#who was taken and forced to fight in a fighting pit for years

[drbobbimorse]

Enigma’s Plot Bunnies → Hopeless Wanderer

"Are these guys friends or food?" "Food! Definitely food!" "Finally. I'm starving."

Surviving the Kinzokou Town fighting pit Hanako was forced into was arduous but easy. She never lost a fight and, since she’d been born into a cannibal tribe, the pit gave her an endless supply of food. But it wasn’t her home and she longed to be free. Nyssa had always come to her rescue before, but not this time. It was a long eight years in that cage, waiting for her dearest friend. Instead, a rubber kid claiming he was going to be King of the Pirates came and changed everything. 

Hanako hated pirates, she hated sailing, but at least these pirates didn't use seastone to cage and control her. And they didn't even seem to mind her bear form, mostly. Her eating people still bothered most of them. "Friends aren't food," Luffy told her. Unless they were in a fight, then it was okay. 

Hanako would do whatever her Captain ordered. She'd adapt to the sea. She'd get used to an altered albeit balanced diet. She'd have a real job as Sanji's sous chef, his idea. She'd go to the Grand Line and help Luffy achieve his dream because he'd saved her and she owed him. But she had dreams of her own. Hanako was going to prove she wasn't the monster the Kinzokou townspeople made her believe she was, and she was going to find Nyssa if it was the last thing she did.

[just-some-user-hunny]

The Cannibal bonded with a bastard targaryen reader ...

This is heavily inspired by @mangled-parasite writings on their yandere hotd stuff. I wanted to go more in depth about the relationship a bastard princess reader would have with the cannibal, because the dynamics could be so diverse and interesting. The cannibal is a really interesting dragon to me as well, he's not been tames nor shows any interest in it, so I always wonder what he'd be like with a rider!

(fem! Bastard princess reader X the cannibal)

. If you are bonded to him, he would be ruthlessly protective over you. He can feel every flicker of distress and discomfort from you, and he bares his teeth like a guard dog at whoever draws too close. Once he had decided that you were his, and he was yours, his fury when it comes to protecting you rivals hellfire. You will never have to feel fear again, nothing can even dream of touching you- lest they want to experience the nightmarish wrath of the Cannibal. It matters little to him if this threat is human, or dragon. In fact he almost welcomes it. He loves the rush of destroying whatever threatens you, the pride that fills him when he charres their remains and feasts upon them In front you- because look princess. Look how mighty he is, look how well he can fight and protect you. After his gory feast, he'll lower himself close to your little form for his praise- purring till your blood fizzles as he enjoys your pets and attention.

. Cannibal has never been a tame or passive dragon, but around you, he'll make an effort to behave. He'll stave away his urges to salivate when he captures glimpses of the smaller dragons, if it makes you happy. He'll heed your voice, your words, if only to amuse you and keep you content. However, he still has a temper- and although he may not engulf everything with wildfire, he will surely growl and roar to make people bend their knee in your presence. His bond to you is tightly knitted, so he can pick up those who are irking you or upsetting you. He shares your hatred for your father, often bearing his frightening jagged teeth at the pale man who can only endure the monstrosity of his daughter's dragon. It'll take only your word to engulf him in burning emerald flames, so for once, your father will hold his tongue.

. He is not an obedient dog, more like a feral alley cat who's taken a warming to you. There's not a force in heaven or hell that can convince him to confide anywhere near the dragon pits, not to mention his monstrous size cannot even imagine squeezing itself into that little ditch. He'll take to sleeping upon the beach, preferably away from vhager, if he wants to remain close to you. However he is known to fly off and disappear for days on end, returning when you least expect it. He is a wild dragon at heart.

. He may not melt into a big passive puppy, but he will surely let you know he likes the attention you give him. He'll croon with his snarling scarred grin, his eyes glinting as you speak to him and stay close. The attitude he has around you is stark like night and day- with others he glares ferociously and mean, but with you, he's bound by your heels.

When you approach him upon the sand of the tide, he'll lower his head to gaze upon you. he'll feel content as he looks you over, appearing docile and calm in your presence.

Your family find it terrifyingly odd whenever you approach him with so much casualty, and he simply looks at you so fondly. The dragon who has devoured oh so many wannabe dragon tamers is now treating you like a precious little treasure, and it's both awe-inspiring, and frightening. His striking emerald green eyes focus on you as you speak sweetly and softly to him, his purrs can be heard from the dragonstone gates.

. The cannibal is an ancient dragon with many years of experience, so to him, you are little more than a child in his eyes. His child.

If anything, he is more of a loving father to you than Daemon could ever be.

It's puzzling to him, at first. He has never possessed a single maternal bone in his body, having no objection to devouring unhatched eggs and even young hatched dragons to satiate his hunger- but perhaps he sees a part of him in you. That wildness to stray, the desperation to free yourself from the thorns of the targarians that dig deep into you. You may be a little gentle weepy thing, but the fact still stands. You want to be free. He can grant that.

As you claim him as a child, he'll watch you grow. Watch your face and hands become weary from the anxiety and ache of constantly being caged. You'll gradually become more and more beautiful, dripping in gems and jewellery and ornate gowns, but the sadness in your eyes hasn't changed since you were a tearful little child. He sees what they are doing- trying to keep you satiated with material desires, but he understands you deep down that nothing of that matters. You want to be anywhere else but here...

. He is an old dragon, and has a temper to him. His hunger for flesh and fire has not made him weary, and although he is scarred and withered, he is still towering in all his obsideon scaled glory. Emerald flames engulfing the sky as you ride upon his back, soaring above the clouds as pride and glory consumes him. He always despises the idea of being 'claimed' and ridden like some show pony, but he finds himself enjoying the company of his little human experiencing the rush of gliding through the heavens. He can feel your thundering heart, the flutter of butterflies in your stomach as he dips and soars between terrific heights, and he can't help but grin a scarred and twisted smile, egged on by your delight of the views and freedom. Yes! This is freedom, my little princess. Let us not be chained by those targarians, this is what living is!

He certainly likes challenging you, obviously not to the point he puts you in any danger of course- but he'll dive at gut churning speeds to see what'll make you shriek. It's almost like He finds amusement out of it, perhaps getting a little kick out of challenging his rider. Once he has landed however with you safely back on the ground, he'll look at you with his gnarled smirk and expect just a little push from you. Don't take it to heart though, his princess. You'll get gently prodded and nudged by his snout to check on you to make sure you're alright. He is still protective over you, after all. His cruelty will not extend to your pain. Besides, you are more often than not riding him bareback, so he would never fly so recklessly that you'd get bucked off. Most of the time he's holding back, really.

. That is not to say that each time you climb upon his back that you will endure terror, because that is surely not the case. He loves flying with you, loves feeling your awe and wonder. It fills him with unbridled pride and ego. You can both feel freedom, and freedom is all he wants for himself and his rider alike.

. As his rider, you have a good chance of escaping the talons of your family. Who is to stop you? The mad prince, Daemon, and his blood wyrm? Cannibal could laugh at the mere thought of this deranged man challenging him with his little red pest. Even the one eyed prince and his ancient she-dragon, Vhagar, will be a welcomed challenge. When it comes to you, he'd do anything.

[thegnomelord]

i took 357191027r6392936446322736432947372 psychic damage from the Makarov fic so you gotta write reader being rescued, healed, rehabilitated and loved by the task force. imagine them teaching reader to be their own person or letting him top without any commands or punishments. reader would be whining like a puppy who doesn't know what it's doing and would be so cute and fearful looking for reasurance when fucking into a task force member it would be so cute

lol idk dude. I was intending to do the fic as a one off to satisfy my puplay kink but it's now started to rot my brain even more lol. If I did continue it, I don't know if I'd want a happy ending or an angsty one (omfg imagine going through all the healing and rehab and experiencing love only for one word from Makarov to have you going back to him without question)

So tell me ya'll if you want me to turn the one shot into a longer fic lol, but for now here's some headcannons, ideas/ whatever and some porn

CW:NSFW, rough anal, Simon x reader with Price watching, dom/sub.

I can't imagine Hound would be happy about the 'rescue' considering everything and definitely would be resistant to rehab (Hound biting ppl and getting muzzled lol) that dogheaded asinine stubbornness coming to bite him in the ass. I headcannon Hound to have already been violent when he was under Price's command but Price kept Hound in check(if anyone's seen that young ghost and price comic with him being compared to a fighting dog it's kinda like that).

Makarov didn't need to do much and just played into the aggressive tendency to make Hound as they are now. The more violent the reaction hound would make, the more attention and praise he'd get. Also I'm just a sucker for dog like characters that are unhinged. That have no moral compass except for the one they're loyal to and will do whatever they ask.

So the task force members would have their hands full with Hound that's basically an aggressive fighting dog taken straight out of the pit. Also I'm still thinking whether the 141 would try to steer Hound away from the pup/dog like mentality Makarov conditioned them into, or if they would try to redirect it by calling Hound 'pup, boy' etc, instead of 'dog' like Makarov did.

Also the grief Price would feel to see the man he thought was dead turned into that would break his heart. I don't know if I'd want him to crack down on trying to rehab hound, or let a lot of things slide because he's scared of fucking you up more.

But also like rehabed fighting dogs turn out to be the sweetest animals and Hound just going from this 'I will bite your throat out' to just a gentle giant that's just happy to be able to touch or hug someone without needed permission. . . but he can still bite a throat out.

Also I 1000% swear that Makarov's a whore and would have trained reader to have enough stamina to fuck him all night long so the task force would get pounded into next year lol.

This is questionable cannon and non-confirmed lol you just got me brain rotting with the cute pup part and this came out. Rough and quick.

CW:NSFW

You feel like you will die; heat burns through your veins, sweat crawls down your skin and makes your hair stick to your forehead. Your hands grip Simon's bruised hips, holding them up for him as you pound into him. "Please-" You barely manage a small whimper, hiding your face in Simon's shoulder.

Simon's body quivers beneath you, limp and boneless, a wet hole for you to use. He's as sweaty as you, rough grunts and half-formed swears leaping from his lips every time your hips meet his ass in a bruising thrust. He's the closest to you in size, albeit still smaller, which makes it easier for him to take your size than the others. His insides are a sweltering heat around your cock, fucked into a loose sloppy hole that would gape if you pulled out, muscles still doing their best to squeeze you every time you nail his prostate.

It makes you feel ashamed how long it took you to find it. Mounting anyone but Makarov feels wrong, you're not sure how fast or how deep to go, this current rough pace making Simon the most vocal since you began. You feel him cum again, walls clenching tightly for the first time in a while as you force him into spurting what's left in his empty balls.

"Pl- sir, I- please, please," You can't help but hiccup, your nails leaving crescent bruises in his skin as you just pound him through his orgasm. It's his fourth one.

"What's wrong son?" Price's words barely get through the fog of need in your skull, more little whimpers splitting from your lips. "Don't you want to let go?" Tears blurry your vision, you can barely see his face from where he's resting Simon's head in his lap.

You can't cum. Your balls are so full they feel like they'll explode any second, cock throbbing to finally shoot your load but no matter how harshly you thrust into the willing hole beneath you. It feels like those times Makarov would put a cock ring on you, but worse, now it's your own body refusing to give you release. You haven't earned it.

"Please-" You repeat, because that's the best your mind can come up with, your hips stuttering as overstimulation stabs your nervous system like a knife. "I-please, fuck- I can't." You force out, forcing yourself to return to the punishing pace, your pelvis starting to go numb like it would a few hours into Makarov using you as a living dildo.

Price's fingers are disgustingly gentle as they curl into your sweaty hair, making you look up at him with soft pressure on your scalp. There's no bite to his touch, no pain, it's too good for a thing like you.

You'll thank what god exists that Price seemingly understands your problem, "Oh, son." You hate the hint of sorrow in his tone, you hate yourself more for how it makes your heart pound in your ears. "Here, let me" He whispers, his other hand sliding down to your naked neck.

The lack of any collars around your neck still disgusts you every waking moment, still makes you feel wrong, bad dog. His fingers wrap around your throat. They're too loose to be a proper collar, but it lets you breathe easier, his palm warm and big enough to completely cover the 'V.M' tattooed on your skin.

"Go on, that's a good boy." He whispers, "Cum for us." Price orders, kissing you so softly it disgusts you, like heaven wrapped in thorns.

You feel fresh tears spill down your tears as the dam not letting you cum is finally torn down. You hiccup your 'thank you sir's against his lips as you spill inside Simon. You can just distantly hear Simon groan as you dump your cum into his sloppy hole, muscles weakly fluttering around your cock as you roll your hips, fucking your cum deeper into him, just the act of cumming hurting almost as much as being denied, your balls aching with every spurt of cum.

You collapse on Simon, pushing the breath out of his lungs, as boneless as him. You don't struggle when Price rolls you to your side, your cock slipping out. Cum and lube gushes out from his hole like a firehose, flooding the small space between you two, his rim red and irritated, muscles weakly fluttering around nothing as they try to close.

You try to thank him but you slur your words into his skin, feeling the muscles in his abdomen quiver as you huddle closer and wrap your arms around him, your chest pressed flush to his back. You expect him to pull away, Makarov hated being vulnerable like this longer than he needed, but all Simon does is grunt and tip his head back so you can hide your face in the space between his shoulder and neck.

"You olright Simon?" Price asks, brushing a hand through your sweaty hair for a few seconds before you feel him softly wiping away your spend from you two.

"Fuck," Simon breathes out, voice scratchy and rough. "Are we sure Makarov's human?" His hand reaches up to scratch your scalp as you kiss one of the numerous bite marks you left on him. His skin is a canvass of black and blue bruises, your bite marks starting to clot across his body. "Shit, I can't feel my legs."

His words feel like a slap in the face, and you don't notice how you let out a small whimper, your hold tightening. This is it, you'll have to let him go soon, he'll order you to leave like Makarov always did.

"None of that son." Price's voice is calm in your ear, rubbing soothing circles between your shoulder blades. "You did good."

Simon hums, his fingers running lower to scruff you, "Mhm, yeah," His words are slurred, exhaustion weighing on both of you. "Best snog I've ever had." He grumbles, and you don't doubt he won't admit it in the morning, but for the moment, as you feel yourself slowly drift off to sleep, you let yourself enjoy the praise, the warmth of human touch, the care you can feel in both of them.

This is starting to feel nice.

[ollimus-prime]

sorry if it’s a little complicated, but maybe Megatron meeting Y/N again after so long, since having known them as D-16?

One Last Choice

A/N, not important: I don't think I got his personality right my b. If y'all have any tips or could point me towards some, I'd be forever thankful. Any criticism is welcome, constructive or not. This is supposed to be a gender neutral reader, so if I screwed up somewhere, please tell me.

-Ollie

CW: Major Character Death(Reader)

Words: 1750

Summary: A final meeting with an old friend.

You’ve been captured. At least, you think you have. Unfriendly servos were wrapped around your shoulders and hauling you across the floor with a fury you hadn’t seen in years. Although, that’s about the most you could gather from the situation. Your systems were completely out of whack. Up was down and down was up. Nothing made sense anymore. You could feel your arms bound behind your back, restricting your movement and disorienting you further. 

The only thing you could be sure of now was the pain. It radiated through your frame like the energon flowing in your lines. Your HUD was flooded with warnings, the never-ending assault of painful information suffocating you and swallowing you whole. You could barely hear, could barely see. Everything was coated in a thick static that had taken over your world. Muffled voices sounded above you as you were dragged to whatever pit you would be left to go offline. 

You try to count the steps for a moment, willing your aching processor to sputter back to life and erase the static from your every thought. It consumed you, drove out your very will and forced you to accept defeat. What were you even fighting for at this point? Your friends? Freedom?

The war had been going on for so long at this point, you weren’t sure you remembered. Optimus Prime—though you’ve never gotten used to calling him that—had tried so hard to keep everyone’s spirit alive. To keep the hope of winning strong.

You weren’t sure you’d say he’d failed, but you definitely weren’t hopeful now. No one was, not if they weren’t insane or a liar.

The impact of your face onto the ground surprised you more than you wanted to or were willing to admit. Pain floods your systems again, your vision going completely black for an awful moment. You hated to consider the option something as stupid as being dropped took you offline. You weren’t weak. You’ve proved it in the mines, on the battlefield, yet this little extra shove seemed to blow your circuits more than you liked.

The voices sound above you, muffled arguing hinting at the nature of your predicament. You grimace, letting your face fall fully against the ground. They were probably debating which one of them got to end you.

When rough hands grab at your helm, you try to fight back. Every movement felt like it’d kill you, sparks from your own fried circuitry burned your face. Then, with a painful tug at something lodged in your helm, the static lifted. You take a harsh vent as your mind clears. You felt alive again, no longer stuck in the hell that was your own mind.

You dare to lift your helm, hoping to face your captors and get in some insults before they blow your processor over the wall. Instead of the grunts you were expecting, you face the dark pedes of the mech that started it all.

“Leave us,” he orders, causing whatever soldiers who grabbed you to quickly flee the room. You wait a second, still stuck on your front with your neck painfully bent to be able to face his pedes. It would be humiliating if you were able to think properly. 

The silence stretches between you until it becomes so heavy you feel you can’t properly vent. The fans under your plating sputter and pop with each second you’re stuck on your stomach, the weight of your own frame causing you to slowly overheat. Megatron lets the silence permeate the room for a few more moments before he takes another step towards you.

Your designation rolls off his tongue so much easier than you expected it to. There was no bite to his words, no underlying bitterness or anger. You shift on the ground where you’re left, ignoring the sparks shooting from your injured shoulder plate. You stare at the monster before you, the mech you once proudly called a friend. 

His plating looked just as weary as your own, his optics dimmed and lacking anything but hatred and contempt. There was pain in his stance, a pain you felt deeply mirrored within your own frame. It was hard to see him like this, to see him as the one who killed Orion and caused him to become the Primus-chosen leader instead. You search his facial plating for any sign of the friend you once knew, the hot-tempered but easy-going miner who just wanted to get through the day with his friends.

It hurts to admit you can’t find him.

“Well,” he prompts, taking a small step towards you. The dark red of his optics burn starkly against his chrome plating, the room’s poor lighting not helping the menacing look. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

“I’m stuck,” you gripe, letting your forehelm touch the floor once more. You weren’t really stuck. Not truly. You weren’t being held down, and if you could gather the will power, you’d definitely be able to face him on your knees. The problem with that, however, is that you have no desire to make the effort. Whether you stood, knelt, or laid in front of him, the outcome would be the same. There was no part of you that expected to make it out of here with your helm attached to your shoulders.

“Really now,” Megatron chides, his pedes thudding against the ground as he circles you like a helpless animal. Every step makes your helm ache, the vibrations shaking your entire frame. “I always thought you were stronger than that. I’ve heard stories of your retaliation against my troops while you fight against our freedom.”

Megatron stops somewhere to the left of you, the tension growing thicker. You bristle slightly, sighing. His engine revs in anger as he regards you, examining your broken frame tossed upon his floor. “You betrayed me. You’ve betrayed Cybertron. You stood against me and chose to maintain Sentinel’s Primacy-”

“Sentinel’s dead,” you cut him off, irritated at his growing anger. “You fixed that problem. Let it go.”

“Let it go?!” He roars, grabbing the back of your frame and heaving you up. You grimace at the new pains shooting through your spinal struts, trying desperately to find leverage on the ground. “We toiled away in the mines our entire function because of him! He desecrated our bodies before we were even online! And yet you still turn to his beliefs and follow in the Primacy’s footsteps!”

Megatron stares into your face with white-hot fury, his teeth grinding against each other as he waits for you to respond. You can’t respond for a while, unsure what to say or what to do. You hesitate for too long, Megatron’s scowl growing as he throws you back onto the ground. You wheeze at the impact, optics flickering as you try to recalibrate your senses.

“You’re right,” you manage out, coughing up energon and spitting it out onto the floor. You grimace at the rancid taste, trying to clean your tongue on the roof of your mouth. He was right, in the important ways. Sentinel needed to be rid of. Sentinel’s rules needed to be changed. But that had happened, before the war between Megatron and Optimus really started. Megatron got rid of Sentinel, and Optimus got rid of his system. The only problem now was the hatred that had sprouted in the very sparks of the cybertronians.

“Excuse me?” Megatron laughs, walking closer to your limp frame. “Did my audials get miswired? Is the great major of the Autobot army agreeing with me?”

He kicks your arm, trying to get you to meet his optics. You stubbornly refuse, keeping them trained on the ceiling. “I’d never expected to see the day.”

You scoff at his words, leaning your helm back against the cool metal of the floor. “More ‘bots do than you’d expect. Your problem is how you went about it.”

“Right. Because getting the job done is such an issue.”

Megatron fumes above you, pacing next to your side again. You ignore him for the most part, beating down old feelings of warmth and safety he used to bring. He was a different bot now, and so were you. Nothing between you was there, made obvious by his clear disregard for you. You were a means to an end now, nothing but a tool to be used to further hurt Optimus and his fight for the wrong freedom.

“You know what I don’t understand?” Megatron starts again, scowling down at your hapless form. You don’t bother to respond before he starts again, his anger rising and voice growing heavier. He continues to pace, stomping around your head like it would fix all of his problems. “You say you agree with me on the fundamentals, yet you still side with the Prime. You side with the system that ground us down until we were broken and then still demanded more. Sentinel was a traitor and a liar who betrayed our kind. And you still follow his lead.”

“I follow Optimus’s lead, actually.”

The glare that comment earned you could have burnt straight through your frame, his face scrunched up and filled with more hostility than a single bot should be able to possess. His eyes glowed brighter in the dark, his face now leering over your own.

“Do not say that traitor’s name in front of me. He is the same as Sentinel. They’re all the same. True freedom won’t be accomplished until they and every single bot that dares share their ideals are dead.”

The sound of his cannon extending surprises you at first, the warm glow of death casting over your frame. You couldn’t find yourself to be scared as you stare down the barrel of the cannon. It was there, somewhere, but not enough to make you tremble nor react in any significant way. You knew this would happen eventually. Whether now or later down the line, you’d die in this petty war.

“Any last words, Autobot?” He snarls. You stare at him for a second before letting your helm fall back, refusing to show fear.

“Good-bye, D-16.”

He doesn’t wait long after you speak before you can feel the blast burning through your chest, consuming your spark and your entire being with it. The aching pain from your frame halts, letting you be surrounded in a cold unfeeling. Your optics sputter for a moment more before shutting, letting you fall into the arms of Cybertron itself.

[e1dritchjackal0pe]

𝕮𝖚𝖕𝖎𝖉'𝖘 𝕮𝖍𝖗𝖞𝖘𝖆𝖑𝖎𝖘

Summary: You've been pinning for Farleigh for years. But you've never been able to manage in finding the courage to confess. It isn't until a friend of Felix, who's visiting for the summer raises up a mirror to your longing that you force yourself to admit your feelings.

Warnings: 18+ content. Minors DNI. AFAB. American! Reader. Unprotected sex, creampie, cum eating, oral (F!receiving), guided masturbation, overstimulation.

Notes: 21.6k words (this one got away from me a bit!) Not proofread. Banner by @saradika-graphics

The heat that hung over Saltburn was almost unbearable. Parching and thick; some days it felt as though it was choking you by filling your lungs with a heavy, muggy air and peppering your skin with perspiration. The sweat beading your body was near constant, and it was close impossible to escape the swelter. And the Catton's, who are dreadfully old fashioned at times didn't have any air conditioning to speak of, and if they do, then the units weren't a fixture in any of the rooms that you had ever personally been able to frequent. 

