smart. because they both need to evolve from this point, in order to be good kings and good partners to each other.

like honestly, they both just need to sit the fuck down and tell the truth and accept that they both care about each other and they don’t have to be avoidant freaks about it. not that either of them (mostly laurent, but also damen in a different way) actually wants to do that. and that’s what the first like 1/3 of the book is about, as i recall: their petty divorce drama until they both give in and decide to figure out their shit.

The ghost of his father seemed to prickle over his skin. It was his father’s title, but his father no longer sat on the throne at Ios. Looking at the bowed head of his friend, Damen realised it for the first time. He was no longer the young prince who had roamed the palace halls with Nikandros after a day spent wrestling together on the sawdust. There was no Prince Damianos. The self that he had been striving to return to was gone.

“with real power comes real responsibility, and i don’t want any of that shit” - dennis reynolds, it’s always sunny in philadelphia

Damen took in Nikandros’s familiar, classically Akielon features, his dark hair and brows, his olive face and straight Akielon nose. As children, they had run barefoot together through the palace. When he’d imagined a return to Akielos, he’d imagined greeting Nikandros, embracing him, heedless of the armour, like digging in his fingers and feeling in his fist the earth of his home.

so they've definitely fucked right

Damen thought of the soldiers bursting into his rooms, of being lashed down in the slave baths, of the dark, muffled journey by ship to Vere. He thought of being confined, his face painted, his body drugged and displayed. He thought of opening his eyes in the Veretian palace, and what had happened to him there. ‘You were right about Kastor,’ Damen said. It was all he said.

nice vs. good theme breakthrough!

He heard of his own body, wrapped and taken in the processional through the acropolis, then interred beside his father.

okay so which dead palace employee/slave got to posthumously cosplay as damen’s corpse

He heard Kastor’s claim that he had been killed by his own guard.

copying the regent's homework

To the Kyros of Delpha, Nikandros, from Laurent, Prince of Vere.

"hey girl,"

The letter was old. The writing was old. Laurent must have sent the letter from Arles.

see my previous breakdown from book 2 chapter 21 about how laurent literally failsafed losing the only living person who loves him with this gambit

It made tactical sense, in a horrifying way, for Laurent to have made an alliance with Nikandros. Laurent had always been capable of a kind of ruthless pragmatism. He was able to put emotion aside and do what he had to do to win, with a perfect and nauseating ability to ignore all human feeling.

i mean i think there was feeling there. making the alliance also was a way for laurent to dispose of damen, returning him to his people so the regent couldn’t use him to torture laurent. because at that point i’m not sure if laurent wanted damen dead, but he definitely wanted him gone. and he’d assumed that damen would want that too

In return for aid from Nikandros, the letter said, Laurent would offer proof that Kastor had colluded with the Regent to kill King Theomedes of Akielos.

okay yeah THAT’S GOOD. and it explains how laurent gets himself in his situation in the next chapter, he’s following up on the promise by trying to get the info from govart/guion

The straightforward ease of it left him without words. He had forgotten what home felt like. He had forgotten trust, loyalty, kinship. Friends.

i’m glad nikandros is a real one. but damen please don’t regress so much that you forget straightforwardness and ease =/= truth and loyalty. oh fuck he can’t hear me

‘Your friend [Nikandros, talking about himself] is a fool and courts treason for a keepsake.’

yeah it makes sense that these two are besties

To gain everything and lose everything in the space of a moment. That is the fate of all princes destined for the throne.

this or a kingdom. guess he’ll kingdom

‘Kastor made me a slave. Laurent freed me. He gave me command of his fort and his troops, an act of trust for an Akielon he had no reason to elevate. He doesn’t know who I am.’

oh honey

‘The Prince of Vere freed you,’ said Nikandros. ‘You have been his slave?’ His voice thickened with the words. ‘You have served the Prince of Vere as a slave?’

this isn’t an hr complaint quite yet but it is a “nikandros takes out his phone and bitches on his private twitter moment” moment. which i think should be a tally as well. nikandros private twitter venting moment #1

He knew what they saw—a hundred images of slaves, submitting, bending at the hip, parting their thighs, the casual ease with which these men would have taken slaves in their own households.

back in book 1, when assessing the state of erasmus in torveld’s possession, i recall that damen assumes that veretians think that “there is no honour in submission.” implying that to damen in book 1, and akielons in general, there IS honor in a slave’s submission. but here, when their prince—a person they respect—is revealed to have been made a slave, they definitely don’t perceive it as an honor. so which one is it? whatever submission damen shows/showed laurent is voluntary and honorable by his own moral code. he hasn’t been groomed or brainwashed into submitting his own free will. get on his level or keep your judgment to yourselves, hypocrites

‘Does it shock you? I was a personal gift to the Prince of Vere.’ He had bared his whole forearm. Nikandros turned to Makedon, his voice harsh. ‘You will not speak of this. You will never speak of this outside this room—’ Damen said, ‘No. It can’t be hidden.’ He said it to Makedon.

i think damen can at least subconsciously see the hypocrisy here. and he’s indignant about it >:)

‘You were the Prince’s slave?’ Revulsion was stamped on Makedon’s face, whitening it. ‘Yes.’

