#sour butter :plea:

[ask-destruction-incarnate]

"ah-! my head..!"

Sour Butter rubbed their head coughing up some leftover dust and crumbs from a passing spice storm

"...where... am I..?"

@asksourbutter :33

*Burning Spice hums as he looks down at Sour Butter, crossing his arms.*

"Try not to inhale the dust, yeah? Not the best for your lungs."

"I suppose I can say welcome home."

[tacitoru]

You can feel the bed dip behind you, Suguru straddling your prone form over the duvet to rest his weight on the backs of your thighs. He leans forward, tucking his face into the juncture of your shoulder and placing his lips by your ear so you have no choice but to continue to hear out his pitiful plea.

“Sweetheart, c’mon,” he all but moans, poking you in the sides. “Satoru isn’t that bad."

"Satoru?" The name rolls around your sleep-addled brain like marbles in an empty jar. A first name? The man above you hums in agreement and settles more weight on your limbs, effectively pinning your legs to the mattress. You keep your eyes closed, hoping he'll give up and go away. Hoping your icy, sour attitude is enough to thwart him off and encourage him to sleep next to his newfound (old?) friend on the sofa.

Dozing in and out of sleep every few seconds while your boyfriend continues to cajole you, you're quickly brought back to the present with a quick nip to your ear. You groan, "Ow!"

"-And you can help him if you want, you’re good at that sort of thing!”

“What sort of thing?” You grumble, feeling your resolve slowly crumble from his persistence alone and the sensation of gentle fingers tracing the space between your ear and hairline. If Suguru has learned anything in his short time with you, it's how to butter you up.

Even turned away from him, face half mushed into the mattress, you can practically hear the shit-eating grin on his face as he whispers, “Being sweet.”

His touch disappears and a chaste kiss is placed beneath your ear. “And patient,” Another placed just beneath your jaw. You attempt to squirm from the constriction of Suguru's legs and the thick blanket to no avail.

“And generous…”He leans back, only to pull back the duvet and expose your upper body to the fan-chilled room. He's met with no resistance when he slides his massive hands up your hands, worming their way under the material of your pullover to rest at the top of your ribcage. His index finger brushes the underside of your breasts with unspoken intent. "...And good."

His touch lights up nerves on the skin of your abdomen, causing your breath to shutter. You’re silent for a moment, but Suguru Geto prevails. He knows any minute now you’re bound to give in, not entirely immune to his charms and...and other means of persuasion no matter how cold of a front you put up. No matter if it never really leads anywhere. It’s been barely two months and he knows well enough by now how to push your buttons.

"How do you know him again?"

He groans petulantly, pushing his forehead into the crease between your shoulder blades to pout into your - his - shirt. “Do me a solid, just this once?" Soon enough, you feel his fingers gently trail from their almost innocent position at your sides to the waistband of your shorts. He doesn't venture far, fingertips dancing just below the curve of your hips.

"Just this once, huh?"

“Need a little incentive?” It’s said with a smile you can’t see.

Teeth graze your earlobe again. To your chagrin, you flinch in his hold, warmth tingling down your spine at the prospect of something a little more substantial than the continuation of his do-gooder reputation and fruitless teasing. Finally, you relent with a sigh, inclining your hips into his embrace and cursing your weakness.

“As long as he leaves in the morning.”

“Promise.”

[sisitrip]

"The End is Nai"

Gallavich A.U.gust

Sigh. I missed the Gallavich A.U.gust 2024 @gallavichthings week for supernatural themed works. So, I'm just flinging this out there because it's my first demon related work and it is mess-ay.

That said, I had fun. Hope you enjoy "The End is Nai."

________________________

“Father, please take these feelings from me or end my life as your servant,” Mickey whispered, slipping inside the cool building. A blasphemous plea coming from someone who does not pray. But, it was critical. 

His desire could end his life in this church today. 

The familiar pew creaked softly under his weight as if in greeting. It wouldn’t be far off to say he and this church knew each other well. They should. Together, they’d killed enough demons in its walls to make them old friends.

Basilica de Guadalupe’s beautiful stone structure swam with the cloying scent of incense. But, the few parishioners in attendance couldn’t smell it like he could. The simple chemical warning told his senses that a malevolent presence was near. He could practically feel the target. It was close.

A sudden press of cold smoked air painfully tightened the skin all over his body.

“Why do the churches in Mexico keep using the Three Kings Pontifical Blend? That incense smells like poor choices dipped in potpourri. I prefer Will & Baumer. The French variety, mind you.”

Nai’s lofty comment startled him more than his materialization next to him. Caught unaware for the first time in years, he cursed softly and turned to the demon, telling himself not to be impressed by what he saw. Instead of a vicious battle face, he was met with a soft smile and curious green eyes. It rattled him that Nai didn’t seem ready to fight, especially since it was their job to kill each other.

“Prefer the Gloria F8 blend myself,” he finally mumbled, heart speeding. He allowed himself to gaze at Nai’s straight, fiery red hair. It was lightly waved at the root, as if fighting to curl. He wondered if curls would suit Nai and if they would feel as soft as he imagined. 

“Oh my, a non-traditionalist.” Nai tilted his head in a disarming way and continued with a purring that had him rooted to the spot. “I wonder what your bosses in Citta del Vaticano would do if they knew. Flagellation, hopefully? The rope enthusiast in me is practically rigid at the thought.” A slow smile spread across Nai’s perfect features.

He stiffened. Flirting? In a church? Nai shifted toward him, bringing the full power of that face to bear down on his indifference. In response, his tattoos grew heavy on his skin, warming the air in anticipation of an attack. 

“My bosses ain’t none of your business,” he said, making the mistake of looking Nai in the eyes. 

He was immediately lost.  

The taste of chocolate entered his mouth, rich and thick. It was mixed with the slight savory taste of peanuts, caramel and something else. Something even sweeter than chocolate. 

“Nougat,” Nai whispered knowingly, the cold smoke scent radiating off him as he inched closer. “Creamy nougat. A main ingredient in your favorite candy bar.”

He gritted his teeth. The flagrant invasion of his senses triggered a small tremor, showering dust from the ceiling. While he got a coating, Nai was spared. The dust floated in a corona-like crown around the demon’s head, as if unwilling to settle on something so unholy.

“Sensory infusement of a candy bar is entry level at best,” he said disdainfully, brushing dust off his shoulders. “Are we dehydrated? There’s a bowl of water in the back. Help yourself.”

Nai’s verdant eyes danced with amusement. “I’ll be saying ‘no thank you’ to the offer of lethally blessed water. And to prove I’m less violently inclined than you, you should know I’m utterly wounded by how unimpressed you are. We can’t have that. Let me try again.”

The taste of sour cherry, silkily warm, filled his mouth. Not just the sour cherry, but also the sweet dough surrounding it and the butter it was tossed in. He could even taste the dollop of sour cream. Vareniki. A dish his mother made for him when he was a sick child. Before she abandoned him. He blinked, stunned. 

“Ah, a direct hit,” Nai whispered, delighted. “Maybe I’ll make vareniki for you one day. Just like your incubator used to mak-”

He grabbed the front of Nai’s white linen shirt, fisting it hard. 

“She was my mother. Not a fucking incubator,” he said through his teeth. “Watch yourself, dyavol.”

Nai merely smiled at him, unbothered. “I should give you the same advice. Your tattoos are about to set this place on fire.” 

The air around them grew hotter and the wood varnish on the pews began to bubble and smoke in reaction to the energy his tattoos were emitting. He had to calm down, but Nai was making that impossible with his proximity and his smile. Incredibly, Nai inched closer still and their thighs ghosted against each other. He forced himself to let Nai’s shirt go and instead simply stared at him while he was sized up as well. He fought the urge to smooth his hair.

“You have a black ring around your irises,” Nai murmured, leaning in a little and stunning his senses. “Which one of us gave you that?”

He let Nai sweep a bit of dust from his temple and resisted leaning into the touch. 

“Vorter.”

Nai sighed while running his eyes greedily over his face. 

“Oh, he is particularly nasty, that one. You might not believe this, but I severed my bond with him after what he did to your Ignatius. Tell me, has he recovered the use of his sight?”

Another tremor. This one was strong enough to rattle the stained glass windows. 

“No thanks to Vorter. And what do you mean bond? Bond like what, like a … boyfriend bond?” He was sweating.

Nai chuckled and dragged his gaze up and down his body, pale lashes sweeping his cheeks prettily.

“We're no different than the bleating cattle you protect. We prefer companionship too.”

He stiffened. “Fuck you. People aren’t cattle and neither am I.” 

Nai sniffed the air between them, putting an arm around the back of his seat. The sensitive skin between his shoulders sang from the whisper of Nai’s tracing thumb. A simple touch and he's lost again. God, help him.

“Oh, I agree. You're like a spring lamb and smell just as sweet. Even your anger is intoxicating to my senses. The things you make me imagine, Mikhailo.”

Nai offered up his name delicately for the first time, like a hot house flower opening for the briefest moment. They stared at each other as the church started to violently shake around them. 

“Looks like your time is up,” he whispered as Nai grimaced in pain. The church’s air intensified its invisible defense system, pulling small grains of black sand from Nai’s freckled cheeks where he brushed them off like so many flies. 

“So it seems.” Nai stood, all six feet of him. “No matter though. I think this little experiment was a success.” 

With a soft, inward flex of air, Nai apparated midwalk into the aisle, startling a veiled parishioner. She stared in horror from behind her black lace veil and crossed herself. If only it was that easy to kill Nai’s kind.

“What experiment?” he called after Nai, tattoos no longer heavy, but sliding around his skin ready to be weaponized. He didn’t want this to be over yet.  

“Proximity test. I wanted to see how long we could be face to face before it became … unpleasant,” Nai called back, still walking. 

He rolled his eyes. 

“You know what happens when you get near one of us. It’s been established since the beginning of time.”

Nai turned and walked backwards with a smile that slowed the pace of his heart. Even though Nai should be repugnant for simply being what he was, he couldn’t see anything but his beauty. He was certain of nothing anymore.

“Oh, I’m aware of what happens to your ancient markings in our presence. I didn’t mean that type of proximity.” 

He stepped into the aisle too, shaking dust out of his hair. The church growled from its rafters to its foundation, pulling screams from the few parishioners. He barely heard it.

“Then what kind of proximity test?” he asked, desperate to keep Nai a few more moments. 

Nai stopped and the church thumped hard on its foundation, sending the congregants running for the back exits.

“My proximity to the man and not the Vatican weapon.” Nai’s jovial smile slipped and his confusion was plain. “It’s just that, really it's a bit, you probably wouldn’t understa-” 

“Today, dyavol,” he interrupted, tattoos singing to be let loose.

The confusion fled Nai’s face completely and all that was left was soft, vulnerable wonder.

“I …,” Nai smiled ruefully. “I didn’t expect to like you.”

The church rumbled hard around them, sending small pieces of painted stone ceiling to the floor. A crack signaled a larger piece coming loose above him, opening the roof to send a beam of sunlight directly onto Nai, bathing him in a beatific glow. Mesmerized, he forgot to duck, not that he would have cleared the space in time. But, the impact he expected never came. He looked up and the stone slab, about thirty feet wide and possibly weighing a ton, hovered in the air, held there by two of Nai’s relaxed, raised fingers. With a gentle flick, the slab shot into the confession box, shattering it. He almost felt sorry for the priest who’d been watching from the lectern with wide eyes. The poor man screamed and fled the pulpit. 

“I hope you’re not waiting for a thank you,” he said, brushing dust off his shoulders, heart hammering.

“I’d be disappointed if you did,” Nai replied, Its dark hilarity back in place. “I’ll settle for a drink the next time we cross paths though. Domaine de la Romanee-Conti Grand Cru. 1945 is my preference if you can find it.”

With that, Nai stepped out into the sunshine. The quaking church stilled, leaving him in dazed silence. 

He sighed as his tattoos resumed their place on his knuckles. The Sede was going to lose its shit over this. The story of how a demon got close enough to kill, yet walked away alive was going to be required at his Rome debriefing. Malene was going to kill him for the headache coming her way.

But, all he could think about was where he was going to find a Romanee-Conti burgundy, circa 1945.

[tchallasbabymama]

Don't Forget About Us

Hello, my lovelies. Here’s my contribution to @nahimjustfeelingit-writes smut challenge (the prompt is in bold!) Let’s see what Erik’s up to now, shall we?

Don’t forget to check out my masterlist to read my other stories and oneshots. Your comments and reblogs mean the world to me, so make sure to let me know what you think! And let me know if you want to be tagged in any of my writing. Enjoy😘

Word count: 5,595

CW: smut...duh.

“So, what do you do for a living?”

Kayla sighed internally at the question and took a sip of her Pinot Grigio. She hated first dates with a burning passion, but unfortunately, that was the only way to find a man around here. She went through the motions of politely answering his questions, barely asking any of her own. She didn’t care. Even just fifteen minutes in, Kayla could tell he didn’t excite her, and she lamented the waste of a good outfit as she listened to him drone on about his life. Every now and then, he’d stop and ask a question about her, but she could tell he was only asking so he could talk more about himself.

How many siblings do you have?

What’s your sign?

Why did your last relationship end?

Her mind traveled to her ex-boyfriend, Erik Stevens. They had spent six blissful years together, and Kayla thought he was the one. She wanted them to get married and start a family, and she thought he did, too, but every time she brought it up, he’d find some excuse to change the subject. At thirty years old, Kayla wasn’t getting any younger, so she grew tired of his avoidance and eventually cut him loose. She needed more out of life, but the guy currently sitting across from her certainly wasn’t it.

“We wanted different things,” she answered vaguely and took another sip. It would be a long night with what’s-his-name. David? Devon? Whatever. At least he had money and took her to a nice restaurant.

Darryl took the opportunity to bore her with the details of his job, which Kayla already knew. He was a colleague of her best friend, Carina’s husband. They worked at the same law firm, and Carina decided to hook them up after tiring of hearing Kayla complain about dating apps. As much as Kayla hated Tinder, she would’ve much rather been at home on her couch swiping left on the cesspool of single men Oakland had to offer. Every few dozen swipes or so, she’d find a cutie, but his bio would be abysmal, or his conversation skills would fall flat.

Despite the fact that their relationship just couldn’t make it, Kayla still thought of Erik as the gold standard. Just thinking about his dimples and his struggle beard made her smile dreamily. His big, strong arms would wrap around her and hold her tight at night, and she’d trace her fingers over the intentionally placed keloid scars that held his darkest secrets. She missed retwisting his locs and the way he always smelled like sandalwood and warm vanilla. Kayla didn’t want to admit it, but she still loved him. No man could compare to her Erik.

“Hello? Kayla?”

“Huh? Oh, sorry. Can you repeat that last part?”

“Uh, yeah, sure. What’s got you so distracted, babygirl?”

Kayla fought the bile rising in her throat. She wasn’t his babygirl. It didn’t even sound right coming from his mouth. Maybe it was the thinness of his lips. They weren’t “white man” thin, but they couldn’t hold a candle to the juicy pussy pleasers she had grown accustomed to.

“Nothing, just thought I saw somebody I know. You were saying?”

“Just that you look beautiful tonight,” Damon attempted to flirt with her.

Kayla wanted to roll her eyes but thanked him instead and smiled politely again. Of course she looked beautiful; she had pulled out all the stops for what she had hoped would be a good night out. Kayla had squeezed her thickness into a lavender satin dress. The way the dress’s skirt cinched on the side kept it snug around her plush waist, but the high slit that traveled up her thigh was the main attraction. The strappy silver heels on her feet showed off her matching pedicure that contrasted beautifully with her glistening brown skin, and her makeup was flawless. Her outerwear for the night, a cropped fur jacket that had found its way to the coat check when they arrived, was the icing on the cake. Her outfit deserved the appreciation, just not from Deshawn.

The waiter saved her from having to focus on her date when she brought out the food they had ordered. Since Kayla knew Derek had money, she had ordered the whole lobster, and she fought her mouth from drooling too much as the waiter set it down in front of her. It laid on a bed of forbidden rice, and the side of roasted brussels sprouts and cremini mushrooms looked heavenly. The ramekin of drawn butter off to the side tempted her as it sat next to the minuscule seafood fork. She may not enjoy her company for the evening, but Kayla damn sure was going to enjoy her meal.

“Looks good,” Dominic called from the other side of the table, breaking Kayla from her trance as he cut into his wagyu beef.

“Sure does.” Kayla wasted no time before digging into her meal. Not only was it the perfect excuse to avoid conversation, but it was perfect, period.

A slight chill permeated the air as the door swung open and the crisp January air entered the small restaurant. Kayla shivered as she complained internally about being forced to sit near the door, but that shiver intensified as she heard a voice. His voice.

“Reservation for Stevens, please.”

Kayla stilled.

“Of course. Right this way, sir,” the maitre d’ responded, and Kayla heard three sets of footsteps coming her way.

--------

“Babe, let’s go!”

“Yell at me one more time, woman,” Erik warned as he came around the corner into the living room, fastening his watch.

“I swear, you take more time getting ready than I do.”

“Whatever, Mo. You ready?”

“Nigga, I been ready!”

Erik rolled his eyes and grabbed his keys. It would be a rough night, and things were already starting off on a bad foot. He and Monique had been seeing each other for the better part of a year, and he’d finally reached his limit. She was overbearing, rude, and just after him for his money, but he hated being alone, so he put up with her bullshit. His cousin, T’Challa, had tried to hook him up with a few ladies back in Wakanda when he went to visit after his breakup, but nothing stuck. Almost immediately after coming back to the states, Erik met Monique at a charity event for the Outreach Center. She had the singing voice of an angel and had been booked as the entertainment for the evening. Erik was drawn to her like a sailor to a siren, and she immediately sank her teeth into him. Past her vocal talents, Monique wasn’t really anything special. Her personality left a lot to be desired, she wasn’t the sharpest crayon in the box, and she just wasn’t her.

The moment Kayla ended their relationship a year ago, Erik’s whole world shattered. He had lived a life full of pain and loss, but Kayla had been his lifeline. She pulled him out of the dark and made him revel in the sunshine. Hell, she was the sunshine, but now he had settled for a UV lamp at best. Kayla had wanted a life that Erik was too scared to give her, but that fear became his downfall. He still missed her most nights. He was lonely, and Monique was there to keep him company, but that wasn’t enough for him anymore. Erik craved a connection that Monique just couldn’t provide. So he decided he had to break it off and figured that doing so in a public place would probably be best. She had a tendency to throw things when she got angry.

The car ride to Chez Martine was tense. Monique had been angry all day because Erik had taken back his credit card even though she wanted to buy a new dress for their date. Her lousy mood almost made him dump her back at his condo, but Erik kept a cool head and stayed focused on the plan. He ignored the way Monique complained the entire time she got ready, reluctantly putting on a dress he had seen her wear before. It didn’t matter to him; he knew what the night held.

When they walked into the restaurant, Erik’s heart dropped into his stomach. He’d recognize that shoulder blade tattoo anywhere. She had cut off all her hair and lost a few pounds, but he knew for sure that he was looking at Kayla. His Kayla. He forced himself to look straight ahead as they passed her table and prayed that the maitre d’ didn’t sit them where she could see him. Unfortunately, he had no such luck because the only open table for two was directly within her line of sight. He prayed again that Monique would sit on the far side of the table, but Bast ignored his pleas once more. He had to sit facing her, and as soon as he got comfortable in his chair, her gaze slyly trailed over to him. They locked eyes across the room, and Erik’s heart stopped. She was just as beautiful as the last time he saw her all those months ago, but who the fuck was that sitting across from her?

“What are you looking at?” Monique’s abrasive voice cut through his eardrums.

“Nothing. Just thought I saw someone I know, that’s all.”

She cut her eyes at him and turned around to look as he buried his face in the menu.

“Quit being nosy,” he complained.

“I just wanna see who’s got your attention, that’s all.” Monique turned back around with a sour look on her face. “It’s probably that fat girl with her cleavage all out.”

“Mo, just look at the fucking menu and act like you got some sense.”

“Fine.”

Monique pouted until the waiter showed up, but she plastered a fake smile on her face as he took their order. As usual, she ordered the most expensive thing on the menu, and it bothered him to no end that she was hellbent on spending all of his money. Of course, he had plenty, but she felt entitled to it. Kayla never cared about him being rich. Hell, when they got together, she didn’t even know he was a prince, but he loved to spoil her nonetheless. He loved the look on her face when he’d buy her things or take her on the expensive trips that she more than deserved. Kayla appreciated everything he did for her with all her heart, but she’d say the same thing every time.

“Thank you, baby, but you’re all I need.”

Erik smiled fondly at the memory of when he bought her a diamond tennis bracelet from Wakanda for their second anniversary. She was so excited to have diamonds that weren’t marred by exploited labor that she damn near dropped the box when she saw what was inside. It had been a rough year for them, what with him disappearing for a couple of months to seize the Wakandan throne and all. She certainly had plenty of colorful words for him when he came back. He’ll never forget the look on her face when he showed up at her door. He had brought T’Challa for backup just in case, but she looked right past the king as tears welled up in her eyes at seeing her Erik, alive and well.

Erik’s eyes started to get misty as he thought about the way she kissed him with so much emotion...then slapped him across the face for leaving. His gaze wandered back over to Kayla and he noticed the light bounce off of something on her arm. She was wearing the bracelet.

As if she felt his glare, Kayla shifted uncomfortably in her seat, so he averted his eyes back to Monique, who had caught him staring again.

“Why don’t you go say hi?” she asked sarcastically, making him roll his eyes so hard they almost got stuck.