The servants have taken to opening as many windows as they could around the house to achieve even the faintest semblance of airflow, but their attempts, even though appreciated, were hardly successful. Often times you'd catch glimpses of them stealthily slipping around the house or standing around in vacant corners with drops of sweat glinting on their foreheads and necks. Even you have had to start shoving the window of your temporary quarters open, tacking an unused bed sheet that you had soaked in the bath with cold water to the sills in a desperate strive to get even the faintest hint of a cool breeze. Luckily it does work somewhat. But it's hardly enough to make much of a difference. Most of time you feel as though you want to crawl out of your own flesh. It's like it's been sewn on too tight. Suffocating and restricting. And the only reprieve that you get is when you fill up the bath with water chilled enough to keep ice solid and lie in it. 

It was awful. And despite being in a literal castle in England for the summer, surrounded by low, slopping green hills and ancient stone walls that were older than your grandfather's father, there were times where you felt as though you had unknowingly accepted an invitation into the lowest pits hell. 

It was because of the absolutely demonic heat that you had all taken to spending the majority of your days alongside the pond. Filing away hours of the day with the support of a colorful pool floaty underneath your body while you drift along the rippling surface of the makeshift pool or sit beneath the shade offered by one of the patio umbrellas while you reclined on a lounge chair. It was the only respite from the heat. The only thing that kept you from feeling as though you might actually die. 

But honestly, if death was going to greet you at Satlburn then it wouldn't be by the dealings of the temperamental summer weather. It would be at the hands of a someone rather than a something. And that particular person had you wondering if maybe you had done something to warrant a punishment. If perhaps you were a bad person in your past life. That this might be some form of karma. Some sort of cosmic retribution for a crime that you had committed once long ago. Maybe reincarnation was a thing, and this was your sentence for . . . stealing a loaf of bread or something. 

But unfortunately for God or the universe or whatever, you were a hopeless and pathetic masochist because this was an absolutely beautiful punishment as much as it was a torturous one. And if you were going to spend the golden months of the year perpetually slick with sweat then at least you'd spend it being able to see him. 

Admittedly, you'd often make yourself look away from him. You didn't want to be a creep, and even though you were pretty sure that he hasn't even noticed your blatant admiration, you couldn't fight off that little bit of self-loathing that would seep into your bones whenever you'd catch yourself staring for too long. It was honestly sad, the way that you've just been helplessly pining after him for all of this time and he hasn't as so much as batted an eye in your direction. Hasn't noticed your pitiful little crush. It's probably a blessing that he hasn't though. You aren't sure you'd even survive it if he ever was to become privy to your feelings. 

It would be cataclysmic. It would completely alter the very foundation of your friendship with him entirely and forever. No doubt a terrible rift would rip between the both of you and you don't think that you'd survive that. You've always been so close to Farleigh for nearly as long as you could remember, ever since the early years of high school back when he was still unsure of how to navigate it, having spent a decent amount of his life receiving his education in a private, preppy facility. But then his mother had begun to lose more and more of her financial stability and as a result he had been enrolled in your school. He had been clearly unimpressed with the state of the building and the students that made up the body, but for whatever reason he had intrigued you. Maybe it was all of his snark and bite, but regardless the both of you had just seemed to seamlessly gravitate towards each other then and it's remained that way to this day. If a divide were to suddenly rip through your relationship all because of your silly feelings then, as sad as it sounds, you wouldn't even know what to do with yourself. He's been such a constant fixture in your life and for so long, that his absence would no doubt leave you scrambling. 

But just because Farleigh himself hasn't noticed, that doesn't mean that the other's haven't. They never spoke of it, at least not whenever he was around - thank God for that. But you could see the knowing side long glances that they would give you whenever the both of you happened to be in the same room. The way that Venetia and Felix would conspiratorially lean towards each other and whisper and giggle amongst themselves like a pair of awful, gossiping old ladies. Even James has taken notice. You could see it in the way that he would squint at you from the head of the dinner table whenever Farleigh would pull your chair out for you to take a seat beside his own. The silent judgement searing from his eyes whenever you could barely contain the helpless, cheerful smile that would always grow on your face from Farleigh's presence. 

Even with James' apparent distaste for you it never kept Farleigh from repeatedly inviting you over for vacation, always so persistent. And the family's patriarch could never keep you away, not with his glaring and skulking. Not with the younger Catton's always backing you in your corner, insisting that you come. Even Elspeth, as airheaded and admittedly two-faced as she could be, had apparently taken a liking to you and you know that it must absolutely drive James up a wall to know that his entire family is always vying to get you to stay over at the estate. After all, the last time that you had visited he had somehow come to the conclusion that you were just here to seek out the family fortune. According to the bits of gossip that Venetia had slipped you, he had referred to you as 'a lazy American,' and a 'leech.' 

As petty as it may be it is always a little nice to know that you get underneath his skin so badly. The old, cranky bastard that he is. It could almost a highlight of your trips to Saltburn if it wasn't for the fact that little bit of satisfaction was constantly being upstaged by Farleigh and the torrent of pathetically overwhelming and warm emotions that bubble up every time you see him. 

Much like the sugared, mushy heat that flutters inside of your chest now. A stark kind of joy. Something happy and entirely too secret and tender for a person that's so unabashedly bold and outspoken. But you really just can't help yourself or the emotions that seem to drag you behind them by your heart and head and limbs like some sort of powerless marionette. 

It honestly has to be one of the most humbling reactions, to be embarrassed by your own emotions while also being unable to do a damn thing about them. It has you strung up in some perpetual state of exhaustion and it seems that you're not the only one that's become exasperated with your pathetic yearning, because a long, weary groan drags out from Felix's throat and makes you force your gaze away from Farleigh who is currently relaxing along the placid surface of the pond. Making the water glitter in flashes of champagne and silver from the wake of his legs dragging in the gentle current while the side of his floaty brushes up against the lily pads scattered along the peaceful body of water. 

And when you glance over at Felix, he looks tired and ragged, and the cigarette dangling from between his lips is a good sigh away from falling from its perch and falling onto his lap. You go to warn him, but he saves your breath by quickly plucking it between two fingers while he snaps his book shut with a huff and carelessly tosses it onto the mini table beside his lounger. 

You can't help the furrow that pinches between your eyebrows while you scoff amusedly. Felix has never been good at handling his irritation or anger and seeing him get upset is almost akin to watching a toddler wrestle with their feelings. It's always been sort of entertaining to observe, if it wasn't also so draining. 

"What's up with you?" You ask, shifting along the fabric support of your chaise to evaluate him better, squinting when it briefly has you tipping out from underneath the cover of your umbrella and into the harsh glow of the evening sun. He shakes his head like he doesn't want to talk about it, doesn't want to waste his time, but you can tell by the way that his top lip scrunches up that he won't be able to contain his complaints for long. 

"It just between you with Farleigh, and Venetia and Eddie, I honestly don't think that I'm going to survive this summer." He grouses, glaring at something to the both of your rights from over the rim of his sunglasses. And when you lean up in your seat and track his line of sight it has your own taking in the previously stated pair who are huddled up on the grass, leaning into each other and laughing while they clutch a bottle of chilled beers in their hands. 

You're surprised that they haven't noticed the way the Felix is outright scowling at them. Though, you're sure that Venetia has grown accustomed to his displeasure with the way that he's been openly upset about her infatuation towards his friend. He's been uncomfortably overprotective of Edward this summer, though you suppose that you can't blame for it, considering that Eddie has been outright ignoring Felix in the favor of loving on Venetia during his entire stay. 

And you too, can't deny that you too have been a little disgusted with the blatant flirting that has been near constantly exchanged between Venetia and the newest focus of her ever-shifting intrigue. You were just waiting for the fall out once the wonder finally wears off and she finally discards of him the favor of something fresher and shinier. And she, much like her brother, will grow bored of him eventually. They both burn through people like they're dolls and trinkets. 

The two of them nearly go sprawling in the grass from Venetia knocking Edward onto the wrinkled picnic blanket in a playful lunge and the both of them fall back with a burst of laughter, just narrowly avoiding spilling their drinks all over themselves. It would be sweet if it were genuine, but this was just a passing fancy for the girl. Not that you could fully blame her. As wonderous as the estate is, everything can get boring if you spend enough time in it, and you can't even remember the last time that she was able to sneak away from the grounds for longer than a week. You have to entertain yourself somehow. 

"Oh, come on, I'm nowhere near that bad with Farleigh, " you turn the page of your own book even though you've hardly paid it any attention. You're on page sixty-two and you still have no idea what the plot is. 

"That's because you aren't able to be, " he counters without an ounce of delicacy. " I think my only saving grace is that he hasn't noticed the way that you've been helplessly pining after him. Either that or he's just playing stupid. But I think if the two of you managed to get together it might actually do me in." 

You scoff to try and distract yourself from the prickle of shame and hurt that dances across your skin. You hope that Farleigh isn't just playing dumb. You hope that he hasn't noticed your feelings at all. If he has been pretending to not see the way that you've been harboring a crush for him over all of these years, then you might actually keel over the weight of the embarrassment alone. 

Even then, you can't fight the way that your eyes flicker up from the pages of your book to admire Farleigh as he floats along the pond. Taking in the way that the sunlight emphasizes the edges of his hair into a light bronze hue and sparkles along the droplets of water that decorate his skin like flecks of gold and pale, bright diamonds. Looking at the way that his happy trail traces down from his navel and vanishes underneath the band of his swim trunks. He hasn't noticed your staring and based on the way that his body seems to be completely lax, and his head is lolled back against the rounded edge of the floatie, he might have passed out from underneath the warmth of the balmy air. 

"Christ, you've got it bad, don't you, " Felix's voice says, breaking you from your horrid little trance like a gun shot. It wasn't a question at all, but a simple observation. You want to refute it regardless. To try and deny it, but the way that your heart flutters in your chest like some trapped, homesick bird makes you lose your half-baked argument. 

"Shut up," you snap dumbly. You drop your focus back down to the novel in your tightening grip and this time you do actually try to read it and make sense of the words lined up along the page. 

"Have you actually thought about talking to him?" 

"Excuse me?" Your head jerks up and you pin him with an incredulous glare and for a moment you think that you might have misheard him. But he doesn't look intimated in the slightest. He just shrugs, careless and relaxed while your body bunches up nervously. 

"Farleigh," he reiterates, tone light and conversational. "Have you thought about talking to him about it?" 

You can't help the way that you're openly gawking at him now, staring like he's gone insane. "No!" You almost shout it out, and you flinch as soon as the word makes its way from your chest. The volume of it making you glance back over towards Farleigh to check and see if he's perked up at the sound of it and looked over to investigate, but you're relieved to see that he still seems to be in the clutches of a nap and completely (thankfully) oblivious to the conversation happening just a few feet away from him. 

"Well, why not?" He asks. 

"Are you kidding me?" The laugh that leaves you is entirely humorless, devoid of a single ounce of joy or amusement. "And put the friendship that we've had for literal years at risk? No. Nope." 

"Oh, come on." Felix sighs, and that exasperation that had tinged his voice before is back. He lets his head fall back on the head rest of his lounger and he shifts to get more comfortable, taking another drag of his cigarette like he needs it to keep dealing with you. "You don't even know if it'll effect you badly. You're just letting your nerves get to you." 

'Well, I'm sorry that I don't want to let something like a stupid crush get in the way of my relationship with my best friend." 

" 'Crush,' " he repeats it like it's a foreign word, nodding his head slowly; clearly unconvinced and it has irritation skirting up your back. "Is that what you're calling now?" He scoffs. "I mean, honestly, the two of you are practically dating anyway. Just without any of the fun stuff." 

You visibly bristle at that. It was true that you and Farleigh are quite close and at times physically affectionate. Touching has never been something that neither of you had ever shied away from, but that didn't mean anything. That's what friends do. It's completely normal.

You can stop the scowl pulling at the corners of your mouth, not bothering to hide the weight of your clear vexation, but he doesn't look like he's in the mood to back down from whatever this is. The sudden need to berate you and give you unsolicited relationship advice. And honestly, it's almost ironic, the fact that Felix Catton, the man who goes through women like they're tissue paper and is virtually allergic to healthy dating, is trying to get you to confess your feelings - your crush. That's exactly what this is. A crush. Just a simple, dumb crush. 

"I am not in love with him, if that's what you're implying," you say. And the look that he fixes you with unsettles you. It makes you harshly vulnerable and delicate with the gentle, almost pitying glimmer in both of his eyes. And the light but firm way that he speaks your name just drills those emotions in deeper, teetering you on the edge of confronting something that you aren't ready to face yet. The weight of it has you trying to swallow around your tongue which suddenly seem too thick and sticks to the roof your mouth. And all you know is that you need to switch gears before you're forced to finally notice something that you won't have the strength to handle and your eyes flicker around helplessly, searching for something to change topics. 

A light smile graces your lips when you land on Venetia and Edward. A part of you does feel bad for throwing her under the bus, but to be fair, her brother's exasperation won't be anything that she hasn't delt with before. 

"Besides, I don't think that my love affairs should be the one that you're worried about," and the nod of your chin has him looking back over to the pair who appeared as though they might be a few good moments away from making out. 

He sighs through his nose, stamping out the burning end of his cigarette out in the ashtray on the table, all while he's mumbling something underneath his breath that's too low for you to hear. And then he's sitting up from the lounger with a small huff. " Let's go inside, yeah, " Felix calls, gathering their attention and making them scramble off of each other to focus on him. And you could see Edward's skin flush, most likely from embarrassment rather than the heat, no doubt feeling like a kid who got caught with their hand in a cookie jar. "We can go get started on watching that film you wanted to see earlier. Which one was it?" 

You have to smirk when Venetia and Felix pin each other with brief but angry glares and Edward has definitely caught sight of them based on the awkward way that he seems to deflate from his place on the ground, like he wants to curl in on himself and vanish. Poor guy. 

"Eh, Anchorman, I think it was," he responds with an unconvincing smile and Felix does his best to return it, though his is much more relaxed and less strained. And then he's turning his focus to you as he shifts on his feet to walk back towards Edward. "Go get your lover boy, we'll see you both inside." 

You don't bother hiding the way that you flip him off, but he unfortunately looks completely delighted by the gesture, jogging away from you with a low laugh trailing after him as he heads towards his friend, slinging his arm around the shorter man's shoulder in a subtle way of dragging him from Venetia's side. And the perturbed sneer that she sends him doesn't dull his grin either. What a complete bastard. 

You watch as the three of them head around the bend of the pond towards one of the rear entrances of the castle as you hop up from your place on the chaise, making sure to dog-ear the corner of one of the pages before you snap the book closed. Even though you plop it on the lounger and you're sure that you won't even finish reading it. Not this summer, at least.  But you don't dwell on that for long before your attention flits over to the pond, and you start of towards the glittering water, padding across the soft grass until the bare soles of your feet meet the aged boards of the dock. 

Your focus immediately zeros in on Farleigh who still appears to be asleep, or at the very least dozing off, but it is difficult to tell by the Burberry sunglasses propped on the bridge of his nose and obscuring his eyes from your view. He looks entirely relaxed like this. Practically lazing upon the puffed up cherry red plastic with his head tilted on his neck, chin nudged up against his shoulder. And when a gentle, buttery breeze pours across the face of the pond, perfumed with the scent of summer flowers and fresh cut grass from when the gardeners had trimmed the lawn earlier this morning, it has his floatie rotating over the water. From this angle you can see the closed delicate curl of his eye lashes peeking out from the cover of his shades, and that paired with the steady, measured breathes expanding his chest confirms that he is indeed asleep. 

Damn, he looks so peaceful. You really don't want to wake him up yet . . . 

You suppose that you don't have to. Not right this second at least. You lower yourself at the edge of the dock, letting your legs slip over the edge and your feet dip past the layer of lily pads and into the cool, crisp water underneath, supporting your weight on the palms of your hands. And you just sit, basking underneath the warmth of the sun, which for the first time for this entire week feels soothing instead of scalding. Probably because you've been spending the past thirty minutes underneath the cover of an umbrella and the real scope of its heat has yet to sink into your skin yet. But for now, you're just able to relax and enjoy it. Savoring the sound of the syrupy breeze shifting through the trees and whispering over the leaves, and the enthused trill of some bird singing in the distance. The silence is nice now that Venetia and Edward are gone and are no longer here to chase off the peace with their squawking and laughter. 

But maybe you're just being bitter and jealous. 

Jealous. Jealous of what exactly? 

The acidic, harsh feeling stirring in your gut eats away at the tranquility that had just nettled around you, tearing it from you like the warmth of a blanket being pried from your skin and it leaves you reeling. Like you've been left bare and exposed. You don't have anything to be envious of. It has you struggling with your own emotions; they're completely foreign and unrecognizable. Sharp and pungent like a lime. And that all-knowing, perceptive part of you rises up from the fringes of your mind, and you suddenly do know why you're jealous. Of why watching them playfully insult each other and openly flirt had left something bitter in your mouth and a hollow pit tearing at your chest. 

It's because a big, burning piece of you wishes that you could be that open and unabashed with Far- 

Ugh, God, not right now. Please, not right now. 

But even with you trying to explicitly ignore the welling of emotions rising up within you; shoving them to the side and burrowing them down deep, you can't fully fight of the aftermath of them. The sensation almost akin to nausea that remains in its wake. Like you've taken one too many shots of vodka back-to-back. 

"Farleigh," you say suddenly. And for a moment you haven't even caught up with the fact that you've said it. You clear your throat once you realize, sucking in a deep breath to collect yourself. You look downward, eyes roving over him to see that he hasn't heard you call for him. That he's still sound asleep and for some reason it soothes you to know that he hadn't picked up the sound of his name from the dredges of his unconsciousness. But now that the peace that you felt before has been effectively shattered by your own internal struggles you can't really bear the idea of just sitting out here to stew within your own mental hellscape, and it has you leaning forward towards Farleigh, who has drifted closer to you thanks to the brush of the light wind. 

"Farleigh," you call, but with time there's much more intent behind it, even from within the gentle hold of your voice. 

He doesn't so much as move an inch. The breathes making his abdomen rise and fall remain soft and calm, undisturbed from his nap. You shuffle closer on the edge of the dock, and the front of your legs brush against the rounded edge of his floatie and you can feel the seam of the plastic press against your skin. 

"Farleigh," you try again, much firmer and this time it seems that he does hear you. He sucks in a deep inhale, and a grumpy, low groan follows closely behind. Clearly upset to have been roused from sleep, but instead your body outright thrums at the raspy sound. Prickling with an embarrassing heat and you try to focus on the cold water soaking your feet as a distraction. 

"And just why are you waking me up?" He grouses, shifting on his floatie as best as he can to stretch his back, rolling his head on his shoulders to peer at you from over the rim of his shades, squinting a little underneath the unforgiving shine of the sunlight. But 'peer' might be too soft of a word. Glare was more accurate, even though there wasn't much bite behind it. It was more playful if anything. Purely impish and good-spirited. 

"Everyone's headed inside. They're waiting for us." You reply, swirling your feet along the water, watching it shimmer around your skin. 

"And that requires my presence because . . ?" He lets the question hang open in the air, and you smile at the little bit of snark seeping through his tone. 

"I suppose it doesn't. But your cousin is struggling to keep Venetia and Edward from jumping down each other's throats, and I think he could use all of the help that he can get." 

He just hums, idly tapping his fingertips across the plastic, disrupting some of the droplets of water that have sprinkled it, sending them down to slip into the face of the pond. "You know I'm not one to cockblock," he says, making amusement puff from your chest. "If they want to fuck then let them." 

You have to laugh at his bluntness. He's always been so candid and plain-spoken, often to the determent of others. And despite how sharp tongued and often downright rude he could be to those who he doesn't inherently gravitate towards or find a kinship with, it's always been one of your favorite attributes of his. "While I share your sentiment, Felix said that if one of us manages to hook up that it might actually 'do him in.' "

"What a drama queen," he scoffs, and you hum in response. But then he's pausing, tilting his head down to fully make contact without his sunglasses entirely blocking his view. "What do you mean 'one of us'?" 

It makes your stomach drop a bit. Like you've doused with a bucket of ice even though there's sweat dampening your skin and the sun is beating down on your scalp from above. "Did I say that?" You speak casually. Or you try to sound that way at least, but your voice isn't smooth enough. There's something almost shaky about that even you can pick up, and a part of you hopes that you're just being too self-conscious. That he hadn't noticed the mild tremor that taints your inflection. 

"You did, " he assures quickly. 

"Slip of the tongue." You shrug, doing your best to act normal but you feel too aware of your own limbs and the fluttering in your chest. For a fleeting moment he just stares at you. And in truth you know that in real time it was only for a few scant seconds, but in your mind, it felt as though he was staring at you for hours. Scrutinizing you and searching for something. His eyes gazing into yours like he's trying to find an answer that you won't verbally give. And you have to say something, literally anything to ease the tension. "Are you going to go be a cockblock with me, or do I have to go suffer alone?" 

A smile perks at the corners of his lips. "Oh, I don't know." You can hear the teasing lilt in his voice, and he shuffles his hips in further within the ring of the floatie like he's getting more comfortable, making the water cradled within the divot between his lower stomach and thighs splash a little. "I'm enjoying my time out here." 

"Come on!" You groan with exaggerated chagrin. "What? Do you want me to beg?" 

You can the delight flare in his eyes; full of mischief and it has that sugary, buzzing warmth dipping back over your body and seeping into your bones. 

"I mean, I wouldn't be opposed," his eyebrows briefly perk up and he tilts his head with a playful smirk. It's awful. Because as disgruntled as you're pretending to be, you would actually get down on your knees and beg him if he actually pressed you about it, as shameless as you are. But fortunately, you're able cling on to your shredded sense of pride because you don't pull yourself from your seated position and kneel. Instead, you're fixing him with a stare of your own and for a minute it feels like you're both challenging each other, with something intangible but heavy and vinous passing over you. And you do lean towards him just a bit, or as best as you can with the height between the dock and the pond keeping you apart. But even with the distance, this strange tension doesn't break, if anything it seems to build. 

"Please," you nearly coo, tone dipping down into something low and soft. "Please, Far." 

His mouth slightly parts when he draws in an inhale, and you swear he nearly takes the plush of his bottom lip in between his teeth and you can tell that his eyes are roving over your face. The dark bronze shade of his irises skipping over each of your individual features. And you think that you see his eyes drop down to your breasts where they're held from the material of your bikini top. It makes you feel as though you're being studied. But it isn't invasive or uncomfortable. It feels so much more intimate than that. It feels more like admiration. It's a look from him that you've caught in the past here and there, but you've never fully been able to place it until now. And you tell yourself that you're just imagining the cherishing quality to his gaze. That you're just projecting your own feelings into the moment. It sobers you up somewhat, and you pull back, straightening your spine to create some distance, hoping that it'll clear your head. 

The huffed sort of laugh that he lets out is almost awkward, somewhat strained and the smile that perks at the corner of his mouth nearly looks forced. 

"You know that I can only survive them for so long when they get like this" you say, desperate to disrupt the weird energy that has taken over the air. "Please," you bat your eyelashes, coquette and dramatic and jesting to dispel the remaining bits of self-consciousness. 

" All right," he concedes. And then he lets the back of his head flop back on the floatie. "Just give me a minute. They're going to be unbearable." 

You both chuckle at that before a nice silence falls back over the pond, and you're back to listening to the gentle sounds of nature chiming around you. And there aren't any expectations hanging on your shoulders or the responsibilities of your life back in the States looming over you anymore. It's just peace and quiet.  And honestly, as bad as it sounds, as spoiled as it may be, that's what Saltburn has always been for you; not some weak attempt at make believe, or a game to try and pretend to be one of the one percent; it has always just been a break. A brief reprieve from the constant stress and the dog eats dog mentality of real life. But truthfully. You weren't here for all of that either. You were here for a someone. A very certain someone and not all of the champagne and parties and frivolous display of wealth that the Catton's constantly show.  