'and tbh i’d drop the past tense i had the blacksmith keep this thing on me'

‘You—’ Makedon’s words echoed the unspoken question in Nikandros’s eyes that no man would ever say aloud to his King. Damen’s flush changed in quality. ‘You dare ask that.’ Makedon said, thickly, ‘You are our King. This is an insult to Akielos that cannot be borne.’

and now damen’s piiiiiisssssssed. i think partially because he knows it was the best night of his life and doesn’t want to be shamed for it, lol

‘You will bear it,’ said Damen, holding Makedon’s gaze, ‘as I have borne it. Or do you think yourself above your King?’ Slave, said the resistance in Makedon’s eyes. Makedon certainly had slaves in his own household, and made use of them. What he imagined between Prince and slave stripped it of all the subtleties of surrender. Having been done to his King, it had in some sense been done to him, and his pride revolted at it.

okay yeah damen’s totally ending the institution of slavery once he's king and the gradual development of changing his mind has been both demonstrated effectively and completely earned throughout the past two books. i think this is why some of the cruelest things in book 1 happen to damen in the first place—they had very little to do with the development of his relationship with laurent, and everything to do with this personal arc for damen’s character. moments like this are the payoff to all of that subtle and consistent work. damen’s wake-up call of being treated like a slave and realizing it’s not what he thought, now transferring to his fellow slave-owners like a moral salve (not a typo for slave. like medicine).

The plan he had developed with Laurent was simple,

ARE YOU SURE

Damen’s men were the bait.

damen sees those red flags and just keeps pushing forward

It struck its front hoof on the cobbles, as though seeking to overturn a stone, arching its neck, perhaps sensing, in the manner of all great beasts, that they were on the cusp of war.

do you think damen and laurent’s horses miss each other

But Jord and Huet. Lazar. Scanning their faces, Damen saw who they were. These were the men of the Prince’s Guard, with whom Damen had travelled for months. And there was only one reason why they had been released from confinement. Damen held up a hand, and Jord was allowed through, so that for a moment their horses circled each other. ‘We’ve come to ride with you,’ said Jord. Damen looked at the small clump of blue now gathered before the rows of red in the courtyard. There weren’t many of them, only twenty, and he saw at once that it was Jord who had convinced them, so that they were here, mounted and ready. ‘Then we ride,’ said Damen. ‘For Akielos, and for Vere.’

<3

The uncertain terrain was a valley of doubt, fringed by trees and dangerous slopes.

“the uncertain terrain was a valley of doubt” great line

Damen would never bring men into this kind of disadvantage without a counter plan.

SSFGHYSUDGFYSUDF

If he just did that, just kept to his promise, then after—

now damen’s the one being controlled by his emotions and desperation. oops!

‘If we do that, and your Veretian doesn’t arrive, we’ll all be killed.’ ‘He’ll be here,’ said Damen.

cringe

Laurent had never planned to come. That was what the scout was screaming, right before an arrow took him in the back. ‘This is your Veretian Prince exposed for what he is,’ said Makedon.

so i know that having akielos show up was laurent’s plan, but i forget if laurent had EVER intended to show up at charcy, or if the plan was always to screw damen over. like laurent tells damen that was the plan, after the fact, or at least doesn’t apologize. because he's a petty bitch and mad at damen for lying and doesn't want to talk about the fact that he got tortured. but i still think that laurent could have intended to be there, just with the twist of damen being exposed, if he hadn’t been held up and injured. after all, the akielos allyship plan has been a thing since vere, but the charcy plan was in response to something laurent 100% did not see coming. laurent couldn't have ended the snowball effect of his own gambit by the time he realized he liked and trusted damen, but he could only have planned charcy after they bonded for almost an entire book. they're two different plans, by two slightly different laurents. not that damen can really see that right now.

i don’t know, i always tend to give laurent more grace than he probably deserves. i WANT him to do better than he sometimes does, because he is a character i'm rooting for, and i know that he cares about being honorable in his own messy imperfect way. (me 🤝 damen).

but even if we're just looking at it without any kind of emotional attachment, it simply isn't characteristic of laurent to leave so many of his own people to die, if he can avoid it. so it would make sense for him to at least try to keep his promise of showing up. but then again, when he’s overwhelmed by emotions he does make uncharacteristically stupid choices. and he is pissed at damen, kind of, although i do think he feels much more endeared to him now than he’d been when he sent nikandros the letter from arles. so he must have meant to be there. but then AGAIN, maybe laurent still somehow assumes that damen was just using him as a fuck, especially since damen didn’t tell the truth even when they started having sex. because laurent is an idiot about feelings, and he doesn’t want to see that damen cares, so he convinces himself that damen deserves to be abandoned on the battlefield.

i don't knowwwwww, my heart says one thing and my literary analysis brain tentatively agrees (laurent meant to be there but couldn't make it), but i hate getting things wrong and laurent is a slippery bitch. and again, this is on a SECOND READ. i just don't remember, for sure, if laurent meant to be at charcy. i don't know if it's even ever said, or just meant to be read between the lines. this may seem negligent or shallow, but listen, the first time i read this book was a binge-read. i read it in a night, right after reading a good chunk of prince's gambit in the afternoon. i was paying a lot less attention to the war/plan stuff and just focusing on the dysfunctional gay people. what i didn't realize, in my haste, is that the war/plan stuff adds an entire new dimension to the gay people's dysfunction. which is why i firmly believe that this is a series that needs to be read twice, at least. these are not romance books, they're a fucking psychological experience. they're like an escape room for your brain that just happens to have horny gay people inside.