--------

Erik Stevens. Here, of all places. He just had to be here.

Kayla noticed that he didn’t seem to be enjoying his modelesque date’s company any more than she was enjoying Darwin’s, and the pang of jealousy she felt at seeing him with another woman went away. She knew she had no right to feel any kind of way about it, especially since she was the one that broke things off. That didn’t make it any easier, though.

Dylan was too wrapped up in his steak to notice her wandering eye, but it seemed that Erik’s food was as uninteresting as the woman across from him. Kayla watched as he half-heartedly pushed it around his plate, but he certainly kept his favorite whiskey coming. She wanted to chuckle but didn’t want Daniel to think he had anything to do with her levity. They were both drowning their dissatisfactions in their alcohols of choice, and Kayla got a phantom taste of Uncle Nearest 1856 on her lips as she watched him take a sip. When he set the glass down and licked his lips, Kayla felt flush. She missed those lips…

“So, how about dessert?” Damien asked as he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his stomach. “I hear their creme brulee is amazing.”

“Uh, sure, why not?”

“You know,” he began as he leaned in and reached for her hands. She allowed him to take them, but the softness of his hands disgusted her. No callouses, no roughness, not even a firm grip. “I’ve had a great night. I’d love to see you again.”

Kayla chuckled nervously, unsure of how to proceed.

“What are you doing next-”

“Are you fucking kidding me?!”

A shrill voice pierced the air as Erik’s date bolted up from her seat. Desmond, and the whole restaurant, turned around to see what was going on, and Kayla took the opportunity to remove her hands from his.

“Keep your voice down,” Erik sneered through his teeth. “We’re in public.”

“So?! You bring me out here just to dump me? To dump this?!” she gestured at her slim figure, and he rolled his eyes.

“You ain’t even all that,” he waved her off. He was tired of playing nice, and Kayla could see the exasperation written all over his face.

“Excuse me, miss-” the waiter attempted to calm her down, but the crazed woman cut him off.

“Stay out of this!”

“I’m so sorry,” Erik mouthed to the poor man who would absolutely be getting a monstrous tip later.

“Oh, you’re sorry for him, but not for me?”

“Mo, just sit down. We can finish our meal like adults-”

“Fuck you, Erik.” She threw her dirty martini at him, soaking the front of his all-black ensemble.

Kayla could damn near see the steam coming out of his ears as his apparent ex stormed out of the restaurant. Erik locked eyes with her across the room, and when he saw the concern written all over her face, his softened.

“Whew, poor fella,” Dexter commented as he turned back around. “Where was I? Oh-”

“Excuse me, where’s your restroom?” Kayla interrupted him as their waiter walked by.

“Right down there.” She pointed at a set of stairs off to the side, and Kayla thanked her as she slid out of her seat.

“I’ll be back, Darius.”

“It’s Denzel.” He deflated.

“Fuck,” she froze. She had been sure it was Darius. “Still, I’ll be back.”

“I’ll be here,” he responded, obviously upset by her slip-up.

Kayla hurried off down the stairs and leaned against the wall as she waited for either of the single-use restrooms to open up. She took a deep breath and opened her clutch, reaching in to pull out her phone with a shaky hand and typing in his number. It was one of the few she had memorized, just in case.

“You ok?”

Her thumb hovered over the send button, but she couldn’t press it. Her heart nearly thumped out of her chest at the thought of starting a conversation with him, but something within her said that she should. It would be weird not to say anything after all that, right?

“Hey-”

“Shit!” Kayla dropped her phone when his silky baritone graced her ears.

“My fault, ma.” Erik leaned over and picked the phone off the floor, checking it for cracks. He saw she had typed a message out to him and smirked before handing it back to her.

“T-thanks.”

“No problem. And, yeah, I’m ok.”

“Huh?”

Erik pointed at her phone screen.

“Oh! Right. Um, well, that’s good to hear.” Kayla attempted to push her hair behind her ear out of habit, forgetting she had just cut it all off a week ago.

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You ok? You don’t seem to into ole dude out there.”

Kayla sighed and rolled her eyes, “Oh, him.”

“Damn, it’s like that?” Erik laughed, and she slapped his arm. That slight contact was enough to spark a flame in them both, and Erik’s face turned serious. “For real, though, not going well?”

“Better than you, it seems,” she quipped as she eyed his wet shirt. That was a bad idea because his first three buttons were undone, and she caught a peek of the raised scars that she missed so much. And that broad chest, and the chain with his father’s ring that he always wore. He’d let her wear it from time to time, and she always felt like it was such an honor. He trusted her enough to let her wear it. He loved her enough to-

Kayla pried her eyes away and made yet another mistake: she looked up at him. Those eyes still looked like sweet, sweet molasses, and even though his locs were braided back, she could tell he was letting them grow out. She momentarily wondered who was retwisting them nowadays, but her train of thought was cut short by the scent of sandalwood and vanilla. Kayla’s mind went blank as she inhaled slowly.

“Heh, yeah. That was...that was pretty embarrassing. Not even gonna lie.” Erik looked away shyly, unable to hold her gaze.

“I guess you’ll need to find a new date spot, huh?”

“Nah, I think I’m good on dating for a while.”

“Same,” Kayla sighed. “Dating sucks.”

“Yeah…”

One of the bathroom doors unlocked, and a middle-aged white man stepped out and passed them on the way up the stairs.

“Well, I should-”

“Yeah, go ahead.”

Kayla walked towards the bathroom, but before she could reach the door, she felt a light tug on her wrist. His touch still gave her goosebumps, and he noticed her raised skin as she turned to face him.

“I just, uh...it was nice seeing you, Kay-kay.” Erik smiled at her, and she nearly melted. She missed when he called her that, too. “You look good.”

“Thanks, E.” She smiled back. “So do you.”

He let her go, and Kayla disappeared into the bathroom. When she closed the door behind her, she took a deep breath to center herself. After all these months, Erik still took her breath away. He clouded her senses and scrambled her mind. Even as she took care of business, her brain replayed their short interaction on a loop.

Kayla locked eyes with her reflection as she dried her hands. How could she go back up there to- what’s his name? Oh, yeah, Da- Denzel. That’s it, Denzel. How could she go back up there to his mediocre company when the man she still loved had made her feel so alive with just one touch. That was the magic of Erik, his magnetism. When they were together, she couldn’t help but be drawn to him, even when she wanted to slap him across his beautiful face. Those were some of the best times, though. If she was angry at him, he knew exactly what to do to calm her down. To put her in her place. To remind her-

Kayla’s daydreaming was cut short by a knock at the door.

“Occupied!”

It came again.

“I’ll be out in a minute!”

She reached for another paper towel to dab off the sweat that had started to pool on her skin at the thought of Erik’s dominance when the door opened.

“What the f- Erik?!”

He pushed inside the bathroom and locked the door behind him.

“You need to start locking doors, Kay.”

“I- what do you want?”

“I want to talk to you,” he spoke as he moved closer to her.

“Here?!”

“Yeah, here,” he chuckled.

Kayla rolled her eyes and tried to push past him.

“Now is not the time or place-”

“When is?” he blocked her exit, and she crossed her arms in defeat, looking up at him through her lashes as she leaned against the sink. “Look, I just need to say something real quick.”

“Fine,” Kayla sighed and gestured for him to continue. She knew there was no use fighting him. She wasn’t leaving that bathroom until he was good and ready.

“Kay,” his voice softened, and she looked away only to have her face pulled back in his direction. “Kay-kay, look at me.”

She made the mistake of doing just that, getting lost in his eyes again.

“I miss you,” Erik murmured.

“Erik-”

“Look, I know, ok? I know. And I’m sorry, Kay. I really am- no, look at me. I’m sorry I wasn’t enough for you...but I miss you, girl.”

Kayla’s eyes welled up with tears that she tried her hardest to blink away, but one had the nerve to fall. Erik wiped it away, and the next one, and the next one. A sob wracked Kayla’s body, and he wrapped his arms around her body.

“Don’t cry, babygirl. I know you worked hard on your makeup.”

Kayla laughed through her tears, but the emotions washed back over her, and she buried her face into his chest. It was already soaked with gin, so what harm would a few tears do?

He held her and rocked her softly from side to side as she cried, and after a couple of minutes, she found the will to look up at him again. His cheeks were wet, so she reached up and swiped her thumbs over them as she held his face in her small hands. He nuzzled into them and kissed her wrists.

“I miss you, too, E,” she croaked.

“I know, babygirl.”

He leaned in to kiss her forehead, and she closed her eyes as his soft lips caressed her skin. They stayed intertwined for who knows how long until Erik felt Kayla begin to pull back. He looked down at her, and the two of them locked eyes. Before they knew it, their lips had met in the middle in a passionate embrace. They got lost in each other for a moment until common sense returned to Kayla, and she pushed him off.

“We can’t-”

“Why not?”

“Because…”

“Because what, Kay?” Erik’s voice rumbled as he closed what little gap was between their bodies. He left soft kisses on her temples before working down to her cheeks, then her jawline, and eventually the column of her neck. She let out a soft whimper when his teeth grazed the crook of her neck but pushed him back again before he could continue any further.

“Erik, I...I still love you, and-”

He attacked her lips with his, hands feverishly gripping her waist as he pushed her further into the sink. She had nowhere to go, and she was ok with that.

“I...love you...too...babygirl,” he whispered between kisses.

Kayla’s mind went blank as he lifted her up on the counter and pressed himself between her legs. She could feel him, all of him, and damn did she miss that monster between his legs.

“Erik,” she moaned as he nipped at her earlobe. He still knew how to play her body like a violin.

“Mmm, say it again.”

“Erik!” she squeaked as she felt his strong hands grip her thighs.

“Just like that,” he groaned, and she flooded her already wet panties.

“Baby-”

He connected his forehead to hers and stared deep into her eyes. “You miss me?”

“Mhm,” Kayla nodded with her lip between her teeth.

“I miss you, too, baby. I think about you all the time. Every day,” he pecked her lips, “every night. I miss everything about you, Kay-kay. Your off-key singing, your horrible cooking-”

“Shut up,” Kayla giggled as his hands traveled up her dress.

“Your body…fuck I miss this body. I miss how you smell, how you taste...how that tight little pussy feels wrapped around my dick.”

Kayla widened her legs for him as his fingers found their way to the seat of her panties, stroking up and down her slit. Erik kissed his way back down her face and over to her ear, his warm breath sending chills down her spine.

“Do you think about me when you touch yourself? Because I do. You’re all I see when I stroke my dick...wishing it was your hand...your lips...this fucking pussy.”

Erik pushed her panties to the side, and his nimble fingers circled her clit. Kayla let out a small moan that was music to his ears, making fingers move faster and her breath grow shallower with each rotation.

“Answer me.”

“Mhm.”

“Come on, babygirl, you can do better than that. You think about me when you play in your pussy? This pussy right here?” he asked as he slapped her vulva, her wetness sticking to his hand.

“Y-yes, baby-”

“Uh-uh, you know who I am. Say it,” Erik commanded as he snuck three fingers inside her wetness, making her moan loudly in his ear. “Shhh, you gotta be quiet, babygirl. You don’t want people out there knowing how much of a slut you are, right?”

Kayla shook her head no.

“That’s what I thought. Now, I asked you a question, Kayla,” he reminded her. His gruff voice made her weak, and the fingers that were steadily speeding up inside her certainly didn’t help. “Answer me. Who am I, babygirl?”

Kayla tried to hold out as much as she could. She didn’t want to say it, too proud to give in, but the way he was currently stretching out her pussy and curling his fingers inside her made her cling to his shoulders. The bastard knew what he was doing, and she didn’t want to let him win. But then, he played dirty and bit down on her neck. She cried out, and when he pulled back to look at her, the ferocity in his eyes drove her up the wall.

“I said, who the fuck am I, Kayla?” Erik growled. His hand sped up, making her weak with every thrust. She couldn’t hold it anymore and came undone around him, her mouth betraying her as his name fell from her lips.

“Daddy!” she gasped as her pussy spasmed, and he chuckled darkly.

“Damn right I am,” he kissed her lips, “now gimme that pussy. Daddy missed his pussy.”

Kayla heard a rip and felt the cool air between her legs as he tore through her panties to get to her treasure trove. She reached down between them and grabbed his clothed erection in her hand, making him groan as he bit down on his luscious bottom lip. She undid his belt buckle and slowly unzipped his pants before reaching in and pulling out his throbbing dick.

The longing in her eyes told him everything he needed to know, so he pushed her legs back and tapped his head on her clit.

“You want daddy’s dick in you?”

“Mhm,” she whimpered.

“Good.”

He pushed in and groaned at the feeling of her pussy walls gripping him as he sheathed himself inside her.

“Fuck, you feel like home.”

Kayla moaned into his neck in response and wound her hips against him, meeting him thrust for thrust as he stroked into her slow and deep. She couldn’t form words. He felt so damn good inside her that Kayla’s brain had short-circuited. Erik’s dick hit spots that she could never find herself no matter how hard she tried. Even in her dreams, he drove her body wild. She had spent the last year trying to find somebody, anybody who could make her feel that way, but nobody could compare to Erik Stevens.

Erik and Kayla panted heavily into each others’ mouths as he made love to her body, and as soon as Kayla started to tense up, his thrusts grew harder.

“I-I-”

“I know, babygirl. Daddy feels it,” he groaned as he nipped at her bottom lip. “Cum on my dick like a good girl.”

His words sent Kayla into overdrive, and her body shook as she spilled over him. Her spasming walls hugged him tight, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, begging him with her eyes.

“You feel amazing,” she moaned.

“Mhm. I know them other niggas wasn’t hitting it like this. I just know it. Look at you, cumming all over daddy’s dick. Look at it!” He grabbed her chin and made her look down at her throbbing pussy as his dick slid in and out of her.

“We look so good, daddy!”

Erik slammed into her, and she bit into his shoulder to keep from screaming. He gave her his all over and over, rocking the countertop in the process.

“We’ll look even better if you let me cum in this pussy. Mix my cum with yours-”

“Yes!”

“Yes?” He chuckled. “You want it that bad, huh? Nasty ass, in here getting fucked while that bum ass nigga’s waiting for you upstairs.”

“Mmm, I want it.”

“Want what, babygirl?” Erik teased as he brought his thumb to her clit, strumming it slowly as he thrust into her.

“You. I want you to cum deep in me.”

“Shit,” Erik groaned. “You want it deep in there?”

“Mhm. Put it where it belongs, daddy.” Kayla licked up the side of his neck, making his knees buckle. “Cum in your pussy.”

Erik lost all sense of control and pounded into her tight pussy, somehow getting even deeper in preparation for his release. Kayla held on tight as she felt him begin to spasm inside her, and she released around him again as his deep moans tickled her ear. Erik thrust extra deep and held his dick in place as he emptied his balls into her warmth, whimpering lightly as she rubbed his back to soothe him and bring him back down.

“I missed you, babygirl.”

“I missed you, too, daddy.”

They stayed like that, wrapped up in each other until their breathing slowed. Erik was the first to move, slowly pulling himself out of Kayla as she whined at the loss of contact. He kissed all over her face before planting a slow, sweet kiss on her lips.

“I can’t let you go again, Kay-kay,” his voice cracked as tears threatened to fall from his eyes again.

Kayla pulled him back in and kissed him so deeply that she nearly lost herself in him again, but he pulled away and looked her in her eyes.

“I’m serious, girl. I’ll do anything. I’ll marry you, give you as many big-headed babies as you want. Just, please, Kay-” she cut him off with another kiss to shut him up.

“We should go back to my place and talk,” she whispered, and Erik’s face lit up. Something about the way she said it, the way she kissed him, the way her body still responded to his...it gave him hope. Kayla smiled at him and pecked his lips once more before hopping off of the sink. He had to catch her because her legs were wobbly, and she stumbled a little in her heels.

“You aight?” he laughed.

“No, nigga,” she slapped his chest, and the two of them got caught in a laughing fit. They had really just fucked in the bathroom at Chez Martine. Kayla was on cloud nine until a thought occurred to her, and her face fell flat. “Oh, shit.”

“What?” Erik’s face turned serious, and his eyes scanned over her body, looking for whatever the problem was.

Kayla started giggling again, and he looked confused.

“What is it?” he asked, barely able to keep a straight face. Her laugh was always so infectious…

“Demetrius.”

“Who?!”

“My date.”

“Girl, don’t worry about him. He probably thinks you dipped out anyway.”

Kayla shrugged and fixed her dress as Erik stuffed his shirt back in his pants. They checked their reflections in the mirror, and Kayla was pleasantly surprised that her makeup was still intact thanks to that setting spray she had splurged on the other day.

“Ready?” Erik asked as he admired her beauty. Kayla nodded, and he unlocked the door, opening it to find Duncan leaning against the wall with a sour look on his face. Kayla’s eyes blew wide as she tried to figure out what to say to her date for the evening.

“Heyyy, um…”

“Denzel,” he seethed.

“Yeah, sorry. So, um, we’re-”

“Sorry, bruh,” Erik clapped him on the shoulder, “but we heading out. Bathroom’s all yours, though.”

Erik pulled Kayla along, and she sent Deion an apologetic glance before following Erik up the stairs. It seemed the whole restaurant knew what had occurred, but neither one of them cared. They were just happy to be around each other again. It had been entirely too long.

Taglist: @ladymac82, @kitesatforestp, @harleycativy, @raysunshine78, @maddeningmayhem, @theblulife, @motheroffae, @love-mesome-me,@toni9, @bribrisback, @impremenior, @blacklytical, @uzumaki-rebellion, @honeyandpeaches, @cecereads209, @wakandama2,

[shespeaksinsongs]

🎃 idk if this counts as spooky but you and Draco trying a bunch of muggle candy (which reader is familiar too growing up in the muggle world) and watching a bunch of Halloween classics with him while just DEVOURING the Halloween candy and you guys fall asleep watching these movies but Draco wakes up with a tummy ache and you're like "i fucking told you so" and he's just looking at you with a mad expression but kinda sad and he's like "totally worth it though" so the following day you take care of him

Ugh this is so loooong, anyway

glad you’re as crazy about draco as i am 😩🙏🏼

-

“Mm, this one’s good.” Draco said with a mouth full of multiple sweets his girlfriend had introduced to him.

“Which one?” Y/N asked, her eyes focused on the second movie - Halloween - that she picked out for the couple that 31st of October.

“This one.” He replied, holding up a wrinkled orange wrapper, his fingertips smudged with calories.

“Ah,” Y/N said, moving closer to Draco so she could lay her head comfortably on his stomach. “Kit Kat.”

“Oh, I like this one, too!” Draco said, holding up a triangular orange, white, and red hard candy.

“That one’s candy corn, my love.” Y/N smiled, wiping the corners of his mouth of chocolate. “Your parents really never let you have sugar? Not even cake?”

“Nope.” He said, popping the “p” before plopping a Reese’s peanut butter cup into his mouth, smiling in delight at the taste.

“Hm.” Y/N said absentmindedly, still focused on the movie. She inched her hand closer to Draco’s glow-in-the-dark witch hat basket Y/N had gifted him.

Draco swatted her hand away, holding the basket high up and away from her, continuing to indulge in the tasty treats.

“Draco.” Y/N said sternly, leaning over his chest for the candy, but his arm was too long for her to reach. “Give me your candy.”

“No way. I worked hard for this!”

“I bought it for you!” Y/N exclaimed, not believing the blasphemy that was pouring out of his filthy mouth.

“Whatever. Eat your own.” Draco said, popping purple and pink Nerds into his mouth, crinkling his mouth and eyes at the sour taste.

“I gave you mine, you idiot!” Y/N said.

“Your mistake.” Draco shrugged.

“No, it’s your mistake now.” Y/N said, tickling his sides and giggling triumphantly when he immediately dropped the bucket on the floor, begging her to stop.

“Free enterprise!” She yelled over his laughing and pleas, stuffing candy anywhere she could.

“You are a child.” Draco scowled, upset about the fact that she’d stolen a few M&M packets.

“You’re the one who insisted we go trick-or-treating.” Y/N said coolly, tipping her head back and opening her mouth wide, pouring pop rocks onto her tongue.

“Whatever.” Draco rolled his eyes, continuing to eat the rest of the candies he was able to salvage.

After the fifth movie they’d watched, Y/N realized something. “Babe, you’re eating a lot of candy.”

“Can you blame me?” He said, moaning at the taste of Dove milk chocolate.

“Well, no, but you’re gonna get a tummyache if you keep eating this much.” She said, grouping all the wrappers and mess the two had made on the bed into one pile.

“I don’t get stomachaches. I am invincible.” Draco said, making Y/N wish for the moment where he’d regret saying that to come faster.

“Sure you are. Let’s see how you feel tomorrow morning.” She rolled her eyes, turning off the TV and yawning. “Goodnight, darling.”

Y/N woke up, not to her surprise, to see a blond head on his knees, gripping onto his stomach for his dear life.

“Love, what’s wrong?” She asked immediately through the morning grogginess, at his side in a flash.

“Too much candy.” Was all Draco could say, his face paler than a ghost.

Y/N looked at him with a straight face and blinked. “I fucking told you.”

“Y/N/N! Now is not the time for scolding me!” Draco said, swallowing back what sounded like bile making its way up his throat. “Just make it go away, please.” He begged, holding onto her torso and pressing his head against her stomach.

“The best thing you can do right now is let it pass, Dray.” She said, carding her fingers through his soft hair.

“Don’t you muggles have a candy that can make you feel better?” Draco asked, hunched over her body, taking deep breaths through each few words he spoke.