You feel something brush against the outside of your leg and glance downward has you taking in the sight of Farleigh who has rotated towards you by the guide of the water. His head is settled near the edge of the floatie, close enough for his hair and forehead to graze your skin and his eyes have closed again. And you can't fight the fuzzy, peachy sensation that takes root inside of you. Something that you easily recognize as pure fondness. 

"Did you have any good dreams?" You ask, tilting your head on your shoulder, trying to make simple conversation to hide away from the weight of your own endearment. His eyes flutter back open, immediately landing on you and you have to crane your neck to meet his gaze from your place above on the dock. 

He hums again, soft and a little gravely, and you can tell by the way that he nuzzles against your leg that he's still only half-awake, nosing along your skin, still caught within the web of that soft, velvet grip of sleep. "Yeah, I did, " he answers with an almost dopey grin on his face while he watches you. And for a moment, as masochistic and sick as it may be, you pretend that he feels for you the same way that you feel for him. That he too is constantly being consumed by want and desire and lov . . . Devotion. 

"Tell me about it," you say. 

It's almost as though a flip is switched. That hazy, clouded look in his eyes clear and his muscles become rigid, no longer relaxed and lounging. He's reaching to grip the edge of the dock, taking ahold of the last board, right next to your knee. It has you scrambling to rise up to your feet, trying to assist him onto solid ground, but by the time you're up on your feet he's already pulled himself up from the floatie and onto the front of his legs. And once you're standing, so is he. Your eyes meet for a moment, and one of those unexplainable, odd impressions trickle over you both, and you can tell by the unsure look on his face that he feels it too. You want to speak. To say anything - what, you aren't entirely sure, but then he's speaking, filling the void and saving you both from the awkwardness. 

"Shall we go inside?" He offers, already moving past you towards where the dock meets the grass, but he looks back over his shoulder at you with a smile on his face. "I'll race you there. " 

That's the only warning you get before he's setting off into a run, using the distance that he had already created between the both of you to give himself a head start. 

"Farleigh!" You call, mirth and disbelief melding through you as he bounds off around the pond in the direction of the castle. You push yourself in a sprint, set on trying to win even though a part of you already knows that he's got you beat. And sure, enough by the time you're dashing up the steps of the back entrance he's already disappearing into the threshold. And when you meet him in the house, already a little winded from the quick run, you can't help but to playfully shove him, desperate to restore a sense of normalcy with that little bit of awkwardness still tinting your dynamic. He does give you a smile, snickering underneath his breath before you both part your ways without an exchange of words. You take your time in in the bath, washing off the pond water and sweat without hurry; entirely thankful for the break from whatever that was. But all too soon you've changed into more comfortable clothes and are walking into the library where the TV has been set up. The chatter and noise that clamors within the room is uninhibited and Venetia and Edward are piled up together on one of the couches, leaning into each other while they watch the movie playing on the screen, like they're caught up in their own little world, entirely ignorant to the happenings ensuing outside of their bubble. 

Your eyes scan over the room, noticing Felix who's settled on the floor with a lit cigarette smoldering between his fingers while a heavy scowl mars his features. And it's a knee jerk reaction to want to go over and try to soothe him as best as you can. But then you catch sight of Farleigh who's seated on the other coach, leaning against the far end with his back to the arm rest like he's trying to get away from Venetia and Edward even though they're on an entirely different piece of furniture. 

He's spotted you too, if the pleading, disturbed look that's aimed directly at you is any indication. And as awful as it may be, it has you forgoing any urge to comfort Felix and moving over towards Farleigh. You plop yourself next to him on the sofa, shoulders brushing from underneath the fabric of your respective shirts. He curls towards you, moving so he could whisper conspiratorially into your ear. " I'm with Felix on this: If they start fucking on the couch, I'm killing myself." 

The laugh that leaves you is unbridled and free. It rises up before you realize it's leaving your chest, and you find yourself easily leaning into each other, like the strange air that had come over you both outside at the pond had never existed. "No, " you chuckle, breathing in the scent of the fresh laundry detergent on his clothes, lavender and vanilla, crisp and smooth. "You can't do that. We have to suffer together. I mean, they can't be that bad, can they?" 

And almost with a humorous sense of timing, Venetia leans forward to nip at the lobe of Edward's ear, her teeth briefly snag on the diamond earring pierced there and she all but coos at him while they giggle amongst themselves. And you can catch bits and pieces of their conversation from your place on the couch, fragments of "oh, Eddie," and playful but secretive "quit it's." God, they make you feel like some kind of sick voyeur. Not that you could be paid to watch this shit - Jesus, this is awful. 

You look up at Farleigh whose top lip has raised in naked revulsion while he watches the pair. And if it feels bad for you then it must be downright horrid for Felix and Farleigh being forced to endure. Venetia and her new toy aren't even watching the movie, far too caught up in their own affairs to pay attention to the movie that Edward wanted to see. 

"How about a game?" You blurt. 

The sudden sensation of everyone's focus on you makes you feel like you've been strapped to an operating table and flayed open for inspection, but the warmth of Farleigh's body heat seeping into your skin helps ground you somewhat. 

"What sort of game?" Felix asks, intrigued and no doubt thankful for the reprieve from Venetia and Edward's sickening flirting. 

"I don't know. Never Have I Ever?" You say with a shrug, grasping at straws. It's an admittedly somewhat juvenile game, one that you haven't played since you were at least a late teen, but at this point, you'll take any excuse to disrupt the pair from fully kissing in front of the three of you. "Break out the alcohol, we'll think of something." 

The five of you have curled up on the floor, situated between the space made from the gap where the TV and the couches are set, creating a somewhat odd sort of circle. Felix had long since made Edward go and raid the kitchen cabinets for liquor, and he had returned with a few bottles of booze clutched to his chest, whiskey and wine and brandy and vodka individually. And of course, Venetia had managed to tag along, returning with a few cans of Tango and Coca-Cola held in her own grasp, meant for chasers. As a collective, you were all quick to toss back a few rounds of alcohol. All in the attempt to loosen up. And you and Farleigh and Felix were unquestionably trying to get rid of the residual discomfort of bearing the horror of Venetia and Edward's blatant flirting.  

You were already feeling a bit tipsy with the buzz of a couple of shots fizzling at your fingertips and toes and making your head covered with a thin but pleasant haze. The past few rounds of Never Have I Ever had all passed by quickly, with all of you participating with your own stories and playfully being berated by laughter and comments. And the game had led to some startling revelations, like how one of the old servants had caught Felix when he had nearly lost his virginity during an old New Years party, or how Edward had disrupted his old cantina sometime during primary school by setting off a round of fireworks that he had lifted from his older brother, which had resulted in a few students getting first and second-degree burns. 

And the questions had dipped all over the spectrum, from the more lighthearted 'never have I ever stolen from a store' to somewhat heavier topics like 'never have I ever cheated on a partner' or 'witnessed a crime.' But despite the subtle morbidity of some of the questions they had helped in shifting the energy hanging over the room into something jovial and affable, with a near constant string of delighted howling and giggling bubbling up into the air. 

You and Farleigh had taken to reclining on the floor, using one of the sofas for back support with some of the decorative silk and cashmere couch pillows to cushion yourselves. Though for you, the pillows almost weren't necessary with how you've practically draped yourself across Farleigh. Settling your cheek against the stretch of his shoulder with your legs tangled with his own. But you don't feel too guilty over it considering that he's secured an arm around your waist, effectively keeping you pinned against his body while he uses the crown of your head to prop his chin up. 

It's a position that you've found yourself in a million times with Farleigh. The gravitation towards physical touch came naturally to the both of you, and as a result you always seem to make some form of contact with each other to some extent. It's been this way with him for as long as you could remember, and it was easy as breathing for the both of you. It's normal. Whether it be by walking side by side with your arms looped together or by sitting in his lap, you both wind up in each other's space somehow. But even with how common it is, the brush of his body against yours never fails to make that flutter in your chest stir up and run wild. It didn't help either, that you could smell his body wash still fresh on his skin from the bath that he had taken, musky and rich with notes of chamomile and amber. 

You do your best to focus past it and participate with the game and conversation flowing around you. Laughing at Felix's jokes or nodding and smiling at Edward and Venetia in response to their quips and witticisms. 

"Never have I ever gone streaking," Venetia says. 

"What a complete lie," Felix scoffs from her left, propping his elbows on both of his knees. "You literally striped down and went swimming in Arthur Lennon's pond." 

"That's skinny dipping, " Farleigh corrects. You can feel the tremor of his voice vibrating over your back from your place nestled against his chest. "Streaking is more public. Like running down a street. " 

"Oh, sorry for confusing the politics of public indecency, " Felix replies with a light glare furrowing his eyebrows. 

 You raise the bottle of alcohol to your lips but pause once the rounded glass brushes against your skin. "Does it count if you were only topless? And the street I was on was vacant." Thank God, for that too. You could vividly remember waking up the morning afterwards with that bitter, awful taste that comes with a hangover covering your mouth like a film and the memories of the previous night had nearly bulldozed you. The mortification and shame that came with them had been so unbearable that you hadn't touched a single drop of alcohol for a good month or two afterwards. 

"Wait. When was this?" Farleigh asks, and even though you can't see him from this angle you can tell that he's probably got that cute, confused scrunched up look on his face. 

"I told you about that, remember?" You roll your head back on his shoulder, shifting yourself to the side a bit so that you're able to actually look at him. Sure enough, his eyebrows have pinched, and his top lip has curled like he's trying to force the memory to come to the surface. "On Halloween a few years ago? Me and Amelia got shitfaced on Lemon Drops and Green Tea shots." 

His mouth parts and you can see the realization come back to him, like a light sparking and reflecting in his eyes. "Now I remember," he nods. "You sent me pictures. That was the year you dressed up as a slutty Hex Girl." 

You hummed lowly in confirmation, and take a swig from your bottle, forgoing the need to clarify on if your public display of nudity fit the criteria of 'streaking.' But then someone is snickering from across from you and a quick glance has it revealing that the sound came from Edward, who was smirking sharply over the rim of his cup. "She sent you pictures, huh? I'm sure you used those to have a good wank or two, didn't you Farleigh? So much for just 'friends,' am I right?" 

For whatever reason the comment has annoyance flaring inside of you. It feels unusually mean spirited, whether it was the particularly resentful tone that he had used or the petty glint in his gaze, you don't know, but it has an irritated heat prickling at your stomach. There's a subtle shift in the room too, barely noticeable but still skimming under the surface. It's touchy and thorny. 

"At least I have people sending me pictures to jerk off to," Farleigh sneers. It's an obvious sore spot for Edward and he shifts uncomfortably where he sits. It's never been a secret that he struggles a bit when it comes to love and even sex. There wasn't much of anything to draw in the attention of the opposite gender. He didn't have many prospects in life and overall, his personality isn't the most inviting. And as much as you often feel pity for him, he's usually insensitive and obtuse, and the jokes that he often tells are usually told with poor timing and a lack of a punchline. And it hardly helps his case that he's best friends with Felix who overshadows him with his generational wealth and modelesque looks. 

You suppose that's why he's started to cling to Venetia, with her being one of the first people to seek his attention out, even though a part of him has to be helplessly aware that she only uses him as means to pass the time. As a short, fleeting form of entertainment. But he's been hopelessly pining after her since the day that he arrived about a month ago. You suppose that the both of you have that in common. And you don't miss the way that Edward's eyes flicker over to Venetia, like he's waiting for her - silently pleading with her to defend him. But she doesn't do anything of the sort. She just takes a drag from her cigarette, tapping at the bits of the ash building at the burning end to shake them loose into her empty cup while her eyes scan over everyone, like she's enjoying the sudden spike of drama. 

"Anyway, who's turn is it?" Farleigh asks, tilting his head to lean it back up against you own. "I think it's yours, isn't it, Eddie? Try to pick a fun question. You are here out of pity anyway. The least you could do is be entertaining." 

"Farleigh, mate," Felix hisses, eyes glaring and reprimanding. "That's enough." 

"What? It's the truth," Farleigh says with a somewhat suppressed laugh. It has you leaning to the side again, gently nudging him with the point of your elbow. And as much as you're enjoy watching Edward get torn into, it really was only a small joke that he had made. A little bit condescending but it didn't necessarily warrant him getting bashed the entire night.  And when Farleigh glances at you, you can see something soften in his eyes, features molding into something that is reluctantly apologetic. Though you know that the little bit of repentance in his expression wasn't for Edward, at all. He sighs somewhat in a somewhat exasperated way, like not being able to pick on Felix's friend truly was the worst inconvenience. 

"No, it's all right," Edward clears his throat, gulping down mouthful of his beverage. "I might have deserved that a bit." 

Farleigh hums like he's agreeing with him, a low and thrumming ' mm-hmm, ' and you can hear the patronizing quality of it. Even while it's a little wrong, you struggle to fight off the smile forming at the edges of your mouth, and you try to hide it by taking another generous swig from your bottle. Hoping that the mild burn will serve as some sort of distraction, but it does little to dull the bit of amusement flaring inside of you. And the way that Farleigh huffs a few, small breaths of laughter into your hair doesn't help. It makes you feel like a couple of mean old gossips, but luckily no one else has noticed your shared mirth, with the three of them being too caught up in trying to revive the game. 

Edward's focus shifts around the room, unsteady and a little embarrassed but he's putting on a strained smile regardless, like he's trying to convince himself to be in a good mood. "Uh . . . well. Never have I ever had sex in a car."  

And after that the evening veered back on track. The little bit of animosity that had previously bled over you all had gradually dissipated until it was as though it had never been there in the first place. But even with the energy returning to its carefree and lax state, you couldn't fight off the bit of weariness that has begun to seep into your bones. The closer that the sun drifted towards the horizon the more weighted down your eyelids had become with the temptation of sleep, until soon the soft champagne hue that had been casted across the room from the windows had melted into something dim and lavender. Combined with almost an entire afternoon of swimming underneath the warmth of the summer air and the alcohol coursing through your veins you were extremely close to passing out on top of Farleigh. 

"All right, " you relent, speaking loud enough to be heard over everyone's voices and the volume of the second film of the day playing over the speakers. "I think it's time I turn in for the night." You begin pulling away from Farleigh's chest, shuffling onto your knees, making to pick yourself up from the floor as you sit your unfinished bottle a few inches away from you. 

"You're leaving?" He asks, allowing you to slip his arm from around your waist, though he keeps his hand on your thigh. 

"Yeah," you confirm, and there's the playful, scattered sound of protests from the other three sitting across from you. You just meet his questioning gaze with a soft look before you lean down to plant a soft goodbye kiss onto his cheek. "I'm just getting a little tired. I don't think I'll be able to keep up with all of you. Not tonight, at least." 

You stand up on your feet, feeling how his fingertips brush free from the skin of your leg, just above your sleep shorts and he lets his hand fall back onto his now vacant lap. You turn to give everyone a half-assed wave as you start to make your way out from the room, but not without throwing a quick, "have fun!" over your shoulder as you go. And the echoed calls of returned "goodnights!" follow you on your way out. 

And the entire way to your room, up the high winding staircase and down the twisting, turning hallways you had this awful, nauseating feeling in your stomach. For a moment you had feared that it was all the alcohol that you had drank. But you hadn't consumed nearly enough to have a bad reaction to it. And honestly, the queasiness burrowing at you was more of gut feeling - an intuitive one - rather a physical sensation. It hangs over you like a confusing, horrible cloud and it follows over you through your entire night routine. Making you feel oddly self-conscious while you brush your teeth and do your skincare. Once you're done you all put storm out of the bathroom, desperate to get away from your own reflection in the mirror. 

It's driving you absolutely crazy because you can't figure out just what it is. It also doesn't help that your brain keeps fliting back over to Edward's snide little joke from earlier. Replaying those words over and over again like some broken record. Repeatedly showing the image of how his features had twisted up in clear indignation and what may have been . . . envy. 

Envy over what, exactly?  

And you could remember the way that his eyes had flickered over you and Farleigh throughout the day. You figured that it had just been unintentional. That he hadn't meant it. But then he kept doing it over and over again. Something about a quality in his gaze had been awfully familiar, and as to where that familiarity came from you aren't sure. You can't place it. It leaves you completely bewildered and for a quick second some part of you dreads that idea that maybe he was jealous because he could have been secretly harboring feelings for you, or maybe even Farleigh this entire time. But that doesn't feel right either. That doesn't fit. 

You try to shrug off the constant humming rattling around in your mind, flopping back onto the plush cushion of your bed in the hopes that it'll soothe the disquiet running rampant within you, but it doesn't. Not even with the dark, velveteen breeze sweeping through your open window, carrying in the scent of the night helps to put it at ease. You try to funnel all of you attention onto small, tangible things. Like the distant singing of the crickets trilling outside in a gentle chorus or the distorted, aged shapes that you find within the old wooden ceiling above you. But neither does much to anchor you down. You aren't sure how long you just lay there for, trying to distract yourself as best as you can, but it's enough passage of time for that last remaining sliver of lavender casted in the horizon to officially melt into a dark black and for the final remnants of your alcohol induced buzz to officially drain from your body. And frustratingly, that initial desire to sleep that had saturated your limbs before has vanished. Fully replaced by what could only be described as a type of chaos and the alarming sense of being helplessly awake. It has you prickling with frustration. 

And a little scrap of your subconscious zones in on the that one word, 'familiar.' You had referred to the gleam in Edward's eyes as familiar, and it really was. Almost startingly so. It was almost affronted. Hurt. Like how he had looked when Farleigh had insulted him - defended himself, really . . . kind of - and he had turned to Venetia as though he had been waiting for her to do that same. And he had all but outright deflated when she hadn't. Like the hope inside of him had been singlehandedly snuffed out by her indifference. That little bit of yearning that he has to have for more. The wish that perhaps, she too would recognize that maybe she had developed feelings for him and would try and pursue something more. But he has to know that there was no way that would ever happen. That he was waiting on a pipe dream. That much like you, there wasn't ever going to be a real future with the people that you both long for. 

That simple train of thought pours over you like a metal pail full of frigid water. It shocks through your system, sobering you up and it has your mouth running dry. Jesus, are you going to end up like Edward? Helplessly latching onto the coat tails of a person who just sees you as a means to an end. But that wasn't right. Farleigh does care for you. And even with how brash and sarcastic he can often be, you know for a fact that he does covet your friendship. But that's just what it is, isn't it? Just a friendship. 

Fear sparks inside of you. A worry that you'll end up like Edward. Bitter and resentful while you watch the person that you hold your affections for move on and live. That you'll be perpetually cursed to loom within Farleigh's shadow, watching from the place at his feet as he falls in and out of love, experiences heartbreak and infatuation. But one day he might meet someone who he doesn't break up with. Maybe he'll actually marry that person. Maybe he'll start a family with them too. And you can honestly admit to yourself that you aren't sure if you'll have the strength to sit in the pews of an old church and watch while he takes someone else hand, while he slips a ring onto their finger. It might actually gut you, completely bittersweet; pleasant and paradoxically regretful to watch him grow old with someone who isn't you. But you know that you'll just be there on the sidelines regardless because you're too scared to move on or admit to yourself that . . .

Admit what? 

You know what, some deep, unforgiving part of your subconscious whispers. 

An uncomfortable sense of gravity rises up over you, nudging you over to the edge of some daunting, profound precipice. Some deep chasm, that if you choose to take the plunge and dive in, you might not be able to crawl back out of. But if you're going to be honest with yourself now, then that endless, spiraling abyss has always been there, directly underneath your feet this entire time. And you've just been dangling yourself over it, precariously balancing yourself on shaky limbs with a blindfold willingly tied around your own eyes. 

But the bottomless pit underneath you isn't dark or cold or vicious. It's the complete opposite. It's inviting and warm and candied. It makes you want to give in to it. To just relent and stop fighting. To quit pretending to be so blissfully ignorant and to finally just tear the self-imposed blinders off and accept that burning, wanting part of yourself before it dies out and takes you along with it. Eventually the sweet longing inside of you will turn sour and twist into something marred and nasty; mutating into something diseased and festering and it'll infect you. Make you into someone distant and loveless. 

And that's what all of this has been about. All of this self-made torture and the prison that you had fashioned yourself out of fear and the dread of possible rejection, it's been because of love. You're in love with Farleigh Start. Always have been. Helplessly and pathetically in love. 

The acceptance of it is like breathing after suffocating. Like being caught up in a supernova and feeling the heat and cosmic light engulf you. It has an almost dopey smile taking over your face, and you can feel an elated laugh bubbling up in your chest. It has you scrambling up on your bed and sightlessly reaching for one of your pillows, desperate for something, anything to ground yourself while every facet of your being is swept up and drowned over with can only be described as pure exultation. 

But as absolutely free as you feel, you know that it's only temporary. The sense of peace and bliss that taken over you will only keep you afloat for so long and eventually you'll be dragged back down to the dredges again. Pulled in deep while you watch Farleigh from the murk and dark. You'll only be able to live off of his friendship for so long before you all but starve, drinking up the scraps of his affection like it's sacrosanct. But that type of survival doesn't promise forever and eventually your devotion will catch up with you and eat you alive once you fail to feed it with something more substantial. Something real and returned. 

And that. That terrifies you. But there's a way out. Maybe if you can't have Farleigh - if he doesn't want you like you want him, then you'll just have to learn to live without him. 

But a little bit of hope bleeds through you like a second heartbeat. Low and fragile, but alive and steadily pulsing, accompanied by Felix's words from earlier. The faint echo telling you that you don't even know what the outcome may be. That the prospect of rejection isn't absolute. The reminder of it is enough to have you eyeing the door to your room and contemplating on slipping outside and searching for Farleigh. But even then, that trepidation is so great, hulking and dipping over you like a layer of ice, sinking into you like a set of frigid, steel talons. 

You flop forward on your bed, going face first into the mattress while defeat sags at your shoulders and gnaws on you from the inside out. You groan out loudly, an exasperated, weary sound that claws up from your lungs with a ragged huff, in an amalgamation of a tired laugh and a dry sob follows after it. But despite how utterly lost you feel, one thing that you know for certain is that you're going to have to confront whatever this is. You're going to have to confront Farleigh.

You prop yourself up with your hands, once again looking over to your door warily while you try to get a grip on the deluge of emotions swirling around in your head and chest. You try to latch onto anything, searching for that little bit of hope that you had felt earlier. Weakly tethering yourself down while you guide your whirling consciousness into something still and motionless.  Your grip on your emotions is shaky, held with a delicate but determined hold and it's enough to have you slipping out of the comfort of your bed despite the nausea bubbling in your stomach. 

You cross the floor in a hurry, trying to outrun yourself and your insecurities before they can get to you. It has you twisting the doorknob sharpy and shoving the door to your room open, making it creek on its hinges in a dull, weary cry. It has you cringing and peering down the hall like you're expecting to see someone. Fearful that one of the servants might materialize out of the shadows and pin you down with a judgmental glare. 

Once you're officially outside of the security of your quarters a sense of relief blooms. Small and light, but there. And it makes you feel that much more confident in confronting the single thing that has haunted your dreams for years. 

The door clicks shut behind you with a sense of finality and it's enough to get you moving. You steel yourself with a long inhale, swallowing around the nervous lump in your throat before you head off down the hall in the direction of Farleigh's room. And suddenly a single step feels like a thousand. You know that it must be a trick. Made from your mind or the oily cast of the lamps that are fixed to and lined down the walls but it's as though the corridor is expanding; stretching long and far until it feels as though you've been walking for an hour and not a few minutes. It's dangerous. It gives you too much time to second guess yourself and you find yourself glancing back over your shoulder and towards the direction of your room more than once. But when you turn back around the face the hall, suddenly you're standing in front of Farleigh's door. And now something so ordinary and rudimentary seems so daunting. It's like being in the presence of Goliath. The panel of glazed wood blocks a threshold that you've passed through a number of times, but never has it felt as nerve-wracking as it does now. 