Damen had no time to think before the situation was on him.

laurent in book 2: “i can’t think”

There was a dark logic to it. Have your slave convince the Akielons to fight. Let your enemies do your fighting for you, the casualties taken by the people you despise, the Regent defeated or weakened, and the armies of Nikandros wiped out.

and if it was laurent of book 1 or early book 2, that would have made perfect sense. but he made the charcy plan at the end of book 2 come onnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn. it can't be as simple as "laurent fully meant to screw you over," even if he didn't manage to show up as a result of his own plans that nobody else knew about. laurent took two steps forward at the end of book 2, trusting damen enough to emotionally and physically be intimate with him AND making this charcy plan with him. i think it makes sense for him to have taken one step back, in not actually telling damen the full truth about the alliance or laurent's own sidequest that ends up getting him captured and injured, but i just don't think he took TWO entire steps back, by putting damen and his men in a deadly situation with zero intention to help. that's too simple for him, both in an in-universe sense and in a "this is how good storytelling (which pacat can at this point be reasonably trusted to do) works" sense. it has to be something in between, even if damen and laurent assume/claim otherwise.

Damen found himself alongside Jord. ‘If you want to live, ride east.’ White-faced, Jord took one look at his expression and said, ‘He’s not coming.’

jord stays losing

[tmnt-obsessed-ace]

Loved chapter one of Hollow Shell

Wanna talk about what it was like writing it? How it changed and evolved into the finished version? Ideas scrapped? Sorry I just love authors talking about their writing

👀

SURE why not!

It took me a long time to write chapter one, hell I was still writing it when I was writing the first chapter of Same Story Different Font. Mostly because I have unmedicated adhd and way too many thoughts, aus, and ideas buzzing around in my head at the same time. Plus Im actually PLAYING Hollow Knight so that takes even more of my time

(And when I actually mustered up the will and motivation I was too tired and just wanted to chill out)

Now during the writing process when I had about 2500 words written, I had a really cool idea.

The beginning of the chapter would be a prologue about how Hollow got ripped from the Black Egg Temple and then after that every two or three paragraphs the narrating pov would switch to Hollow (and the Radiance) showing how they're reacting to the whole situation.

In fact you could even see an example of that in this wip I posted on September 29th (yes Hollow Shell has been a wip for many months :/)

The Radiance is the bold and italicized text while Hollow is just the italics

And in the parentheses sections the Radiance would be just bold.

Unfortunately as cool as this idea would've been I couldnt get it to work into the chapter without feeling clunky (and adding to the word count even more) so I had to scrap the idea for the sake of getting the chapter DONE. But I will be doing it, its just that the Hollow and Radiance pov will be its own chapter entirely that way I can properly do it justice. (Im still deciding if it should be chapter 2 or chapter 3)

As you probably know this little exchange isnt actually in Hollow Shell anymore

Because I edited it and rewrote it entirely.

Mostly because this right here is the beginning of Casey's dad getting infected. But it felt like it was escalating too quickly. It would be way more fun to draw it out longer.

Here's the new version of this same wip

Also you wanna know WHY Hollow was struggling so much the entire chapter? Part of the reason was to try and get as far away from everyone as possible...and a much larger part of it was the Radiance trying escape.

Because the vessel isnt IN the sealed temple, the spells have been broken, there are millions of people in New York City ALONE.

And the only thing stopping the furious goddess from completely wreaking havoc is Hollow's own will. They are actively trying to do everything in their power to keep her from busting their head open like a walnut and being unleashed onto an unsuspecting city. And considering that Hollow's will, mind and body have been shattered over and over again from centuries of abuse...yeah

Its obviously not gonna last long.

And one more thing, you know how Casey was continuously texting during the chapter. He was absolutely talking to the turtles (I actually plan to show that conversation in either chapter two or chapter three, heehheheheheh)

If you want me to talk about Hollow Shell more I am more than happy to do so

[amandaoftherosemire]

Second Sight -- Part Seventeen

Fandom: Marvel Avengers AU/MCU AU

Pairing: Loki Odinson X fem!Reader

Characters: Loki Odinson

Author: @amandaoftherosemire

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 4,385

Format: Series WIP

Warnings: Language

Summary: Loki takes you on a long overdue honeymoon. On another world, he shows you wonders like none before. During your adventures in the wider universe you see a whole new side of him.

A/N: I don’t know if it’s the weather or what, but I’m doing pretty good these days. I’m steadily working away at Second Sight here, and I’ve had plot bunnies popping up all over. I’m just putting post-its on their heads for now because I am committed to completing this story. It’s so annoying that knowing what happens next doesn’t mean anything if I don’t get the words down to explain it to anyone else. Can you guys believe they don’t simply appear without any effort on my part? Insulting.

<<Part Sixteen here

Second Sight Part Seventeen

Your heart already beating fast in anticipation, you opened the front door to your apartment to the sound of Loki cackling in dark triumph. The sight of him there on your couch was incongruous, the head to toe black and green leather contrasting sharply with the mundanity of an IKEA love seat. Though you were exceedingly excited to finally be accompanying Loki into the more dangerous parts of the galaxy, you couldn’t help but worry that you might appear equally mundane amongst the sights that suited him better.