“Candy’s what got you into this mess!” She laughed, holding his face in her palms. “I’ll make you some soup for your tummy, okay?” She nodded, smiling faintly as she made her way downstairs.

When she came back with a tray that held a flower, some warm chicken soup, and Draco’s favorite tea, she did not expect to see Draco munching on yet another piece of candy.

“Draco,” she said, watching him devour multiple candies at once. “what in Merlin’s name do you think you’re doing?”

“For the record,” Draco said, swallowing a Twix bar whole, which Y/N had never ever in her life, seen someone do before. “this is worth the pain.”

[mostlymaudlin]

@carryon-countdown day 25: sleepover

rated T, 2k. part of stoner au. :D

tags: penny & baz are besties, sometimes u just have to remind ur friends u love them, friends for a reason friends for a season friends for life type beat, this is about friendship simon has like 2 lines, girls night, absolutely no toenail painting

PENELOPE

Sometimes it really does feel like I need to make new friends. It’s hard, though. I don’t like introducing new people into my life — I don’t like people.

Agatha used to just be my friend. We didn’t have many similar interests, but we lived in the dorms together freshman year and it just sort of worked. We’d sit in our room, me reading, Agatha painting her nails. Every so often, one of us would tell the other a bit of gossip, or describe something weird we saw someone do that day. It was chill. It was fun.

We stopped hanging out as much when she started dating Simon. That was okay, too, because I had started dating Shepard. What wasn’t fine was how Agatha ghosted me when she dumped Simon. It was all kind of harsh. She was graduating early, and then she fucked off to a graduate program in the States. Doesn’t even answer my texts.

So until recently, it’s just been Simon, Shepard and I. But the balance is off. Simon’s a Shepard hog, to be honest. And Shepard’s a Simon hog. And I’m obviously ecstatic that my best friend and my boyfriend get along so well. But sometimes I feel like I’m third-wheeling them.

Sometimes it becomes really apparent that, even though they both love me, they just get along better with each other. I don’t like sitting around and watching stupid shit and rolling joints. They don’t want to read my book recommendations, and they don’t understand when I get stressed out about exams.

And that’s all fine. We all have roles to play in each other’s lives, and I love the roles they play in mine. I just wish I had someone in my life who not only understood and accepted me, but also was a little bit more like me.

I used to think that maybe Baz could be my outside-of-the-friend-group friend. We got on well in classes. Sometimes, we’d teeter on the edge of hanging out beyond the library. But now that he’s dating Simon, he’s been sucked into his vortex.

It’s fine fine fine. I try not to be jealous. I try to remember that I’m luckier than most — that I couldn’t be lonely if I tried, not with the way the three of them hang off me. But there are moments like this where I can’t help but turn sour.

“Baaaaaaaabe!” Simon calls across the library, ignoring all the irritated glances he gets from all the people in our vicinity. Baz is such a stickler about being respectful in the library, but he’s preening at Simon’s attention. When Simon gets close enough, Baz reaches up to pull him into a sloppy, lazy kiss. I try to focus on the study guide Baz and I have been building, but they’ve decided they’re competing for the Guinness Record for loudest, grossest kiss in the world.

Simon releases Baz’s lips with a wet pop, then turns his beam toward me.

“Pen!” he says, setting a large, sweet-smelling Starbucks cup down in front of Baz. I raise my eyebrows at him, and he blushes a bit, lowering his voice when he speaks again. “I didn’t know you’d be here. I’d have gotten you a tea!”

“That’s my bad,” Baz says, eyes apologetic. “I forgot we were meeting up when I sent him my caffeine plea earlier.”

“Whatever,” I say, shrugging. I’m used to it.

Simon litters Baz’s face with kisses before he takes off again — apparently there’s some damsel in distress. (The distress is that there is peanut butter clogging her phone’s charging port.)

When Baz finishes staring dreamily at Simon’s disappearing figure, he turns back to me and nudges his Starbucks cup toward me.

“We can share, if you want?” he says. I wrinkle my nose.

“What is it?” I ask, knowing the answer will be disgusting.

“A creme brulee latte,” he says, and I stare at him expectantly, waiting for him to continue. His lip quirks up on one side. “With a shot of vanilla. And whipped cream. Topped with caramel drizzle and cinnamon.”

“They’re going to poison you one day,” I say, sliding the cup back toward him. He laughs before taking a sip.

“I had Simon leave a $20 tip,” he says. “I try to make up for my coffee sins.”

I laugh a little, despite my tetchy mood.

“Sorry I didn’t think to have him get you something,” Baz says again. I’m being too transparent, I think. He keeps shooting me these worried glances, even as he starts setting his pens and highlighters back up to start working again. (He has a system. For everything. It’s mad. But he’s brilliant, so there must be something to it.) I shrug, tapping my pencil against the table as I wait for him to set his writing utensils in a straight line.

“I’m used to it,” I mutter. Baz’s hands pause, and he looks up at me with an eyebrow raised.

“Used to not getting tea?” he prods. I look away, a bit embarrassed. Baz is definitely clocking the heat I can feel in my cheeks.

“Never mind,” I say, sliding a textbook toward me. “Let’s get back to work.”

Baz’s hand lands on my wrist, tugging a bit. I meet his eyes, and they’re concerned.

“Is everything okay?” he asks. His voice is low (respectful of the library) and gentle (respectful of my feelings).

And everything is fine. I’m fine! To even imply that it’s not — that’s why my chin is wobbling a bit. His ridiculous question has tears welling in my eyes. Because it’s ridiculous.

Baz drops his pen on the table. It rolls into his other supplies, disrupting them like a row of dominos. A pencil drops to the floor as he comes around the table to sit in the chair next to me, wrapping his arm around my shoulder to pull me against his chest.

It is mortifying to cry in the library. But I woke up early this morning for work, and I’m a little stressed about this exam we’re studying for even though it’s not for a week. And my mother sent me a passive aggressive text that I haven’t gotten a chance to tell Shepard about yet. And my little sister told me she didn’t want my help finding a dress for a school dance. And Simon didn’t bring me tea, because Baz forgot about me, and I’m just not having a great day! I’m not my best! I’m crying in the bloody library, my face stuffed in Baz’s expensive shirt collar, tears soaking into his skin alongside his fruity, woodsy cologne.

Baz is rubbing my back, making comforting noises. Nobody is giving us any trouble. Baz and I have discussed this before — crying in the library is the exception to the noise etiquette. When I’ve calmed myself to snuffles, Baz pulls back a bit to look at my face.

“Tell me what’s going on,” he says. It’s a demand, not a question, which for some reason makes me less apt to go into waterfall mode again. I hide my face against his chest again. He lets me.

“I feel left out sometimes,” I admit. Baz squeezes me tightly, but doesn’t say anything. He’s letting me say my piece. It all comes tumbling out. “I don’t smoke or drink, and I know I can be a buzzkill when I’m always wound up about work or school. And I know you get wound up with those things, but you’re also so wound up in Simon. It just makes me feel like an outlier.”

Baz rubs my back for a moment, waiting to see if I’m done.

“I’m sorry we’ve made you feel that way,” he murmurs. “But Penelope, you have to know that you’re the glue of this group. I’m so thankful to have you in my life — and all our friends by extension.”

I sigh, pulling away.

“Don’t feel bad,” I say. “You have nothing to apologize for. I’m thankful for you too, but it’s not like we were friends before you started dating Simon.”

Baz frowns, then flicks my arm. I glare at him.

“I thought we were friends,” he says, brow furrowed. “In class. Not as close as we are now, obviously, but I’ve always enjoyed your company.”

“We’re close now?”

Baz laughs, but it’s strained — color blooms in his tan cheeks, and he runs a hand back through his hair.

“Christ, Penelope, now I might cry in the library,” Baz says. “It’s embarrassing to say this now, but I consider you to be one of my closest friends. I know I’ll never surpass Simon in your friendship ranks, but I was hoping I was a bit higher on the list.”

I smack his arm, and he puts his hand over the spot as if I’ve mortally wounded him, giving me wide eyes.

“Basil! Simon’s different — he’s like my brother. But you’re definitely higher on the list. Right at the top.”

Baz’s face cracks into a smile. Mine mirrors it. It’s ridiculous, is what it is.

“I feel like we just DTR-ed,” Baz whispers, making me laugh at a volume inappropriate for the library. “Bestie status achieved.”

“Bestie status achieved,” I agree.

Baz takes his phone out of his pocket, and I watch as he pulls up our group chat with Simon and Shepard. (Simon's contact is “Light of My Life<333” in his phone. Shepard’s is “Love<333.” With satisfaction, I notice I’m labelled “Girl Genius<333.”)

“What are you doing?” I ask. My phone vibrates as with the text he sends, and our friends’ rapid responses, but I read over his shoulder instead.

Baz: Simon, you’re staying at Shepard’s tonight. Penny and I are having a girl's night.

Love<333: I want to have girl’s night!

Light of My Life<333: Can I come back late for snuggles?

Love<333: Are my snuggles not good enough for you?

Simon and Shepard devolve from there, reassuring each other of their love for one another. Baz rolls his eyes, pocketing his phone and grinning at me.

“I’m not doing face masks and painting your nails,” I tell Baz. He’s up now, neatly putting his school supplies away. I suppose our study guide can wait. This exam is a week away.

Baz scoffs at me, waving his perfectly manicured black-painted fingernails in my face.

“I only let professionals touch my nails,” he says, oozing every bit of his trust fund baby status. I laugh.

“You let Simon paint your nails just the other day!” I complain.

“Those were my toenails, and he begged with puppy dog eyes!” Baz defends. “Do you have Simon puppy dog eyes? Do I need to let you touch my feet to solidify our friendship?”

“No,” I laugh. We’ve gathered our stuff now, and are headed out of the library. “I already said I didn’t want to paint your nails. Especially if your stinky feet are involved.”

Baz sniffs, but doesn’t argue.

“Well, if we’re not having a spa night, what should we do for this epic sleepover?” I ask. We’re in the elevator now. Baz hits the button for the ground floor, then scratches his chin.

“We could check out that bookstore pub that just opened? I think they rent out board games too.”

“That sounds lovely,” I agree. We’re out on the street now. I burrow my hands into my jacket pockets against the chill, bumping my shoulder against Baz’s. (Well, against his elbow, practically. The bastard is ten feet tall.)

“Then, we could go home and drink wine. And judge people on reality television?”

“Best girl’s night ever,” I say, and Baz beams down at me. I give him a serious look before I speak again. “Thank you, Baz. Really. You’re a great friend.”

Baz shrugs, but his eyes soften.

“Anything for you, bestie.”

[thesightstoshowyou]

Bo Sinclair x F Reader (NSFW)

           Summary: Bo wants you to pitch in a little more. He gets more than he bargained for.

             Warnings: Dubcon, cunnilingus, orgasm denial, slapping, degradation, facial, swearing, objectification of reader, alcohol use, mentions of death and violence.

 ~~

             “Put this on.”

             You drop the rag in your hands to catch the yellow floral dress before it smacks you in the face. You glare up at Bo from you spot on the linoleum. Your knees ache. You’d been scrubbing grime off the kitchen floor for two hours.

             “What for?” you ask, bracing a hand against the counter to heave yourself to your feet.

             “It’s time you start pullin’ your weight.” You look around you, flabbergasted. What had you been doing all this time, if not ‘pullin’ your weight?’ Cooking and cleaning all day, every day wasn’t enough for him?

             You keep your mouth shut. The answer is obvious. Of course, it isn’t enough. Nothing would be. If it was up to Bo, you would have been dead the first day you walked into this God-forsaken town.

             “Can I at least know what I’m supposed to do? You know, so I do it right?” You adopt a sweeter tone, hoping to quell the sour mood Bo always seemed to be in when he spoke with you.

             “Two college assholes campin’ nearby.” Bo adjusts his hat and crosses his arms, leaning against the door frame before continuing, “They’ll be needin’ a fan belt. Lester is on his way to get ‘em. Need you to bring one up to the house for Vincent while I take care of the other one.”

             What is it with Bo and fan belts?

             Then, the gravity of what he’s said hits you. Instantly, you pale. They’ve never had you participate before. You can’t do it, no way.

             “Bo—

             “You’ll do this, or I’ll make sure the next one on Vincent’s table is you. Got it?” He snarls, leaning forward and shoving a finger in your face. You clench your jaw, hesitantly nodding. What choice do you have?

             “Make yerself decent and meet me at the shop in a half.”

**

             You understand why Bo chose this dress. It’s tight, flaring out at the hips and hanging just halfway down your thighs. Your breasts are almost spilling out the top too. It shouldn’t be hard to lure a ‘college asshole’ up to the house looking the way you do now. You wonder which poor soul wore this dress before they ended up in the museum.

             You think you might be sick.

             As you walk to the shop, the oppressive Louisiana heat beats down on you, making you squint and pant. Sweat beads along your forehead and chest before spilling into your cleavage. You adjust your outfit, hoping to hide a little more skin. You feel exposed. The old wax woman across the street peers disapprovingly out her window. You flip her the bird. Poor old bitch.

             You round the corner to the little gas station, heart hammering. Lester’s truck isn’t there, but you can see three shadows inside the darkened shop window. You fluff up your hair, sucking in a huge breath. You can do this. You have to do this. You don’t have a choice.

             “Hey, Bo, need anything?” You adopt a honeyed southern accent, resting your hands on your hips, your face breaking into a smile. You hope it looks genuine.

             The three men inside turn to look at you. All three are apparently struck dumb by the sight of you. As you lock eyes with Bo, you fight the blush creeping up your neck. Baby blues rake over your body before snapping back to your face. He grins.

             “Hey, sis. Just in time.”

             Sis, huh?

             “These boys need a V-belt. I don’t see any here. You remember if we have any up at the house?”

             “Yeah, we just got some in today,” you chirp, reaching behind you to pull your hair off your dewy neck.

             “Would you mind takin’ one of these two up to the house to get it? I ought to go over cost of repairs here.”

             “Can do.”

             “Dibs!” shouts one of the boys, a tall, lanky thing wearing the stupidest sleeveless shirt you’ve ever seen. ‘Party with Sluts’ it reads. Okay, maybe this won’t be so hard. His friend punches him in the arm and he laughs before sauntering over to you, motioning for you to lead the way.

             “Hey, behave yerself. That’s my lil’ sister.” If you didn’t know Bo, you’d think he was teasing, messing with the kid, but the smirk curling across his face tells you he’s dead serious. No part of that smile reaches his eyes. You do not envy the kid you’re leaving here with him.

             “Bo! Knock it off,” you giggle, pretending to be embarrassed.

             If you were to look back on the conversation you had with the nameless guy you’re leading to his death, you wouldn’t remember a word of it. Your blood rushes too loudly in your ears to hear half of what he’s saying. You just giggle and play with your hair every time he speaks. It seems to be working.

             “Uh, kay, wait here, I’ll just run upstairs and get the belt,” you say a little too loud so Vincent can hear. You leave him at the bottom of the stairs, careful to accentuate the sway of your hips as you climb the steps so he’s distracted.

             Vincent wastes no time. As soon as you make it to the top, you hear a strangled shout, a heavy thud, then nothing. You don’t turn around.

             The second you make it to your room you peel the dress off your sticky skin and hurl it across the room. Desperately, you fight the tears pricking at the corners of your eyes and the burn in your throat. You had to. You had to. You can’t die yet, not after everything you’ve been through.

**

             You carefully level off a cup of flour before tipping it into a bowl on the counter. You do the same with the baking powder, salt, baking soda….

             It’s three something in the morning. You haven’t been able to sleep all night. So, you do what you always do when you can’t sleep: You bake cookies.

             You gather up the butter wrappings and head for the trash can. As you move, you catch something out of the corner of your eye and jump in shock, gasping and bracing a hand against your chest.

             Bo leans against the doorway, beer in hand, mechanic suit half off and tied around his waist. He chuckles quietly when you grasp the counter and take a deep breath to steady your racing heart.

             “You scared the shit out of me,” you chide, tossing the wrappings into the garbage. You glance down, noticing your bare legs. Right. You’re only wearing a pair of panties and one of Vincent’s flannels. You didn’t think anyone else would be awake at this hour. Three AM usually found Bo passed out, Lester camping somewhere in his truck, and Vincent toiling away in the basement.  

             “I’ll go put some pants on,” you mumble, moving to leave the kitchen, but Bo extends his arm across the doorway to block your exit.

             “Nah. You look good in my shirt,” he comments, mouth quirking up at the corner in that stupid self-satisfied smirk he always wears. You glance down at the red and black checkered flannel, then back to Bo again.

             “I thought it was Vincent’s. I must have got it mixed up in the wash.” You swallow, looking away. You don’t like how he’s looking at you, like a wolf eyeing an injured lamb. He sets his beer on the top of the fridge.

             “No harm, no foul,” he murmurs, dropping the arm from the doorway to brush a strand of your hair behind your ear. You jerk out of his reach, backing away. He follows leisurely, pressuring you until you’re backed up against the counter. He doesn’t stop advancing until his face is inches from yours.

             “Bo,” you mutter, a shaky breath leaving your mouth with his name. You say it like a plea.

             “Yeah?” he purrs, placing both hands on the counter on either side of you, caging you in. He leans in closer, so close you can smell the beer and cigarettes on his breath.

             “Please,” you whisper, voice trembling. He groans quietly under his breath at that.

             “Hmm, say that again, darlin’.” You shake your head, tensing when he reaches up to glide his fingers, feather light, across your jaw. He continues, “I didn’t like the way those fuckers were lookin’ at you today. Not. One. Bit.” He taps you on the nose in time with the last three words.

             “Well, they’re dead now, so….” You trail off, your hammering heart trying to force its way into your throat.

             “Mmm hmm,” he hums, “You did good today, baby. Real good.” You swallow, face heating up, a jolt of arousal sparking between your legs. His voice, the fingers stroking along your collarbone, his words; they’re having an effect on you.

             “Bo,” you beg again, more insistent this time.

             “You don’t like this?” he asks, stepping forward so you’re pressed flush against him. The heat of his body is overwhelming.

             “N-no, please, s—

             Your plea is cut off by the gasp that sneaks from your throat when Bo shoves his hand into your underwear and drags his fingers along your dripping slit. He brings them in front of your face, showing you how your slick shines in the low light of the kitchen.

             “I think you’re a fuckin’ liar,” he purrs, grinning wider, “Open your mouth.” You bite your lip and Bo strikes, gripping your jaw hard. “Don’t make me repeat myself, sweetheart. You won’t like it.”

             Slowly, you part your lips, opening wider when he shoves his wet fingers in your mouth.

             “Clean ‘em off. That’s a good girl.” You roll his fingers and your own salty taste around on your tongue, sucking on them when he demands it. That pulls another low groan from him.

             “I knew that mouth was good for somethin’.” He pulls his fingers from your lips and pushes them back into your panties. You inhale sharply and bite your lip again when his deft fingers find your clit, circling slowly, torturously.

             “Fuck, you’re wet, baby girl.” The words are whispered against your lips, his warm breath washing over your face. You let out a shaky breath, forcing your hips to stay still and not buck like you want. You won’t give him the satisfaction.

             Bo chuckles against your mouth before dragging your underwear down your legs, kneeling as he goes. He throws one of your legs over his shoulder. Vincent could walk in any minute, or Lester, you’re right there in the open—

             Bo dives in, sucking your clit into his mouth and humming. All your thoughts derail, crash, and burn. Your eyes roll back and you grip the edge of the counter with one hand, the other flying to your mouth to muffle your wanton moan.

             He laughs, dragging his tongue up your slit and lapping at your clit, slow, deliberate licks with the flat of his tongue. You can’t help it this time; you grind your hips into his mouth and he grabs a handful of your ass to pull you closer. He slips two fingers into your sopping cunt, curling them and making you whine pathetically. Jesus Christ, you’re already close.

             “Bo, Bo, Bo, I’m…I’m gonna—

             And then he pulls away. Your frustrated gasp is silenced when Bo slaps the inside of your thigh, hard. It makes you yelp and try to squirm away. He stands and grabs your jaw roughly, squeezing painfully.

             “Uh uh, I don’t fucking think so. Yer gonna cum on my cock and nowhere else, understand?” You nod, skin feeling like it’s on fire. You haven’t been touched like this for six fucking months. You worry you’re going to be consumed by need. You’ll say anything he wants.

             “Oh, ya’ want that now? You want me to fuck ya’?” His lips are wet, shining with your juices, and inches from yours again. He grinds his hard, clothed length against your hip.  

             “Yes,” you slur. It’s hard to talk with his hand squeezing your face so hard.

             “You forget your manners, sweetheart?”

             “Please, Bo, please,” you beg, resisting the urge to jerk your head out of his punishing grip.

             “Good girl,” he praises, spinning you around and bending you over the counter. He tugs your arms behind your back, gripping your forearms with one hand while he frees his cock with the other. It slaps against your ass, hard and heavy.

             In one, smooth motion, he lines up with your entrance and slams home, impaling you. You shriek behind grit teeth. Your walls spasm around the sudden intrusion and you wiggle your hips in an attempt to adjust to the stretch.

             “Ohhh fuck, that’s tight,” he growls in your ear, giving you no time to catch your breath before he’s ramming into you. The wet smack of skin against skin echoes around the kitchen. Every thrust pulls a strangled moan or whimper from your throat as you desperately try to contain your sounds of pleasure and pain. Bo laughs cruelly, hot breath puffing against your ear.