Your heart is heavy inside your chest, like stone and yet it's beating so quickly. It almost makes you feel pathetic and small. God, you're a grown as woman and something as simple as a confession of feelings is making you so unsecure and astray. It's more of a kneejerk reaction when your hand raises to knock against Farleigh's door and you nearly cringe when the sharp, repetitive rap cracks out across the hallway. It almost sounds like a gunshot, but then again, your mind is probably amplifying the sound from all of your anxiety. 

For a moment you wished that he wasn't even in his room yet. That maybe he's still downstairs in the library, drinking and partying with the others and that you can just return to your room and pretend that this never happened. 

"Yeah?" His voice calls out, muffled and distant from behind the shield of the door. 

"Fuck," you hiss under your breath quietly. You bite at your bottom lip nervously while you try and fight off the barrage of anxious butterflies that go off in your stomach. Maybe if you slip away now, he won't even notice. The old walls and bones of Saltburn are constantly shifting and creating noise. Groaning in its old age while drafts and pipes creak. It also isn't uncommon to hear mice and servants silently rustling down the corridors at all hours of the night, slipping around the shadows and corners like phantoms. Farleigh probably wouldn't think anything of it if you ran back to your room before he could catch sight of you. The knock at his door would just be another bump in the night. 

No. 

No. 

You aren't doing that. You owe this to yourself. And to him. 

"It's me!" You shout before you can officially convince yourself to turn tail and flee. And it isn't long before a hushed, "come in!" greets you through the door, prompting you to clasp the doorknob and twist. When you enter his room, your eyes immediately zone in on him from his place on his bed where he's sitting up in a crisscross fashion with his laptop open in front of him. It relieves you to know that you didn't wake him up at the very least, but the expectant look in his gaze is quick to snuff out any sense of solace with a quickness; unpleasantly reminding you as to why you're even here. 

"What's up?" He asks. But even the sound of his voice, something that you usually react positively to, it doesn't help you function. Your words are lodged in your throat and suddenly everything is too real. And it clicks into place harshly, that you're here. You're actually going to do this. God, you don't think that you can breathe, it's as though all of the oxygen has been stolen from the room and it makes it difficult to even think. You want to be delicate about this. To try and have some tact, but now that you're in his room, you don't even know where to begin. There's no plan or angle of approach. You're completely lost and you're floundering underneath the pressure, and you're so caught up within your own turmoil that you don't even realize that you've just been standing dumbly in the center of his room. 

"Are . . . you okay?" He says slowly, closing the screen of his laptop and sitting it on the edge of the bed. His eyebrows perk up and he scans over you from his place across the room like he's searching for the source of your apparent discomfort. 

It's too warm in here. Too stuffy with the summer humidity that the breeze from the open widow has yet to drive out. It makes it difficult to focus on anything. And then all of your thoughts are clamoring. Crowding within your skull with the chaos and sharpness of plates breaking, of cymbals clanging together, of a million people all shouting as a collective. Just say it. Say it! Jesus sweet fuck, just say it! 

"I'm in love with you!" 

You just blurt it. Spitting it out into the universe without fully registering that you have. It isn't until you notice the absolute shock shifting into Farleigh's expression that you understand that you had just thoughtlessly confessed. His lip's part, dropping open with what can only be bewilderment. And you know that you've completely blindsided him. Hell, you've blindsided yourself. The gravity of what you've done settles deep into your bones and threatens to buckle your knees. The deafening silence that falls over the room is worse than if he would just laugh at you. And for a moment you wish that he would just say something. Make a joke or try and brush it off, but he doesn't. He just continues to stare at you like you're a complete stranger, leaving you to struggle and trying to cope with the new trajectory of your reality. That you have just completely altered your entire relationship with Farleigh forever. Nearly a decade of friendship gone. Obliterated and tossed aside all because of your feelings. 

"I have to go, " you mumble, more so to yourself than to him. You twist on the balls of your feet, rushing towards the door like the walls of his room are closing in and might crush you. And the entire time you're already planning your escape. Thinking about how the first thing that you're going to do once you get back to your quarters is pull out your computer and look up the cheapest and earliest flight back to America. And all you can do is hope that everyone else won't ask to many questions about your sudden departure back home. 

But as soon as you start to twist the brass knob and the door begins to slip open from the threshold a hand comes out from behind you and shoves it closed with a heavy slam. You almost flinch at the jarring nature of the sound. 

"Wait," he says. Firm and somewhat breathless. You're very aware of his presence standing behind your back with the pleasant, buttery heat of his body brushing against you. "Jesus, you can't just drop something like that on someone and then just leave."

Guilt takes root at those words, and it has you squeezing the doorknob in your hand to try and build some semblance of resolve. "I'm sorry, " you gasp, staring straight ahead at the paneling in the door. 

"Can you look at me?" He asks.

You immediately shake your head. "No. No, I don't think I can," you answer truthfully. You really don't think that you'll be able to meet his eyes right now. It might actually tear you apart. 

"Please. Please, just look at me." His voice is soft. Probably the softest you've ever heard it and almost pains you to hear it this way. It makes you want to crumble. To lean into him and soak in the feel of him. You can't resist the urge to obey his need despite the discomfort rippling throughout your entire nervous system. You find yourself turning, leaning yourself up against the door for some stability as you rotate on your feet until you're fully facing him. Even then, you can't meet the weight of his stare. You won't. Instead, you focus on the fabric covering his chest. It's one of those quote shirts he wears every now and again, and you find yourself studying the lettering on it with a rapt fascination, as forced as it is. Tracing the words with your eyes. 'You Wish' the tee declares in a bold, bright yellow font. Just a playful, sarcastic statement. One that's pretty in theme with all of the other text form shirts that he can be seen wearing, and on any other day it wouldn't have gotten any other response out of you other than some mild amusement. But here and now, in this specific moment, the statement feels so oddly and coincidentally personal, an omen of sorts. Like the universe is waving up some bizarre warning, an you could laugh if you weren't so on edge. 

You hear him say your name. Low and gentle. His hand raises until the curled cusp of his fingertips are nudging underneath the point of your chin, delicately influencing you to look at him. The movement is unhurried and light, giving you ample time to pull your face from his hold if you wanted to, but you don't. You let him direct you until your eyes are meeting his in an unsure gaze. 

And it's startling, the vulnerable and stunned expression on his features. But paradoxically, it's also almost a relief, to know that the shock riddling your body and mind is shared. That you aren't the only one who's completely lost and struggling. It comes with a sense of guilt, too. Stinging and unforgiving. You fight to forgive yourself to know that you're the one who's completely knocked him off kilter. You want to soothe that little bit of confusion wavering in his gaze. To try and right the dazed sort of panic that's choked the air. 

"I'm . . . in love you," you repeat, swallowing around the tightness of your throat and luckily, you're able to speak with a bit more conviction. And once you get it out, it's like a dam has broken. Fracturing down the middle before it gives, cracking and tearing apart from underneath the frothing weight and turmoil slamming up against the damaged concrete. "I love you. I think I always have, but it finally caught up with me and I had to say something about it, and I'm sorry if this has fucked up what we have - " you're outright rambling now. Caught up within the slew of your own emotions. Honestly, you're too scared to stop speaking; terrified of what may come after with the silence. But it also keeps you from focusing on Farleigh, the sound of his voice seems too distant, like it's miles away, but you just barely catch onto a bit of calming words, the way that he tries to reassure you with your name and a soft "it's okay." 

"No!" You almost shout it, looking at him with something fervent and afraid. "It's not! Because when I'm around you, there are times where it feels like I can't even breathe-" 

"Hey, it's all right, " he tries to soothe you. And you can feel him gripping your forearms, rubbing sweeping circles against your skin with the swipe of his thumbs, trying to coax you from your thoughts. It doesn't pull you from their hold completely, but you can feel your body responding regardless, going lax and a little pliant underneath the warmth of his palms. "It's okay." 

But it isn't. None of this is. You've completely ruined it. Everything. 

"I love you." 

Except it wasn't your voice that said it this time. It was his. 

It all pauses. Like the world has simultaneously gone still, shifting into something hushed and private, like every individual life on the planet has put their priorities on hold to suck in their breath and wait. For a moment, it's like you and Farleigh are the only two beings left alive. Held within a small pocket of time around the walls of his room. It's only the gossamer breeze rolling in through his window; perfumed with the velvet fragrance of summer blossoms and a distant petrichor that reminds you that the earth is still rotating in its orbit around the sun. 

He said it with so much conviction, but even then, you could pick up the worry fraying the edges of his words. Like he's waiting for a pen to drop. Like something is going to break. 

"What?" You almost gasp. 

A smile perks at his lips and you can see something relaxed melt back into his posture which had turned rigid during your panicked babbling. "I guess I should be relieved. I was always worried that I was being too obvious." 

A breathless sound leaves your chest, both a sigh of release and a joyful laugh, all bubbling and soft. You shake your head minutely, a gesture made from disbelief rather than refusal or frustration. "I don't . . . Why didn't you say anything?" 

Farleigh steps a little closer to you, reminding you that you're fixed between him and the door, but it isn't suffocating. It's pleasant. Comforting. You find yourself leaning towards him, your body seeking out the presence of his own in a subconscious pull; like how the moon affects the tides.  

"I could ask you the same thing," he replies with a low laugh melting through his tone. 

Your body suddenly feel weightless, like the gravity keeping you pinned down to the world has vanished and left you floating. You tip on your feet, leaning into Farleigh's chest easily. His scent surrounds you. Billowing over you with notes of something buttery and earthy and subtly sweet; creamy. And he moves closer towards you until his face is nosing against your head and his hands come to cradle your waist. You've been here a thousand times. Held just like this in his arms before. It's familiar. It feels like safety. Like home. But there's something decidedly different now too. An element that you've never felt before. It's new. But not uncomfortably so. It's nice. It's warm and accepting but simmering; driven by a sort of hunger. 

You aren't sure who makes the move first. Suddenly both of your faces are angled towards each other, the tips of your noses brushing. You can feel the heft of his gaze when it meets your own. Your eyes transfixed upon the others like they're being guided by some invisible string, a magnetic pull. So many different emotions are passed through the exchanged stare. Something asking and delicate but also wholly wanting. It's all-consuming and fizzling at your skin, prickling like hungry, coveting teeth. 

Your body thrums, blood singing when you feel the brush of his lips over yours. But he doesn't go any further than that, and you can feel that heat of him hovering over your skin. There's a question in his eyes, bright and burning and it leaves you feeling a little bit breathless; a little drunk. You want to answer but you can't bring yourself to speak. The words are stuck inside your chest, left useless and idle in your lungs in the form of shapeless air. But he must see the answer in your own eyes. Just as strong as his own desire because suddenly his lips are molded against yours, soft and plush with an ardent type of need.  

You moan into it, and in his enthusiasm, he shoves you back against the door, but you're too swept up the sensation and emotion of it all to even register the dull throb in the back of your skull. Instead, syphoning every bit of your being into pouring your attention onto him. Soaking in the press of his body against you own, the subtle nip of his teeth against your lips and the low sound of his pleased, rumbling sighs. You can't manage to pull yourself away from him. Entirely focused on learning the shape of him through the layer of his clothes, running your hands across his hips and chest like you're mapping him out. He's got you pinned to him by his palms on your upper waist and the back of your neck, securing you to his chest like he's worried you might vanish. 

It's zealous and a little desperate, but it isn't inherently rushed. Neither of you are fueled by the sort of urgency that comes with a time crunch or the expectations of meeting some inexistent due date, it's more like you're both trying to make up for lost time. Moving against each other like you couldn't manage to be apart. 

It has you slipping a hand underneath his shirt, unable to ignore the need to feel his skin underneath you, even if it's in such a small way. He gasps against your mouth at the tepid sweep of your fingertips running over his ribs, nearly holding his breath once they travel up his chest. You jerk against him, body running hot at the almost whiny moan that rises up from his lungs in a sharp rasp. And when you both sway back against each other, you're the one who winds up gasping into him when the feel of him, heavy and rigid grinds on along your front through the barrier of your respective clothing. 

You consider teasing him over it. Of making a joke over the fact that he's already hard because of a little making out, but the steady throbbing from between your legs keeps you from doing so. You're sure that if you were to slip your own fingers into your heat that they'd come up wet. 

Suddenly he's backstepping away from the door, pulling you along with him by the cradle of his arms. You don't separate from each other for a single moment, too caught up in the drag of his lips, and you nearly go breathless when he licks into your mouth. You blindly follow his sightless lead, trusting that you'll both successfully reach your destination - the bed probably, and you nearly trip on the borderline of the center rug in your blind shuffle across the floor. If it wasn't for Farleigh's hold on you, you definitely would have fallen and busted your ass in an embarrassing, clumsy heap. 

He's slipping his hands underneath your shirt, rucking the material up your body when the backs of his knees hit against the edge of his mattress. As your body follows his downward, he uses it as leverage to slip the article of clothing free from your torso and carelessly flings it somewhere across the room. You don't think that he was expecting you to be braless based on the way that his attention dips down to your chest, scanning over the swell of each breast and the rigid bud of your nipples with a rapt sort of fascination. 

"Fuck," he whispers lowly, watching as you shift to settle your legs around his waist. And you can't contain the pleased chuckle that leaves you as you lower yourself over him to reconnect your lips, rekindling the fervent kissing that had transfixed you both before. You brush your tongue over the plush swell of his mouth, silently asking for permission and he gives it with a heady moan, parting his jaw to let you taste him. Caught under the spell of your need you haven't even noticed that you've both started to hump against each other like a couple of horny teenagers. Seeking out the pleasure of each other's bodies in any way that you can get it. 

"Farleigh," you keen suddenly. God, you can feel him, the head of his cock nudging against the slick, sensitive nerves of your clit through his boxers and the thin fabric of your sleep shorts. It's already so good. And you chase after it while you continue to nibble and pull at each other's lips, steadily churning your waist in deep, sweeping grinds against the hard shape of him. 

His hands are traveling again, moving from your ribs and upwards until he's taking your nipples between his fingertips, rolling and plucking at them until you're panting. You pull back just enough to look at him, ignoring the way that he whines, airy and pitchy, so that you can admire him. Marveling at the lustful, clouded over sheen in his eyes, how they shimmer, dark like melted amber and bronze underneath the buttery, golden glow of the lamp. His lips are parted, a little puffy and glimmering with all of your kissing, releasing deep, labored breaths from his chest while he gazes at you. 

God, he really is gorgeous like this. It isn't fair. 

You settle one of your palms on his sternum, making sure to shift yourself to bear most of your weight on the balls of your feet and the muscle of your thighs so that you can drive powerful, teasing thrusts over the rigid swell of his cock. His mouth drops open a little bit more, eyebrows pinching close as something liquid and carnal drips over you both like melted sugar. You could make you both cum like this. If you just kept on with this steady, torturous pace that you've set. And it would feel so, so good. You know it would, with how that sinful burn is climbing deep with the apex of your thighs. But you can't. Not like this. You need to feel him. You need him inside of you. 

"Farleigh," you cry again, leaning over to breathlessly moan in his ear. "I need you. Please, please. Fuck me - " 

He's grabbing you by your ribs and flipping your places in a disorienting blur, slipping a hand underneath one of your knees to spread you open around the circumference of his waist. He dips his face underneath your jaw, sucking at the hallow of your bared throat with the hint of teeth and tongue before his voice sounds out in husky rasp, making you arch into the weight of his body above yours. "Is that what you want, baby? "He hums, a little low and somewhat condescending. "Need me to fuck you?" 

His knuckles brush over your abdomen, dragging around the band of your shorts in a teasing glide. You groan out in frustration, impatiently writhing in the hopes that it'll make him do something, but he just pulls back enough to stare down at you with a satisfied smirk. You don't hide the irritation in your expression, but your clear vexation doesn't do anything to dull his delight. You shuffle your hips, working to grind them in a heavy, agonizing swoops over his cock. And you feel a little surge of delight when you see that bit of arrogance in his eyes shift back into something eager and carnal, urging him one step closer to just giving in and taking you. 

"God, you're so fucking desperate," he mocks, but there's almost a kind of wonder in his voice too. You find yourself preening underneath the tiny little shred of awe, nodding in agreement, well past the point of trying to cling onto your pride. Not after wishing and waiting for so long to be in this exact position. You'll have plenty of time to knock him down a few pegs later. As of right now, you just want him inside of you. He chuckles lightly at your desperation, nosing along your cheek like he might kiss you, though he stays far enough away to keep you from being able to join your lips with his.

"Stop teasing me, please, " you gasp, peering up at him from underneath your lashes, hoping that you're conveying all of that searing, devouring want that's clawing up inside of you and threatens to consume you, bones, flesh, body and soul. You don't even have the mind to acknowledge the blow to your pride that you're taking. How pathetic that you've become from nothing but his touch alone. And it must work, because something in his expression breaks, crumbling away until he looks as dazed and starved as you feel. 

"Don't worry. I'll take care of you." He promises and straightens himself, removing his own shirt and discarding it somewhere on the floor before he's finally taking ahold of your shorts, ripping them down your legs and slipping them from around the heels of your feet. As soon as they're off of you, his mouth settles on the inside of your knee, hot and wet in its ascent up your thigh, nipping the sensitive skin with his teeth and soothing the sting with the lave of his tongue and lips. The sensation has you sighing out into the humid, balmy air, reaching down with your fingers to grip onto his hair, trying to softly guide him back up and over you. But he's clearly in the mood to take his time, or maybe he's just determined to drive you up the wall. He plants a kiss on your mound, just above your dripping cunt and your body prickles and vibrates in anticipation, waiting for him split you open. To lick and take you into his mouth. 

Then something sweltering and wet runs up the expanse of your abdomen, leaving a chilled trail in its wake, and it isn't until Farleigh's head raises up from your chest that you realize that it had been his tongue dragging over your skin, tasting the fresh salt on your body. He continues to shift upward until his lips seal back over yours and he notches his hips above your own, dragging them down to rub against your clit in a wicked grind, making you whimper into his mouth. And you're ready to start begging again when some distant, tattered part of your mind registers that the feverish, silken warmth pressed up against you is the shape of his bare cock. 

You aren't sure when he had managed to slip his boxers off, but you don't bother dwelling on it for long, too focused on him to care. It has you keening and grabbing onto his shoulders, tossing your legs over his hips in the hopes of urging him to finally relent and give you both what you want. He grunts against your lips before he tilts his head back enough to look into your eyes, and you immediately recognize the glint that flickers within them, that silent question. It's all you can do to manage a simple nod, whispering 'please' over and over in a broken, windless request. 

And then you feel him, thick and warm slipping against the entrance of your cunt. He doesn't glance away from you for a single moment, attention fastened to you like he's gauging your reaction. The whine that's pushed from your lungs is one of pure elation from the way that you're stretched around the length of his cock, eyes nearly going cross as he works in every inch. It admittedly has been a little while since you've last had sex, and the girth of him nearly burns while it buries in deep, but it's not enough for you to ask him to stop. It actually feels gratifying. Giving you a pleasant ache that has you feeling full. And the ragged moan that he releases makes you all the more worked up, pussy clenching tight around him, making his face twitch in a way that almost looks wounded. 

He just grinds against you without pulling out, rocking his pelvis on you like he's struggling to keep still, trapping the buzzing nerves of your clit between the shifting press of his groin. "Baby," he warns, voice thin and a little shaky. "I don't know how long I can hold back." 

It takes you a moment for your scattered mind to even grasp onto what he's said, but once you do, you're able to gather that he's trying to let you adjust to him. To get used to the weight of him inside of you. While you appreciate the consideration, you have absolutely zero patience to wait any longer than necessary. It has you reaching up to take ahold of his face, pinning him with a stare that you hope is sufficient enough to telegraph what you want. What you need. "I don't want you to wait," you say with as much conviction as you can while he's balls deep inside of you. "I want you to fuck me." 

Something that looks like relief flows over his expression, and he drops all of his weight onto his arms, caging your head in between both of his elbows while he pulls his hips back from yours, slipping his cock from the slick of your cunt before plowing back into you with a thrust that steals all of the oxygen in your body. Pure white-hot ecstasy sizzles throughout your nerves and muscles, setting you alight with smoke and honey from the ardent pace that he's set. But despite the pleasure coursing through your body, your gaze is stuck on Farleigh the entire time. Captivated by the way that his face twists up in bliss, eyes fluttering and threatening to roll back; engrossed from the choked-up moans that pour from his mouth with each wild cant of his hips. 

"Oh God - fuck," he huffs, leaning into your touch while your caress his face with your thumbs, fingers smoothing over the shape of his jaw and cheekbones with complete adoration. And he allows you to guide his head downward for your lips to messily meet, moaning into each other, utterly uninhibited and shameless. He whines, brazen and lecherous when you take his tongue into your mouth to suck on it. You can feel him twitch inside of you and his hips jerk for a split second, choppy and dazed, before he's able to fall back into the smooth, relentless rhythm that he had created while he pants into your mouth. 

You work your own body to meet his thrusts, trying to create as much pleasure between the both of you as possible. You can feel his spit slick against your lips, but you can't be bothered to care, releasing his tongue from the suction of your mouth to nip at his bottom lip; swollen and soft. Somehow it makes him drive into you all that deeper like he's absolutely hellbent on ripping you apart and filling you, building you up again in his own image until the only thoughts in your head revolve around him and solely him. It has your brain going fuzzy, liquifying in your skull and your head rocks back on your shoulders until it plops back on the mattress. Your spine bows, arching sharp and tight until your stomach melds against his. The laugh that leaves you is already a little fucked out; slurred and mindless. 

"Far - I - shit - " it's all a scrambled mess. You can't even form a sentence. Your tongue is lax and useless, unable to make a single syllable, and the only noises that rise from your lungs are moans and cries of total rapture. But a glance upward confirms that he isn't fairing much better than you. He looks just as gone as you feel. Skin glittering with a sheen of sweat that sparks low in the luminescence of the lamp in the corner, shinning like a layer of dusted gold and his eyes are glazed over and dark, ensnaring you completely. It's a little nasty, the outright lewd wet repetitive smacks of skin hitting skin coming from where your bodies meet; the scent of sex in the air, tainting the delicate summer wind like a depraved aphrodisiac. But you can hardly focus on any of that when you've got Farleigh suspended over you, looking outright debauched. 

"You're s' pretty," you manage to weakly say between your panting. 

You can tell that he heard you. You see the recognition flicker across his face, the space between his eyebrows furrowing when he looks down at you. There's a smile too. Faint from the way that his mouth is dropped open in pleasure, but you can still make out its influence around the shape of his lips. "I love you," he whispers it with reverence. The confession is still so brand new. Delicate and tender, but it has your body thrumming with something intense and feverish, bleeding into your chest, fluttering and wild. A fiery, dazzling heat courses its way throughout your entire body, making your toes curl and your fingers scramble for purchase; bunching up the bed sheets. 

You want to return the sentiment. To tell him that you feel that same, but as soon as you go to speak, he's punching into you, making you feel the thick drag of his cock, effectively ripping the breath from you, choking you on it. He takes ahold of one of your thighs, securing it tighter around his waist like he's trying to get as close to you as he physically can without disrupting the flow of his thrusts. You can already feel that giant wall of heat and electricity rising, looming up like a violent ocean or a storm, giving you a taste of what's about to sweep over you. You can distantly feel yourself reaching onto Farleigh, drawing him closer by looping an arm around his back and latching a hand around his forearm, clawing for anything to center yourself. As much as you want to be doused and consumed by the shifting, liquid nirvana quickly forming within your abdomen, you also don't want to lose the sensation of his body pressed against yours.

You settle your mouth over his throat, not biting but tasting. Tracing your tongue over the tendons flexing underneath his skin, smelling and taking in the salt and vanilla and spice there. And you can feel the vibrations of his moans and whimpers humming against your lips. He's saying something, but you're unable to make out the words through the intoxicated stuffing that's been packed into your skull. But you do catch a ragged groan of your name and few scattered swears that follow after. You smile around his throat, trailing your lips down to his clavicle to lightly nip. 