Not that you could dwell on the idea when his eyes snapped to you and heated with desire. He'd been absent for a few days while he arranged this trip to some new planet whose name you'd forgotten, if he’d ever bothered to tell you, but whose delights Loki had already promised would be beyond your wildest dreams. He had only given you hints of the hedonistic pleasures you had waiting for you, but you knew he was plotting to astound you. Your already racing heart seemed to leap in your chest when he stood quickly and crossed to you in a burst of enthusiasm.

"What are you laughing at?" A smile was tugging at the corner of your mouth as you hung your purse on the hook by the door and dropped your keys in the little bowl on the table underneath it. You couldn't help it; he was at his most light-hearted and carefree when he laughed with such wild enjoyment. You knew he was also at his most dangerous, but you thought it was likely this side of him that had made you fall in love in the first place.

Loki's eyes were sparkling and his grin flashing wickedly as he wrapped his arms around your waist. His mouth found yours and took you into a long, slow, sweet kiss. Ever since he'd come back into your life, he'd greeted you like this after any absence longer than a few hours. Never the sort to fawn, he still made you feel like the most loved and desired woman in the universe when he kissed you as though relieved to see you again, every time he saw you again.

Your lips were parted in surprise when his met them and the taste of him had your eyes fluttering closed as you let him fold you close. You wrapped your arms around his neck and hummed in pleasure as you leaned into his chest.

"Finally," he said when he released your lips. "I thought you'd never get here." He was tempted, as he always was, to drag you back into the space between moments where he could make love to you at his leisure. If he hadn’t already made plans to drown you in sensation on a pleasure planet, he would have given in.

"I missed you, too," you replied drily before drawing his mouth back to yours to kiss him again, adoring him. You could practically feel him vibrating in excitement, the energy of his exuberant mood passing from his lips to yours. You pulled away to laugh. "I take it you're ready to go."

"I am," Loki grinned back at you, his eyes shining with glee as he glanced back at the television, "though I was unusually entertained by Midgard today." After snooping through your things, trying to occupy himself while he waited for you to get home, he'd turned on the TV. He'd been absently flipping channels when he'd come upon a broadcast of a conflict happening on the other side of your world. He'd stopped because he recognized the combatants.

"Ooh, do tell." You rested your head on his shoulder as you fluttered your lashes at him and spoke in a tone acidly sweet. "I love it when you get condescending about my homeworld."

Loki laughed and took your hand to pull you toward the hallway and the portal behind the linen closet door. You pulled back to lock the front door. Since you’d be traveling the cosmos, not lingering in between time and space as you usually did, you wanted to secure the place before you left.

"You know how much I enjoy setting my enemies against one another." Loki let you step away to turn off the lights he’d left on in the kitchen and turned back to the news broadcast still playing softly in the background.

"You've told me. Many times." You lifted your eyes briefly to the heavens in an affectionately resigned kind of way as you flipped the switch and turned back to where Loki was smiling malevolently at the screen.

"I enjoy it almost as much when they start tearing at each other with no assistance from me." He lifted his head to grin at you, his face bright with vicious cheer. There were moments when you remembered he wasn't simply the dangerously pretty prince from another world who'd set your personal world on its head. He was also the villain of the piece, a wicked creature with terrifying appetites.

Why it took everything you had to drag your eyes from his cruel pleasure to look at the television you'd never be able to explain. You knew that you should find this side of him frightening, that the darkness that lurked beneath the charm and swagger should give you pause, but instead you found yourself wanting to make love to him, to balance on the edge of chaos with a creature that could tear you and everything you loved to shreds. That he possessed not only the power but the capacity to do terrible things, but you trusted him to never do them to you, made loving him like an extreme sport.

Your heart raced harder the more evil he looked. You weren't proud of it, but you wouldn't lie to yourself.

Distracted by the sultry warmth pooling in your lower body at the thought of all the wicked things he'd do to you if you asked him, it took you a moment to realize you were watching the various members of the Avengers destroy an airport tarmac in a fight with one another. "Shit," you said, your eyes widening in surprise when what you were looking at truly sank in. "There were rumors Captain America was refusing to sign the Sokovia Accords, but this is nuts."

Feeling like the conflict playing out on the screen was an auspicious omen for tonight's mischief, he pulled you away from the screen, stopping only when you resisted long enough to grab the remote and turn off the TV. "This was inevitable," he gloated, already pleased with his luck and the evening debauchery hadn't even begun. He considered not even cheating when he took you to the gaming tables, his mood was already so high. "I'm simply pleased with my fortune that I was here to witness it."

"You are so unbelievably petty." You shook your head at him as you passed the linen closet to go into your bedroom. He'd turned on the lights in every room of the apartment. "I can't believe you're still holding a grudge. You tried to take over the Earth; they stopped you." Once you'd turned the light out in your bathroom, you stopped only to reach into the bedroom and flip that light off as well. "Let it go."

"How dare they defy my will?" he retorted with a mock glare that did a terrible job of covering his amusement. He tugged you into his arms in the doorway of your bedroom, the sight of the bed giving him thoughts. Temptation was something he was always terrible at resisting, and you were especially tempting when you were teasing him.

"You know how humans are," you retorted with a challenging grin that took Loki's breath. He wondered at the bottomless depths he found in your eyes even as his heart skipped in joy at the sight of fun and mischief sparkling on your face. You lifted your face for his kiss, sighing out a laugh.

"I adore you." He said the words right before he took your mouth in another long, warm kiss. Before he could give in to temptation and lose himself in your warm body, the soft love that cloaked you when he took you in his arms, he took a step back. He kept hold of your hand, however, unwilling to be parted from you. "Come, I long to drown in your eyes in the light of a turquoise sunset."