             “What’s the matter, baby? Don’t want anyone hearing you get fucked?” He punctuates the last word with a particularly vicious thrust. You mewl, and Bo wraps his free hand around your throat, pulling until you arch uncomfortably.

             Despite the mean treatment, Bo still manages to push you to the brink of orgasm again, his cock battering that perfect spot within you. You can’t speak well at this angle and with his hand tight around your throat, but he feels you beginning to clench around him, feels your legs trembling violently.

             “Yeah, cum on my cock, sweetheart, c’mon, give it to me, fuck yes, yes, yes—

             You bite your lip so hard you taste the coppery tang of blood on your tongue. Hot pleasure curls through your core, numbing you as you tumble over the edge into bliss. Bo groans in your ear, releasing your neck in favor of digging his nails into your hip.

             “’M gonna cum. Yer gonna—f-fuck—gonna get down on your knees and open that pretty mouth, understand?” Dazed, you nod. Bo pulls out and as you turn around, he shoves you down to your knees so hard they crack against the linoleum. Your pained grunt is interrupted when Bo fists a hand in your hair, yanking your head back.

             “Open yer mouth, stick out yer tongue, yeah, fuck—

             His voice is tense, clipped, his hand pumping his slick cock. He utters a broken moan and you snap your eyes shut as he paints your face, lips, and tongue white.

             “Swallow,” he orders breathlessly. You do as your told, forcing the bitter taste of him down your throat. He hums in approval, releasing your hair. You wipe your face on your sleeve and crack your eyes open to peer up at Bo. His cheeks are flushed pink, sweaty hair clinging to his forehead, chest heaving.

             “Goddamn, you look good like that,” he says, mouth turning up in a crooked grin. After tucking himself away, he helps you to your feet and grabs a nearby washrag to blot away the cum staining your skin. Your legs wobble, your crimson cheeks growing redder the longer he grins at you. Bo smooths your hair back, tucking it neatly behind your ears.

             “There. Good as new.” He swats you on the ass, making you jump in surprise. “Now get to bed. I expect breakfast in the morning, as usual.”  

             What a bastard.

[skypied]

Some sea monster culture/body language/some mating rituals stuff/”the courtship fic” in general

So some of this is just. Stuff I’ve been playing with in that courtship fic I mentioned … a month or two ago? (that I still love but am struggling with and haven’t touched in so long sob). I’m gonna add in some snippets here and there, actually, now that I’m scrolling it to find examples to explain my thoughts. (I would be more reluctant to share if I knew I was gonna get this fic finished, but I’m at an eternal stalemate with it - so I’d rather share and show examples of what I’m playing with - because I like sharing)

The fic is overall is based aorund some core ideas I guess:

The fish boys struggling with adapting to human culture because sea folk communicate a lot non-verbally, through their fins and tails, both subconsciously and consciously

Alberto trying to figure out what all the weird feelings he gets around Luca mean

Alberto trying to adapt to life on land when he doesn’t understand his own biology

There’s gotta be a lot of differences between body languages and communication style, I think! One of the first things I thought about playing with was “what if sea folk don’t understand smiling, because they see it as baring their teeth” and “what if sea folk don’t understand hugging, because coming close like that means vulnerable to be attacked” - you know, kind of like with humans vs dogs - but I mostly scrapped that after watching the movie and feeling it didn’t make sense with how physically affectionate the Paguros are, and loads of smiling.

Here are some half-finished paragraphs that kind of summarize the premise I’m working with, I guess:

He didn’t realize how hard he was working maintaining the human facade until realizing he could stop. How the itchy restlessness chasing over his skin correlates to the amount of time he spends on the surface.

Luca chatters his siren words, and Alberto doesn’t understand, but he understands. It’s like his throat isn’t speaking words, but pure emotions and images, that don’t need to be filtered through his thoughts to be interpreted - they shoot straight through his hide and make him respond in turn.

Luca twitters high-pitched and fast, and his fins rise in excitement. He growls and sneers and Alberto bares his teeth, eyes flickering to find the threat. Luca purrs and Alberto melts against him like butter, knowing he’s safe.

Alberto is delighted to discover Luca reacting to him too - tail whipping around whenever Alberto senses danger, fins standing to curious attention, nudging their heads together with a worried chirp whenever he sighs, 

(...)

It’s a relief letting noises rumble through his throat, instead of freezing up and desperately scratching at his throat to make them go away. It’s a relief to not scrub his scales away in panic and glance nervously around. It’s a relief to not hide away to sink his teeth into whole fish to avoid the dark whisky-sour grumble calling him disgusting.

It’s a relief to not feel human eyes widening or scowling in reaction to his very existence. 

Alberto taught Luca to be human and now he’s returning the favor by bringing him home to the sea. 

one scene where Luca offers Alberto a taste of the lunch his mom packed him - one of those little kelp packets from the movie - and Alberto HATES it (bc carnivore) and spits it out, and Luca just. Grabs it and plops it into his mouth:

“That was in my mouth!” Alberto feels his fins stand on end, not yet angry but distressed.

“And?”

“It’s - that’s gross, Luca!”

“No, it’s not.” Luca frowns at him as he swallows. “I’m not wasting my mom’s food just ‘cause you didn’t like it.”

“But it was in my mouth!”

“We share ice cream all the time?” 

“But it was in my mouth!”

“Beto, please.” Luca rolls his eyes. “Mom used to chew food for me before my teeth grew in.”

“But I’m not your mom and you’re not three.”

“But we’re like…” Luca studies him for a moment. “Brothers.”

Something turns in Alberto’s stomach, something warm and pleasant but nauseating. He shakes his head to get rid of it.

“I don’t wanna be if that’s the food I’m getting.”

Luca sticks his tongue out.

a not very fleshed out thing about how they reconcile sea folk to human communication with Giulia: 

Giulia finds them weird and sometimes off-putting when they discard words in favor of chitters and whistles, or when they spend fifteen minutes figuring out one human expression. She doesn’t understand what they mean when they feel the need to express things like humility or submission or back off or the claws are out.

“What about just saying it?” she suggests, but keels over laughing the time Luca charges at her screaming this is not a threat I am just very excited.

Giulia tries teaching them facial expressions but they’re hard. They try their best to keep up and she quizzes them on reading hers, but according to Luca’s calculations, only get it right about half the time.

The three agree to find the middle ground between their languages to avoid flaring fins or threatening growls. If Giulia smiles too wide and notices them tensing up, she adds, playful. If she needs to apologize, she ducks her head and says, humbly.

(...)

“How can they not strangle each other when they show their teeth all day.” Alberto bares his teeth in a joking threat, so wide there’s no happy wrinkles around his mouth. Luca growls at him, so Alberto closes his mouth and adds, “not a threat.” 

The idea of “pebbling as a courtship ritual” was what started this whole fic, really, where Alberto keeps bringing Luca small rocks as gifts. Alberto doesn’t understand why, of course, he just likes it for some reason. Luca at first finds it cute and charming at first, but after a while gets annoyed and frustrated, because Alberto’s flirting so overtly with him but he never takes it further. So he ends up taking Alberto aside and is like “Are you done playing around like a hatchling? Are you gonna actually court me properly?”

I just really enjoy playing around with body language as a both unconscious and conscious choice, like –

They stare at each other in tense anticipation waiting for the others’ pupils to dilate, before simultaneously shaking off both the remaining scales and the tense hairs rising on the backs of their necks.

I have a scene - unfortunately too rough to share much from - where the boys end up arguing viciously as humans, using words, and Alberto refuses to accept Luca’s apology, so Luca grabs him and pulls him under water so he can smell the emotions he’s unable to express with words - here are some tiny bits:

“Alberto, please, come with me.” When he keeps resisting, Luca’s sneer is so vicious it can hardly be disguised as anything resembling a human voice. Alberto’s spine straightens as a lightning bolt shoots down it. Luca screws his eyes shut and nudges his forehead against Alberto’s cheek. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry for everything and sorry for growling but I don’t know how to say it in human.” The words come out in one long, fumbling breath, vocals made rough by rasps and consonants sharp with clicks. “Please, Beto, let me tell you.”

(...)

“Shut up. Stop listening.” Alberto bares his teeth and whips his tail in annoyance, but Luca shushes him, cradling his face to massage the pressure points where his ear fins meet his skull. Alberto’s eyes narrow in annoyance at how quickly this calms him. “Start smelling. Start feeling.”

And just lots of. Alberto trying to figure out what the strange pull he feels for Luca is, because he has no frame of reference for it, or understanding Luca’s attempts to flirt back:

Luca’s head tilts and he poses a questioning chirp. Alberto feels his pupils contract to zone out anything but Luca as his lips part. He keeps the expertly trained, relaxed shrug of nonchalance in his grin, but can’t help the pride tugging at the corners when Luca’s eyes flicker down to survey every single pearly white point of his front teeth.

Suddenly showing off just how sharp his teeth are seems like the most important thing in the universe. He needs Luca to know how capable he is. Of whatever he could ever need or want. Providing food, shelter, safety, company. Maybe his teeth can’t prove the last one, but the words stuck between them can’t come close to explaining it either.

He wants to open wide and make Luca feel the rows coming in behind them too, see, see how prepared he is, that he can hide underneath his tongue and soon an army of teeth will keep him safe from anything. Anything but the sharp edges and scary words inside him.

Luca’s eyes find his again to mirror the shivering slivers of intense focus. They don’t flicker even a millimeter, but Alberto feels every other sense working relentlessly to survey him. He feels every little anticipatory twitch of his own fins echoed back in ripples by Luca’s billowing in a far slower, more calculated way, but the puffs of water coming through his heaving gills betray an intoxicating scent Alberto can’t place or name but lets him know Luca is just as desperately eager as him for – for – something. 

Alberto ends up asking Daniela for advice haha:

Daniela is quiet as he chokes out the words, gills burning as he fills their cave with mortification. She keeps quiet as his fins droop with humiliation confiding what he knows and a very barebones retelling of his experiences. She stays quiet when he stops, so abruptly mid sentence it’s jarring even to his own ears, but he can’t go into detail without infringing on Luca’s privacy.

Alberto doesn’t dare look up and notices he’s even clutching the tip of his tail for comfort like a guppy. He’s fully grown but hasn’t felt quite this small since his knees knocked together as he chased after Bruno. He whips his tail back underneath him, clears his throat and announces, “I’m done.”

Alberto’s eyes flicker nervously up as she floats over, giving him a sympathetic smile before crushing him in a fierce hug that has him chirping in surprise. “Of course you wouldn’t know, Alberto, of course you wouldn’t, I should have realized as much, I should have invited you as well-” he has a quick flash of how he and Luca would stifle their giggles and be whacked up the head by Daniela’s large, fanning tail fin “- I didn’t think. Of course you don’t know, sweetheart.”

He groans and wriggles out of her embrace with the embarrassed frustration of a teenager smothered. Impoliteness aside, Daniela thankfully takes mercy on him, explaining the whole process from start to finish, from the playfighting and pebbling to the dance and the mating itself. She answers all his questions, and gracefully ignores the awkwardly obvious holes in his words where her son resides.

Like when he prods her for information on differences in their biologies, why the Paguros don’t eat meat, why Alberto is sharper and faster, and why he’s always more eager to use claws and fangs. For a moment, Daniela fixes him with an imposing stare and he curls in on himself, and he thanks the heavens scales don’t blush as he fumblingly explains that no he’s not biting her son that much and yes Luca does like it and yes Luca bites him just as much. 

Her demeanor and scent is so comforting he even very carefully tells her about how uncomfortable the past couple of weeks have been and the lengths he’s gone to lessen the itching under his scales. Daniela laughs heartily with clicks and rattles and his fins stand on end. She quickly smooths down his facial fins and says, “Alberto, honey, I know you miss him. But you also have spring fever.” He frowns at her. “You’re just plain old horny.”

Alberto wriggles out of her grip with a loud groan echoing Luca’s exasperation with her. “Signora Paguro, please!”

Daniela continues loudly over his protests. “Come spring, mating season starts and the water’s full of pheromones and every last barnacle comes crawling out of their caves.” She inhales and ruffles her head fins. “Out of courtesy you should ask first, but I’m sure Luca would understand if you chased some tail to cool your gills until he gets back home.”

And then when they’ve both matured enough that the mating instinct really sets in:

Then Luca steps off the train, and seeing him is like a punch to the gut. He steps to the side to let other passengers by and quickly shake his head, the familiar little motion he does in relief when shaking off unpleasantness. Then he freezes as his nostrils flare. He looks up and his eyes meeting Alberto’s is like a punch to the gut.

Usually, they’d be running towards each other and almost fall onto the train tracks with the forceful impact of their hug, but Alberto’s feet are rooted to the ground as they stare each other down.

Luca’s changed. Luca’s always changed come summer, he expects it and anticipates it. He’s a little taller, a little stronger, a little easier and more assured in his movements. His hair is longer and his glasses are new but that’s not it. Luca’s changed and it’s only been three seconds and he’s already going crazy trying to figure out what it means.

Luca lifts his chin and it’s like he can see his fins ruffling.

Alberto straightens his spine, feeling his phantom tail rise to attention.

Giulia hovers around him, worrying and asking what’s wrong, did you have a fight? Alberto grits his teeth and shakes his head. 

Even if he tried to, human words wouldn’t come close to explaining the nuances of smells and tastes in the electric summer air without the harshness of clicking consonants in a siren throat, the significance of fins fluttering and tails twitching. Besides, he doesn’t understand it himself, but it’s big and important and Luca senses it too.

Human words simply fall short compared to the beauty of not needing to ask and answer but just sense and react and dance around each other until they figure this out.

and here they are inspecting each other:

In one heart-stopping moment, when Luca’s flipping over him to swim above his head and grab his tail, he catches sight of the new blush of golden yellow scales peeking up from his shorts. His throat clatters in some odd mixture of excitement and alarm that makes Luca sink to the bottom laughing.

Alberto feels his pupils contracting and needs a moment to clear away the excited growls tearing in his throat, because Luca is laying there in a perfect little pit of sand with his belly and golden scales face-up looking at him with his sunny, inviting smile.

His body senses that Luca is ready and he is so very, very ready, has been for too long. But he doesn’t want to scare him off with his eagerness. Exaggerating the tilt of his head and laying his fins flat in a display of humility, Alberto swims down and hovers nervously above him. Because he comes from imposingly from above, because he’s older and sharper and stronger, because his lizard brain screams to pounce right this second, but even with his lacking knowledge, he understands that that would be poor form for both humans and sirens.

Also more tiny fish vs human biology tidbits that aren’t really fleshed out, but I’m playing around with:

Deprived of salt filtering and rinsing out his gills, Alberto’s throat feels like sand and pure death with every rasping inhale. Massimo looks at him in astonishment as he drowns out his zucchini casserole in heaped spoons of salt, but purchases three kilos extra to tide him over until summer.

(...)

Alberto is barely able to roll up on the shore of Isola del Mare and rub his face dry before the tears come. There is one thing humans have sirens beat for, and that is a good cry. Without it constantly engulfing him, the salt water squeezed through his weak human eyes is comforting. He cries harder than he has in years and feels lighter and clearer when his heart is finally dry the way it will never be underwater.

Alberto isn't able to lie underwater 'cause he's not used to controlling his body language in sea monster form so Luca tries telling him he's in love with/loves him (depends on context) and his fins flare in alarm 'cause he refuses to/doesn't believe him:

Luca gently closes his jaws to plant a kiss on his throat and sigh, “God, I love you so much.” His fins flare in something like alarm and threat and worry. Luca pulls back, pupils contracting to survey him. “What’s wrong, Beto?”

Alberto doesn’t know how to hide in this form, to freeze the curve of his smile and give an affected laugh and hold himself together with malleable skin or will alone. He can’t control all the intricate machinations of this body, the flaring of fins or curl of his tail, the scent of his emotions and taste of his thoughts.

He hates that he can’t hide but loves that Luca will always find him.

The urge to turn tail and flee is quickly stopped by Luca pressing close against him, neck to tail intertwined as he purrs soothingly into his neck. In human form he’d be annoyed, how dare he presume to know what Alberto needs, but his tongue flicks out and tastes only kindness and worry and something sweet, unknown yet familiar. “You do?” he breathes.

“I- I’ve told you loads of times, Alberto, it’s you who hasn’t-”

“What? That’s not true I-”

“Beto, I promise I’ve told you-”

Alberto snorts. “You think I’d miss you saying - that?”

Luca scowls at him and gives a sneer around a series of clicks and trills. “Sound familiar?” He nudges their snouts together, and even with frustration making him hard and sharp, it soothes Alberto’s heart. “Feel familiar?” he whispers against his cheek, the purring deep in his throat clearer and sharper through his open lips.

“Oh.” Alberto closes his eyes and inhales the scent seeping through Luca’s gills, the comfort of billowing grass above and below water, of all things tangy and salty that make humans scrunch up their noses but make him want to flip over and rub against it because it’s warmth and safety and home and little stars in the corners of his eyes. “That’s what it means?”

[sparxwrites]

@manoessay​ replied to your post:

This post activated my brain harder than most so even though you arent gonna make a fanfic i will add, Dream testing how many times you can bring a person back on quackity once he gets out.

(i absolutely fully got possessed by this idea, and then wrote this self-indulgent and weirdly experimental fic feverishly at like 1am last night. this is... probably not what you were imagining, but it’s what fell out of my brain, so! enjoy? written to “innocence” by madeon.)

cw moderately graphic torture / gore, mental breakdown, mind games, temporary character death

[ao3]

-

“How many times have you died now, Quackity?”

The words flash hot through his skull, but don’t translate into meaning. Don’t translate into anything other than noise. The floor is cold beneath his palms. Russet-brown flakes up beneath his nails when he claws at it, chest heaving, lungs trying to remember how breathing works.

His first inhale gurgles, wetly, makes him jerk on his belly like a worm on a hook. His throat is raw from disuse, from screaming, from the sword that had sliced through his trachea like a knife through so much butter. When he tries to speak, the only thing that comes out is blood.

It goes like this, every time Dream drags him back from Limbo: his ears full of a high ringing, his lungs not working, his body numb. The link between flesh and brain is faulty, sparking wrong – like the battered neurons take a few precious minutes of life to rewire back together fully. It fixes itself a little less each time, the link; he’s permanently numb down most of his left side, now. The fingers on his right hand are going insensate in terrifying inches.

“How many times?”

Crooked mask, ragged voice, cracked porcelain smile. Dream looks better than Quackity feels, but not much – crouched low on a stone floor that’s caked in layer after layer of old blood, watching Quackity like a bug under a magnifying glass. His hair’s a greasy mess, his mask dirty-white and chipped, his clothes spattered with weeks of gore. With Quackity’s gore.

There’s blood dripping out from beneath the mask, though, fresh and hot. His hands shake. The knuckles clenched around the hilt of his sword are white, the skin beneath his fingernails faintly purple-blue.

The eyes behind the mask are just a little too green.

“Can you even hear me?” There’s a giddy slur to the edge of Dream’s words, the manic lilt of a man high off the same shit that’s melting his brain out through his nose. That feeling was familiar to Quackity, in another life. “Quackity. Hey, Quackity. Anyone in there?” He laughs, short and cruel and batshit crazy. His eyes are the colour of battery acid. “Have I finally broken you?”

There’s no response – because Quackity’s still trying to remember how his lungs work, remember what ribs are, remember how to do things that aren’t screaming and curling in on himself and rocking – and the amusement in his voice turns angry, sour. “I said tell me how many times, Quackity.”

Dream stands, unsteady, swaying as he does and leaning heavily on the sword for balance. His hands are still shaking. The blood’s stopped dripping, but there’s a sickly tinge to it, and when he wipes at his chin with the back of one hand it leaves a smear that’s more brown than red.

There’s a flicker of something, as his knuckles touch the half-inch of exposed face – dirty white light, bridging the gap between skin in a static-shock flash. There and then gone, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it.

The eyes behind the mask glow a little brighter. A little greener. A little less human.

The point of Dream’s sword sinks into Quackity’s shoulder, splits open an old scar. Quackity’s covered in them, now, more scar than skin. More ruined than not. He spasms, chokes, bleeds wet and red and fresh over the dried blood that carpets the floor. The noise he makes is animal, leg-in-a-bear-trap high and thin and dying. Barely alive five minutes, and he’s bleeding out again already. It’s almost funny.

Dream laughs, and leans on the pommel of the sword. It pushes in another inch.

“Month!” manages Quackity, forcing the word out through the wetness in his lungs, through the broken-bone grind of his throat. If he weren’t so many shattered parts, pasted back together by unholy power and Dream’s capricious whims, it might have been a howl. As it is, he barely has the energy to sob, the words raw and hoarse and threadbare. “A month, a month– thirty– haha, thirty-six days in, in, in Limbo, fuck, please, please–”

There’s wet on his cheeks. Tears? Blood? Worse? He can’t tell any more. He can’t even feel the left side of his face.

He grabs for Dream’s boots, presses his forehead against them, gasps for air that doesn’t seem to bring any relief from the cold ache in his lungs. One of his hands finds an ankle, a strip of bare skin between shoe and pant leg. Dream’s skin is fever-hot, sickly, bottled lightning gone past its sell-by date.

The shock of the contact knocks him silent for a second, though. They won’t touch him, in Limbo, the ghosts – or can’t, or both, can’t and won’t. Because they’re bastards, because they hate him, because he isn’t one of them. They can’t-won’t touch him, can’t see him, won’t see him, won’t speak to him– and he’s left, alone, in a room full of the faded impressions of people he once knew, once loved, once was loved by. A room full of people who do not see him, and do not touch him, and do not hear him when he talks.