Your muscles start to seize, body winding up tight in preparation for the melted heat that's burning at you, about to set you alight. You slip your hand free from around its grip on his upper arm, lowering it down between your shifting bodies. Your mouth drops open when your find your clit, sensitive and slick, aiding you in drawing compact, heavy circles around it, making your cunt clench around him. The way that you squeeze him steals more whimpers from his chest, pitchy and wanton, tipping him closer to his own orgasm. 

You try to warn him. To tell him that something raging and overwhelming is cresting over you, but not a single word makes it way out. Your lungs are caught and drawn tight, keeping you silent. In your daze, you haven't even noticed that you've begun to drag your fingertips across his back, scrambling for some sort of security to keep you in place and present, grounded to the bed and Farleigh's body without your mind turning into complete mush and drifting away. Your nails are slipping down just above his spine, leaving marks down the expanse of his skin. It makes him lurch his hips into you sharply, not disrupting his rhythm, but deepening it into a thick grind and it has them pressing into your knuckles, nudging your fingertips over your clit with more pressure.

"Far-" you choke helplessly, voice ragged and near raw. 

"Come on, baby," he coos around his own shaky breath. "Just let it go. Cum for me." 

You feel it everywhere; in your hands, your toes, soaking through every piece of your body, down to your nerves and bone marrow. But regardless of the utter weight of it, your mind still hardly has time to compute the scope of what you're feeling. That tight coiling band in your abdomen snaps like a frayed rubber and rope, releasing a deluge of bliss that devours you like a burst of flames and embers, taking away all of the oxygen in your lungs to feed the fire searing through your entire being. 

You aren't sure how long you're suspended in that state of rapture for. Lost and wonderfully held captive to the pure ecstasy saturating every inch of you, wracking across your muscles in full delicious tremors like your body is determined to ride out every ounce of possible pleasure. You seize tightly, cunt gripping around his cock, and clenching over and over again, effectively shoving him over that sinful precipice along with you. And you distantly register him hunching over your body, bucking his hips deep to chase after his own orgasm with scattered moans. He cums with a strained grunt, spilling himself inside of you with a gentle rush of a pleasant warmth that makes your toes curl. 

The comedown is syrupy and soft, settling over your skin low and mellow, like curling up underneath a blanket. It's the feel of Farleigh over you that guides you back to a state of coherence, the sound of his labored breathing leveling out close to your ear and you find your heaving lungs working to mimic the pace of his own. He's gone boneless over you, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck with a pleased sigh that puffs over your skin. It has you relaxing your thighs, unwinding your legs from their hold around his waist to let him sag against you further. And the two of you just stay that way for a long peaceful moment. Basking in each other's presence and the afterglow. 

You absentmindedly drag your fingertips over his back, tracing the faint divot of his spine in gentle sweeps. But your eyebrows furrow when they feel thin, long raises in his skin, and it has you lifting your head to try and peer over his shoulder. He grunts in objection when it has you shifting him a little from where he's tucked himself snuggly into the junction of your throat. But you can't be bothered to pay it any mind when you spot the light but angry scratches that decorate his back, spanning around close to the nape of his neck and down past his shoulder blades. 

"Shit, I'm sorry," you apologize with something close to guilt settling in your gut. He hums questioningly but doesn't make any effort to articulate a response, so thankfully it must not hurt that bad considering that he doesn't seem to be paying them any mind, though you find yourself elaborating regardless. "Your back. I scratched it all up." 

Another low vocalization leaves him, it's close to a purr almost, something that sounds suspiciously satisfied as he presses a kiss to your neck, just over your pulse. "Don't be sorry. I liked it." 

That makes you feel a bit better at least, even though you can't help but to playfully roll your eyes at the comment. Then he's moving, pulling back from you and you suddenly find yourself as the one who's protesting when he shuffles from your body. You hiss underneath your breath when he slips his limp cock from you, making you clench around nothing, still sensitive and a little tender. He whispers something that sounds like it might be an apology, bending down to kiss the inside of your knee. You let yourself relax again, allowing your limbs to dip back into the plush of the mattress while you enjoy the pleasant buzz of endorphins still rushing around in your veins.

The bed shifts, leaving you to assume that Farleigh is probably getting up to go and clean himself in the bathroom and retrieve you a towel so that you could wipe yourself down. But instead, the shape of what feels a lot like a pair of shoulders nudging between your legs and spreading your thighs apart is what pulls you from your buzzed headspace. You shift yourself onto your elbows, lifting your head back up on your neck to glance down your body and you're somewhat surprised to see that Farleigh has nestled himself between your hips. His eyes have fluttered closed while he's begun to trace kisses along your inner thighs. 

"Farleigh," you say, a question hanging heavy in the air. 

You get another hum in response, but he does focus on you enough meet your gaze. 

"What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" He asks, nuzzling a little closer to the apex of your thighs where you're still a little sore and soaking and admittedly a little filthy with your shared release. And there's a fleeting little thought that bounces around your head, a quick, disbelieving: There's no way he's going to do what I think he's going to do. 

"I'm not sure," you reply, swallowing around the thickness in your throat, even though you've got that heavy suspicion looming over you. But he's not going to do that surely. And almost like a sort of answer, his lips curl into a smirk, dark eyes twinkling with what could only be described as mischief. He plucks the delicate skin of where your groin and thigh join between his teeth, not enough to be uncomfortable but just enough to tease before soothing it with the brush of his tongue. 

"Oh, I think you do." That's all he says before he's leaning forward and sealing the searing wet heat of his mouth over your cunt. It's like a shock to your system, the blazing warmth suddenly basking over the sensitive nerves of your clit, and it has you gasping. You jerk helplessly underneath him, still raw and recovering from the intensity of your previous orgasm, but Farleigh doesn't budge so much as an inch in your body's mindless writhe. He just tosses one of his arms across your waist in an effort to keep you pinned down, and it works in successfully fixing you to the mattress, keeping you splayed open underneath the unforgiving drag of his tongue across your frayed, thrumming nerves while he chases after the faint, impeded rock of your hips. It's torturous and entirely too much, with the pleasure feeling so raw and direct that it might split you down the middle and it actually has you sobbing.

"Farleigh!" You cry, latching your fingers onto his curls like you don't whether to pull him closer or away from you. "I can't!" 

"Yes, you can," he insists, pulling back just enough to speak. "But just say the word and I'll stop. Just tell me ' no.' " 

But you can't do that. You don't want to, you find, even while it feels like you're being set on fire and every little atom that makes up your existence is being pulled taught and dipped in a melted vat of wax. And there's a moment where he stops. Waiting patiently for that single little word and when it never arrives, he's scooping you back into his mouth. Dipping his tongue down inside of you and taking the mixture of your combined cum into his mouth and drinking the both of you down. It's so dirty. Filthy and utterly debauched, but it's so good, too. And you just hardly manage to glance down and observe him from the gap made between your outstretched arms, and you can't help but gasp when you find that he's already watching you. His eyes are shimmering with a deep satisfied copper and the dark of his irises have been eaten up by his pupils; now overblown with hunger and want. There's an intensity that leaves you so completely breathless and captivated. 

Honestly, your body is already so hypersensitive that you aren't sure that you'll even be able to cum a second time, not on the back of your first orgasm at least. Not so close together. But you don't even really care if you do or not. He looks so beautiful between your legs. His expression is drunk almost, a little blissed out and glazed over. 

It takes you a moment to even recognize it through the satin smoke and fog covering your own mind, but you can see past the view of your own body and his head that his hips have begun to thrust against the mattress, moving his cock against the bed sheets and covers in an attempt to achieve his own pleasure. The sight alone has liquid heat cascading down your spine and humming between your legs, making your clit throb underneath the perfect lashing of his tongue. 

It's all so desperate and charged, you can practically taste the atmosphere sizzling at your skin like something electric and alive. You can feel the dampness of tears beginning to trickle down past your water line, from the overstimulation or the sheer gravity of the pleasure taking over your body, you aren't entirely certain. And then he's removing the hand that had been gripped around one of your thighs so that he can slip a finger into the entrance of your cunt, groaning when you clench around him wildly and cry out from the overwhelming sense of torturous ecstasy. Your eyes roll, mouth dropping open in a silent sob and then you can feel it again, prickling at your toes and scattering over your skin. You were wrong. So, so wrong. He's going to make you cum again. 

It's hurtling towards you with a speed that's jarring, threating to eat you up and leave bare bones behind. And you want it. A part of you wishes that he would just use you up until there's nothing left. It has you chasing the ceaseless curl of his finger, and gasping out when he slips a second in alongside the other, shoving you that much closer to the edge with the stretch. "Oh, God, " you whine in a jagged whisper. "You're gonna make me cum." 

He moans against you heavily, sparking electricity over you with the ripple of his voice. You let one of your hands move from his hair, using it to prop yourself up, ignoring the way that the muscles in your arm tremor and shake with the exertion, but you can't find it in yourself to give in, not while you're completely enraptured in the way that his hips continue to steadily grind into the bed. His breath is snags with each inhale, frayed and bordering on a whine with each grind as he pleasures himself on the mattress, desperately seeking out his bliss. It has your body locking up tight, and that's the only warning that you get when you're absolutely blindsided by your orgasm. It isn't as searing or all-consuming as your first, your body already too sensitive and worked to give much, but that doesn't make it any less euphoric. 

It has you thrusting yourself against his face, using his nose to prolong the molten heat simmering throughout your veins, and then his mouth cradles around your clit, sucking at the tender nerves until your jerking against him and sobbing. The fingers that you still have in his hair clinch tight when you drop back against the bed in a useless heap, losing yourself to the sensations spreading over you and burning you alive. 

He laps at you a few more times, cleaning up the taste of you on his tongue and moving away only when you start to shift your hips in an attempt to get some reprieve from the stimulation. For a moment you dangle within that in between of consciousness and unconsciousness, simply existing without a thought. It's just that sugared, voltaic thrum coursing over every inch of you, making you hazy. But then you hear it. The sound of his labored, breathless breathing and it has you perking up to look over at him from his place on the bed. He's readjusted himself, having shifted onto his knees, and he's taken himself in the hold of his own hand. Stroking his grip down his girth, using the cum that's smeared across the velvet skin of his cock to aid himself in his movement. 

But what gets you the most is the way that he's watching you. Almost as though he's enthralled by how fucked out he's made you. Using the sight of how he's reduced you to a panting, boneless mess, to get off. 

You have had trouble with making eye contact with partners in the past, having always found it too . . . invasive almost. Too embarrassing. But now you're meeting his stare head on. Unwavering, emboldened by your own lust. You collect yourself until you're shuffled closer and place yourself into a sitting position. His eyes are glued onto you the entire time, a heady anticipation burning within them that would have had you tempted to go for another round if your body wasn't already so spent. 

He leans towards you, the both of you drifting close to each other's space but never touching, and you can feel the heat radiating from his body, soaking against your skin. He's already close, the way that his eyebrows are furrowed has already become familiar.  The low pitchy moans that are steadily pouring past the pout of his mouth are an obvious tell. And that desperate, starved look has clouded over his gaze again and he almost looks drunk, fogged over with pleasure while his hips chase after the warmth of his own hand. He groans when he squeezes the head of his cock while he strokes, pressing his thumb down over a vein that throbs across his shaft, and it makes his thrusts skip shakily before he's able to regain his rhythm.

A part of you wants to reach out and touch him, to bat his hand away and take over, to feel him pulse in your hand. But there's also something that's undeniably arousing about watching him greedily chase after his own release, too captivated to do much else other than just sit and admire. Quietly roving over how his chest rises and falls in an entrancing pattern, the sweat glittering on his forehead and how his thighs subtly clench with each upward stroke from his fist. 

"Please, " he's suddenly gasping and it's so faint that you barely hear it. It has you leaning even closer until your noses brush and the scent of him is thick and heavy in your lungs. That pleading look in his eyes gives you a pretty good indication of what he wants, but you want to hear it from him directly. 

"What is it?" You ask softly, moving yourself just a little bit closer until your knees are pressed against his. 

His breath snags, lashes fluttering when he gives himself a particularly firm tug. "I want- " he swallows heavily, thrusting deep into his hand and temporarily distracting himself with his own bliss. "I want you to touch me. " 

And as much as you just want to remain an observer, you can't deny his supplication. It has you reaching out to place your palm on his stomach, basking in the way that the muscles underneath jump in surprise from the contact, and something in his stare focuses just a bit, zeroing in on you through the haze with something that looks a lot like anticipation. You brush your fingertips over the spars happy trail the leads down to his groin, moving slowly to tempt. "Yeah? " You tease. "Your own hand not doing it for you?" 

He shakes his head; panting. "No, " he answers, voice wavering before he nearly starts to chant. "Need yours. I want it, I want it -" 

You hush him softy, brushing your lips over his and you can't help the coil of satisfaction that winds tight when he chases after the press of them. But you pull away, a little cruelly to be honest, before he could join his to your own. He almost whimpers at the loss but falls quiet as he watches you move across the mattress, slipping down past the edge of the bed until your knees settle on the floor. You nudge both of your hands on his thighs, and he silently listens to your request, shifting around until his legs are draped over the mattress and you're settled between them. 

You're still resisting that urge to knock his first aside and take him in your own hold, but something tells you that with how wound up that he is he'd probably cum as soon he feels your fingers slipping around his length, and as hot as that'd be, you also don't want this to be over just yet. You want to drag this out just a little bit longer. You lean close enough to smell the salty musk of him, letting the low rush of your breath caress over his throbbing cock. 

"Baby, come on," he pleads, still pumping his hand over himself, and it has another trickle of precum slipping over his knuckles. You gaze up at him through your eyelashes, a little coquette and sweet but the smug smile on your lips the exact opposite. 

"You're going to jerk yourself off," you say, firmly but not without affection and you can tell that he wants to argue with the way that his face twists into something petulant. "And you aren't going to stop until you cum in my mouth." 

Whatever bratty quip he had at the ready seems to die on his tongue. He swallows heavily, adjusting his feet on the floor so that he's able to get the leverage to thrust up into his hand with a new vigor. And yeah, he definitely isn't going to last much longer at all. Not at how passionately he going at it. And even with sweat and saliva and cum smeared across your skin, and the rush of oxytocin still thrumming around in your system and your muscles lax and warm from your previous orgasms, reality is finally settling over you. That you really are here in Farleigh's room, sat up on the floor with the Persian rug underneath your legs doing little to dull the sting in your knees while he jerks himself off just a few scant inches from your mouth. But your confession hangs heavy over the atmosphere - his too - dulcet and balmy like the summer weather outside. 

It has that consuming, fuzzy sensation back and glowing within your chest, even with the lewd sound of his cum soaked grip and hitched panting filling the air. It's utterly filthy and yet, it's completely intimate and gentle. It all bubbles up inside of your chest, puffing all of the endearment and devotion upwards until it takes shape into the three little words; the ones that have been already spoken several times tonight, but that didn't make them any less felt. Any less true. "I love you." You all but whisper. You aren't sure if it's the statement itself or if maybe there was a certain expression of your face, but something seems to push him all that closer to his release. It makes him groan, ragged and a little gutted while his hips stutter. 

You run both of your hands up his thighs, letting him feel the warmth of your skin on his and it makes his eyelashes flutter, mouth dropping open. "Baby - I'm - " 

"Do it, " you say, leaning closer until your bottom lip smears against the leaking head of his cock. "I want to taste you." 

And then you're suddenly gripping onto his erection, taking ahold of him right above his own hand in a firm, smooth grip. That seems to be enough to finally push him over the edge because he's punching his hips up into both of your fists a couple more times, hurtling himself into his orgasm with a long grunt of your name. His abdomen clenches, toes curling, and his balls draw up tight. But his vison doesn't stray from you for a single second, keeping his eyes fixed to you while he watches you with rapt attention when you open your mouth, sticking your tongue out and up against the head of his cock just in time to collect the cum that spurts from it. He gasps out a string of frayed curses, a few strained "oh, fuck's" and a low call of your name while you squeeze his length a couple more times, dragging out the waves of his pleasure even when his own grip slacken around his girth. You only let him go before it tetters on the edge of being too much, obediently settling your palm back onto his thigh. 

"Swallow," he commands shakily, admiring the opaque fluid still collected on your tongue with a filthy kind of fascination. You don't deny him, closing your mouth and tilting your head back so that he can see the way that your throat bobs when your drink down his release, savoring the taste of the earthy salt of him. 

He doesn't even bother catching his breath. He's leaning down and gripping your forearms to help haul you up onto your feet and back against his body until you're both falling back onto the security of the mattress. You can't fight off the delicate, twinkling laugh that leaves your chest when he rolls you onto your back, showering your face with quick but loving kisses. You wrap your legs around his hips to draw him closer, eager to feel him against your body, to soak in his warmth and scent. And that's how the both of you stay, idlily skimming your fingertips over each other's skin and pressing your lips to whatever places that you can reach, scattering them over the others neck and the apples of both of your cheeks. It's almost disgustingly sweet, so much so that you feel as though you might choke on it.  

But honestly, that might also be from the muggy heat that still clings over the room, sitting on your skin like a layer of steam. Even the breeze from the open window and the steady current coming from the oscillating fan that's chugging along in the corner, spitting out air from the rotating head, does little to help chase out the stifling warmth. It has you groaning into his chest, a little annoyed. "This heat is awful," you complain. 

"If you think today was bad then you're going to be psyched about tomorrow. It's supposed to be worse." He says, drawing shapes on the back of your shoulder. 

The news nearly makes you sob. "Why don't they get an A/C?" 

"Some bullshit about it damaging the house," he replies. And admittedly, you can recall James mentioning something about that in the past. And he had gone into an explanation about it possibly warping the flooring or causing corrosion and wood rot. "But they've got one in their bedroom." 

You fucking knew it, but the admission still makes you bristle, propping yourself up enough to look down from his place against the pillows. "You're kidding." 

He shakes his head, eyebrows perking in a way that tells you he's just as exasperated about it as you are. Even more so, considering that he's here at Saltburn more than he's back in the States, and is left to deal with the sweltering weather on a semi regular basis. "Nope," he sighs. 

You let your head rest back on his chest, finding comfort in the sound of his heartbeat steadily thrumming underneath your ear. You hum lowly, trying to settle but the sweat prickling at your skin suddenly feels awful and disgusting. "We should go swimming again," you propose. Right now, the idea of the cool water lapping against your skin sounds like absolute heaven. 

"Skinny dipping," he supplies quickly, humor melting over his words, but that doesn't make the offer any less true. 

"What about Venetia? Doesn't she usually go for her little walks on the grounds around this time?" You ask, absentmindedly playing with one of the curls close to the nape of his neck. 

"So? You see each other naked in the field all the time," he responds. You can't exactly argue with that logic. You've probably seen her and even Felix bare more times than you can count on your fingers, so if she were stumble across the two of you it really wouldn't be all that shocking. "And Duncan? I've seen him out this late more than once." 

Farleigh scoffs, tilting his head down to peer at you from your place settled over him. "He's probably up in the attic, jerking off to some porcelain dolls or something." 

"You're such an ass, " you say, even with a smile nudging at the corners of your lips. He's quick to return your amusement, a light chuckle bubbling from his lungs, racking your body with small tremors. 

"You like it." He smirks, nose wrinkling a bit with his mirth. "It keeps you on your toes." 

You can refute that. Not even if you wanted to. You nuzzle against him instead, planting a kiss onto his cheek before lifting yourself up from the comfort of his body, swinging yourself onto the floor. His eyes track you while you search for your discarded sleep shorts, and you pluck them from their crumbled-up state near the base of the fan with a small 'ah-hah!' And when you turn around towards the bed, you've noticed that he's sat himself up now, observing you with his head slightly tilted and some indiscernible glint in his eyes, but it's soft and undeniably fond. 

"What?" You ask as you slip your feet into your shorts, slipping them up until they're hanging from your hips. 

"Just watching," he answers. 

You glance away from him long enough to snatch a shirt from near your feet, and gauging from the familiar scent of vanilla and amber and the sight of the familiar sunny yellow words, it seems to be his, the same one that he had been wearing earlier. But you don't let it stop you from pulling it past your head and slipping your arms through the short sleeves until the fabric is draped over your body. It feels good against your skin, like it belongs there, and the pleased expression on his face tells you that he's enjoying the sight of you in his shirt. And the moment that's slipped over this little private space between the both of you feels so profound and mellow. But you find yourself stepping backwards towards the door, knowing that even if you leave the comfort of the room now that you have no reason to fear that this little bit of safety and adoration that's been built between the both of you won't shift or leave. That it'll always be there.

He tracks your movement, eyebrows raising in a silent question as you cross the floor without turning, placing your hand on the knob. 

"I'll race you there," you announce before twisting the door open to slip out from the threshold. 

You see the realization slip onto his face as you dart out into the hallway, the shouted sound of your name following after you as he scrambles to collect himself from the surface of the bed. "That's not fair!" He calls after you, but you're too busy padding down the hall with laughter bubbling up from within you to shoot anything back at him, determined to reach the pond before he does. 

It looks like you'll survive the summer after all. 

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Elements of the 10 Story Genres

by Blake Snyder

The 3 elements of a BUDDY LOVE story

An incomplete hero who is missing something physical, ethical, or spiritual; (s)he needs another to be whole.

A counterpart who makes that completion come about or has qualities the hero needs.

A complication, be it a misunderstanding, personal or ethical viewpoint, epic historical event, or the prudish disapproval of society.

DUDE WITH A PROBLEM

An innocent hero who is dragged into a mess without asking for it—or even aware of how he got involved.

A sudden event that thrusts our innocent(s) into the world of hurt—and it comes without warning.

A life or death battle is at stake—and the continued existence of an individual, family, group, or society is in question.

FOOL TRIUMPHANT

A fool whose innocence is his strength and whose gentle manner makes him likely to be ignored—by all but a jealous “Insider” who knows too well.

An establishment, the people or group a fool comes up against, either within his midst, or after being sent to a new place in which he does not fit—at first.

A transmutation in which the fool becomes someone or something new, often including a “name change” that’s taken on either by accident or as a disguise.

GOLDEN FLEECE

A road spanning oceans, time—or across the street—so long as it demarcates growth. It often includes a “Road Apple” that stops the trip cold.

A team or a buddy the hero needs to be guided along the way. Usually, it’s those who represent the things the hero doesn’t have: skill, experience, or attitude.

A prize that’s sought and is something primal: going home, securing a treasure, or re-gaining a birthright.

INSTITUTIONALIZED

Every story in this category is about a group—a family, an organization, or a business that is unique.

The story is a choice, the ongoing conflict pitting a “Brando” or “Naif” vs. the system’s “Company Man.”

Finally, a sacrifice must be made and you get three endings: join, burn it down… or commit “suicide.”

MONSTER IN THE HOUSE

A monster that is supernatural in its powers—even if its strength derives from insanity—and “evil” at its core.

A house, meaning an enclosed space that can include a family unit, an entire town, or even “the world.”

A sin. Someone is guilty of bringing the monster in the house… a transgression that can include ignorance.

OUT OF THE BOTTLE

A wish asked for by the hero or another, and the clearly seen need to be delivered from the ordinary.

A spell, which we must make logical by upholding “The Rules.”

A lesson: Be careful what you wish for! It’s the running theme in all OOTB’s. Life is good as it is.

RITES OF PASSAGE

A life problem: from puberty to midlife to death—these are the universal passages we all understand.

A wrong way to attack the mysterious problem, usually a diversion from confronting the pain.

A solution that involves acceptance of a hard truth the hero has been fighting, and the knowledge it’s the hero that must change, not the world around him.