"That is oddly specific."

Loki pulled you into motion once again, pulling you back toward the portal to his palace where the rest of the preparations for the evening were waiting. "You'll understand soon, once we've left your deary world behind. I'm impatient to show my dark bride all the wonders she deserves."

He grinned, malice sparkling over his face as he drew you to a halt at the open closet door, turning with you at his side. In a practiced move, the two of you stepped through the portal in unison, the many, many times you'd escaped together into his palace creating muscle memory. Once on the other side, you resisted the urge to drag him off to bed, pushed to the edge by the sinister cast to his features. At the heart of it all, you were in love with a criminal. You knew you should worry that you didn't care.

You kept your hands to yourself, at least for the moment, well aware that Loki planned for this first trip to be one of wild delights. You would be shocked if you didn't end the evening well-loved into a deep and comfortable sleep if not fully fucked into a boneless heap.

"Stop talking shit about my planet. You're the one who invaded." You teased him as you walked into the bedroom and began to strip. You needed to change into clothing that wouldn't draw attention at your destination. "You could be a little less condescending about something you obviously covet." Standing in nothing but your bra and underwear, you sneered at him before grabbing the outfit you'd already selected and left draped across the bed when you'd last passed through in preparation for tonight.

Loki watched you shimmy into the emerald green dress with eyes that burned despite the malicious good-humor that animated him. The only thing stopping him from tumbling you back onto the bed and satiating all of this jittery energy was the knowledge that he would have plenty of time to make love to you later, after he'd dazzled all your other senses first. He stayed where he was, leaning in the doorway while he waited for you to finish getting ready.

"Do you have everything?" He asked the question as you walked to the mirror hanging on the wall next to the door where he stood and straightened the dress until it sat properly around your chest and hips. The dress was made of a stretchy yet plush fabric that molded to your body comfortably and with a flattering skim over your curves, somehow without clinging to you. The fabric was something you'd never seen before, something like silk, but also like Lycra with hints of velour, and yet not quite like any of those. Whatever it was, it fit you easily and flattered your body in a way that left you feeling both sexy and secure.

The sleeves were long, but they belled out satisfyingly at the cuffs, where a stripe of deep raven black about an inch wide contrasted with the gem tone of the rest of the dress. The same strip of color accented the boat neck collar and the asymmetrical hem. The pendant Loki had gone to such trouble to replace rested between your breasts and shone with rich beauty. You couldn't be certain about anything when stepping into the wider universe at Loki's side. But by the heat in his eyes and the glow of appreciation in his smile, you could be confident in doing so.

You'd spent some time manipulating the spell on your closet by actively wishing for some bike shorts that would cover your ass in the likely event that you and Loki would need to make a speedy getaway, but also melt away in the likely event that the evening's delights proved too much and Loki made love to you half-clothed in a semi-private place. It wouldn’t be the first time for either.

To your delight, your closet had come through and the shorts under your dress were silky smooth and fastened closed with snaps at the hip, something easily removed if necessary. You needed the little extra protection as the skirt was asymmetrical, long in back, nearly sweeping the floor but cut off above your knees in the front.

To go with the emerald dress, you stepped into soft, over-the-knee leather boots in coal that matched the stripes of color at your cuffs and collar. Only the glint of silver buckles marching up the outside of each broke up the velvety black. You'd opted for the boots because they worked perfectly with the hemline of your dress, but also because they too would come in handy in a 'run for it' moment. You knew Loki too well to assume everything would go to plan.

"You've got your necklace, I see," Loki continued to nag you, despite your serene façade in the face of his fretting. "But what about your ring? Your bracelet and your knife?" Though he'd seen you grab everything, he wanted to instill in you the habit of checking for each of the items you'd need to walk safely through the wider universe. 

"Oh my god!" You rolled your eyes and laughed as you turned toward him, showing him the knife strapped to your thigh with the hands wearing your ring and your bracelet. Unconcerned about the rest of your appearance beyond what you'd already done as only Loki would see your true face, you held out your hand with a taunting smile to go with your retort. "Yes, mom, I have everything. Can we go before you make me put on a coat because it's cold out in space?"

With a sharp tug, you were in his arms and his mouth was taking yours in a warm, happy kiss, his bright mood beaming out of him. The moment had taken him, his three best loves, revenge, mischief, and you, coming together in a dark thrill. A long kiss later, he lifted his head and looked at you, his face soft. His eyes sparkling with affection, the mischievous chuckles that had bubbled in your throat during the kiss forced him to clamp down on his baser urges, the bed behind you still painfully tempting. But he knew that if he took you to bed now, the two of you wouldn't be leaving again any time soon.

He'd waited more than long enough to take you on a real adventure. Instead of backing you into the bedroom, he stepped back, lifting your hand to his lips as he led you back into the study toward the portal he'd already set for this evening's entertainment. At the feeling of your hand trembling ever so slightly in his, he pulled you close and murmured smugly. "I don't think a coat is necessary." With an arrogant grin and a wave of his hand, a portal to a vista the likes of which you'd never seen opened in the far wall. "I do not doubt my ability to keep you warm."