(When he screams, when he swears at them, when he tries to claw their eyes out with unsteady hands that don’t make contact– when he begs, when he pleads, when he wheedles and bribes and bargains to deaf ears– when he wraps arms around himself, when he rocks himself back and forth until the blood rushes in his ears, when he whispers to himself until his voice fades to nothing, and tries to pretend it is the same thing as being loved and held and comforted–)

“Please, don’t– hahah, don’t kill me, fuck– please, look, look, hurt me, please, hurt me– anything, anything, I don’t–” He doesn’t have the breath for this. Doesn’t have the energy. Doesn’t even really have the words any more, after screaming for thirty-six fucking days straight, after talking to himself for so long his vocal cords wore out and left him mouthing silence in a desperate attempt to keep himself company. “Don’t, don’t send me– not, don’t send me back, please, fuck, anything, ha, haha, don’t, don’t–”

“I said I’d make you beg for death,” says Dream, amused, bored, manic. “Not torture. Not that I’m complaining. It’s just kind of funny. Don’t you think? I think it’s funny.”

He pushes the sword in, another inch. Quackity sobs, desperate and pathetic, and feels no shame for it. Presses his face to Dream’s boot, clings to his ankle like a lifeline, and feels no shame for it. Shame was beaten out of him, bled out of him, several lifetimes ago. “But that’s not what I asked, though. How many times have you died now, Quackity?”

The sword in his shoulder twists, and Quackity screams. Something severs with a pop, and then another, and then another, until the joint is little more than a hot ball of pain and wet meat, grated bone. Until he can no longer scream, gasping desperately through the pain, weeping like a child. Another twist, and something else severs, something vital, a second’s resistance before a give and a spray of warm blood.

He bleeds out between one sob and the next, tumbling into darkness, the golden net of the respawn reaching up to catch him as he falls.

He wakes up three feet away, sprawled out on the filthy bed that occupies one corner of his cell, still sobbing. The respawn clings to him like a second skin, like weights around his ankles, frightening and familiar all at once. It fades slowly, reluctantly; slower each time he dies, he thinks. Like it’s getting used to holding him. Like it doesn’t want to let him go.

It’s only barely gone by the time Dream crosses the space between them, two short steps, no time for him to flinch, no time for him to hide–

Dream grabs him by the wrist, wrenches his body up from the bed, and slots the sword neatly through the front of his throat. The broad, well-used scar carved across it parts for the blade like an old friend, swallows it whole – and Quackity dies for the second time in as many minutes, choking on his own blood.

The respawn catches him. Drags him down into darkness. Drags him back up to the surface of reality, deposits him back onto a bed now sodden with crimson. He’s shaking. He should be used to it, but he’s shaking so hard his teeth clack together, so hard he’s not sure it will ever stop.

Dream drags him off the bed, back onto the floor. Back onto the filth, the layers and layers of dried gore, a carpet constructed from every time he’s been slaughtered like an animal in this tiny, lightless cell.

“Dream,” he begs, quietly. “Dream, Dream–”

Even to his ears, it sounds more like a prayer than a plea.

“It’s a simple question, Quackity. How many times have you died now? Properly died. How many times have I brought you back? I just want a number. Just a number.” The mask obscures Dream’s mouth, but his grin is audible. His eyes are so bright, they hurt to look at. “How many times have I proven to you that I’m a god?”

Quackity tries to curl in on himself, but Dream is in the way, one boot by his shoulder and the other pinning his wrist to the floor beneath its toe. He’s not surprised. Dream is everywhere, always, omnipresent. His free hand seeks out Dream’s ankle onces more, curls around that curdled-lightning skin, desperate and needy. It grounds him, touching the only real person in his whole entire world, and he hates himself for it.

“…T- ten?” he tries, and knows as he says it that it’s wrong. The panic rises like the respawn, choking him. He can’t breathe. “Ten, ten times– maybe eleven– fuck, fuck, Dream, please–”

The sword-tip finds his back, finds the space between his fourth and fifth rib. Finds the ropy scar there, beneath the rags, soft from re-use – like a zipper, easy to pry open right down to his weak, wet heart.

“Good guess,” says Dream, quietly. “Closer than before. But still not right. You need a little longer to think about it, I guess. But– hey, you know what? I’ll be nice, and give you a hint.” He pauses, and Quackity’s world stands still. “You’re guessing too low.”

He pushes the sword down. It slips between Quackity’s ribs like an old lover, lodges in the crusted filth and stone below, pins him still against the floor. His heart beats once, twice, a butterfly-flutter around the diamond skewered through it. His body convulses. He falls still.

The blood from his mouth dyes the toes of Dream’s boots crimson, as the light leaves his eyes.

He wakes in Limbo, on his knees, in a room full of people – full of impressions of people, like the ghosts of a faded photograph. He sees them all there, their backs to him, as they move amongst one another, as they talk amongst one another. Tubbo, and Schlatt, and Fundy, and Wilbur, and–

Sapnap, who looks right through him. Karl, whose eyes skate over him. They hold each other’s hands. The rings on their fourth fingers gleam weakly in the strange, nebulous light of the afterlife. They do not hear him when he says their names, ragged and desperate, like a plea. Like a prayer.

And then they, too, turn their back on him. And Quackity – still raw, still bloody, still skewered open right through his butterfly heart – screams and screams and screams.

[fiftyyearfilms]

50 Years Later: The Still Sweet Legacy of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory

Image source: https://people.com/food/gene-wilder-death-willy-wonka-pure-imagination/

I first watched Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory during the summer of 2001, when I was four years old. Sometime after the end credits rolled, I waddled into our little English garden and decided to have a nibble of one of the buttercups poking through in the grass. You will be unsurprised to discover that it tasted acrid and bitter and that I promptly screwed up my face and spat it out again. ‘But— but- -’ little four-year-old me thought, ‘—but in Willy Wonka’s garden the yellow butter-tea-cups are edible and filled with a breakfast brew! The toadstools and mushrooms ooze sweet white cream! And the trees don’t sprout boring old fruit, but giant jellified gummy bears!' According to my four-year old logic, in Wonka’s edible garden these synaesthetic saccharine delights could exist and so in our garden they could too. So was the bittersweet belief that ‘Anything is possible’ the film inspired - bittersweet because, of course, it's not true. Today marks the 50-year anniversary of Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory, which premiered in the United States on this day in 1971. Time reveals a legacy that is more sweet than sour.

The 1971 adaptation of Roald Dahl’s 1964 book ‘Charlie and the Chocolate Factory’ has an origins story that reads like a saccharine fairytale, complete with the requisite obstacles. Once upon a time, the story of Charlie Bucket and his lucky visit to a chocolate factory found its way into the hands of a 12-year-old girl called Madeline Stuart, the daughter of a Hollywood filmmaker, Mel Stuart. Madeline approached her father and asked him to make a film out of the story. In Stuart’s memory, his daughter’s innocent plea went something like this: ’Daddy... I want you to make this into a movie!’ A self-confessed chocoholic, Stuart said yes. And the rest was history? Not just yet...

The early 1970’s wasn’t Hollywood’s happiest hour. Low attendance and a struggling national economy meant that the U.S film industry was in a state of near-collapse and financing the movie was no easy feat; studios were cash-strapped. It was a stroke of sweet luck that the producer of the film, Mel Stuart’s friend David Wrober, had a connection to the Quaker Oats Company who, by happy chance, were looking for a way to break into the chocolate industry. In an unprecedented move in Hollywood, Quaker Oats agreed to finance the film on account of the fact that it would allow them to launch a ‘Wonka’ bar. A convenient if imperfect marriage was formed between the food company and the producers. A Happily Ever After? Still not yet...

There were active forces that didn’t want the candy man to make the leap from page to silver screen. Having long been vocal about Hollywood and its poor representation of black people, the NAACP objected to the adaptation because of the colonial overtones of the Ooompa Loompas in Dahl’s story (described as “a tribe of miniature pygmies” who were imported from Africa); they didn’t want additional attention being brought to the novel. The NAACP eventually suggested that “The solution is to make the Oompa-Loompas white and to make the film under a different title.” Mel Stuart agreed. The title was changed to ‘Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory’, a change that would also benefit the marketing of the Quaker Oat Company’s ‘Wonka’ bar. After Stuart consulted with some black actor friends, it also was decided that the elf-like characters would be carrot orange with grass-green hair. Whether this amounted to ‘whitewashing’ or not is a matter for the individual to decide but changing the skin colour was the only way to adapt the book without making more significant changes to Dahl’s story. After all, it was the man himself penning the screenplay.

Image source: https://www2.bfi.org.uk/news-opinion/news-bfi/features/search-perfect-willy-wonka

Dahl’s screenplay - bloated and too close an adaption of the book, was eventually revised by newbie screenwriter David Seltzer, but the fantastical elements of the author’s story remained largely intact: chocolate rooms with chocolate waterfalls and rivers, fizzy-lifting stations that send Charlie Bucket and his grandfather floating to the ceiling, and elevators that fly straight into the sky. Harper Goff, famed for his work on the 1945 Disney film ‘20,000 Leagues under the Sea’, was tasked with bringing Dahl’s demanding vision to life in the art department. Then there were difficulties in casting too, and a cross-country search took place for the Oompa Loompas and the lucky ticket-winning children (lamentably, only white actors were cast). With scouting and sketching underway, producers had the formidable challenge of finding somewhere to shoot the movie. After considering the Guinness Factory in Ireland and – wait for it - a national monument in Spain, producers settled on the Munich Gas works and Bavarian Film Studios in Germany as the central filming locations. It was cheaper than America and the location’s foreignness to British and American audiences would work in the favour of creating a ‘Neverland’ story.

Tinged with sweetness and sourness, pre-production on Wonka came to a close in late August 1970 and principal photography began. For the adults on set, budgetary problems were an ongoing source of stress and the unusual marriage between Hollywood and the food industry was one of the main causes. Unlike Paramount or Universal, who might have expected the film to go over budget, Quaker Oats viewed the film as one long advertisement for their new bar and were unsurprisingly less sympathetic when the weather was bad and shooting had to be delayed or when something went wrong on set and more money had to be poured in (or, in the case of the chocolate waterfall, a specially sourced anti-foaming solution). The kids also had their tribulations (and were only renumerated £60 per week for their hard labour). Stuart was a tough director. So tough, in fact, that the child actors used to joke that they deserved Oscars for their roles (or for putting up with Stuart). He treated the young actors as adults and perhaps that’s one reason why the performances are so strong. But Stuart reflected that overall, it was like ‘one big slumber party’ for the child actors. Stories from the set include Paris Themmen, who played Mike Teevee, releasing bees from underneath a bell jar in Wonka’s chewing gum machine. Denise Nickerson (playing Violet Beauregarde) and Julie Dawn Cole (Veruca Salt) fought over Peter Ostroff, who played Charlie Bucket, and took turns being his ‘girlfriend’ day-by-day. After lunch breaks, Ostroff and Gene Wilder, who played Wonka himself, would walk back to set together sharing a chocolate bar. There was an excitable atmosphere on set and, filmed without storyboards or pre-production rehearsals, it translated into authenticity in the final film.

Image source: https://www.thedelite.com/willy-wonka-and-chocolate-factory-movie-facts-you-never-knew/

Filming came to a bittersweet end in November 1970, cast members said their teary goodbyes, and then seven months later, Willy Wonka premiered in the United States. While time has judged differently, the contemporary reception to the film was, at best, lukewarm. From a $2.9 million dollar budget, the film only made $4 million in theatres and ranked as #53 in the box office. There were a number of reasons for this. Several reviewers panned the movie; a critic from the New York Times called it ‘tedious and stagy with little sparkle and precious little humor’. The fun and spectacle of Willy Wonka didn’t sit well with an anxious and cynical audience. In the Vietnam era, The French Connection, The Omega Man, and A Clockwork Orange were in, and optimism and fun were out. The film also had to contend with the declining weekly movie attendance across the U.S, which reached an all-time low of 14 million in 1971 (from 44 million in 1963). On top of this, Dahl didn’t exactly enthuse about the final product. Finally - and this is what the director attributed primary responsibility to: a lacklustre marketing effort on behalf of Paramount Pictures.

But box-office results aren’t everything. Like sherbet - sour at first and then Oh so sweet, Willy Wonka has gone on to gain a mass following of fans and gained the all-desirable ‘cult’ film status. The phenomenon happened over time. Six years after the film appeared on cinema screens, it was sold to Warner Brothers and became one of their best-selling video cassettes. Then, periodic screenings on cable and network television over the following decades meant that it gained an even wider following and stayed within Western cultural consciousness. The never-ending references to Willy Wonka in popular culture - from The Simpsons to Austin Powers to Marilyn Manson’s music videos, is testament to this. The same could be said about the upcoming Willy Wonka origins story, whether it turns out to be a good film or not. Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory currently stands as the second most watched film of 1971 on Letterboxd (the Goodreads of film).

Re-watching the film in 2021, it seems almost inevitable that the film has found new and wide- ranging audiences and there’s one main reason for it: a stellar and totally captivating performance from Gene Wilder. The director attributed the film’s longevity to the fact that ‘it was made for adults; it was not made for children’ and it was Wilder himself that brought the grown-up fun. Wilder’s Wonka is sarcastic and witty, ensuring that the final film ended up as a ‘story for children’ only as much as After Eights are for post-dinner treats and Yorkie bars are just for boys. Wilder created a more nuanced and entrancing character out of Wonka than what is portrayed in the book - a Wonka who is dishonest but trustworthy, sarcastic but still empathetic, indifferent but deeply caring, and aloof but charming. Sure, the sets seem slightly dated (the chocolate room in particular) but watching Gene Wilder sing ‘Pure Imagination’ is so wholly captivating that one almost doesn’t notice the set’s limitations. Creating, let alone portraying, such an enigmatic version of Wonka is a tall order, but Wilder made it looks effortless. As evidence of his skill as an actor, Willy Wonka shows Charlie little interest until the very end of the film and then within minutes conveys a parental love to the boy that seems entirely believable. Wilder’s tantalising hot then cold, sugary then sour, sweet then salty performance sustains the whole film.

From the outset, it seemed like the Wilder-Wonka synergy was made to be. Wilder was a relative newcomer to Hollywood in 1970, making his feature film debut in the 1967 film Bonnie & Clyde, but when he walked into the casting room at the Plaza Hotel in New York, Mel Stuart knew he was the man straight away – ‘That’s Willy Wonka!’ he said. Wilder himself immediately seemed to have an intuitive understanding of how to bring the character to life, agreeing to take on the role on one condition: he said to Stuart, “I would like to come out [of the factory] with a cane and be crippled because no one will know from that time on whether I’m lying or telling the truth.’’ Like a magician, Wilder’s Wonka was going to draw you in and keep you in the palm of his hand. To the child actors on set, the Wilder-Wonka symbiosis was very much real. Julia Winter recalled that between takes the kids would crawl all over Wilder yelling, ‘It’s my turn to sit on his lap!’. In turn, Wilder would tell them jokes and stories; he ‘never got cross’. I remember feeling the same captivation as a child watching the film: I wanted to spend time with Wonka. It was only some adults who missed the magic trick. Dahl criticised Wilder’s performance as ‘pretentious’ and insufficiently ‘gay’. Wilder himself recalled hearing talk of mothers saying that the film was ‘cruel to the children’, but he understood that ‘maybe some mothers felt that way, but the children didn’t feel that way...there are limits and they want to know the limits’. The continuing classic status of the film is evidence that the kids (and Wilder) were right. The Wilder-Wonka magic has survived 50 years without souring. The only bittersweetness in watching the actor sing and twirl across the screen is knowing he is no longer with us.

Image source: https://cometoverhollywood.com/2016/08/29/musical-monday-willy-wonka-the-chocolate-factory-1971/

If Gene Wilder carried the film, then what about the story itself? The plot is simple, heart- warming, and doesn’t deserve close scrutiny. Willy Wonka really is a ‘show’, the story is secondary to the individual charisma of Wilder and the spectacle of the image and music. We don’t know if Charlie will be happy or sad once he’s inherited Wonka’s factory. We also don’t know what happens to the rest of the children after they’ve been punished. But who cares? The audience is taken to a joyful fun park where you want to eat everything on screen and play with all the gizmos and gadgets, and where the music is so catchy that you can’t get it out of your head for days and weeks after.

Select ideologues have (and will) taken issue with the story, discarding it as gauche capitalist propaganda. One Marxist criticism of the story even gained enough traction that the director took notice in later years. The parts seem to be there: a businessman running a competition by hiding five golden tickets in his candy bars, competition from other candy makers, the Wonka-Oompa Loompa relationship, and a ‘Rags to riches’ story for Charlie. But one might ask if this is an unnecessary and selective reading. The parts for an alternative vision are equally apparent: from the wild and uncontrolled creativity and experimentation inside the factory to the joy found within the chocolate work itself, and from the relentless drive forward ‘You have to go forward if you want to go back’ to the end picture of the elevator shooting through a glass ceiling and into the skies. If a critic really wanted to make the comparison, such images would sit more easily in Soviet Russia than capitalist America. Wonka might have a capitalist wrapper but take a bite and look closely inside and its ideological filling is incoherent (it is, after all, entertainment). One could imagine how the film might be set in a collectivist community rather than a ‘capitalist’ factory, but it would have made for a worse film. It is the sense of unease that runs throughout the film that has made it timeless, whether its Wonka’s frustration with August Gloop for polluting his pure chocolate river, his fear over someone leaking the secret recipe for the ever-lasting gobstopper, his nightmares in the tunnel sequence, or his anxiety over finding a worthy heir for the factory, which finally manifests as a misjudged outburst at Charlie. It’s the fraught relationship between abundance and greed that makes for such compelling watching. Anyway, as the screenwriter stated in an interview, the film is ‘...not the function of sitting down and intellectualising... it’s the function of scotch tape, cardboard, let’s put on a show!’ Why spoil the fun and examine the parts individually when the sum of the parts is a universal message people need to hear now as much as they did in 1971? Reward honesty and integrity, not greed.

A moral message delivered in an almost subversive tone is another reason for why the film feels timeless. Instead of adults dragging tired and bored children around, the adults in this film are at the mercy of their kids and Wonka. Young viewers can marvel at the gluttony of August Gloop, the smart-mouthed Violet Beauregarde, the wanton bad behaviour of Veruca Salt, and Mike Teevee’s devotion to cable. It’s escapism at its best to watch other kids do what you can’t do: speak back to parents and yell and scream. It’s equally as tantalising when the naughty children are punished in fantastical ways. Augustus, drinking from the chocolate river, falls in and then gets sucked up a chocolate chute. Violet chews forbidden gum and then blows up into a blueberry the size of a small horse. Veruca falls down a garbage chute. And Mike finds himself sucked into a television. Best of all, the parents are equally guilty of bad-behaviour as the kids - and, boy, do they pay for it. Wonka might be a film for children and adults, but you can guess who’s going to really have the best time. It is little Charlie, after all, who wins Wonka’s factory at the end of the day.

In the scene where Willy Wonka drinks from a yellow flower-shaped cup and then eats the cup, the cup itself was made of wax. Gene Wilder had to chew the wax pieces until the end of the take, at which point he spat them out. Adults that once watched the film as children now know that flowers in the garden aren’t edible. Our eyes can pick up the small imperfections in the film - the sweets that look plastic and chocolate river that looks like exactly what it was - ‘dirty, stinky water’. But through a child’s eyes - even coming to the film half a century after its release, the film really can be a ‘world of pure imagination’. In another fifty years, will children still wander into the garden, pick up a buttercup, and bite into it with all the belief in the word that it’ll taste like sweet, white chocolate? As long as parents continue to show children the film, they will - and what a marvellous legacy for a film to have. Fifty years on, it’s safe to say that Willy Wonka has had a sweet and indelible impact on our sadly mostly inedible world.

Sources for post: 

Mel Stuart, Josh Young, ‘Pure Imagination: The Making of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory’, 2001. 

Julia Dawn Cole, ‘I Want It Now! a Memoir of Life on the Set of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory’, 2011. 

Pure Imagination: The Story (Making) of Willy Wonka & The Chocolate Factory: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0yyev_3S_Y4

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[ericsonclan]

Stop and Smell the Stew

Summary: Duck goes down to the kitchen to see if dinner is ready and ends up helping his mom cook.

Word Count: 1759

Read on AO3:

Duck lay on his bed, his legs lazily kicking as they dangled off the edge. His eyes focused on a weird dot on his ceiling for a second, wondering how it got there before his attention was stolen by the TV as Final Fantasy music began to play on the title screen of the game. He had just finished an intense gaming session of grinding his weaker team members, cheering for them when they leveled up and laughing with Tidus as he did the laugh alongside Yuna.

It was a ton of fun but his stomach had been growling and sadly all he’d had was some Batman fruit snacks. Well, not some - one pack. He had inhaled that like it was nothing and now his stomach demanded more. It gave its usual pleas and angry cries, making Duck wonder if dinner would be ready soon. He knew it was only four but still maybe his mom would have started dinner early tonight or maybe she had made some treats.

With that thought in mind Duck swung his legs off his bed and swayed up to his full height in one awkward movement. Strolling forward, he walked past his bookshelf filled with nothing but comics and mystery novels. Batman, Spiderman and Scooby Doo figures stood proudly by the great reads he had collected over the years. His eyes stuck on the Shaggy figure who was definitely a bit worse for the wear due to being such an old toy. Still his goofy expression was still as strong as ever. With a small smile Duck reached out to grab the figure but accidentally knocked over Daphne in the process.