SUPERHERO

The hero of your tale must have a special power—even if it’s just a mission to be great or do good.

The hero must be opposed by a nemesis of equal or greater force, who is the “self-made” version of the hero.

There must be a curse for the hero that he either surmounts or succumbs to as the price for who he is.

WHYDUNIT

The detective does not change, we do; yet he can be any kind of gumshoe—from pro to amateur to imaginary.

The secret of the case is so strong it overwhelms the worldly lures of money, sex, power, or fame. We gots to know! And so does the Whydunit hero.

Finally, the dark turn shows that in pursuit of the secret, the detective will break the rules, even his own — often ones he has relied on for years to keep him safe. The pull of the secret is too great.

Source ⚜ Writing Notes & References

[magiccath]

Yours, Stardust: Chapter one, Goodbye, Spaceman

A/N: Woah! A multi-part? Also, this is written in British English, you've been warned.

Summary: In which Donna loses her memories and you're forced to choose: your best friend or the alien you've grown far too attached to.

Word count: 6,379

Donna Noble always came first. Not that you had ever complained - not that you were complaining now. It was simply a part of your life, an irrefutable fact like the sky being blue. She had, and always would, come first. 

You came first for her, too. It was always you and her. Best friends, always and forever. No one was ever supposed to get between you; parents, other friends, romantic partners, and least of all the Doctor. Before it was the three of you, it had been the two of you. For the majority of your lives, you had been inseparable. It was without saying that you and Donna did just about everything together. There was never one without the other.

The first time you met the Doctor still hung in the corners of your mind. You had spent hours searching for Donna, all the while fighting the growing pit in your stomach that something was wrong, before stumbling into the reception party. You were still in your wedding attire, your unreasonably uncomfortable dress shoes hanging from your hand, having given up and taken them off. Donna had put you in some silly outfit for the ordeal, something that she knew you wouldn’t even consider wearing for anyone else. But it was Donna, so of course you put it on. 

When you saw Donna, properly pissed off and frazzled, you didn’t waste a second before throwing yourself into her arms. More than anything, you were just glad she was okay. You didn’t care if she had run off to elope this handsome stranger next to her, if he was holding her captive, or even what her shithead fiance would say about it all. All that mattered at that moment was that she was safe. 

It turned out that she hadn’t eloped with the handsome stranger. Depending on who you asked, the kidnapping was up for debate. 

You’d follow Donna to the corners of the Earth - In fact, you probably had over the years. You followed her to Egypt, you’d followed her around while she searched for the Doctor, and when the time came you’d followed her onto the TARDIS. When you were still kids, your mum had once asked you if you’d follow Donna off a cliff. In more ways than one, you supposed you had. The TARDIS wasn’t quite a cliff, but the outcome felt the same.

-

The Doctor knew that you and Donna were a joint package. He knew that if he lost one, he would lose both. As all things did with him, this too would end. He would move on and you two would stay the same - you and Donna, Donna and you. You’d come with Donna, and one day you would inevitably leave with her too. 

That didn’t stop him from getting attached. It didn’t matter that he was over 900 years old, the last of his kind, or that he had lost almost everyone he had ever loved. The idea of him not growing attached to you was almost impossible. How could he not? You were everything that he’d ever allowed himself to hope for. 

He’d let his guard down, he’d grown comfortable - accustomed, even. Donna’s favourite tea in the cupboard had become second nature to him. Your charity shop coat thrown across the coral structures of the TARDIS console room, right next to his own, was something he had grown too used to. The sight of your dirty trainers discarded on the metal flooring haunted him more than any other companion ever had. He didn’t want that all to change - he didn’t want your shoes strewn across the floor if you weren’t there to trip over them. He didn’t want your favourite chipped mug in the cupboard if you weren’t using it. He didn’t want Donna’s tea to collect dust, the metal tin rusting away in the depths of the TARDIS kitchen. 

The Doctor followed a universal truth; companions always left or died. It was a destiny he had been trying to outrun for years. When they did (for whatever reason), their presence always lingered in the TARDIS, no matter how much he tried to ignore it. Donna had noticed it the first time she ever entered the ship, instantly clocking Rose’s purple shirt hanging from the railing. The TARDIS herself noticed, she felt the absence inside of her very being. She’d taken to filing prior companions’ rooms away long ago, hiding them away from the Doctor and oftentimes herself. Martha’s room was still somewhere on the ship, her medical textbooks and second favourite leather jacket hidden behind a door somewhere in the depths of the endless hallways. She’d had to buy a new sports med textbook, her old one (with all of her highlights, annotations, and stray pieces of homework) still sat in the ship, likely never to be opened again. 

It was different with Donna and it was certainly different with you. He wasn’t even sure he could bring himself to file the two of you away, to hide you in the mental file folder of people he had let down, of people he had lost. 

He wasn’t sure he could handle the loss of you. It would be painful to see the lack of you in all of the places you should be - standing next to him in the control room, handing him spare parts while he repaired the console, making yourself a morning cup of tea. He feared that when you left his life, he wouldn’t be able to look at the ship the same way again. It would feel haunted in the worst way. 

In the grand scheme of his lifetime, it had been a blip, nothing more than a singular moment in time. He only had you for a mere handful of years, but it had never felt like that. As much as he hated it, he had grown to depend on you. Before he knew you, he might have been okay without you. Now, he would always feel the hole where you used to be. 

You and Donna belonged on the TARDIS, you fit into his life in a way that no one else ever had. For the first time in years, centuries even, he was truly happy. 

As much as he could, the Doctor had fallen into a sense of routine. There were things that he had just grown used to, things that he could rely on in his generally unreliable lifestyle. You always did your laundry on the TARDIS because you preferred the Laundromat to the machines back home. He knew that Donna wanted to go home once a month to check on Wilf, or that you would bring him a steaming cup of tea if he stayed up late working on the console. You never put enough sugar in it for his liking, but he’d never told you that. Maybe he should have. 

He should have known it would never last. Wanting you here forever was nothing more than wishful thinking in the first place. Perhaps the universe was playing a joke on him, or maybe it was seeking revenge for all the things he had done wrong in his painfully long life. 

Losing Donna was hard enough for him. Having to be the one to wipe her memory and explain to her mum and grandad why he could never see her again was one of the hardest things he had ever done in his long life. He felt gutted, ripped apart at his already fragile seams. There were so many people he had said goodbye to, but none of them were his best friend. Losing Donna was like losing a piece of himself, like handing away one of his hearts just to see it get run over by a truck. It was hard in ways he had never thought possible, but losing you was a whole different ordeal. He had loved Donna, yes, but never in the way that he loved you.

He loved you in a way he hadn’t loved anyone in the longest time. Even if he didn’t want to, even if he knew it wasn’t possible, he loved you. It wasn’t something he wanted to admit to himself, and it was something that he could never admit to you, but it was true. Just as much a fact as the sky being blue (though, the Doctor knew that the sky wasn’t really blue. Humans didn’t have the optical ability to see the true colour of the sky. The Doctor thought that was truly a shame, it was one of his favourite colours).

Even without it being said, there was something there. The two of you had never loved each other the way that the Doctor loved Donna. You hung in the space between; not quite together, but so much more than just friends. Maybe, if the two of you had time, he would have found his way to you. In the end, he always did. It was impossible not to, you were like a magnet to him. Nothing had ever come as easy to him as loving you. 

He tried not to love you, he really did. But if he hadn’t been able to stop over the last year, he wasn’t going to be able to stop now. Loving you ruined him, body and soul, but he couldn’t seem to shake himself from it. 

Losing Donna was painful for the Doctor, but it was life-ruining for you. It was practically excruciating to see the best part of your best friend's life be wiped away in an instant. 

“When I’m with the Doctor, I feel like I’m actually something. Someone,” Donna had told you once. “Like my life finally has a purpose. This is it, this is where I’m meant to be.” 

Donna wouldn’t even be able to mourn what she lost, because she couldn’t even remember that she lost it. Perhaps that was the cruellest fate of them all. 

Never again would you sit on her floor on the TARDIS, organising her CDs and making fun of the Doctor. You wouldn’t ever complain to her about the Time Lord, or yell into her pillow because of how utterly frustrating he could be. She wouldn’t remember him, she wouldn’t remember the room she had outfitted on the TARDIS, she wouldn't remember those late nights. But you would, they would always be stitched into the seams of your memories. Even if you wanted to, you couldn’t get rid of them.

You wanted to scream at the Doctor, beg him to give you your best friend back. He could destroy civilisations, save worlds, and build empires, why couldn’t he fix this? Why did he have to put you in a position to choose? 

The Doctor had figured you would stay with him. In his mind, there wasn’t another option. He needed you. To you, the answer was obvious. Donna Noble came first. She always did. 

Now, you were gone, but months ago you had been here. Your memory was already haunting him, fragments of you handing in his periphery. His eyes landed on the front doors of the TARDIS, his mind already filling in the blanks. 

Only a few weeks ago, he had found you sitting with your legs dangling out of the open doors, feet idly kicking into the open air of space. He was sure if it was any other ship, flown by any other alien, you wouldn’t even consider sitting out in the open expanse of space, but you had grown to trust the Doctor and his TARDIS with more than just your life. 

Donna had long since gone to bed, she was probably fast asleep wrapped up in the Egyptian cotton sheets she got from her first trip to the 1920s. You, on the other hand, found yourself unable to sleep, fancy cotton sheets or not. It wasn’t necessarily a frequent problem for you, but sometimes after steady weeks of adventuring, you weren’t able to sleep as easily. On those nights, you’d stay up with the Doctor. He would never openly admit it, but he liked the company. 

Used to this routine, the Doctor had sat down silently next to you, his long legs draping over the edge of his beloved ship. For a minute neither of you said anything, just looking out at the stars. The silence settled around the Doctor like a familiar blanket. For once, he didn’t feel the pressing need to fill it with chatter.

It had been a beautiful night in space, though the Doctor supposed he’d never seen one that wasn’t. A glittering array of stars and soft nebulas filled his vision, a couple of far-off planets hidden behind stardust. It didn’t matter that he’d seen it billions of times, nothing else really compared to the feeling of just sitting in outer space, basking in the soft starlight. 

“Have I ever told you about binary stars?” the Doctor murmured, his face still turned out toward the galaxy. From here, you could take a minute to admire his side profile. 

“No, I don’t think you have,” you replied, tearing your gaze away from him. “Tell me.” 

The Doctor reached his arm out and pointed at two sparkling spheres in the distance. They were nestled right next to each other in the dark, huddled together like penguins weathering out a storm. 

“They’re stars that orbit the same centre of gravity, permanently bound together by it. Most of the stars are part of a binary system, actually,” he explains, his quiet voice ringing out into the night. “Normally you can’t see them as separate entities with your naked eye, but, well…” 

“Being literally in space changes that,” you finish for him. 

“Exactly.”

“Over time the stars lose momentum and slowly gravitate towards each other until they collide in a supernova,” the Doctor continued, still looking out into space with a forlorn look. “Or if one explodes first, it forms a pulsar. The companion star, the dimmer one that is, will be destroyed. Either way, they’re the death of each other.” 

“Companion stars?” you chuckle, leaning your head against the solid wood of the doorframe. Now it was the Doctor’s turn to look at the soft outline of your profile. 

“Or secondary star, B-star, you get the idea,” he utters quickly, just a few ticks faster than his normal dialect. 

“Are we smaller stars to you?” you ask after a beat, gazing out at the pair of stars in the distance. In a way he envied them, two entities intertwined forever, always a joined force in the stark expanse of the cosmos.

“No,” the Doctor said almost instantly. “Never smaller, or lesser, or whatever other word you want to use. Never that. There’s never been anything bigger than you. Ever.” 

“Are the other stars called the Doctor star? Time Lord star?” you teased with a wide smile, the expression taking over your entire face. He loved when you smiled like that, your whole face practically illuminating the room. 

“First, it’s the brighter star. And, no, they’re the primary stars,” he scoffs, trying to hide the beginnings of his own smile. It was hard not to smile back when you looked at him like that. 

“Which one’s the companion?” you asked, nodding in the general direction of the stars in the distance. From your spot, they looked the same, so similar you might have even mistaken them for one entity at first glance. 

“Can’t tell from here,” the Doctor shrugged. “The TARDIS could tell us,” he looks back at the console, ready to get up and check. He was starting to realise he would do anything for you, and that kind of power was dangerous. 

You shook your head, silently telling him to stay. “It’s not important, I just figured you’d know.” 

“Contrary to popular belief, I don’t know everything.” 

“I know,” you say simply. There were plenty of things the Doctor didn’t know, though it was rare for him to admit it. He didn’t know your birthday, or at least the proper date on first guess. He didn’t know Donna’s middle name, and most importantly, he didn’t seem to know how much he meant to you. 

The silence settled back over you for a while. You sat like that for a while, sitting a little too close together and staring out into the universe before you. The binary star system hung in his field of vision, seemingly burning brighter than any other celestial body in his view. He couldn’t help but cling to the idea of them. 

“The primary star is usually the one to explode, killing its companion,” the Doctor broke the silence. “It is literally the cause of the other’s death.” 

“If I was a binary star, I’m not sure I would mind all that much.” 

“Of course not, stars aren’t capable of thought processes or emotions-” he frowned, already correcting your statement. 

“Metaphorically,” you cut him off before he could talk himself into circles; he was always really good at that. 

“Oh,” he said, softer this time. “Why? Why wouldn’t you mind, that is.” 

“Space is so big, everything is so far apart. If you’re a star, you just occupy your gravity all alone. But if one day, another star comes along and dips into that space… well, life isn’t so lonely anymore, is it?” 

The Doctor shook his head, the spiky strands of his hair bouncing from the motion. “They kill each other.” 

“Wouldn’t you risk it too? For that companionship, that love, that brief moment of contact before you combust? I know I would.” 

“You have to kill your best friend, your partner. I’m not sure that’s worth it,” the Doctor argued. He was tired of losing people, tired of being the last one standing, tired of being the cause of all of those deaths. Maybe it should be called a “Time Lord star”.

“Would you rather be alone for the rest of your life?” you asked, turning back toward him. His eyes caught yours and he had to fight back tears. He didn’t want to be alone for the rest of his life, he wanted to be with you. With Donna. He would burn until he died out if he had to if it meant he could keep you. He would give you his hearts if he could - crack his ribs open and pry them out with his bare hands. 

“Yes,” he lied, his voice cracking ever so slightly. It was nothing more than a pipedream, the idea that things would always be this way. He knew that, but it didn't make the inevitable blow any softer. You were never his to keep. 

“We aren’t talking about stars anymore, are we?” you whisper. No, no we aren’t, he thought. Your words had hung in the air, the silence palpable. 

Now, almost half a year later, his worst fears were coming true. He had drawn you too far into his gravitational pull and now he was going to lose you, just like he had lost everyone else. 

The crash was inevitable. He couldn’t have the two of you forever, at some point, it was going to end. Binary stars always ended in explosions. It was only a matter of time before one of them went supernova.

Your voice tore him out of his thoughts. “So this is goodbye,” you whispered sadly, gazing down at the floor. You couldn’t look at him, not without breaking down. You’d never thought it would come to this. 

“You can’t leave,” the Doctor’s voice almost cracked, his words strained. “I can’t lose you.” 

“I can’t stay.” 

“Yes, you can,” he pleaded. You didn’t have to respond to that, you both knew that the decision was already made. It was made the second that he wiped Donna’s mind. 

The Doctor slumped against the console, the motion pained and dejected. “I just lost my best friend, I can’t lose you too” the Doctor cried, practically begging you. 

“So did I!” you snapped. “I go with you and I lose the last bit of her I have left.” 

“I can drop you off, you can always visit-” 

“I’m not leaving her, Doctor,” you said definitively, refusing to budge on the matter. “She just lost the most wonderful year of her life - she lost you. I’m not going to be another thing she loses.” 

“It doesn’t have to be one or the other.” 

“It always is with you,” you murmured. The words hung in the air, the Doctor unable to argue with them. He couldn’t do the grey areas, he had never been any good at them. There wasn’t just getting coffee or catching up with him, there was always something more. 

“She needs someone,” you added softly. 

“She has Wilf and Sylvia.” 

“She needs someone to remind her that she’s brilliant. Someone she will listen to.”

The Doctor didn’t have to respond to that, both of you knew it wasn’t the same. Donna needed someone there to remind her that she could be amazingly brilliant, and you were the only person who could really do that. You were the only one to see just how important Donna Noble was to the whole world, the universe even. 

The only thing he could do was stare at you, silently committing your face to memory. You were already there, hidden in the corners of his mind. He didn’t need to memorise you, you were burned into him. There was no forgetting you. He wanted so desperately not to lose you, even the faint memory of you that would always linger in his mind. His eyes danced over your features, mapping every single curve and spot that he had grown to know so well. He wasn’t sure he could forget you, even if he wanted to. A little bit of you was permanently stitched into his very being. 

“You were the best part of my life,” you whisper, breaking the silence. 

“Your life isn’t over.” 

“I already know. There’s no beating you, Doctor. I-” your words caught in your throat. 

“I love him,” you had whispered to Donna months ago, the two of you curled up on the TARDIS library couch. “I love him irreversibly, I don’t think I could stop loving him if I tried.” You had tried, continuously even. It wasn’t meant to be, yet you couldn’t let him go. 

“I love you,” you finally admitted to him, your voice a cracked whisper. The words weren’t a surprise to the Doctor. Frankly, you hadn’t expected them to be. 

The two of you had danced around it for so long, lost in your own waltz of messy feelings. If you just kept avoiding it, wouldn’t it go away? But there was no more avoiding it, this was it. The last time you would ever see the Doctor. 

“If I say it back will you stay?” he whispered, his voice raw. 

“No,” you said instantly, a part of you hoping he’d say it anyway. He only nodded, his gaze falling to the floor. You don’t know why you’d expected anything else. It didn’t matter if you were walking out of his life, he couldn’t say it. You weren’t sure he would ever be ready to say it. 

“Thank you,” he murmured after a beat. The words didn’t feel like enough, but they were all he had. 

“I should be the one thanking you, not the other way around,” you chuckled sadly. “For showing me all of the universe and the things it has to offer.” 

The Doctor shook his head, his spiky fringe drooping across his browline. “No, really. Thank you, for everything.” He would never be able to thank you enough for all that you had done for him; the countless nights you’d spent just sitting with him long after he should have gone to bed, all the times you’d talked him out of a spiral, the comforting squeeze of your hand in his. His life was undoubtedly better with you in it, and now you were walking out of it. The worst part was that he was powerless against it, there was nothing he could do to make you stay. 

Unceremoniously, you slung your arms around him one last time. He allowed his own arms to snake around your middle, holding you tighter than he ever had. If he closed his eyes and focused on the feeling of you, he could almost convince himself you weren’t leaving. His nose slotted perfectly into your neck, it was so natural he didn’t even have to think about it. 

“I’m going to miss you, spaceman,” you whispered, so quiet only the Doctor could hear. 

It felt as if his hearts were being ripped out of his chest. He didn’t want to be this vulnerable, especially not in front of you. His mind grappled with the crushing weight of it all, frantically trying to scoop the last shreds of his dignity off the ground. 

“I’ll miss you too, stardust,” he whispered, his voice strained. How was he expected to survive this? How could he be expected to do anything without you? 

When you pulled away from the hug, there was the faintest hint of tears in your eyes. The sight only served to break the Doctor’s hearts further. He hated when you were sad, and he absolutely loathed it when he was the cause. 

His hand reached out and brushed the stray tear from your cheek, swiping his thumb across the soft skin, his hand just barely quivering. You exhaled shakily, your breath ghosting across the Doctor’s skin. 

“Goodbye,” you murmured, your voice cracking. 

Reluctantly, you untangled yourself from the embrace, taking a step back. It took everything in the Doctor not to reach out for you and pull you back into him. 

“Goodbye,” he whispered back. 

He desperately wanted to wake up and find this was all some horrible nightmare. He longed to jolt awake like he did the many times he had dreamed of the horrors of the Time War. In the morning, this would be nothing more than a false memory that had plagued his unconscious mind. He would wake up, and you would be there. Donna would be there. 

He blinked slowly, clenching his eyes shut with the hope that he would open them and this would all be fixed. After a beat, he slowly opened them again, but you were gone. 

The TARDIS had never felt so empty. 

-

You closed the door to the TARDIS carefully, your fingers lingering on the worn, blue wood of the ship. Once it was closed, you allowed yourself to sag against the doors. You took a second to gather yourself before stepping away from the ship. Only then did the tears start to fall.

As the TARDIS dematerialised, your cries turned into full sobs. The sound that once felt like home now felt like a fatal wound. You weren’t sure this was something you could ever get over, no matter how hard you tried. 

It didn’t matter how hard your heart was breaking, you had other places to be. Donna needed you, and you weren’t going to abandon her. Now, or ever. Donna Noble always came first. 

Hastily wiping your tears, you tugged the front door of the Noble residence open. You started slowly slipping off your shoes, kicking them dejectedly onto the wet mat by the coat rack. Just as you were easing off your left trainer, Donna rounded the corner. You didn’t even have time to register the fact that she was now awake, or even ask her how she was feeling before she started fretting over you. 

“Oh no, I know that look,” she chided, immediately taking your coat from your hands. 

“What look?” you plastered a smile on your face, the effort mitigated by your already blotchy face.

“Your sad one,” she stuck her finger in your face, “I don’t like it.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“No, you’re not. Was it work? A bloke? A bloke at work?” she rambled on, growing increasingly irritated at the mere concept of someone upsetting her best friend. She would burn the world down for you if given the chance. No one meant more to Donna than you did. 

“It was Josh, wasn’t it? I always hated him, but you already knew that. Not like I was ever secretive about it.” Of course she figured it was work, she didn’t remember that you had quit months ago. Time Travel wasn’t exactly compatible with a working schedule. Before you could respond and tell her no, it most certainly was not Josh, she was already going on again. “We’re going to have a pint of ice cream and then you’re moving on, got it?” she instructed, chattering on as if it was that simple. Maybe if it had been anyone else it would be that simple. Things were never simple when it came to the Doctor. 

“Okay,” you nodded. The last thing you wanted to do right now was say no to the incredible force that is Donna Noble.

-

The Doctor sat across from Wilfred Mott, idly running a finger along the edge of his coffee cup. He didn’t drink coffee, at least not black coffee, so the drink sat untouched. He’d always loved the man, but lately, he was the last person the Doctor wanted to see. Wilf was just one more painful reminder of all that he had lost. 

He didn’t understand why Wilf had picked this cafe, or even a cafe at all. There were hundreds on the street, yet he had seemed dead set on this one. It wasn’t even a nice one - the seats were cracked, the mugs chipped and mismatched, and the table was littered with scratches. The Doctor idly ran his pointer finger over a set of initials someone had carved into the wood, an eternal declaration of love. 

Pulling his gaze back up to the other side of the table, he found Wilf staring intently out the window. It almost looked like he was waiting for something. 

“What?” the Doctor asked, following his gaze with a furrowed brow. 

Outside on the street was Donna, packing up cardboard boxes into her car. As if seeing his best friend wasn’t painful enough, you rounded the corner, calling after the redhead. Suddenly it all made sense why Wilf had insisted on this particular cafe. 

“I'm sorry, but I had to. Look, can’t you make her better?” Wilf pleaded. 

“Stop it,” the Doctor growled, tearing his gaze away from the pair. He wouldn’t allow himself to dwell on this. He wouldn’t allow himself to think about you, it would only cause him to spiral. 

“No, but you’re so clever. Can’t you bring her memory back? Look, just go to her now. Go on, just run across the street. Go up and say hello,” Wilf continued.

“If she ever remembers me, her mind will burn, and she will die.”

“They miss you, both of them.” 