You were having a difficult time believing your eyes. The journey began when you stepped out of the portal in a cliff face on a beach the likes of which you'd never seen. The sand was a soft peach, as fine as sugar. The waves gently lapping at that technicolor shore were equally vibrant, a wild violet that took your breath. The lavender foam that fizzed at your feet made you want to reach out to see if it felt like water from your world. Overhead, puffy pale pink clouds floated across orange skies fading to teal at the horizon.

You stood on those soft sands, the crash of those vivid waves echoing oddly in your ears, and stared out at the stunning view. Your heart was pounding so hard you felt like you'd lost your breath and only the feel of Loki taking your hand in his could begin to break through the trance you'd fallen into. You glanced to your right and caught your breath at the sight of his profile under the soft warm light.

Something about the diffuse light of a pair of far-off suns coming through those pink clouds hit his face differently, made him look younger. You wondered if this was what he'd looked like before he'd discovered the truth about himself and his world turned upside down. When he turned and looked at you, a sweet smile on his face, you fell in love with him all over again.

Loki started to walk along the water, pulling you into step next to him with the hand he had wrapped around yours. You were caught in the myriad sensory experiences bombarding you, like listening to the odd sound of the waves as they pounded the shore. The inside of your nose wrinkled at the scent of strange seas, your eyes dizzied by the eccentric swoops of winged creatures crying overhead as they flew across the sky. Even the air rested on your skin in a peculiar way, as though the atmosphere was heavier, or the gravity of the world wasn’t quite the same as you were used to.

"What do you think, love?" Loki was deeply gratified to see you greedily drinking in everything around you. Your eyes were wide, your breathing fast, your hand holding tightly to his, and the knowledge that he had once again dazzled those bottomless eyes satisfied him in a way little ever had.

You tore your eyes from the gradation of peach skies growing steadily darker as the horizon grew more and more blue as the suns fell toward the sea. You did not understand how such colors were possible, but you also could not deny the sight was breathtaking. The perfection of Loki's features was only highlighted by the soft light coming from those spectacular skies and you couldn't be certain he wasn't even more magnificent than the natural beauty surrounding you.

"I knew you were going to show me something beautiful," you breathed, pulling him to a halt with your hand in his to look him full in the face. "I didn't know it would be you." You let go of his hand to slide your arms around his neck and pull him close for a slow, warm kiss. For a moment, you remembered your life before you'd met him, and the juxtaposition between your life then and now made you a little dizzy.

Loki's eyes had closed when your lips met his, the joy of the feeling making him feel younger than he had since before an ill-fated trip to Jotunheim. So much had happened since that horrible day, so much he'd come to regret over the years, but finding you was a rare bright moment in that time. Being able to share the wider universe with you brought him unmatched joy. Caught in your eyes, he smiled at you with all the wonder you inspired.

"The eyes of the Fey." He hadn't intended to say the words aloud, but they came out of his mouth in a murmur as he marveled at the reflection of those glorious skies in the bottomless pools of your eyes. Under that soft and shimmering light, he could see even more clearly how extraordinary you were, was amazed that he could have ever overlooked you. He didn't know if you had changed, or if you had changed him, not that it mattered in the end.

Loki had been studying but had found no evidence that the Folk had made it back to Midgard in the last few thousand years. Wherever your endless eyes came from, they were too powerful and potent to come from so far back in your ancestry. In addition, even if you could trace your lineage to the Folk, it would not explain all your oddities. Your immunity to his magic was consistent with what he could discover about them, but not your ability to see its symbols and sigils.

"I'm sorry?" A frown line appeared between your brows, confused by the softly spoken words.

Loki didn’t resist the urge to kiss away the small line, not wanting even the hint of distress to cross your face on this evening. He hadn't told you of his conversation with the merchant on Alfheim, keeping his own counsel a long-established habit. As he'd already started the conversation, however, no matter how inadvertent, he wouldn't lie to you now. "Something Audra said when I exchanged your necklace." The eyes in question narrowed on his face, noting the amount of time you'd spent together since he'd brought back the replacement necklace, annoyed that this was the first you were hearing of it. "About the Fair Folk."

"Fair Folk." The words had your head tilting to the side, your annoyance forgotten in the curiosity stoked by his answers. You were fascinated, both by the information and the fact that you weren't having to pry it out of him for once. "Like… fairies? Tinker Bell?"

"No," Loki threw his head back and laughed, then turned and began walking up the beach towards the lights of a dense and vibrant city, "like The Morrigan.” He had a careful itinerary in mind, designed to ease you into the exotic and exciting. He wanted to give you the night of your life, delirious in the moment, like a man on his honeymoon.

"Isn't that a Celtic goddess?” You would be only mildly surprised to find that yet another set of gods was based on real beings. Based on the strange cults that cropped up from time to time, it hadn't seemed to you that humans needed even a grain of truth to create a god to worship, but the facts didn’t lie. Perhaps the ones that stood the test of time, the ones whose names were remembered despite the centuries, were more likely to be real.

"I don't know." Loki's brow furrowed as he considered the likelihood that stories about the Folk might have made their way through the centuries in modified form as his own peoples' visits to Earth had shaped northern European mythology. "Did Midgardians worship them as gods also?" He thought perhaps he should pull some works from Midgardian authors, to compare the mythology to the histories already in his library.

"I guess?" You weren't certain you understood what Loki was saying, let alone what he was asking. It sounded like another Earth mythology had a grain of truth in advanced alien visitors, but you weren't well enough versed in any of the subjects at hand to be sure. In any case, you were fully distracted by the way the sky faded from dark peach at the zenith of the sky to the pale pink of the clouds hanging in the sky to the turquoise horizon where a pair of suns dipped lower and lower. "I don't know. What are we talking about?"