“Shit, sorry, Daphne,” Duck apologized with a smile and leaned down to pick up the toy when his eyes locked onto a Rubik’s cube. Oh, so that's where it had ended up. He could’ve sworn he had lost it in his pants. Eh, no use thinking about it too hard. Snatching up the Rubik’s cube, Duck began to flick around the colored sections while he put Daphne back on the shelf.

With a grin he turned and began to solve the cube. He had always had a love and a knack for puzzles and this one was one of his favorites. Spinning around the different sections, Duck quickly solved it then blindly reorganized it. His mind was easily distracted by the thought of a new puzzle game coming out and after a few minutes Duck had no recollections of how many spins he had done or what order it was in. The Rubik’s cube would remain a puzzle to solve later. Still holding it in one hand, Duck walked down the stairs with a smile and headed towards the kitchen.

“Hey, Mom, what's going to be for dinner?” Duck poked his head in the kitchen and noticed that Katjaa was busy getting out the dutch oven, carefully placing it onto the stove. The sound of her son’s voice made Katjaa look over with the brightest smile.

“I’m just getting started on it: carbonnade flamande,”

The name of the dish brought back fond memories and made Duck’s stomach growl.

That caused a laugh to leave Katjaa’s lips.“Want to help me?”

“Sure!” Duck beamed and placed down the Rubik’s cube in a spot he would most likely forget about by this evening. Rolling up his sleeves that immediately fell back down, he went to work grabbing all the ingredients. His loud footsteps rang around the kitchen as he grabbed the chuck roast that had been marinating overnight in the sour ale, bay leaves, garlic and some salt and also snatched up the bacon, beef broth and way too many other ingredients to try to carry all in one trip. Yet he still tried.

“Duck!” Katjaa exclaimed then bustled over, helping her son out.

“I wanted to carry it all in one trip,” Duck grinned at his mom who shook her head good naturedly before setting down the ingredients on the counter.

“I can see that and that was a very kind thought but you have to be careful,” Katjaa pulled Duck close to her and placed a gentle kiss on the side of his head.

“Okay, I’ll be more careful. Promise,” Duck gave a smile to his mom then turned his attention to the stove. “So, what’s step one?”

“We’re going to drain the beef and pat it dry,” Katjaa leaned down and grabbed a food strainer from the lower cupboard.

“On it!” Duck was off like a shot after snatching up the food strainer from his mom.

“Wait!” Katjaa called out, making Duck pause. “We have to reserve the marinade,”

“Oops, okay. I’ll do that,” Duck corrected his action and soon the beef was safely drained. Passing it over to his mom, Duck watched as Katjaa patted the beef dry with paper towels.

“Can you get the olive oil heated up in the dutch oven?” Katjaa smiled over at Duck as she sliced the onions. Duck nodded excitedly and was off once more, preparing the dutch oven.

Once the oil was piping hot Katjaa began to cook the beef in batches, careful to not let the oil splatter when she did so, and told Duck to do the same. Even though he was  a young adult sometimes he still got too excited for his own good and forgot things. The two of them worked well together, making sure the beef was golden brown on all sides as the smells started to permeate the air around them. It was a warm, comforting smell that made Duck nostalgic as his stomach continued to growl.

After about ten minutes they removed the beef cubes and went on to the next step. It was time to cook the bacon and Duck had volunteered to take the lead on this one. Being ever vigilant, he made sure the bacon was cooked to crispy perfection while Katjaa hummed a Belgian tune that made Duck bop his head. Both of them shared a soft smile and soon Katjaa was back over beside him giving him hugs and ruffling his hair.

“Great job. You’re such a wonderful cooking helper,”

Duck gave a light laugh at that and grinned. “I had the best teacher,”

Katjaa gave his head another kiss then gave the instructions for the next step. After the bacon was taken out and put to the side, the onions were thrown in with some salt. The smell cut through the deep, meaty air that the beef and bacon had made, adding notes of onions that complemented it greatly. Soon some flour was added to the dutch oven to coat the caramelized onions and after that the beef broth was used to get any scraps off the bottom. Once all of those had been snagged, Duck gave a thumbs up and Katjaa added the reserved marinade, beef, bacon and thyme.

“Is that everything?” Duck asked, bouncing on the balls of his feet in anticipation for dinner.

“For now, yes. It needs to cook for an hour and a half first before we finish up the last few steps,”

Those words made Duck’s eyes grow big and his smile faltered. “An hour and a half?!? I thought it would be like twenty minutes. I can’t wait that long!”

Katjaa laughed at that; patience wasn’t her son’s strongest suit. “Don’t worry, you can have a snack to help tide you over,”

“I guess,” Duck mumbled, looking a bit defeated.

“Y’know, Duck, sometimes you just have to stop and smell the stew,” Katjaa placed a hand on her son’s arm and smiled, hoping he would get the twist on the saying. He didn’t. Instead he took it literally and began to smell the stew.

“It smells good,” Duck’s nose scrunched up when he saw his mom laugh. “What?”

“Nothing, it's just I was trying to put a twist on that saying. Y’know the one that talks about stopping to smell the roses. Duck, sometimes you need to slow down and relax, okay?” “Okay,” Duck nodded then tried to think of what to do to pass the time. “Wanna watch a movie while it cooks?”

“I’d love that,” Katjaa smiled and watched in amusement as Duck scampered off to put on Knives Out . He knew that his mom hadn’t seen it yet and he wanted to see if she could guess who the killer was.

It was a fun experience. Duck was on the edge of his seat as he munched on apples and peanut butter while Katjaa threw out guess after guess on who the killer was. Many laughs were shared, gasps given and their attention was captured. The hour and a half flew by in no time and even though they were both reluctant they paused the movie.

Duck repeated his same action from the beginning of dinner prep, his sleeves rolled up for three glorious seconds before falling back down as he helped add in the last few ingredients. Katjaa quickly added in the brown sugar, parsley, mustard and fresh pepper, giving the contents of the dutch oven a quick stir before putting the lid back on. The warm, deep flavors stayed in the air though, overwhelming Duck’s nose in the most wonderful of ways. His steps had a bit more pep to them as he guided his mom back to the living room, excited to finish the movie and then have a feast.

It didn’t take long for both of them to get swept up in the movie again and the reveal of the killer made Katjaa gasp. She gave her commentary as the credits rolled, Duck listening with a big smile as he added his own thoughts here and there. The two continued to gush about their favorite parts of the film as the fries cooked and soon dinner was ready. Duck eagerly set the table for three then looked over at the luscious Belgian stew that held a depth of flavor. The crisp smell of the french fries complemented the stew, adding another layer to the smells that danced around the kitchen.

Just as the table had been set and the food placed down the front door opened, revealing Kenny. He gave a big smile as he shifted his jacket off. “Hey there, Kat, Duck, it smells delicious,” He strolled forward and gave Katjaa a quick kiss on the cheek.

“Alright!” Duck sat down a bit too quickly, nearly slipping off his chair but gave a grin to his parents to show that he was a-okay. “Let’s eat!”

[wylanvnneck]

Rating: T for Tyrannosaurus

Summary: Snowbaz has a spontaneous moment in the rain. Sappy and cliché but, maybe cute fluff?

On AO3 

Written for the Carry on Countdown 2020 hosted by @carryon-countdown​, for the Day 8 (Dec. 2nd) prompt; ‘Rain’

---------------

Snow is lying on the sofa, legs up on the cushions, staring vacantly into space. On the low footstool beside him is an empty plate with crumbs on it, probably the remnants of his beloved scones. The sunlight is streaming in through the window behind him, making his hair look like a messy bronze kindling set on fire, his mouth is in an impression of a pout and for a moment I’m reminded of a Cocker Spaniel. A ridiculous thought, I think, but then suddenly he trains his clear-sky eyes on me and the likeness of a sad and lost puppy is even more pronounced.

He’s been on a steady decline ever since he and Bunce moved in together and it’s only gotten worse. A month ago, I would have already been beside him kissing that ridiculous pout off his face and yet now I’m standing here in the doorway, a short distance that feels miles away.

His eyes are beseeching, like he wants something from me, wants something that I want to give him, Merlin do I want to, but I don’t know how.

I notice that his hair is no longer in flames and my eyes leave him for a moment and I see water droplets making slow trails along the glass of the window behind him.

Rain drops.

My eyes meet his again and I’m feeling determined as I hold my hand out to him. Come on, Snow. Don’t let me down.

And he doesn’t.

I lead him out through the front gate into the tiny patch of a garden. The rain is coming down harder, faster. I pull him in front of me until we’re inches apart and I scorch him with a look. His lips part and his eyes are finally starting to lose that vacant expression and he looks alive again. He might have kissed me then, but I'll never know because before he can I move a step back and hold out my hands, silently asking for a dance.

It’s cheesy and corny and textbook, but it’s the only thing I can think of. The only thing I have left to try. 

Slowly, he accepts my unspoken request and I slip an arm around his waist before I clasp his hand with mine. I pull him as close as I dare and he surprises me by resting his head on my shoulder, his breathy sigh an inch away from my ear. 

We dance, finding a slow, easy rhythm as the rain falls around us, wetting his shirt and making the lumps caused by his tucked in wings stand out. I feel them on his back and I take him in, take this moment in, right here right now. It’s not like in a movie, there’s no spontaneous background music but the patter of the rain. The air is growing colder and colder and the feeling of my wet suit being plastered against my skin isn’t a comfortable one and yet I wouldn’t trade this imperfect moment for anything.

We dance for what feels like hours and yet is not enough. The sky grows darker by the second and finally, the rain around us slows to a stop and so does our gentle swaying.

My vampire eyesight just manages to make out Simon’s face rushing towards me before his lips slam onto mine, both a challenge and a plea. I do my best to answer both.

This kiss, this kiss tastes like rain and sour cherry scones drowned in butter, and Simon...Simon tastes like hope.

--------------------------------

This is my first ever time writing Carry On fiction so please lemme know what you thought:))

[flannelpunkcalum]

Twinkle Twinkle Little Bat - Chapter 3

last chapter

cw: death but also there’s like a lil hot stuff in the middle to even it out? I realized when writing this chapter and the next one this is gonna be p dark but i guess Aspen got kidnapped and tortured last time so you guys will be fine. i saw a moose today. 

tdwk masterlist

ttlb masterlist

* * *

“I gotta come over for dinner more often.” Aspen said, spooning more spinach on her plate. Spinach. What the fuck was Alfred’s cooking doing to her? She never ate her vegetables. “Actually, I should have you guys over for dinner one of these days so you can truly appreciate what Mr. Pennyworth does for you. A terrible little palate cleanser.” 

“You flatter me, Ms. McMichael.” 

If Aspen didn’t know better, she’d say Alfred was blushing. They were all eating around the kitchen table, feasting on homemade turkey meatballs, spinach, brown rice, and sweet potato, all topped with some kind of sauce that she just wanted to bathe in. It was healthy, sure, but it was good. “I’m telling the truth. I feel like I’ve been trapped in a culinary version of Plato’s allegory of the cave, and I’ve finally left the shadows on the wall behind.” 

“High praise indeed.” 

“Indeed.” She grinned. 

“I think it’s good, too.” Dick piped up. If Aspen looked down, she could see his legs swinging under his chair. When she had come into the manor, he had immediately pulled her over to the kitchen, competing with her to scoop meatballs out of the pan while Alfred wasn’t looking. He’d used any time when he didn’t have his mouth full to tell her about his day at school. Calum hadn’t tried to pull her away; they both knew they could talk about the meeting in depth after dinner and before patrol. The looks he kept giving her out of the corner of his eye made her think he had noticed something was wrong, but for now, especially in front of Dick, they were leaving it be. Aspen was starting to really get attached to her new dysfunctional nuclear family. 

“Thank you, Master Grayson.” Alfred nodded. 

It was moments like this that Aspen regretted letting Calum into her heart. What if things went sour between them and she lost this? The good food, the company, Alfred’s buttoned-up love, Dick’s easy devotion. It was supposed to be better to have love and lost, she knew, but this was the first time she had felt like this in years. If Calum tried to ice her out, she’d lose a family on top of everything. She wanted to believe they were both too mature to let that happen, but sometimes she had trouble having faith in that. 

“Aspen?”

“Hmm?” She looked up to find all three of the boys staring at her. “Sorry, I zoned out.” 

“Dick was asking about how the meeting with the DA went today.” Calum said helpfully. Aspen could see mischief in his eyes - evidently, that bastard was proud of how long he had managed to weasel into her meeting. 

Aspen took a deep breath, collecting herself. “Well,” she said, “after a diplomatic compromise had been reached where your guardian would accompany me to the meeting to say hi, but not - not - insert himself into it, he of course went and did that anyways.”

Calum’s eyebrows furrowed like he was hurt. He wasn’t. She wasn’t going to fall for it - butter wouldn’t melt in his perfect mouth. “Finch invited me in. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“I dunno how you’ve kept your identity a secret so long, you’re a terrible liar.” Aspen turned to Dick and Alfred, gesturing with her fork as she spoke. “He deliberately used language that would make Finch, who is already eager to please him based on status, feel socially required to invite him in. And then he was smug about it.” 

Cal ducked his head, smiling sheepishly. He liked being caught by her. “I wasn’t that smug.” He said to the rest of the table. 

The implicit confirmation of Aspen’s accusation didn’t go unnoticed by anyone, as far as she could tell. Good. 

“You were smug enough.” Aspen said to him before turning back to Dick. “But the rest of it went fine. We talked about the two trials. They’re probably gonna offer Liam a plea bargain to testify against Falcone, which I’m fine with. It’s whatever. I mean -” she said, realizing that that flippant language showed how much she was bothered, “- I don’t think he’d, like, try to kidnap me again, so it’s something I’m comfortable with.” 

“You look nervous.” Dick said. 

Fuck kids and their openness. Aspen was starting to think that Dick knew he was a cute young man, and was using his innocent look against her. “...I am a little nervous.” She said after a minute. Under the table, Calum’s hand found her knee and squeezed in support. She took a deep breath before continuing. “It’s still kinda fresh, and I found out that some stuff happened while I was knocked out today that I didn’t know about, which is fun to deal with. But from a logical point of view, I know that Liam’s unlikely to do anything criminal with Falcone out of the way, and our best chance to get Falcone out of the way is to use his testimony. So.” She sliced a meatball in half and stuck it in her mouth so she didn’t have to talk about it anymore. 

Calum’s hand left her knee as he leaned in towards her. Aspen mourned the loss of its warmth, but she knew with Dick around the gesture was really risky anyways. “What was it you found out? You didn’t mention anything.” 

Aspen took her time chewing and swallowing. “Um. It’s just - you know what, I’d rather not talk about it at the table. It’s not a big deal in the grand scheme of things, it’s just new, you know?” 

To her surprise, Dick nodded sagely. “I know.” 

“...I guess you all would, huh.” Aspen commented, surveying the table for a moment. There was probably no other group that would understand better than the one she found herself in. She was lucky. Group therapy with catering. “Thanks.” She said, and she meant it. 

“We’re all here for you, Ms. McMichael.” Alfred said, and affection in his voice made Aspen feel close to tears. 

“Alright, alright, don’t make me cry at the table.” Aspen finished the spinach on her plate and laid her cutlery on her plate with the handles together. “Gangin’ up on me, the whole Batfamily, not a merciful bone in your bodies. I don’t know why I bother to come by.” 

Alfred started to gather the plates, but as Aspen stood up to help Calum laid a hand on her arm, stopping her from reaching her water glass. “Come up to my office? I want to know what happened at the meeting after I left.” 

Aspen tried not to get evasive. She knew what that meant. “Sure.” She chirped, drawing her hand back. “Call me for dessert, alright?” She said to Dick as she followed Calum out of the kitchen. He saluted, which she paused in the doorway to return. 

“Aspen?”

“I’m coming.” She said, hurrying to catch up to Calum. Every so often he’d do his fast busy-CEO-with-places-to-be walk again, and she’d have to rush after him like it was her first day all over again. It was rarely a good sign. 

She didn’t try to talk to him on the way to his office. She just followed in his slipstream until the heavy oak door was closed behind them. Before she could sit down in one of the cushy leather armchairs, he grabbed her hand, spinning her around so she was facing him. He held one hand at her jaw and the other at her waist, so she couldn’t move, couldn’t even turn her face away from him. He was going to press her for details, now. Interrogate her. 

“You should have said something sooner.”

Wait, what?

Aspen met Calum’s eyes, startled out of her apprehension. He brushed his thumb over her cheekbone, looking at her...  tenderly. Was this a ruse? Good cop sans bad cop? “I didn’t realize you were that shaken back there.” He continued.

She flexed her shoulder in the tinitest shrug possible. “It didn’t need to get in the way.”

Calum tilted her face in his grip, and she let him. She didn’t struggle as he looked her over, like he was trying to see through her. She wanted to, but she didn’t. “It’s important to me that you feel safe. I could have ended the meeting, I could have gotten you out of there. That’s why I went in the first place, right? Not to bother you. To look after you.” 

Aspen blinked. She hadn’t really thought about it that way. “I didn’t need to end the meeting. I did fine. I mean, sure, I had my moments, but - that’s not important.” She smiled a little. “But thank you.” 

She tried to crane up for a kiss, but Calum’s grip was unyielding. What? “No. Don’t try to distract me. This is important.” He said sternly. 

She sighed, and with his tight grip on her she knew he could feel it. “No, come on, I’m vulnerable. Give me some creature comforts here.” 

“Soon.” Calum said, sliding his arm around her shoulders and tucking her into his side. 

He lead her towards the couch, and once she sat down he adjusted her so her head was resting on his shoulder. “Bossy.” Aspen squirmed, but he only kissed her forehead in response. 

“Tell me about it.” 

Aspen took a deep breath. Exactly what was she gonna say? She could stall by willfully misinterpreting him, that was a start. “Well, I’m gonna be very generous and not wax poetic on you being a control freak, and a-”

“Quit stalling.”

“Fine.” She sighed. Might as well rip off the band-aid. “I didn’t know that Liam had put me in his trunk. I didn’t really think about the logistics of him driving me at all, but I just - learning that he just shoved me in the trunk kind of shook me for a second. So that wasn’t great.” Wait. Maybe she should have resisted his interrogation further. He was the one who had brought that up, not Finch, and realizing that - he’d probably feel like shit. “Like I said, it wasn’t a big deal.” 

This time, it was Aspen who could feel Calum sigh. “I forget you never watched the footage.” He said, by way of apology. 

“It’s fine. I’m especially glad I didn’t, now, but…” Aspen tried to laugh, but Calum didn’t budge. “I got through it fine, I really did. It was just hard to think about for a minute.” 

Calum turned his head to kiss her forehead again. She politely did not take this opportunity to jump his bones and distract him. “I have something else you’ll probably want to know, but you’re not gonna like it.” He didn’t even shift nervously under her, but she could feel tension in him grow. “It’s not that bad.” She said to soothe him. 

Calum laughed at that. “Whenever you say that, I get really nervous.” 

“Fuck off.” She said,but she was smiling bravely. At least they weren’t so distressed now. “You can’t, like, go on the warpath about this, okay?”

“Tell me.” 

Aspen braced herself. “After you left, Finch asked me to go to Blackgate and try to convince Liam to take the plea.” 

Calum didn’t move. 

That was worse than him sighing. Aspen twisted in his grip until he let go of her enough to let her turn sideways and pull herself into his lap, like a heroine on the cover of a romance novel. “I said no, of course, and I told him I wouldn’t tattle so you can’t go ballistic on him the next time you see him, alright?” 

He shook his head. He wasn’t looking at her, now, eyes focused sharp like he was going to set a lampshade on fire with his glare. “I should have stayed.” 

“No, you shouldn’t have. It’s his job to ask, Cal, and this way we know something about him we wouldn’t have otherwise.”

Calum was shifting now, like he was gonna get up and head after Finch right this second. “That he’s a rat bastard who doesn’t deserve to -”

“No, that he’ll do anything to get Falcone charged.” Aspen said. It was her turn to grab his face and make him look at her. His jaw felt like it was throbbing in her hands. “He goes after the big dogs. Maybe he’s a bit, um, obtuse about it, but we can use that.” 

She was right. Calum had to admit that. But now he was avoiding her gaze. She hadn’t seen him mad like that since… one of her stupid escapades, maybe. Somehow it was worse, seeing him all worked up over someone else. 

“I know it’s frustrating to not be able to do anything about it.” She said after a long moment of his silence. “But hey, on the plus side, I’m not lying to you about it.”

Calum snorted despite himself. “I would have found it out.” 

Aspen smiled, and pressed a kiss to his still lips. “No, you wouldn’t have.” 

He didn’t smile back against her lips, but he did bring a hand up to cradle her face. “I wanted to be there so you’d feel comfortable, so this would’t -” He cut himself off, looking at her as softly as he could manage. “Now would be a good time for you to try that distracting thing you do.” 

She could work with that. 

Aspen pushed on his shoulders, and for once Calum fell back easily, twisting so he was lying flat on the couch. She straddled his lap, taking a moment to look at him. On a whim, she tried reaching out and smoothing the wrinkle in his forehead. “You worry about me too much.” She said. 

“I worry about you just enough. Now come on,” he almost whined, reaching up for the back of her head, “get down here.” 

Her lips were on his before his hand could tangle in her hair, and for the third time that day, Aspen kissed him like she wasn’t his secret and they had all the time in the world. He brought his other hand down to her waist, dangerously low, and for a second she wondered if they had time. If they could fall apart together on this leather couch before dessert. They didn’t have the time, she knew that, but with the feeling of his lips on hers and the soft glide of their tongues she almost didn’t care. 