The Doctor’s eyes faltered, wandering back to the pair of you on the street. Now, Donna was yelling at a traffic warden, her angry voice carrying into the diner. Her voice was hauntingly familiar, and only then did he realise just how much he had missed Donna’s fury. 

“She’s not changed,” he chuckled. 

“Couldn’t if she tried.” 

“And…” the Doctor asked, not daring to directly ask how you were. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer. Deep in his hearts, he longed for you to be happy. Yet, he didn’t think he could bear the pain of it. 

“They’re fine too. Working at the university now, a big cushy job and all.” 

The Doctor nodded. Of course, you were. At least you were happy.

“She’s getting married,” Wilf said, looking back out at his granddaughter. It took the Doctor a full second to realise he had been talking about Donna, not you. For a moment, panic rushed into his brain. He knew it would come one day, it was all part of you moving on. New job, new haircut, probably someone new to love too. He just wasn’t ready for that day to be today. 

“Another wedding?” he said, trying to play off the split second of panic. 

“Yeah.” 

“Is she happy? Is he nice?” The Doctor turned his gaze back to the mug in front of him, staring at the rapidly cooling coffee like it was the most interesting thing in the world. 

“Yeah, he’s sweet enough. He’s a bit of a dreamer. Mind you, he’s on minimum wage, she’s earning tuppence, so all they can afford is a tiny little flat. And then sometimes I see this look on her face like she’s so sad, but she can’t remember why.” 

“She’s got him.” That was more than the Doctor could say. He didn’t have anyone, least of all the two people he wanted most. He’d spent the last year running around, searching for anything to fill the hole the two of you had left in his hearts. He had spent all that time forcing you out of the corners of his mind, chopping away at pieces of himself to rid himself of the ache. As much as he tried, he just kept seeing you in all of the places you should be. 

“She’s making do.” 

“Aren’t we all?” the Doctor chuckled dryly. His whole life he’d been making do, building the blueprints of a life out of abandoned scraps he’d found on the side of the road. He’d been living in a house of cards, and one day it was bound to fall down. 

“Yeah, how about you? Who have you got now?” Wilf asked. The Doctor wanted to scoff at the idea. There was no replacing Donna, no replacing you. 

“No one. Travelling alone. I thought it was better, but…” he trailed off. It wasn’t true, he never once thought that travelling without you and Donna was better. He swallowed, pushing the threat of tears back down. The two of you had moved on, it was time he did too. 

“You need them, Doctor. I mean, look. Wouldn’t they make you laugh again?”

The truth was, you would. Both of you. Together, you could make everything better. 

-

One last goodbye. He was at least owed that, wasn’t he? One last goodbye before he let go. 

He figured he ought to at least wish Donna a happy marriage, even if he couldn’t do it directly. Before it all went down, Wilf had told him they were struggling, her and Shawn. The Doctor hated the idea of her in a shoebox flat, Donna Noble couldn't be squeezed in like that. At the very least, he could set them up for their new life. He wasn’t sure what constituted a lot of money, certainly not what constituted a lot of money in 2010. The best he could come up with was a winning lottery ticket. 

He’d completely forgotten that in delivering the envelope with the winning ticket snuggled safely inside he would run into you. For a moment, he was taken aback by the sight of you, fretting about the bride in your wedding attire. You looked beautiful, but then again you always did. When his eyes met yours, it felt like the whole world had stopped. He practically froze when you started walking toward him. Maybe he wasn’t ready for this. 

“What are you doing here?” you asked, your voice tense. The Doctor immediately felt as if he’d done something wrong. 

“Will you give this to Donna?” he asked softly, handing over the envelope. Warily, you took it from his outstretched hand. 

“What is it?” 

“Lottery ticket, should be enough for them to start their new life,” the Doctor explained, nervously rubbing the back of his neck. 

You nodded, staring down at the taupe envelope in your hands. “I’ll give it to her.”

The two of you stood in silence for a minute, neither of you venturing to speak. The only sounds in the area were the runoff of chatter from the wedding and the gentle chirp of birds in the nearby trees. 

The Doctor had so many things he wanted to say, yet none of them felt like enough. This was the last time he was ever going to see you with this face - possibly at all - and he couldn’t come up with anything. 

It’s not that he didn’t have things to say. Oh, he had so many things to say. A full year alone left him in a jumble of his own thoughts. He was still trying to detangle the webs of his mind. That wasn’t going to be his problem anymore, let the next one handle it. 

“I’m sorry,” he uttered, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. 

“For what?” 

“Everything,” he said. “For what happened with Donna, and what happened with us.” 

“I’m sorry too,” you whispered, fiddling with the envelope in your hands. “For leaving you and all of that.” 

The Doctor shook his head. “It turned out okay,” he lied. 

“You got someone new?” 

“No,” he said instantly. Of course, he didn’t have someone new, how could you think that? He didn’t just move on, especially not from Donna and you. “No, I don’t.” 

“You need someone.” 

“I’ve been fine,” he lied again. In reality, he had been far from fine. The TARDIS felt hauntingly empty without you. He missed Donna’s tabloid magazines scattered across the control room, the last book you were reading discarded on the surface of the console, and the half-empty tea mugs from both of you sitting in the sink for days on end, he missed it all. No matter what he did, he couldn’t fix it.

“I miss you,” you whispered so softly the Doctor wasn’t even sure he heard you correctly. 

“Then come back,” he practically begged. It didn’t matter how much he changed, how different this new Doctor was going to be, he would always love you. He would always need you. 

“I can’t do that.”

“I’d rather have five days a year than anyone else all the time,” he uttered, fighting his way through the stabbing pain in his body. He didn’t have much time left. But then again, he never did. 

“Goodbye, Doctor.” 

Somehow, those words hurt more than they did the first time. 

[charles-leclerizz]

FORMULA FOR LOVE

With turns sharper than a Formula one track, Indian, British driver Aisha Patel has embarked on her first ever season in formula one. Join her drama & adrenaline filled races that will have you gripping the edge of your seat !

[@charles-leclerizz is not and never will be, in the forthcoming future, affiliated with Netflix, the FIA or Official FORMULA ONE. All scenarios, character actions, characters and race outcomes are purely fictional and should not be taken seriously.]

Aisha Patel · 🪷

Porsche F1 TEAM · 🪷

The Relationships · 🪷

Challenges · 🪷

⸻ EPISODES:

TRAILER : THE BEGINNING

It's the dawn of a new era.

Upcoming stardome. Streaming only on Netflix

🥭 EPISODE 01 : Start your engine

It's light's off and away we go with newcomer Aisha Patel, the first south-asian female driver in Formula one. Join her in her first ever race in Bahrain and understand the young talent's personality. And see the grid's reaction to the true needle in a haystack.

LENGTH : 51 minutes, 49 seconds

WORD COUNT : 10 K [ 10366 words ]

🥭 EPISODE 02 : Racing Hearts

A few months into the 2024 season Aisha has met someone that ignites her heart like a malfunctioning engine. Will she have to retire from the race, or will she cool off before it's too late?

🥭 EPISODE 03 : Speed of Love

The teams around the paddock are starting to notice Aisha's success, winning race after race, the Indian rookie has impressed and sparked jealousy all around. Will she shatter beneath the pressure, or will she blossom like a lotus?

🥭 EPISODE 04 : Heartbreak Circuit

Icarus has always flown too close to the sun, no matter the rendition. And when too many people have too many opinions, Aisha must realise that a straw can truly break a camel back.

🥭 EPISODE 05 : Victory Lap

Like a phoenix rising from the ashes, Aisha finally collects her flames and moulds herself like glass into a beautiful sculpture that refracts light into beautiful shades for all to bask in.

🥭 EPISODE 06 : Love's pit stop

To accelerate or to take a sharp turn? Aisha is met with odd twists within her heart that she will need to fight to escape from. One will come out victorious whilst another, is left in 11th place.

🥭 EPISODE 07 : Racing against time

A simple sign on the dotted line, and just like Ariel, she had signed her voice away. What trials and tribulations is Aisha forced to face within her personal and professional prison?

🥭 EPISODE 08 : Crossing the finish line

Only a few races away from her greatest win, Aisha needs to tie off some hard to grapple with sailors knots, unless she wants to be floating away into the great blue for eternity.

🥭 EPISODE 09 : Heartfelt Victory

It's the end, the last time the lights go off for the 2025 season and Aisha looks back on her year in formula one. Sticking it to those who doubted her and winning where other's thought impossible.

[NOTE ! There will be smaller epilogues, episodes and fillers in between these. for example, a vogue 20 questions or a "what's in my bag" etc. Just for funsies.]

[NOTE ! The couples made in this series will have their own request-able time period, if you want to see something specific from a certain couple within the show, just let me know.]

[NOTE ! The tracking tag is as follows : [#formulaforlove]]

EVERYTHING WRITTEN CAN/WILL BE SUBJECT TO EDITS, CHANGES ETC.

honourary tags [for special pookies] : @disneyprincemuke

[itsabouttimex2]

In Primal Moon,reader is stuck with Sun wukong,mk and magaque and they seem smart enough to know to leave doing this week if they live with them or are they not living with them,like I imagine the reader is a friend/ally of theirs ,and all I can imagine is their confusion when while there walking in the city they suddenly get confronted by Sun wukong who wants his cub,he’s all like you can’t be alone your a baby/cub,so basically Sun wukong tracking reader down and kidnapping them and treating them like a cub.I imagine reader puts up a fight,because I think they can fight at least a little.

Primal Moon: Four

(Part One) (Part Two) (Part Three) (Part Four)

(This fic has a paired bot!)

Twice a year; once in spring and once in autumn, a verdant moon rises to bring the bestial instincts of non-humans to light. Celestials and demons alike struggle to keep hold of themselves, something ancient welling up within them and shifting their thoughts and feelings to a more animalistic state.

Today, the first Primal Moon of the year has risen.

Now, with almost all your supplies ruined, the need arose to maneuver the newly viridescent Megapolis. And certainly, capitalism prevailed- in the name of making money, more than a few stores stayed open and pressured young workers into taking jobs during the most dangerous week of the year.

You had thanked the poor kid manning the counter as you left, two sacks held under your arms. Before they could even respond, you were beating a hasty retreat from the store and running back through the alleyways to return home.

But nothing is ever that simple, is it?

As a non-human yourself, you could be called one of the “lucky ones”. The haze of viridescence does not cloud your eyes, nor does it loess you astray.

The draconic horns upon your head tingle under every raindrop, newly sensitive. You’ve never been quite so on edge.

Rain can only dilute a scent so much- and the impact it has in doing so is almost null under the increased senses brought on by viridescence.

Especially if one is being tracked.

The constant rain and foggy streets only buy you a few further minutes than you would have had otherwise, a mystical beast tailing you with each step taken. The demons lurking around shady corners do not halt his search. Even the minimized scent trail does not deter him.

And all too soon, he’s just a breath away.

You barely have time to shiver before the demon is upon you, bounding footsteps that come down with enough force to shatter the paved streets under his feet.

A ginger simian; radiating power and boundless age, sharply turns the corner to greet you.

You only get a few seconds to register the sudden situation before he’s upon you, clutching your forearms with a manic smile.

Sun Wukong.

You had met him several times, engaging with the Mystic Monkey on amicable terms after being introduced to him by MK. He was always affectionate and kind, but now?

Hazy pits of verdant madness swirls within eyes that were once a mystic gold. His now-reddened teeth are stained with the scent of copper. Ginger fur that was once well-groomed and left in wild curls is now slick and flat from cold rain.

“My cub!! My precious, darling cub!! Bába was looking all over for you!! Come here! Come here, little one!”

Wukong snags both of your hands, pulling you into his chest for a freezing cold hug. As soon as he does, a heavenly white cloud phases into existence, fluffy vapors spilling from the white mounds.

“C’mon, cub! Bàba will take you home!”

Pulling away as much you can in shock, your fearful eyes fall upon the monkey’s manic eyes.

Wukong doesn’t notice the fearful look, only the fact that you’re trying fruitlessly to pull your hands away. “There, there, cub… come back to Flower Fruit Mountain with me! Bába will make sure his cub is nice and warm!” He cheers, jumping upon the cloud, holding onto your hand and tugging you onto the solid vapors with him.

The cloud kicks off from the ground, blazing across the sky with fervor. Miles of expanse whip by in seconds, the expanse of grey and neon that is Megapolis fading before you can even take a breath.

Only now does reason find you, leading to a prompt protest of:

“You- no, you can’t be serious! I’m-“

“Oh, I’m very serious, cub,” he interrupts with a coo, pressing a kiss to your scalp.” It’s dangerous out here- but Bàba is gonna keep you safe!” The simian responds, wrapping his arms around your back and pulling you tightly into his lap. He’s cold and soaking, but refuses to let you pull away. “What if some nasty demon hurt you with the Primal Moon? I don’t want my little cub to get hurt!”

Before you can truly respond or argue, Flower Fruit Mountain is in sight, and the cloud is touching down on lush grass. The Monkey King’s return is heralded with a massive troop of fluffy white Rhesus Macaques, clustering around the fading cloud at their king’s feet. The downwards lurch leaves your stomach queasy, shutting you up quickly.

Wukong laughs and grins with wild motions that are far too fluid, waving one hand and calling out to the troop surrounding the pair. “My little monsters! How have you been? Have you been taking good care of the mountain for me?”

The monkeys respond with loud chatter, screeching and waving their little white paws. They move closer, hopping on the Great Sage with glee and trying to reach over the his shoulders in a bid to touch your hair, already attuned to Wukong’s view of you.

If you’re one of his, then you’re one of theirs.

“Alright, alright!” He laughs, nudging the grabby furballs away with his tail. “We can have a grooming session later! I’ve gotta find something warm for my cub to wear!

The thought strikes you that he may well not be alone. Maybe there’s others here, people like him who are similarly affected by the Primal Moon.

“Does, um… does anyone else l-live here with you?”

(God, what is wrong with you? Why can’t you muster up anger? Or the will to fight?)

“Well, not usually! But I wrangled my sneaky little brother into staying the week, kiddo! He���s your uncle, remember? Macaque? With the black fur and the gold- well, they’re green now, but usually his eyes are gold. Ince I’ve got you something cozy, the three of us are gonna have a grooming session, pumpkin!”

“…Macaque?”

The destroyer of your home. The black-souled beast that dared to level your beloved palace.

The demon that crippled your father, Ao Guang.

“He’s here?”

The Great Sage slams his foot into the door, nearly breaking the hinges as he rushes you inside.

“He is! I can’t wait to introduce the two of you!”

Wukong ushers you into the bathroom and then the tub from there, running the hot water without even allowing you a chance to remove your clothes.

“I’ll be right back with something-“

“Wait!”

Here is your long-awaited chance. A silver lining in a heavy dark cloud.

Revenge, so clearly in sight, and for so little effort on your part.

“Just you and, um… “uncle” Macaque, then?”

The familial word tastes like bile on your lips, but you mange it all the same.

“You, “uncle” Macaque… but no MK?”

Wukong pauses, a sad little sigh sounding from his downturned lips. For a moment, his gaze darkens, eyes flicking away from your face. “He’s…” The Great Sage pauses, an unfamiliar expression crossing his features for a sparse moment. “…not doing well. It’s best for my little cub to stay away from him until this week passes.” In truth, the boy had grown… feral and violent, necessitating a temporary divide. “But don’t worry about him. Just get ready to go say ‘hi’ to your uncle, huh?”

“…can you bring me a big hoodie? With one of those combined front pockets,” you ask, widening and wetting your eyes like a sad puppy- a trick you had won your real father over with a few times. “They’re really cozy and make me feel really safe…”

And… they’re a great way to conceal a weapon. It seemed as though the Great Sage hadn’t taken note of the dragon-tooth dagger strapped inside the sleeve of your silk robe. You had forged it by hand, for the sole purpose of carving that damned black-hearted simian into pieces for all his misdeeds.

Who would’ve thought that the Primal Moon would accomplish so many steps of your plan for you? That it would bring you so close, so quickly?”

Wukong doesn’t bother with a response- he years off through the house with hurried feet, shredding through all of his clothes to find what you’ve asked for- anything for his cub, after all.

Leaving you to wash and warm your scales, plotting and planning and scheming.

Maybe, just maybe… this Primal Moon was going to be a good one.

[mysterious-trail-of-goop]

I LOVVEEE Jason todd and Peter Parker fics because their stories are almost exact parallels except for the fact that Peter had a support system and Jason didn't.

They both grew up dirt poor and surrounded by tragedy. But Peter always had uncle ben and aunt may to keep him optimistic and happy. Jason had an extremely abusive father and a mother who had drug problems and that home environment made him cynical and untrusting.

They both experienced the loss of a parental figure (Uncle Ben and Catherine Todd) and became heroes shortly after.

They both got superhero mentors (Tony and Bruce). Except Tony (and u can fight me on this) was horribly manipulative, threatening Peter with releasing his identity (effectively threatening his family and friends), forcing A FIFTEEN YEAR OLD to fight CAPTAIN AMERICA, WHO DIDN'T KNOW HE WAS A CHILD AND WASN'T HOLDING BACK. Jason got Brucie boy who despite being emotionally constipated did LOVE Jason as a son.

Both their mentors/father figures took away their ability to help people over a well intentioned mistake. This taught their mentees (whether on purpose or not) that they were only accepted when they are useful and that their love is conditional. This is NOT what bruce intended but he is too traumatised a up his own ass to verbally affirm his love for Jason, and because he never TOLD jason that he was his son, or that he loved him, Jason never knew.

After their ability to superhero was taken away both of them rebelled in an attempt to find love (Peter trying to prove he IS worthy and win Tony's love and Jason tried to get affection from Sheila Haywood because he believed so deeply that Bruce's love was impossible to attain)

In both cases they ended up with a warehouse on top of them.

Peter had slowly been realising over the course of Homecoming that Tony DIDN'T love him, and that tony WASN'T coming to save him from the building. So peter knew he had to get himself out of that situation and he only had this revelation because he had an example of what real love looks like (MJ, Ned, May etc). When jason was in that warehouse in Ethiopia he took Sheila's betrayal as proof that he was undeserving of love and therfore, he thought no one was coming to save him AND ACCEPTED THAT. Particularly heartbreaking because Batman WAS coming to save him, but didn't arrive in time.

Peter (in my au at least) heals from Tony and Vulture with his family, friends and other heroes (cough daredevil cough). But Jason never got that chance, after he was resurrected he found out abt tim and abt the Joker surviving and took it as FURTHER confirmation that Bruce never loved him.

Jason returns to Gotham and eventually comes to a sort of truce with batman but he feels like he can never truly be a part of the family again because of what he's been through. Batman believes so deeply in second chances, but thats the issue. Bruce EXPECTS jason to change, change his methods and his morality. Even though nothing about who jason is was his choice, he literally couldn't change if he wanted to.

Peter (despite having a no kill rule) doesnt expect this from him. Sure he will actively sabotage kill shots or stand in the way, but he won't ask him to change (experience with deadpool and punisher).

This results in Jason changing his methods OF HIS OWN FREE WILL, because he sees how much the killing upsets Spider-Man, and how he has never asked him to stop.

Jason would be fiercely protective of Peter, because symbolically, it is jason seeing and accepting that he is NOT peter and he shouldn't be. But also how easy it would have been for Peter to end up like him.

Ultimatley Peter is able to give Jason the one thing he needs, a support system. And Jason can give Peter what he needs in Gotham, someone to look after him, feed him, clothe him, help him through the Pit rage.

Basically this duo is super important to me and you can pry them from my cold dead hands.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Mike Hixenbaugh at NBC News:

METROPOLIS, Ill. — The pastor began his sermon with a warning. Satan was winning territory across America, and now he was coming for their small town on the banks of the Ohio River in southern Illinois. “Evil is moving and motivated,” Brian Anderson told his congregation at Eastland Life Church on the evening of Jan. 13. “And the church is asleep.” But there was still time to fight back, Anderson said. He called on the God-fearing people of Metropolis to meet the enemy where Satan was planning his assault: at their town’s library. A public meeting was scheduled there that Tuesday, and Christians needed to make their voices heard. Otherwise, Anderson said, the library would soon resemble a scene “straight out of Sodom and Gomorrah.” The pastor’s call to action three months ago helped ignite a bitter fight that some locals have described as “a battle for the soul” of Metropolis.

The dispute has pitted the city’s mayor, a member of Eastland Life Church, against his own library board of trustees. It led to the abrupt dismissal of the library director, who accused the board of punishing her for her faith. And last month, it drew scrutiny from the state’s Democratic secretary of state, who said the events in Metropolis “should frighten and insult all Americans who believe in the freedom of speech and in our democracy.” Similar conflicts have rocked towns and suburbs across the country, as some conservatives — convinced that Democrats want to "sexualize" and indoctrinate children — have sought to purge libraries of books featuring LGBTQ characters and storylines. Republican state legislatures have taken up a wave of bills making it easier to remove books and threatening librarians with criminal charges if they allow minors to access titles that include depictions of sex.

To counter this movement, Illinois Democrats last year adopted the first state law in the nation aimed at preventing book bans— which ended up feeding the unrest in Metropolis. Under the law, public libraries can receive state grant funding only if they adhere to the Library Bill of Rights, a set of policies long promoted by the American Library Association to prevent censorship.

Many longtime residents were stunned when these national fissures erupted in Metropolis, a quirky, conservative city of about 6,000 people that has a reputation for welcoming outsiders. Because of its shared name with the fictional city from DC Comics, Metropolis has for the past half century marketed itself as “Superman's hometown.” Tens of thousands of tourists stop off Interstate 24 each year to pose beneath a 15-foot Superman statue at the center of town, to attend the summertime Superman Celebration, or to browse one of the world’s largest collections of Superman paraphernalia at the Super Museum.

“Where heroes and history meet on the shores of the majestic Ohio River,” the visitor’s bureau beckons, “Metropolis offers the best small-town America has to offer.” But lately, the pages of the Metropolis Planet — yes, even the masthead of the local newspaper pays homage to Clark Kent — have been filled with strife. Unlike in comic books and the Bible, the fight in Metropolis doesn’t break along simple ideological lines. Virtually everyone on either side of the conflict identifies as a Christian, and most folks here vote Republican. The real divide is between residents who believe the public library should adhere to their personal religious convictions, and those who argue that it should instead reflect a wide range of ideas and identities.

During his sermon in January and in the months since, Anderson has cast his congregation and their God as righteous defenders of Metropolis — and the Library Bill of Rights and its supporters as forces of evil. If Christians didn’t take a stand, Anderson warned, there would soon be an entire children’s section at the library “dedicated to sexual immorality and perversion.” And before long, he said, the town would be hosting “story hour with some guy that thinks he’s a girl.”

[...] A week later, the board went into a closed session and presented Baxter with an ultimatum: If she wanted to keep her job, she needed to sign a performance improvement plan. It stipulated that she would abide by the Library Bill of Rights, seek state grant funding and discontinue praying aloud with children and other religious activities at the library. Baxter refused to sign and began to criticize the board. Voices were raised, according to three members. After a few minutes, James, the board president, slammed her fist on the table. “This is not up for debate, Rosemary,” she said. “Either sign it, or don’t.” Baxter stood up and left. Minutes later, the board came out of closed session. By a vote of 5-3, they terminated Baxter’s employment. Baxter’s departure left the library in turmoil. Four employees resigned soon after, and the board got to work picking up the pieces.  They brought on a former library employee to serve as interim director and embarked on top-to-bottom reviews of the library’s catalog and finances. “Our focus,” James said, “is making sure our library is strong and healthy and there to serve everyone.” Then, on March 19, the story of Baxter’s firing was picked up by Blaze Media, a national conservative outlet. In a column titled, “A librarian’s faithful service is silenced by a secularist takeover,” conservative talk radio host Steve Deace interviewed Baxter and Anderson and reported that both had come under fire for their Christian beliefs.