Loki slanted you an indulgent look when the two of you reached the path at the top of the beach and you glanced back, the sunset over the lavender ocean once again catching and holding you, pulling you to a stop as the sight filled your vision. He stopped with you, letting you look your fill of the strange sunset. The two of you stood in silent contemplation as you watched the suns slowly sink down until all that was left was a deep blue shimmer under the pinpointed black of a night sky. You turned your eyes back to the lights of the city and the two of you began walking towards them once more.

"The Folk are a powerful and ancient race," Loki continued speaking as though there had been no break in the conversation, and it took you a moment to get your train of thought back on track, "that have not been seen in many centuries, since before I was born. They are the only people the merchant could think of with a weakness to metals from Nidavellir."

Now that the suns had set, the sparkling, shimmering, shifting lights of the city beckoned cheerfully. You were fascinated by the subject at hand, but the sensory overload made it difficult to concentrate on what Loki was telling you. "Why do they have a weakness?"

Loki sneered. He hated to admit it but, "I don't know. Because no one has seen them in centuries, I'd never thought of them. I only recently started my research."

You did some quick mental math, realizing that Loki had had ample time since his visit to Alfheim to give you this information. He had clearly chosen not to, for reasons only he would understand. "But you're just now getting around to telling me?"

"Darling," the indulgent exasperation that colored the endearment made your lips twitch, "why would you not simply be grateful that I told you at all?"

The two of you had gotten close to one of the brightly colored buildings lining the street ahead of you, the eclectic crowd of people moving in and out, threatening to swallow the two of you into their ranks. "Because achieving the bare minimum doesn't merit gratitude?" Your retort came absently, the ornate doors in front of you occupying your attention when you realized they were where Loki was guiding you.

"Not even a little bit?" He laughed, already gratified by the look of wonder on your face as he pulled you into a casino very like and yet nothing like those on Earth. Behind the sprawling gold and brightly lit doors were games that had the same goal as those in Midgard casinos, taking your money, but the games themselves were far more honest and far more violent. He wondered what new expressions he'd see reflected in your bottomless eyes. "That doesn't sound right at all."

Part Eighteen here>>

Taglist:

@hellzzzbelle @cheekygeek05 @bibliophile1773 @thatawkwardlittlefangirl @miraclesoflove @nerdy-bookworm-1998 @destiel-is--endgame @irritated-bisexual @peaceinourtime82 @badassbaker @walkingtravesty97 @fashionworld12 @readermia @fukyouthink @felicityofbakerstreet @lumar014ad @thedistractedagglomeration

[tomswifty-fr]

Glitzi comic commentary (commictary?)

Hello! I was rereading it and saw on the last page I said I would “aaaaaauuuuuhhh ... post some commentary eventually.” Of course, I never followed up on that - until now! If you haven’t read it pls do - this will have spoilers. 

(under the cut - heads up this is very long and very self indulgent. i love talking about my stuff!)

I think I’ve mentioned this already, but the comic is heavily inspired by “A Promise in the Snow” by Stan Sakai, the 8th issue of the 1996 run of his comic series Usagi Yojimbo. It’s fantastic stuff, and a really good ghost story (technically a spoiler, but like... if you know my thing is based off of his and you know how my thing ends, you know).

I would call my version fairly different. Both in terms of things like length and setting, but other aspects too, some of which were planned and some of which happened in the writing/drawing process.

The two images of Glitzi dive-bombing the one bandit and breaking their neck and then charging the one with their neck thrown back were really strong in my mind since I started planning the comic. I needed to get across that even if she’s not the most physically powerful dragon in this scene (that would be the one who ran away), Glitzi is still very strong and is a trained fighter - unlike the others, who are probably opportunists attacking random travelers. She’s also dealing with a lot of pent-up anger and frustration since this takes place almost immediately after her falling out with Margaret.

So like, not a great place to be if you are opportunists attacking a random traveler. I tried to draw the survivor’s retreat as though he had to take a running start before he could get enough momentum to get into the air, tho I’m not sure how smoothly that came through. My personal headcanon is that most dragons need some kind of jumpstart and can’t start flying from a standstill.

  Tundras LOVE to sniff.

^^ Faces of horror and despair when she realizes there’s a kid involved. Glitzi has a very strong sense of responsibility and this is her thinking simultaneously “Oh no, no way can I deal with a kid right now” and “I have to do something, I just have no idea what.” 

Some subtle foreshadowing here - Teazel reacts to the mention of his daughter and also to the question of the pills being for him. They’re not, of course. Snappers are also way bigger than Tundras on site. Fun fact :)

This was originally supposed to be a longer scene, with Teazel regaining consciousness long enough to say some actual words and Glitzi agonizing whether it would be worth the risk to try and give him some of the medicine (what if it helped? what if it made it worse?), even though the label had been made illegible when it fell into the snow. I turned it into the one line because it wasn’t necessary, plus would beg the question of why Nettle wouldn’t speak up and say it was for her, actually.

I really love this little confrontation panel. It took me forever of flipping the sketch and going back and forth to decide who was going to be standing on which side.

I ALSO love this shot of Nettle pressed against Glitzi’s chest looking up at her, seen thru Glitzi-view(tm). I was worried it wouldn’t be clear what was going on but I do think it came out good!