Calum sighed and shifted underneath her, and she lifted one hand from where it was supporting her to cup his face and direct the kiss a little more. Yeah, he was gonna break it off eventually, but she was going to make it as hard for him as possible. In fact… Aspen rocked gently on her knees, drawing herself over Calum’s groin, whimpering into his mouth just a little so he’d know how much she wanted him. Calum moved fast, grabbing her hips with both hands tight enough that she couldn’t do it again. “Don’t,” he warned. “We don’t have time.” 

Aspen made another little sound and rested her forehead against his, relaxing in his grip. Calum didn’t budge. Damn, he saw right through her ruse. “Jus’ wanna feel you,” she whined. 

“So feel me here.” He craned up to kiss her. 

“It’s not enough.” 

Calum sighed so big she could feel his chest rise against hers, then moved his hands to pull her in. One travelled back to the back of her neck, pushing her to nestle her face in the crook of his neck. “We’ll figure something out eventually,” He said. He was so close he only needed to flex his lips to kiss her neck. “But just this for now, okay?” 

“You know you’re only building the anticipation.” Aspen grumbled, squirming a little in his grip until she slipped down on one side of him. Her leg was thrown over his, and if she had been desperate she could have bucked her hips to taste a little friction that way. She wasn’t desperate, though. Not so much, not yet. “It’d be better to let it out in a controlled setting.” She grazed her fingers along his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin under his shirt. “I know you like to be in control.”

Calum caught her hand in one of his, holding it tight enough Aspen barely tried to tug it free before she gave up. “Why don’t you ever behave, then?” 

Aspen kissed his cheek. “You gotta earn it.” 

With that, she rolled away and stood up, leaving Calum on the couch. It was getting dark out now, and she used her reflection in the window to brush her hair back into place. In the slight warping of the glass, she could see Calum stand up behind her and make his way over, wrapping his arms around her waist to hug him into her. 

“Oh, you really are distracted.” 

Calum laughed a little, meeting her eyes in their reflection. “Can you blame me?” He cuddled her closer, and for once Aspen didn’t try to rub herself up against him. She could feel him pressing into her ass, hard enough to feel through their clothes. “You have no idea how much I want to bend you over my desk right now.” He continued, voice dropping low. “You’d be quiet for me, wouldn’t you, baby?” 

Aspen pulled herself out of his grip, face warm, and wheeled around to face him. He was smug, again, smirking back at her as she tried to regain her composure. This wasn’t fair. “Who’s teasing now?”

“I guess you’re rubbing off on me.” Calum grinned. 

“You - fuck off.” She tried to tuck her shirt in, although it hadn’t been before - she needed something to do with her hands. “I would be rubbing off on you right now if you weren’t such a fucking spoilsport.” She grumbled. 

Calum grabbed her hand and squeezed it once before letting it fall back to her side. “Let’s go downstairs, Penny. Dessert’s probably waiting.” 

“Coulda had dessert up here, but no, Calum wants his fuckin’ souffle.” 

He was still pleased with himself behind her, she could hear it in his voice when he said “Call it payback.” 

“For what?” 

As she opened the door, he pulled the knob from her hand so he could hold it for her, and maybe fix himself behind it. “Everything.” 

Aspen laughed, and she was still laughing when she caught sight of Dick coming down the hall. Fuck. She didn’t try to rein her laughter in, that would have just looked suspicious, so she just asked “Is dessert ready?” to signal to Calum that they had an audience. 

“Just about.” Dick said. He waited for them to reach him before they all started down the hall together. Even though she was a little miffed that she couldn’t keep flirting brazenly with Calum, it was nice to have all three of them walking down the hallway, almost like they were in slow motion. Almost like they were a family. Not that she was ready to be a mom to Dick, or anything - fuck, he’d been through enough, she didn’t need to inflict herself on him. 

But she’d stay as long as they asked her to. 

* * *

“I can’t believe you’re allowed to be up this late on a school night.” Aspen grumbled from her place at the control panel. 

“I’ve got all As.” Dick said evenly into his hot chocolate. 

“Yeah, well, when I was your age I had A bedtime.” Dick didn’t reply to that, and it took Aspen all of fifteen seconds of him giving her that serene yet challenging look he did for her to cave. He had almost definitely learned it from Calum. “I’m just fussing because I would have loved to do this when I was your age. I’m, like, retroactively jealous.” 

“Sure.”

Aspen pretended to glare at Dick, which finally got him to crack a smile and break his own facade. “You have whipped cream on your nose.” She lied, just to make him check. 

“Are you two playing nice in there?” 

Calum’s voice came through the comms they both wore, making them both sit up a little more in their chairs. When he was out on patrols, he had the option to tune into their channel or not, as he saw fit. They had the same option back at the cave, but they never really turned his feed down unless he was, like, eating a granola bar on a safe rooftop somewhere. Aspen knew she was powerless if things went sideways, of course, but it made her feel a little bit better. 

“Always.” Aspen said, at the same time that Dick said “No.”

Calum huffed a little under his breath. That was as close as he got to a laugh on these nights. “Alright.” They heard wind brushing past the mouthpiece, a tiny grunt as he settled on some surface. “‘S quiet tonight.”

“Too quiet?” Aspen asked, looking at the little red dot showing where he was in the city. 

“No. Like the last few nights.”

“Do you think it’s because Falcone’s in jail?” Dick pipped up. 

Calum took his sweet time answering. “That, or something’s coming.” 

Aspen rolled her chair over to the police scanner and turned it up a little. She didn’t want to think about that. She was sure she’d be able to handle whatever came her way, and Calum was too, or else she wouldn’t be allowed down here. She poked her tongue into the inside of her cheek, a nervous tick she’d developed when she was getting used to her scar healing on that side. 

She could handle a lot. She just had to remember that. 

“You could go break up a brawl at Amsterdarn.” She suggested after a moment of listening through the static. 

Calum snorted. 

Aspen didn’t blame him. Amsterdarn was one of those flashy mixology bars, which she could only assume was full of designer party drugs and weird things to smoke. Right now, Venom was more of a cheap, dangerous fix for those with nowhere else to turn, so there was nothing there to interest him. Just trust fund kids getting scrappy and giving each other bloody noses. 

As opposed to her trust fund kid, who did almost the same thing but in body armour. 

Whatever. If the GCPD couldn’t handle some rowdy financial analysts, they didn’t deserve to have the Batman risking his neck against the supercriminals out there. 

“I’m going to use this time to monitor a few active targets I’ve had my eye on.” Calum said finally. 

“Man, I’m sorry I’m stuck back here.” Aspen deadpanned. 

Dick laughed, but tried not to. “I’m glad to be here. I’m learning.” 

“Yeah, yeah, boy wonder.” She rolled her eyes. 

“It’s late.” Calum interrupted. “You should go home.”

Aspen had been thinking about it, but now that he had said that she was staying. “I’ll be fine. I only really need to be awake for an hour or two tomorrow, anyways, the only important thing I have planned is that meeting with the hospital.” 

“Oh, no big deal, then.”

“It’s a school night, you can’t talk to me.” Aspen fired back to Dick, and pretended to listen to the police scanner again. Maybe she should make gels tonight. Keep herself busy. She hadn’t had much need to run any DNA analysis gels, other than doing a few test runs and cute science experiments with Dick, but it would be good to be prepared. Shouldn’t make Gotham’s Caped Crusader wait on agar to harden. 

That was pretty much how the night went. Aspen made agar gels to keep herself awake, and Dick drank hot chocolate and monitored the console just in case. After an hour or two of listening to Calum breathe in her ear she looked up and realized the kid had fallen asleep, so she took a moment to go off coms and shepherd him into bed. She wasn’t sure if Alfred was awake or not, but she did feel confident that he’d appear if anything did go sideways so she didn’t mind looking after the cave herself. Just her and the bats, and she liked the bats. 

It was late - one? Two? When the call came through. Well, not call. Calum just said, very suddenly, after an hour of comfortable silence - “Did you hear that?” 

“Hear what?” Aspen’s stomach twisted. 

“Police scanner,” was all Calum said, and Aspen set her erlenmeyer down to hurry over to the little radio box. 

“...car 62-4, could we get a 10-9? Over.”

“10-100 near pier 72 at Port Adams, over.”

“Car 57-2, we’re about eight minutes away, over.”

“10-4 57-2, forensics is on its way. Over and out.” 

Aspen hadn’t memorized the police codes yet. She had a cheat sheet nearby - somewhere - fuck, she couldn’t find it. “What does that mean?” It wasn’t a shooting, it wasn’t a psych patient, a riot was a 10-34… 

“It’s a dead body.” 

Aspen bit her bottom lip. “Oh.” 

“I’m going to check it out. Might be able to get some good information before the CSI team tramples all over it.” 

Now was not the time for Aspen to argue with Calum over his disrespect of her (unknowing) colleagues, so she just nodded, even though he couldn’t see her. She knew a lot of trade went in and out of Port Adams every day, and a lot of it was underground. Cal was probably hoping this body would help him crack into a smuggling ring somehow, and she knew he loved racing the cops on almost every occasion. Aspen was still just getting used to responding to that kind of thing. 

Calum got there first, she could tell from the blip on the screen and his little pant of triumph as it got closer to the docks. “I see it. I’m setting the cowl to photography mode.” He said. 

“Sounds good.” Aspen said, like she was excited to look at pictures of a corpse.

“I’ll upload them to you as I - oh, no. Is he there?” 

Aspen’s stomach twisted. They didn’t use names on the comm, but she knew who he meant. If he didn’t want Dick to see the body, it must have been bad. “No, he went to bed.”

She heard Calum let out a long slow breath. “Good.” Another pause. “Shit.”

Aspen could hear sirens now through Calum’s mic. He had to get out of there before the Bat became a suspect, but before she could remind him the first of the photos uploaded to the console in the Batcave. It was dark, but her eyes didn’t even need a minute to adjust before it hit her like ice cold water - “Oh my god.”

She was a child. 

[soulfood-fics]

Oreo - Chapter 1

Heyy! This is my first fic, hopefully its not trash!

Pairing: John Boyega + Black!OC

Inspiration: John did an interview where he said a girl broke up with him after seeing him on a Star Wars billboard, this story is a variation of that but with my own little twist. 

I made it an original Character but I hope everyone can identify with it. 

Enjoy!

Waking up to the Living Single theme song and the brightness of her TV, Akida feels the covers around her trying to silence her phone. Squinting her eyes to focus on the screen she realizes it’s not her usual alarm but a facetime call from her older sister Bianca. After letting it ring, she decides to answer and point the camera towards the ceiling.

“Hey lil sis!” Bianca’s chipper voice made Akida groan.

“It’s too early for this B,” rolling over so that only her forehead and eyes were visible on screen “…what do you want?” she says, rolling to the other side of the bed and hiding her head under the pillow.

“Girl it is 10am on a Saturday, get up and open the door.”

Slightly confused, Akida brings the phone directly to her face, “You’re here?” The question was answered by a knock on the door.

She’d forgotten she was supposed to do her sisters hair this morning. Jumping out of bed, turning off her TV and scrambling to make her room look decent, Akida put clothes and papers anywhere they’d fit. Just as she stuffs the last pile of clothes in the closet, Bianca knocks again. Rushing out of her room she makes a mental note to thank her roommate for cleaning the kitchen before opening the door. “What took you so long? You know I’ve seen your room before.” Grabbing each other into a tight hug, “I missed you, B” Akida whispers into her sisters hair. “Oh sure you did. You don’t call, you don’t write. I’m tired of being treated like a bald headed stepchild.” 

Closing the door behind her sister, she’d forgotten how dramatic she was. “You live two freeway exits away. Relax.”

~Only being two years apart they hadn’t seen each other much growing up, having different mothers and estranged relationships with their father. They reconnected sometime in high school when Akida’s relationship with their father had gone rotten. Both had been daddy’s girls but at a young age they became aware that the family dynamic wasn’t normal. The visits with their father became shorter and less frequent and eventually stopped. After high school graduation, Akida went to college in the Bay Area to be close to Bianca who had started a family of her own. Her long-time boyfriend Donovan and their adorable three year old son Jacob were the perfect IG black family goals~

“Ready to get started?” Bianca asks as she turns on the living room TV and gets comfortable on the floor in front of the couch. Akida’s mother made her learn how to do hair, especially her own. She’d become her sisters designated braider since she was the only one who knew how to cornrow. Grabbing the rattail comb and other supplies, she sits behind her sister and begins to part her hair.

“Can you do a little design in the front and a second row of braids in the back? That way it’s versatile.” Bianca asks, making Akida raise her eyebrows in surprise.

“For someone who doesn’t know how to cornrow, you’re making a lot of requests.”

Turning around to face her sister, Bianca says “I am a proud member of the BGWCB club!” They both laughed “The what?” she asks.

“It’s the Black Girls Who Can’t Braid club, we are underrepresented and deserve to be acknowledged” Bianca says between chuckles.

Still laughing she goes back to parting the hair into rows and starts braiding. A brief silence falls over them before Bianca changes the subject. “Dad called”, she says as more of a statement than a conversation starter. “He asked about you.” She adds. Not wanting to entertain the topic Akida stays quiet focusing on making clean parts and even sections. Turning around again, Bianca continues “Kiddie he’s sick and it doesn’t look good for him. I think you two should talk.”

Not wanting to hear any more of it Akida snaps back “And if you want these plaits tight I think you should turn around.” Bianca decides to drop the subject and they sit in silence as Akida finishes her hair, sharing the occasional laugh at the Insecure rerun.

Once she finishes the last braid, Akida puts coconut oil on the parts between the braids and shea butter on the ends, “done” she mumbled and moves to get up from the couch headed to her room. Bianca catches up to her sister and hugs her from behind, “Thank you Kiddie!” she sings “And I’m sorry for bringing dad up, I know it’s still a sensitive topic for you.”

“It’s fine.”

“Ooo why don’t we go out for lunch? Donovan’s mom has the baby so I’m free.” Just the mention of food makes Akidas stomach growl, reminding her she hadn’t eaten. “Come on. It’s my treat” Bianca pleads.

“Fine, it’ll be my payment”

Clapping her hands together, Bianca heads back to the living room. Before Akida closes the bathroom door to get dressed she hears “Oh can we take your car? I don’t want to lose my parking space.”

“Sure.” She says rolling her eyes

They decided to go to Akidas favorite Filipino street food spot on Fruitvale. She ordered chicken lumpia and 24 count of their signature G-Fire wings.

“So how are things with you and uh… um.. What’s his name?” Bianca asks before taking a drink of water.

“His name is Elijah and you already know we broke up.” Bianca never approved of Elijah or his relationship with Akida. When they had broken up a few months ago Bianca wanted to throw a party.

“Oh yeah Elijah, so y’all don’t talk still?” Bianca was pressing for answers that she already knew. Akida could tell she was up to something.

“No we do not. Why?” she answered.

“Oh no reason... So would you mind if I gave that guy over there your number?” Bianca tilted her head towards the end of the line to order. Akida turned, moving her braids from her shoulder and saw him. He was cute. Cute in a ‘nice to look at but don’t touch or else he’ll ruin your life’ kind of way. Since she had just gotten her life together, Akida thought it best to leave him alone. “Im not interested.” She said and turned to dip her lumipa in the sweet and sour sauce.

All while they ate Akida had tried to sneak glances at him. Unfortunately, she wasn’t as slick as she thought and they locked eyes for one second too many. Bianca caught their brief interaction also, “Lier, do you want me to get him over here?” she asks and raises her hand to get his attention.

“EXCUSE ME! You with the Africa tattoo! Yeah, Hi can you come here plea- OW.” Her sentence was cut short by Akidas foot connecting with Bianca’s knee.

“Nope! Sorry, big mistake. Stay in your seat please, Sir.” Akida’s attempt for damage control fails as the man continues to get up from his seat and carry his food towards them. “Oh god no. What did you just do?” she whispers harshly towards Bianca who’s already switched seats to make room for the handsome stranger. “I’m getting you a man. Now shut up and be nice,” she whispers back.

Smiling through the pain in her knee, Bianca stretches a hand out to greet him, “Hi, I’m Bianca. Nice to meet you.” pointing towards Akida and the open seat next to here “ my sister and I noticed you eating alone and thought you might want some company. Please have a seat.”

Putting his plate of food down on the table he shakes Bianca's hand, “Nice to meet you. I’m John.”

Oh god, his accent Akida thought, I’d let him hold me.

She continued to imagine what his arms would feel like around her until her thoughts were interrupted, “And THIS is my sister Akida, she's a little shy.” she hadn't noticed the hand in front of her. Internally yelling at herself for missing the opportunity to touch him, Akida strains a smile. He mimics her smile back to her, “it’s alright love, I wouldn't talk to me either.” he says with a laugh and sat down, continuing the conversation with Bianca.

Akida waits for an opening to interject into the conversation.

“I love your accent, where are you from?” Bianca asks.

“London but I’m Nigerian ” he answered. There it was, her opening.

“Oh really that's cool.” dumbass, she thought, out of all the words you know that's what you put together.

He didn't seem to care though, he was just happy she was talking to him. “Yeah, it is pretty cool.”

The just sit and smile at each other for a few seconds.

Not wanting the conversation to go stale Bianca interjects, “Oh Kiddie, tell him about the Jollof Festival.”

“Yeah Kiddie, tell me about it.” John was teasing. He turned in his chair to face her.

It didn't matter how many clothes she had on, the way he looked at her made her feel exposed and completely bare.

“There’s a festival downtown where different vendors have jollof from different places. But it's mostly Ghanaian and Nigerian vendors there, they're a little competitive.” Akida explains.

“And Nigerian Jollof wins. Hands down.” John said matter-of-factly

“I wouldn't know, I’ve never had it before.”

“You have a Jollof festival but you’ve never had jollof ? That's the only way to have it.”

Akida shrugged, “My ex boyfriend was Ghanaian so he only took me to the Ghanaian vendors.”

“Well he’s an idiot,”

“I couldn’t agree with you more!'' Akida and John had both forgotten about Bianca. She was quiet which isn't normal for her. “Sorry to interrupt whatever's going on here,” gesturing to John and Akida, “but we’ve got to go.”

“Awe do we?” realizing what she’s said, Akida quickly corrects herself, “I mean yes we do, sorry John it was really nice meeting you.”

“Nice meeting you as well, both of you.” John stands letting Akida move from the table, “ Akida I’d like to see you again, if that's alright. Maybe take you out for some real jollof.”

Before she could answer Bianca hands John a napkin with her sister’s number on it, “Oh I thought you’d never ask,” pulling Akida towards the exit, “Bye John.”

As soon as they're out the door, Bianca starts to yell, “DOYOUKNOWWHOTHATWAS?,” stopping in front of Akida. “I didnt recognize him at first but then it hit me!”

“You know him?” 

“Yes! You dont?” 

“No. I’ve never seen him before.” Akida gets distracted by a text, 

Bye Kiddie, Let me know when you want that jollof.

Looking up from her phone, shes met by another screen. Bianca held up a picture, it was John holding a light saber. Her heart dropped “There’s no way.” 

@ghostfacekill-monger @honeychicana

[sion-theundeadjuggernaut]

Shag me

Leave a “Shag Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a dirty drabble about our characters. Leave a “Nurse Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about my character healing yours. Leave a “Fight Me” in my ask, and I will write a drabble out my character fighting with/or against yours.

Not gonna write three for you. So I’ll write one instead, horny slut. 

Battle raging upon the holiest of mountains in all of Runterra was no rare occurrence by all standards. Religious ideologies, beings enamored by power, seeking to gain or destroy it, treasure hunters, raiders and marauders. The mountain had known conflict long before Demaica or the empire even existed. It would know battle long after they perished. 

The sun burned with a wrathful vigor in the noon sky, no clouds to avail all those who were struck by her searing rays while the cold winds gnawed at the bones of all. For any man not born of the mountain, this was hell incarnate. The earth was cold as ice, the air was thin and each breath drawn burned the lungs. The environment alone forged its denizens into warriors of perfect vigor and resistance to the elements that all else had to struggle with. The golden weapons of the Ra’Horak clashed with Noxian dark steel as shields splintered, flesh seared and armor shattered. The stench of death laid heavy in the air as gleaming spears burst through shields and thick armor plates alike. The Noxian soldiers were well trained, well equipped and experienced soldiers, feared throughout the world for their versatility and their skill at arms. The name Noxus carried far and wide from Ionia to Targon, from Freljord to Bilgewater. Ever nation knew of the red banner and its infamous legions. But these great soldiers faced odds that even the Trifarian legion would choke to overcome for their foes did not train to fight nations or soldiers. They fought the great beyond, the abyss. The fought the extinction of all life, for they had been indoctrinated from birth that they must protect the sun with every fiber of their being, as once it was extinguished there would be no more light to follow. Nothing but darkness was the price of their failure. What were soft men in armor against the gnashing of teeth, the chittering of a thousand watchful eyes all acting as one? They were nothing but leaves in the wind against the foe these warriors faced and thus were treated as such. Flaming spears, forged in solstice heat, blessed from beyond the stars, perforated shields and armor as if they were but snow on the white rock of the mountain.

This was no battle; this was a slaughter of cattle. Dark armor contrasted against the white rock of the holy mountain, now drenched in a layer of crimson as bodies cooled and twitching ceased. Sion saw no victory in this fight, he needed not to. He had already won. Those who still stood were merely chaff to him, wheat to be cut down by the furious golden order which thirsted for blood after the transgression.