Deace presented the local saga as a warning that evil forces were now coming for small-town America and blamed the problems in Metropolis, in part, on “a California transplant who is living with another man,” referring to Loverin, the library board member. Three days later, Metropolis Mayor Don Canada — who in 2021 had appointed Anderson, his pastor, to an open seat on the City Council — took a stand of his own. In letters addressed to James and two other board members, Canada announced that he’d “lost faith in the Board in its current state.” As a result, he was removing James and two others who’d voted to terminate Baxter. 

In Superman's alleged hometown of Metropolis, Illinois, the town has been engulfed with strife over conflicts on the direction of the town's public library, with Eastland Life Church Pastor Brian Anderson leading a war against the library as part of the faux moral panic about LGBTQ+ books that right-wingers falsely claim such books "sexualize" children.

[matan4il]

Today marks 100 years since Hitler's first attempt to take over Germany by force, and 85 years since Kristallnacht, the Nazi-orchestrated pogrom that really forced Jews to realize how great the danger posed to them in Europe was.

A few years ago, I made a post with some of the updated data from research conducted in recent years, but this year, after the massacre of Oct 7, most of what I wrote doesn't feel relevant in the same way.

I'm thinking of this...

Up until that pogrom, it was a negligible Jewish minority that realized they HAD to get out, if they wanted to survive. Afterwards, as ALL Jews tried to flee, the world basically closed its doors to the Jewish refugees. Of those who got out in time, some found refuge in Israel, those who were lucky enough not to be blocked by the British, who were ruling this land at the time.

I've researched Jewish families' stories, and how they were torn apart. One youngster gets it and leaves in time. His elderly parents don't know how to start over in a different place, when being German was so embedded in their identity. They end up taking their own lives. These two single sisters make it to Israel. Their nephew writes them in Hebrew that he had dreamed at night of the whole family joining them in the Jewish homeland. He and his parents are murdered in shooting pits in Riga. A Zionist boyfriend makes it out. His girlfriend, trapped in the Lodz Ghetto, thinks back to his stories about Yossef Trumpeldor, a Jewish man who died in northern Israel in 1920, defending his community from Arab attackers, and whose last words were, "It's good to die for our country." She cries. "That's what I wanted, to die with dignity while fighting, not like this, like a human rag." She survives and joins him in Israel. To some people, she's an evil colonizer, whose rape and murder they are capable of justifying. They do so while quoting Elie Wiesel's words, about the importance of speaking up, because silence only never helps the oppressed. They're co-opting Wiesel's words, a Holocaust survivor himself, who was a Zionist, and extremely critical of Hamas.

Story after story, it's all the same. In families or communities that were split, those who got to Israel survived. For those who remained or tried a different escape route, most didn't make it (like Anne Frank's family, who fled Germany, tried to make it to the US or Cuba, were turned away repeatedly, and ended up going into hiding in the Netherlands... with only Anne's father surviving).

I am thinking about how, if there had been a State of Israel, a safe haven for Jews, that would automatically take them in when they needed to get away from the Nazis, we estimate that at least a million and a half Jews would have been saved.

I am thinking about how, there would have been a Jewish state to bomb the gas chambers in Auschwitz and save at least half a million Jews from them, instead of uselessly begging the allied leaders to.

I am thinking about how, if the allied leaders would have taken into account the political profit from cultivating an alliance with the Jewish state, that could have provided the political motivation to their begging Jewish citizens a different answer, and they would have actually done something to save at least some of the Jews.

I am thinking about how, for 80 years or so, the world has been chanting, "Never again," but when Hamas terrorists massacred the biggest number of Jews in a single day since the Holocaust, too many couldn't even condemn it. I'm thinking about how, when some justify the massacre of Israeli Jews, including Holocaust survivors and their families, most people don't tell them off. When Israel fights back to protect the rest of its population, as it swore it would (yes, "Never again" also means the right to self defense), the world condemns it, vilifying the Jews again, by depicting Israel's response as nothing but blood lust and a desire for revenge. I'm thinking... this is why we have to have Israel. So we never again are dependent on the silent world to defend our right to live. So that implementing "Never again" is never a question of whether non-Jews did more than recite the words emptily.

The massacre that took place on Oct 7 was horrific. But we saw the repetitive nature, the scale, the wide geographical spread, and the industrial nature of countless massacres that happened when there was no Israel to respond, and when no one was defending the Jews.

From 1851 (when Rabbi Avraham Shlomo Zalman Zoref was murdered on his way to synagogue in Jerusalem) to this day, less Jews died in the Arab-Israeli conflict than during just two days in the Nazi shooting pit of Baby Yar, on Sep 29 and 30, 1941. In Israel, the memorial days for the Jews murdered in the Holocaust, and for the people we lost in the Israeli-Arab conflict, are observed one week apart. The way that many here put here, the latter is to remember the price of having a state, and the former is to remember the price of not having one.

You don't have to agree with this POV. But when you look at the poisonous atmosphere cultivated online, including on Tumblr, where the Hamas massacre has been justified, or denied, or simply didn't merit a reaction, when you see how the global rise in antisemitism goes without much discussion, when you see people justifying violence towards Jews, based on a false narrative that erases entire chunks of Jewish history, at least understand where people who embrace this POV come from.

(for all of my updates and ask replies regarding Israel, click here)

[book--brackets]

Summaries under the cut

Tales from the Wyrd Museum by Robin Jarvis

In a grimy alley in the East End of London stands the Wyrd Museum, cared for by the stranger Webster sisters -- and scene of even stranger events. Wandering through the museum, Neil Chapman, son of the new caretaker, discovers it is a sinister place crammed with secrets both dark and deadly. Forced to journey back to the past, he finds himself pitted against an ancient and terrifying evil, something which is growing stronger as it feeds on the destruction around it.

Cobble Street Cousins by Cynthia Voigt

Meet the Cobble Street Cousins!

Lily, who wants to be a poet Tess, who wants to be a Broadway star Rosie, who wants a little cottage with flowers by the door

Right now, though, the cousins are sharing an attic bedroom in their Aunt Lucy?s light blue house on Cobble Street, and happily making plans for the summer. A cookie company seems the perfect way to make a little money, but it turns out to be much more -- an opportunity to meet some very special neighbors!

The Tiara Club by Vivian French and Sarah Gibb

On the first day at the Princess Academy, everything goes wrong. The girls' ball gowns are ruined. What will Princess Charlotte and her friends do without their beautiful gowns?

Help I'm Trapped... by Todd Strasser

Jake Sherman used to be your average, ordinary twelve year old, until he became a completely different person. Tall, skinny, balding, nerdy. . .OH NO! Jake's turned into his weirdo teacher, Mr. Dirksen!

It's bad enough that Jake's an adult now, but a teacher? The geekiest, most made-fun-of teacher in the whole school? Jake's sister Jessica is the only person who'll believe him--and even she's a little suspicious.

Jake and Jessica better find a way to get things back to normal fast--not only because Jake's going crazy, but also because dorky Mr. Dirksen is running around in Jake's body! The nightmare is only beginning!

The Incredible Worlds of Wally McDoogle by Bill Myers

Twelve-year-old Wally, a computer whiz who is a "walking disaster area," ends up in a competition with the bully of Camp Whacka-Whacka, and when they find themselves fighting for their lives, Wally realizes that even his worst enemy needs God.

Silly Verse for Kids by Spike Mulligan

Silly Verse for Kids - a hilarious collection of silly poems by Spike Milligan! A collection of the absurd, ridiculous, sublime and characteristically anarchic verse from the brilliant Spike Milligan. With his very own illustrations, this collection, which includes the famous On the Ning Nang Nong will make you laugh from the bottom of your belly - just like Spike did.

Minoan Wings by Wendy Orr

The little girl found under a bush has no name and cannot speak. Is she a miracle child who escaped the raiders, or is she a bad-luck child, the one who called the Bull King's ship to the island? No one sees the mama-stone around her neck, with the sign of the dragonfly. And only Luki, in training to leap the bulls, knows that she charmed the viper who would have killed him. When the girl turns twelve, she discovers her name - Aissa - and she knows that her one chance to live freely is to become a bull dancer, and be taken away to the island of the Bull King.

Candy Fairies by Helen Perelman

In Chocolate Dreams , Cocoa the Chocolate Fairy is blamed for the missing chocolate eggs—but really it’s the sour troll Mogu who stole them! Can Cocoa save the chocolate eggs and restore the balance of Sugar Valley?

Little Old Mrs. Pepperpot by Alf Proysen

Waking up one morning to find you've shrunk to the size of a tiny pepperpot isn't an ordinary, everyday event for most people - but then Mrs Pepperpot is a very extraordinary person! When she's around little things can turn into great big adventures - especially when they involve getting stuck in a draw full of macaroni. . .

The Doll Shop Downstairs by Yona Zeldis McDonough

Nine-year-old Anna and her sisters love to play with the dolls in their parents' doll repair shop. But when World War I begins, an embargo on German-made goods-including the parts Papa needs to repair the dolls-threatens to put the family's shop out of business. Fortunately, Anna has an idea that just might save the day.

[souurcitrus]

Headcanons for Bane and his crew

Because I am obsessed with him, and, in my mind, they're his disaster of a found family, and DC doesn't appreciate them enough.

• First, it's canon that Zombie was Bane's caretaker before his mother died, so I think Zombie was in Peña Duro longer than everyone. He's ancient, like, older than the authoritarian government that is now in control of Santa Prisca, older than the Director.

• I like his redesign in Bane: Conquest. I think the reason he was kept in the infirmary of the prison was because of his powers. Maybe the Director of Peña Duro wanted Zombie's power of healing/stealing life for himself and locked him there.

• Bane's mother gave him a name in secret, and Zombie knows it.

• Trogg and Zombie are old friends and were sent to the prison at the same time. Trogg was a young man and Zombie was in his forties or something. That's why, when Bane was taken from the infirmary and forced to live with the other prisoners, Trogg took care of him.

• Trogg became his protector and taught him stuff, and taught Bane everything he could, like reading, and doing math. It's canon he also learned with a priest during his childhood.

• Bird is from Gotham City, New Jersey and was sent to Peña Duro for a small crime, he probably got involved with the wrong people when he was younger.

• He is the youngest of the group, and around the same age as Bane, who is only a few months younger than Bruce.

• Sometimes he is called 'Birdy' by other people because they hear Bane and Trogg say his alias with their accent, and it sounds like 'Birdy'. He gave up correcting people when it happens.

• Everyone in this crew is Afro-Caribbean, except from Bird, of course. When the other three start to speak Spanish in hushed/hurried voices, he gets so lost.

• Something that totally didn't happen, but I based it from a scene of The Dark Knight Rises (eeew): Zombie cant speak because when Bane was taken to the dark cell, he tried to stop the guards and was attacked by the other inmates, like Bane in the movie. When Bane was grown up and left the cell, he met with Zombie again and Zombie had his mouth sew shut :/.

• And after that, he started to act more like a dead person. He doesn't blink, breath or eat, and most of the time he just stands there, doing nothing. Creeps everyone out, but the Crew is used to this.

• Of course after leaving Santa Prisca and the Knightfall arc, Bane has a large group of henchmen, but these three are the ones he trusts the most, everyone knows that.

• Talon, Bird's pet, was found by him after they escaped Santa Prisca. Bane forbid Bird from keeping it, Bird insisted and became attached to the hawk.

• Sometimes Bane feeds it, but since he's not used to animals, he's slightly scared of it. He won't say it, never.

• Talon doesn't like Trogg. No one knows why, he simply doesn't and will try to beak Trogg if he gets too close to Bird. So when they fight, what happens constantly, Bird will put Talon on his shoulder and end the discussion. Trogg hates that hawk.

• Sometimes he'll go "Jefe, the maldito pájaro is trying to eat my eyes!!", and Bane won't look up as he says "Birdy, control your animal". Bird will just smirk and do nothing to stop Talon from trying to kill Trogg.

• When Trogg and Bird start to fight, Zombie threatens to hit them with his cane.

• Everyone knows how to throw knifes thanks to Zombie, who is a specialist in this.

• Bane is a very good swimmer, since he spent 17 years in the pit.

• Since Bane learned about the world through book and other people, there are a lot of things he doesn't understand or thinks are not real. When he finds something new, he asks one of the three to explain to him.

• Obvious after they escape, Trogg and Zombie take him to eat the best Hispanic food they can find. (Unfortunately Zombie could only watch and sigh, but he was happy Bane could enjoy real food he used to love).

• If Osito gets destroyed or loses an arm or let, Trogg fixes it immediately. Bane never asks, he will just find the bear already patched up and placed somewhere safe.

• Trogg also cuts his hair when it gets long, because Bane hates having people behind him with sharp objects. He refused to cut Bird's hair (you know how his haircut was in the early comics).

• Bane is not exactly claustrophobic,, but he also is; he kinda of misses the security of his cell, of being in a closed space where he knows no one can see or touch him. Sometimes he hates it, sometimes he thinks about going back. He misses the dark sometimes, but thinks he's weak for that. He hates being in spaces where he can't control his own exit.

• He hates soup. That's canon. He hates food he can't chew.

• For heaven’s sake, I don't think Bane is misogynistic. He is a jerk most time, but he's also a gentleman. He was taught by his mother and Zombe to respect women and be polite all the time. He'll only attack a woman if she's about to fight him.

• He speaks too many languages, sometimes he gets confused and mixes words and forgets others. And the others mainly only speak Spanish and English, so if he needs to remember how to say a word in English but only remembers it in Russian, they have no idea how to help him.

• I don't remember what's Talon's fate in the comics. But I think he dies in a dangerous Job, that's when Bird gets a drone and names it Talon II.

• He was so sad when his hawk died. Bane tried to comfort him with awkward (and painful) pats on his back.

• When he's working on Bane's Venom tubes, or anything else, Trogg puts old Hispanic songs to play on his radios. He's a terrible singer, but will sing every word at the top of his lungs.

• They all play cards when they're bored, and definitely watch sports and drink together. Bane doesn't care about teams, Bird and Trogg always are against each other. Again, Zombie is always included, but he's only standing around them in silence.

• Bane has a loud laugh. When he's really feeling happy, he laughs so, so loud and pats anyone close to him on the back. He also sleeps like a dad when he's tired after missions, laying on the couch with his hands on his chest, snoring.

• Trogg also laughs like that, but he keeps his hand to himself.

• Bird is ambidextrous. Just that :)

• Apparently, in the comics only Bird has an official last name, and the others only have names in the games. So I made names for them: Diego Vallelunga (Trogg), Sérgio Ortiz (Zombie) Angelo Colossimo (Bird), Antônio Eduardo Diaz (Bane).

• If Bane had kept he Naja-Naja baby (from Bane: Conquest), Zombie would become his caretaker, like he was to Bane.

• Osito would also become the kid's new toy, and Bane would give him a knife when he became old enough to carry one.

• When Bane is annoyed with Bird he'll purposely call him 'Birdy' or 'Angelo'. Makes Bird's blood boil, and he will storm off (if he receives permission to do so).

• After Bane leaves the Secret Six, he goes back with the crew to Santa Prisca to fix the situation of the country. He's kinda of a hero there, like the Batman of Santa Prisca.

• The Crew is not fond of the Secret Six, but they respect Scandal Savage as Bane's adopted daughter and try to be nice to her and her wives and kid.

• None of them understands "the things the kids like nowadays". Black Alice once show them a meme, and they spent half an hour trying to understand.

Fim

[devilfic]

the acolyte "destiny" theory

in episode 3 after mae is devestated by osha breaking her promise and choosing to go with the jedi, koril is the one who drags mae away to go on a "walk". the time between osha having the talk with mother aniseya about respecting her wish and osha packing to leave with the jedi is unclear, but I suspect it was long enough for koril to put her plan into action

koril (who is the most vocal during the advisor meeting about killing the jedi) takes mae away from the scene so that mother aniseya could talk to osha, but I also think she did this because she could not stand by and let the girls be taken. she knows that aniseya will bend to osha as she always does, so koril promises mae they will handle the jedi themselves. of course, mae trusts her. this is the same girl who said that if the jedi tried to take osha from her, she would stop them. there were a few coven members at the ascension who were also against the jedi taking the girls, so I imagine koril recruits them for this and sets out to attack the jedi right then and there

but what could the jedi have done that night that sol feels the need to confess to?

I think that after discovering the girls were instructed to lie, after seeing mother aniseya take control of torbin's mind, and weighing the chances of the coven turning over osha to them, they called for help. whether this was vernestra or not, I'm still on the fence about, but in the scenario that it was, I think this is what happened:

vernestra arrives, believing the coven to be a genuine threat to the girls and wanting to run point in case things get messy. vernestra heads up to the fortress along with sol just as the coven arrives at the jedi ship. whether the coven notices more jedi have arrived or not, idk

the jedi fight against the coven members and it's a tense struggle, but ultimately begin to overpower them. koril instructs mae to warn mother aniseya of the oncoming ambush (and because, perhaps, she knew this is where she would meet her end)

mae rushes back to the fortress but finds the place on fire, and rushes in to look for any remaining survivors. she happens upon her mother's body, then the bodies of the coven members as the fortress begins to crumble. she finds another way to the bridge as she calls for osha, and finds her on the other side

mae does not get a chance to tell osha anything more than "mama's dead", to which osha (who has seen mae, saw her sister set the coven alight with a promise to kill her) immediately takes it as an admission of guilt

mae falls into the pit before anything more can be said

at this point, sol saves osha, drags her through the wreckage and then there is a jumpcut to osha passed out in the jedi ship (presumably from smoke inhalation)

this is interesting. what happens between the time osha discovers her mother dead and her waking up on the ship?

my theory is that someone on that ship messed with her memories. they created a believable lie, something they believed would never be contested (because mae is dead, right?), and let osha live that lie for years with the hope that she would put it behind herself and become a jedi despite her past... however, she could not forget her sister. her sister who told her that if the jedi tried to take her from her, she would stop them. her sister who then hours later says she will kill her instead

worries about her stability in the force compounded with worries that she might remember what really happened that night led to indara suggesting an end to osha's jedi training only for osha to leave of her own accord

but if mae didn't do it, who really set the fire that night? people have speculated that it could have been sol, and I'm not certain about that, but I am fairly confident it really wasn't mae

I don't take mae's comment about the jedi brainwashing her lightly, I really do think someone messed with her memories either to spare her the pain of the truth or to ensure the real person behind the fire got away with it

[gogogodzilla]

𝙽𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝟷𝟶, 𝟸𝟶𝟹𝟷, 𝙰𝙼 𝟶𝟿:𝟶𝟻:𝟶𝟾

Summary: You're tasked with a momentous project with a certain grumpy beat cop masterlist ✩ ao3 ✩ wattpad ✩ previous chapter ✩ next chapter ✩

It’s taken you longer than you would’ve liked to settle into your role at Cyberlife, especially after your coworkers sent you to a shady bar in the middle of town. That has soured your mood considerably, but you’re determined not to let it impact your work performance. You can’t. 

Cyberlife is a bustling hub of engineers, scientists, programmers, and androids. You enjoy the organized chaos of it all. Your supervisor, Jason Graff, takes a liking to you almost immediately. He’s intelligent, charismatic, and everything you could want in a boss. 

“How’s my favorite employee doing?” he questions as he walks into your office, charming as always. You straighten as he enters, and your fingers hover over your keyboard. He doesn’t wait for you to answer before he continues, “I heard about your little adventure to Charlie’s.” 

You press your lips into a thin line, fighting the flush of embarrassment that crept onto your cheeks. “Nothing I can’t handle,” you answer tightly. 

He grins, “Don’t take it personally, they do it to all the new employees.” He leans back and relaxes in the chair opposite your desk. “Earlier this year, the Detroit Police Department purchased a handful of androids to assist in police work. I need you to ensure those androids are fit to enter the workforce.” 

You tilt your head slightly to the side, “Isn’t that what I was hired for?” 

“Yes and no,” he shrugs as he pauses for a moment, almost considering what he should and should not tell you. “You were hired to help with humanizing our androids, but you were also hired with this deal specifically in mind.” 

“Will I be working with others?” 

He nods and pulls out his phone, “The DPD is sending over an officer later today. You’ll be working with him so you can understand exactly what’s expected of them. I’m sure you noticed the meeting I just added to your calendar.” The tell-tale ping from your computer sounds, and you glance at the screen. Your eyes widen as you notice you only have an hour until the meeting. Jason continues, “Other than that, you’ll have your usual team of programmers to work with. I want you to take the lead on this, though.” 

You blanch slightly at the responsibility he’s thrusting upon you, but you quickly compose yourself. “Sounds great, I won’t let you down,” you force out and plaster a smile on your face. 

He leans forward, “That’s what I’m counting on.” With that, he rises and strolls out of your office, leaving you with a sinking pit in your stomach. 

You stand from your desk, attempting to collect your thoughts. You pace your office nervously for who knows how long. On one hand, this is an incredible opportunity, and your boss is putting a tremendous amount of trust in you. On the other hand, you have to rely on whoever the DPD sends to be competent enough to give you insight into what it’s like to be an officer and how androids can be utilized. The thought of relying on someone else causes your stomach to turn. 

Your shoes click against the tile as you venture to the lower and less crowded floors of the Cyberlife building. Your feet move just about as fast as your thoughts are going. The vending machines are calling your name, and you hope the walk will help clear your thoughts. Besides, you have a little bit of time before you meet with the officer the DPD is sending.

Your feet slow as you hear the telltale signs of someone banging their fists against the vending machine. You chuckle inwardly; the stranger’s plight mirroring your own just a few days ago. You come to a halt a few feet away from the vending machine and are greeted with the familiar disgruntled curses of one Officer Reed. 

“Officer,” you greet as you take a few steps closer. “Need some help?” 

Your hands settle behind your back as you peer at him curiously, a hint of amusement dancing in your grin. Gavin groans and his hands drop to his sides. He turns to face you, his eyes narrowing as you step closer. 

“I think I can handle this, thanks though,” he grumbles as he turns back to the machine. He presses the screen of the machine, once again attempting to make his selection. The machine beeps angrily back in response, and he lets out a frustrated sigh. 

You sidle up next to him and gently nudge him out of the way. “What’re you in the mood for?” you question as you navigate through the screen with practiced ease. 

“Surprise me,” he mutters as he crosses his arms. 

You hum and look at him out of the corner of your eye, “You seem like an energy drink kinda guy, but I’m not quite sure what kind of snack you’d prefer.” 

You finish making your selection and the machine whirrs to life. You hold out the items with a smug grin, and Gavin peers at you suspiciously.

“I owe you for waiting with me the other night,” you supply as you grab his hand and press the items into his palm. “Now we’re even.” 

His eyes remain on yours as you pull your hand away and let it rest at your side. “What are you doing here anyway? Seems a little out of your way,” you comment as you tear your gaze away from his. You risk a glance at your watch; you didn’t intend on being away from your office this long. 

He scoffs, “Got a meeting with someone who works here. It’s supposed to be some project the DPD is working on. I dunno, I didn’t ask the specifics.” 

Your brows furrow. It’s almost comical how slowly his words sink in and the realization dawns on you. 

“It’s you?” you question, the pitch of your voice rising significantly at the end of your question. 

“What are you…” he trails off for a moment before meeting your gaze once again. “You’re the hotshot scientist I’m supposed to meet?” 

You cross your arms, “I wouldn’t phrase it like that, but yes, I’m the one you’re meeting.” 

He barks out a laugh before throwing his hands up in disbelief. You check your watch once again and grimace at the time. 

“Well,” you sigh as you accept your fate, “shall we get started, Officer Reed?” 

“Don’t call me that,” he cringes. “Well, maybe some other time you can call me that,” he purrs and it’s your turn to cringe. 

“Professionalism, Reed,” you scowl as you turn and begin walking away. You don’t care if he’s following or not— an android can point him toward your office if he needs it.