And this too! The expressions are good and Nettle is cute.

(The plan to leave Nettle watching Teazel and go to bring back help isn’t a bad one - flying is faster than walking, especially walking over snow with a hatchling and someone too injured to stand up. But Nettle is right here. What if they come back?)

Glitzi’s abrupt agreement to bring Nettle and Teazel with her isn’t just her having a weakness for kids, but her realizing that she’s not going to win this argument and agreeing so as to not postpone the inevitable. Glitzi is stubborn, but only ideologically - she will gladly switch strategies or even cut and run than waste energy on a fight she knows she can’t win. It makes her a very annoying enemy since you can’t actually beat her; once it looks like she might lose she's already sprinting for the hills... and then she comes back, over and over, with new tactics until she’s finally ground you down or found one that works. So yeah, it’s not gonna take much to get her to say yes here.

The line about the snow stopping was added purely because I got sick of drawing the falling snow.

I wish I was able to add a longer beat between Glitzi and Nettle heading off and the last bandit showing up to show that some time has passed, a few hours at least, but I couldn’t figure out how if I wanted to keep that interlude to a single page. Hopefully the snow drifts get that across okay.

Bandit logic :) Also, does this imply that Teazel was alone? That Glitzi is alone now? Subtle foreshadowing?  

Glitzi spent too long up north (with Margaret) and lost her wintercoat (sense of purpose and camaraderie with the rest of her order) and now she’s cold (in a pretty rough place, emotionally).

It’s not really that deep. Or it could be, I guess. This was also originally a longer scene where Nettle interrogates her about her history, we learn more about Nettle’s parents who have a whole backstory that doesn’t come up, and Glitzi admits that she’s feeling a little lost, though not why. But again, it wasn’t necessary and I didn’t want to spend several pages on an ultimately distracting conversation where nothing happens except them continuing to walk through a canyon.

Instead, Nettle says that her parents are from up north but she’s never been; she likes the Icefield and is going to stay here forever! I think this might be a little heavy handed, but hopefully that’s mitigated by someone watching them from the top of the canyon - except that they were originally looking down at Nettle, until I realized that wouldn’t work and erased her, at which point I’m not sure how clear it is that it’s from above and not just Glitzi’s foot or something.

It’s the bandit! I’m just going to post several pages now because 1) I’m proud of them and want to show off and 2) I love drawing fight scenes.

This also owes a lot to Stan Sakai because I love his fight scenes! His drawings are super dynamic and very cool!

Anyway, bandit tries to do the same thing to Glitzi that Glitzi did to their buddy right at the beginning, but some snow gets knocked loose and she has enough warning to roll out of the way before her neck gets snapped. But it puts her on the backfoot immediately and even though she’s skilled, this guy is bigger, stronger, boiling mad, and hasn’t been dragging a Snapper for half a day.

(Tundra trivia time - their manes have one of the same purposes as lions, which is to give anything who tries to bite their neck a mouthful of hair instead of like, skin and bones and vital blood vessels. Everyone knows this so it’s not usually a common target, but Glitzi’s coat is a bit patchy and hey, worth a shot.)

Then an avalanche occurs.

Glitzi is concussed, bleeding from the head and battered from not only having a mountain fall on her but also getting beat up and bit. By digging her out and keeping her awake, Nettle saved Glitzi’s life as well as Teazel’s.

I went through SO many iterations of the design for this village. Way too many for something that is very small, in a single panel background, where everyone is gonna be focused on our unconscious protagonist instead.

The house is round! Instead of a fireplace, it has a coal pit set into the floor, and instead of a solid door it has a thick curtain over the entrance/exit. Nettle’s mom/Teazel’s wife is named Rein. She’s making soup because Glitzi is injured enough she doesn’t want to risk solids, soup warms up the drinker, and soup warms up the room. A perfect food!

And the ending... I’m not sure what to say about the ending. It didn’t take me the longest to draw but it definitely took me the longest to write and sketch. The two last beats in particular, of Glitzi putting her head in her hands and Rein walking away through the village, swapped places many times. They both had to be there, but it was hard to decide which would be the actual final panel.

If anyone wants more on that specific scene, ask and I shall provide but for now I’ll skip over it. It’s uh, pretty tough.

Epilogue: Glitzi stays in the village until she’s fully recovered, which takes a while. She immediately goes back north and does not spend much further time in the Icefield. This is the beginning of her “cynical and depressed” period. She does not tell Teazel or Rein about seeing their daughter’s ghost. 

Rein is a native of the Southern Icefield, who moved to Nature territory and met Teazel there. They were happy, but she always missed Ice territory and convinced him to move back with her when they their first egg so she could raise their first child where she grew up. Along with the messy and awful feelings of having one family member die and another almost die, she also feels like maybe if she hadn’t insisted on the move, none of it would have happened. Rein knows intellectually that it isn’t her fault, but it’s still hard. Teazel doesn’t blame her for any of it and supports her as best as he can. They manage to get along and consider moving back up north, either to Nature or somewhere else, but I don’t know what they decide. It’s a hard decision either way.

Here are their scries:

Thanks for reading this far and also thanks to everyone who read the comic when I posted it originally! It was my biggest comic project I ever finished and it really meant so much to see all the awesome comments and tags. To anyone who said it made them cry: sorry lol. I cried too 🥲