“My Lord!” One of the sergeants cried sprinting up to the undead behemoth as the other contingents who were not yet fighting turned his gaze to the two leaders, unease and fear clearly evident in their eyes. They were far from home, no legion to save them, no basilisk blitz to strike the backlines, nothing but themselves and a furious battalion of warriors. “We are outmatched, their weapons, they cut through us like butter. We must retreat, now! If we want to ..” The cracking of his skull was heard even through the shouting and crying of the battle and all those who witnessed it froze in fear. There would be no retreat, terror gripped them as they realized their lives were forfeit. “Charge and win, or retreat and die.” The ultimatum was clear and his tone was dead serious. He cared not that this was a blow to their morale, they were a worthy sacrifice for the cause. The remaining sergeants did what they could to rally the soldiers as they clashed with the ranks of the Ra’Horak, black against gold, soldiers against warriors. The sour stench of spilled entrails filled the air as death reaped plentiful. With a violent burst the heavens themselves heaved and cracked open as a pillar of searing light blazed over the Noxian forces leaving nothing but charred soil, burnt metal and ash behind. Those not evaporated by the blast were seared past the point of saving, the skin blistering in an instant as eyes and tongues boiled within the skull. The heat and light alone blinded all but Sion who understood that the Radiant Lioness herself had taken helm. It was time to leave.

But she had her sights upon him and even as her followers dealt with the intruders, she charged past them all, knowing that this battle was nothing more than lives paid in exchange for time. She would not give him what he sought to buy as she followed him down the mountain. Sion was fast on long straight paths, but here in this rocky terrain, she had the advantage. Despite her heavy plate, shield and sword the amazon was nimble and fast. Powerful legs carried her down the mountain fueled by a warrior’s rage all its own.

“Face me Sion.” She snarled before jumping into his path, sword and shield hoisted high, ready to absorb the blow that was about to come from the undead behemoth. “There will be no victory for you today. Return what you have stolen and I might be swayed to the mercy of a quick death undead abomination.” His ax crashed against her shield with a violent clash, the ground beneath her feet gave way a few inches driving cracks into the solid rock formation but she remained unmoved, shield high. There was a fierce gleam in her eyes that spoke of resolve but also fury, a solemn promise that she would not yield what he had taken. Sion on the other hand was determined to bring his treasure before the grand general, another token of service. Her head was not on the planned trophies he would return with, but if she pushed him he would be quite open to reconsider.

“Noxus will have his prize.” The necrotic behemoth roared at her face, his powerful roar sending her auburn mane dancing and with his war cry he leapt forward, his giant axe smashing into the soil where she had stood only moments ago. She knew which strikes to block and which to evade, she had faced things more powerful before, with an even greater drive but still, this beast was not to be underestimated.

In the distance the rhythmic sound of greaves striking the mountain side was faintly noticeable amidst the fighting. But before long the golden host of Ra’Horak warriors appeared, their bronze skin and golden armor painted red with Noxian blood, another reason why Sion had to return. He himself had no problem with sending men to their death for the fun of it. But the raven general always expected value for lives lost. The Ra’Horak raised their shields, burning spears readied by the second line of defense as they completed the phalanx formation, a short but powerful war chant made it evident to all that the Ra’Horak were ready to engage the beast.

“Stand down.” Came the order from fair lips that sent confusion through the ranks of the Solari elite. A young commander decided to step next to the chosen vessel a silent plea to allow them the honor to bring this creature down in her name, but Leona silenced his advance with a gentle glance and a small nod back towards the Phalanx. “He’s mine.” She finally proclaimed. “On my honor, do not intervene.” Another curt war chant sounded in acknowledgement to her demand as they took a few steps back to give her distance to work with. Sion meanwhile fought back the smallest of grins at this unexpected duel, what poetic justice it would be to dethrone this god of theirs and deliver her to them a bloody pulp. The glory of this kill, in front of her men it was too sweet to pass up.

“To challenge the king slayer so boldly, I accept your challenge pagan harlot.” With outstretched arms the behemoth invited her to strike so that this duel of theirs could commence. “Sion, you slew a king, not a god.” She sneered back shield and sword brandishing in burning sunlight. With a warrior’s grace she swung the sword a few times before crouching down somewhat, ready to charge the mountain of muscle. “But you are no god, Solari.” His low rumbling voice sneered back cold, burning eyes narrowing with malicious intent as he would feast on the carnage to come. He enjoyed that she so bought into the banter and challenge, him against her. The matron of the mountain against the spirit of Noxus. “I am the most divine thing you will ever face, monster.” She snarled back a celestial firestorm brewing in her eyes fueled by aggravation and intent. “And by the sun’s light will you be undone!” with that she charged forward, Sion ready to meet her. He grasped the shaft of his vicious axe with both hands, raising it high to strike down heavy against the raised shield.

It was Leona however who was on the warpath and instead of holding the shield firm like the pale warrior had assumed she threw it with all her fury. Like a spear the celestial construct hurled through the air with vicious spikes digging into Sion’s skull, celestial fire making the beast tumble backward roaring with fury and pain. Pain not at the damage, but what the celestial magic did with his. He was a being of essence more so than flesh. Chained to his undead form yes, but not truly reliant on it. Taking a knee Leona slid through the warmongers legs her burning blade igniting with holy fire, heated by zeal. She slashed at the beast’s leg before whirling around in a flurry of fire and gold to burry the burning weapon into his soul engine. Sion roared, Leona snarled and then the explosion silenced all a heavenly magic clashed with its ancient nemesis. The Ra’Horak were blasted out of formation and down the steep slopes. They would not find death this day, but scattered as they were none of them could lay eyes on their commander or the undead beast crashing through the very rock they stood upon. A hail of mountain splinters, debris and rocks clogged the very hole the two champions crashed through only seconds after their violent descent.

Pain made Leona shoot up from the ground. Sword in hand she looked around to find only darkness glaring back at her like a giant maw of the abyss. Once her eyes adjusted to the dark environment, she noticed a faint silver glow permeated the room. With a pained growl she rose to her feet, sword used as a crutch for now. Golden eyes narrowed as she glared around to figure out where she was. The sudden hand on her shoulder made her whirl around with a war cry, blade in hand ready to face Sion once more. But as she turned, she noticed his eyes fixed on something completely different. His axe clashed with her sword and the hand on her shoulder moved up to silence her before his eyes darted back and forth through the dark cavern again.

“We are not alone.” He growled cold and in the blink of an eye Leona felt the presence long before she heard their chittering. That out worldly dread that they caused wherever they ventured. She eased forward into the dark, to retrieve the shield she had buried in Sion’s face, the wounds still evident on the behemoth, it gleamed in the darkness like a lighthouse on a stormy night. Once fully geared she ignited the burning sword to light the room and what greeted her was a swarm of teeth, infernal screeching and claws as long as swords. They chittered in primal rage as the sunlight burned their beady little eyes. Like those that sent them, they desired nothing more than dark, dead silence.

“Fight like your nation depends on it warmonger.” Leona sneered coldly, “For if they succeed there will be nothing left of you to resurrect a second time.” He returned only a growl of acknowledgment. He had never laid eyes upon things likes these before, never heard people speak of such monsters, they seemed to not even belong here. But when he tried to place them he could find no nation to sort them to, they felt completely and utterly alien. Sion reeled his head back and with a thundering cry of fury he roared the name of his empire so that these beasts would feel the bite of his axe and be reminded of the empires wrath if they were to live.

Hours later Leona slumped down, battered and bruised wounds and scars decorating her body aplenty. He had been mostly unharmed, he was not of living essence, he had not been their primary focus and unlike her he was able to heal from the souls of these beasts. They had fought through the entire cavernous system, until finally reaching this holy shrine of the moon. A heretical site to her no doubt, but right now she care little about heretics. He sat beside her and watched the Solari heave in pain. Her armor was in tatters, most of it at the hands of Sion, who ripped her body suite where he could to fashion crude bandages. She was a warrior, she deserved a warriors death not to die in a dark cave with no one to notice. Her death should come on the field of battle, where her last breath would be one of defiance and strength.

“I would not have expected a monster to have compassion.” She snarled back at him, clearly displeased at the situation. To receive aid from this enemy kicked her pride into the gutter and she loathed the idea of thanking an abomination such as him for his service, but Leona was also a warrior of honor and as such she would honor what he had done for her.

“You would have made a fine Noxian.” He replied, unfazed by her cold tone. He was hardly thrown off by the ordinary. She laughed in response, tilting her head to the side to regard him for a moment before she replied. “Targon breeds warriors, Noxus breeds followers. You would have made a good Rakkor, not the other way around.” Sion scoffed shaking his head, but he could not deny that her words held truth. There was no place for heroics in the legion. Soldiers followed orders that was what they were trained to do. He, not so much. He was a different breed of Noxian, and older breed.

“Does it bother you.” Leona started as he finished bandaging her wounds. “To be this thing, to be nothing more than a human battering ram pointed at the enemy, the means to an end.” Silence. “To never again experience what it means to be human. To eat, drink, enjoy the warmth of another. How do you live without all those things, is your belief in Noxus truly sufficient to keep you moving forward day by day, or is it the slaughter?” Silence.

It was only after a very long stare off between them which ended with Sion looking away that the giant behemoth finally replied eyes fixing on her again once he started speaking. “What makes you think I am unable to?” He retorted, his voice nothing more than a low growl with a tinge of amusement in his words. “You are cursed with undeath.” She replied a raised eyebrow, confusion somewhat readable in her features. “You lack blood when I cut you.”

A low dark snarl akin to laughter reverberated in his throat at the absurdity of this train of conversation had taken. In response he raised his arm, fingers clenching to a fist as he flexed his large biceps for her to clearly feast her eyes upon. “I have no blood, yet my muscles crush my enemies. I have no blood yet I can speak to you, I have no blood but I can march to battle. Why would you think that my lack of blood inhibits this.” He patted on his lap an amused grin now playing over the edges of his face. “If it does not inhibit the rest.” She was stunned, that was a mental image she did not need but a mental image that lashed her mind in penance for thinking about it in the first place.

“Your wounds will heal Solari.” He growled as he got up, seizing the axe to hoist it onto his shoulders. “Wait!” She snarled getting off of her back to stand. “Return what you have taken Sion.” she challenged with the same fury as before. But the undead behemoth glanced at her rathe amused as he turned to face her once again. “This battle is done Solari. You are wounded, your men won’t come to save you, there is no contest. Now rest and recover, we will meet again.” But Leona would not hear it, seizing her blade she dashed in front of him raising the sword to meet the undead juggernaut. “The outcome will be no different.” He snarled in response before a dark smile dashed over his visage, his axe crashing into the ground, embedded in the rock as he came closer, than he should to the point where she had to tilt her head backwards to stare up at him as he loomed over her.

“Perhaps a different form of melee then.” He suggested, a sly undertone lacing his booming words. “Noxian warrior against Targonian warrior, he who breaks first loses.” Leona was repulsed at the idea taking a step back to glare up and down at the giant warrior eyes narrowing in slight aggravation. “So, what say you Solari?”

Sion finally left the cave system at the break of nightfall, his prize safely secured he made off in the cover of night. Leona would find her own way home, once she could stand again. Sion had introduced the demi god to true Noxian might and resilience. A penetrating lesson that would be felt for many evenings to come.

[poorlittleangels]

Eating yourself sick

(Castor being taking care of by caring Aina after having been held and tortured. Unfortunately he can't help his hunger.)

"Hold tight, dear, it won't be long," Aina said from the small kitchen. She was making him his breakfast, a big bowl of porridge with maybe a bit of broth. Her pot of water was at a rolling boil as she hummed to herself, an apron over her long brown dress. The morning was calm and dew sparkled on every blade of grass he could see from his parted curtains. The sunlight fell grayish gold on the floorboards.

He rubbed his stomach, lightheaded with hunger. The past few weeks, he hadn't had much of an appetite. He could barely eat more than a few mouthfuls of whatever Aina fed him, though she gently pleaded with him to try some more. She worried about how thin and pale he looked, how his hair and nails were dry and brittle, how his skin looked stretched taut over his bones. He had just gone without food for so long - maybe once every few days getting tossed some stale bread and water - that his stomach wasn't used to much more, and Aina would sigh and put away the dishes, hoping he would feel better tomorrow.

Today, however, he awoke ravenous. He mentioned it to Aina, whose face alighted with joy for a moment before she went to make him something to eat. He laid there, knowing it would be rude to rush her, but all the same growing more desperate every second. His mind began to wander into decadence - he thought of warm, soft pastries, creamy soup, meat and vegetables and cake... He missed eating. His family and friends knew how he loved his food - he wasn't sure how he hadn't grown fat with how much he ate. At every meal he took seconds, or packed away the leftovers, sometimes asking if someone else planned on finishing their meal so he could scrape up some more.

Aina came in with a bowl of fruit she had been washing, setting it down on a nightstand while she rummaged in the drawer below. "Now where did I leave that..." A little more rummaging and she took out one of her hair barettes that she had misplaced. "There you are." She twisted and pinned back her long dark hair. "Oh, Castor, your breakfast will be ready in a few minutes." She left the bowl of fruit out, absent-minded as she was.

A few minutes later she brought out his bowl of porridge, along with her own breakfast, setting them down on a short table she moved closer to the bed. "Careful, dear, it's a bit hot. Don't want to hurt yourself." She gave it a stir. "I know how hungry you are." She looked out the window, narrowing her eyes. Then she smacked her forehead with her palm in exasperation. "My, I left the laundry out drying all night! I forgot to go get it after supper." She sprang up and hurried towards the door, grabbing the hamper. "I'm so sorry, go ahead and eat when you're ready. I'll be right back. My, I can't believe myself-" She shut the door behind her, leaving the room quiet.

Castor looked to his side. Aina had laid out a big bowl of steaming hot porridge with a spoon, and a little cup of chicken broth. It was bland food, but he knew it'd be delicious, as Aina's cooking always was. His stomach growled. He took a tentative bite. It was too hot, so he set the spoon aside to let it cool. As hungry as he was, he knew he'd burn his mouth.

Over on the table sat Aina's breakfast. A sticky pastry, covered in glaze, with its bakery wrapper half stuck to it. Aina had already taken a bite out of it, exposing the chocolate center. Next to it was a tall, frothy glass of milk.

It was exactly what he'd been dreaming of. Without thinking he leaned forward and grabbed it, too hungry to care if she'd miss it. It was sweet and flaky and buttery. He couldn't have stopped eating had he been tied and bound. In just a few bites he was finished, and licked the rest off his fingers. He reached for the glass of milk, and, steadying it in shaking hands, drained it in a few gulps. It was the best he had ever drank, fresh and rich.

His porridge had gotten cool enough to eat, and he ate messily, tilting the bowl and scraping it into his mouth. The more he ate, he found, the more his appetite grew. As though he was making up for all those days with nothing to eat, filling in the pangs of hunger with butter and sugar and dairy. He didn't care how savage he was being. He just needed to eat, to satisfy his stomach.

He moved on to the bowl of fruit, glistening and freshly washed. A few cherries, he popped them into his mouth without bothering to spit the seeds out. A peach, juicy and succulent. He tore through it all, not thinking. A tangerine, a few strawberries, whatever else, he tore into the soft flesh until his teeth were burning with all the sugar.

He startled at the clicking of the doorknob. He froze. A few moments passed, and nothing happened. He settled down, his heart still racing. In his hand was a fresh, ripe plum - he bit into it, breaking the skin, letting the sticky juice drip down his hands and chin. He had never tasted anything so sweet.

He didn't hear Aina coming in, opening the door with her knee, balancing the basket of clothes on her hip. She hefted it inside and sighed, relieved of the burden.

"My," she said breathlessly, "that's a lot of clothes." She started toward the bedroom. "Good thing it didn't rain last night, hm? I still can't believe I forgot."

She stopped in his doorway. "Castor?"

He looked up at her, struck by a wave of panic. He had the plum in his hand, the juices and seeds of the fruit all over him. Red cherry stains on his soft white shirt and sticky syrup on his fingers. He felt tears sting the corners of his eyes. Imagine being caught like this! He was less than human, just a hungry animal bent on ruining himself.

"Castor, dear..." She hung up her apron and knelt by his side. He let out a choked sob and let the other half of the fruit roll into the bowl. How had he been so stupid? Eating himself sick like a puppy finding a dropped piece of meat. He felt the raw shame spread across his cheeks, the same as when his brother teased him for eating so much, as when his mother shot him a disapproving look for taking an extra slice of cake. As when he got rude glances from friends for piling on an extra serving, not stopping to wipe his mouth. Just him, mannerless, disgusting, worthless. He wept into his messy hands. Nothing more than a sick, sad little glutton.

"Castor, what's the matter?" She pushed a lock of hair out of his face. She didn't sound condemning, but was truly concerned. Something about it made him cry harder. "Come, let's clean you up."

She ducked away to the bathroom and brought him a wet washcloth, wiping off his face, hands, and neck. She helped him change his shirt into a fresh, clean one, and replaced the messy quilt. The dirty dishes were taken and put in the sink, and she returned to his side to comfort him.

He wept into his sleeve, unable to bear her pity. She was disappointed in him, he thought. She must hate him. Poor, broken boy, couldn't control himself, needing to be watched all day and night like a misbehaving pet.

She sighed. "Don't cry. Shh, it's okay. What's wrong? Got too hungry? I promise I'm not mad at you."

He shivered and answered with more sobs, covering his face. Salty tears washed away the sweetness on his tongue.

"You know you shouldn't be eating fruit or milk, things like that. I'm worried it'll mess with you after you haven't been eating for so long." She gently peeled away his hands from his round red eyes. "It's not your fault, dear," she whispered. "You're hungry. Almost too much to bear, right?"

He nodded, wiping his nose on his sleeve. She offered him a tissue from his bedside.

"Don't blame yourself. I should've known, should've fed you more. I made you wait for your breakfast when I knew you were so desperate. I'm sorry, honey."

Her tone was sincere and tender. He knew she truly cared for him, forgave him. It reminded him of his mother soothing him to sleep when he was ill. He sniffled and wiped his eyes again.

He then seized up. Pain tore through his middle. He grabbed at his stomach, suffering through a wave of hurt that left him dizzy. The amount of food he had eaten was stretching his small stomach, not used to eating more than a mouthful at a time. It cramped and twisted, unable to digest the fruit and milk and sugar. How sweet it had been on his tongue, and how horribly sour it felt now!

Aina had turned away for a moment, beginning to put away the laundry. "Is your stomach okay? I'm afraid you might not do well with the milk-"

He squirmed and grunted, prompting her to look over. She dropped the dress she was holding and rushed to be next to him.

"Shh, that's it. Breathe through it." His thin, pale frame was shivering. He felt like he might be ripped apart from the inside. Every wave was worse than the last. Punishment, he felt, for his greediness and lack of self control. He deserved to suffer this badly.

She stayed by him, shushing him, stroking his hair to calm him. "I'm so sorry," he whispered, once he was able to speak before the gnawing ache came back. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry-" A tear fell down his cheek. He whimpered as his stomach churned. "I shouldn't have done that..."

Pressure was quickly building behind his throat. He felt bloated and his stomach bulged from his skinny body. He put a hand to his mouth, trying to breathe through the nausea. It was getting harder to take a deep breath.

He managed to whimper a plea for help, and Aina grabbed a basin for him. She helped to sit him up and place it in his arms, where he held on with shaking hands. He didn't want to throw up, not with his raspy throat and still-healing ribs. But it might be the only thing that could make him feel better.

He caught his breath in between cramps, an unsettling warmth still burning in his belly. Aina was rubbing his back in small circles and stroking his hair, making sure he could hold himself upright.

He doubled over again with pain and puked up a thin stream of bile. He spit and washed his mouth of the alkaline taste with a sip of water. The acid burned up his raw throat. Then, finally, he heaved and brought up a wave of smashed fruit, sickly and cloying in his throat, rotten and putrid. The smell alone made him gag even more. He brought up the pulp and skins and juice, the heavy, rich syrup and porridge, the milk. His ribs were bending and bruising, and his abdomen was already aching with the exertion, unused to working so hard. The forcefulness of the vomiting left him powerless. It was only after everything had come up that he could lay back, barely staying conscious, still dry heaving into a towel.

Aina quickly washed out the basin and brought him a clean cloth, wiping his face for him. She rinsed his mouth with water and gave him a few sips, just about a spoonful at a time, so he wouldn't dehydrate. The cool touch of her fingers on his pounding head was a welcome respite. His whole body was hurting so badly he lie completely still in hopes that the pain would pass.

"Poor thing," Aina cooed, wrapping a soft hand under his neck. "I'm so sorry you had to go through that. I know how horrid it must feel to be put in that much pain again." She lifted the glass of water and fed him another sip.

"It's my fault," he said shakily. "I'm too greedy."

"Dear, you were starved for months. Your body wants - needs - to eat." She smiled, cupping his cheek. "Now at least I know you're getting your appetite back. You're starting to feel better, even if today you were a little sick."

He nodded, rolling to his side. Her words made him feel a little better, even if he still hated what he'd done. Aina tucked him in to his shoulders and patted his head. He felt safe around her, taken care of, finally being able to trust that she wouldn't hurt him. For all that time the only touch he knew was cold, painful, meant only to harm. Now he found himself leaning into her gentle hands, content. His body was still hurting, stomach sore from overexertion. But he knew he was safe. That he was loved.

Before he knew it he had fallen fast asleep, napping as the sun rose.