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#it’s for ✨ inspiration ✨ or that’s what I tell myself

gimmethatagustd · 4 months

Text

gang shit | knj

Your daughter's classmate has a really hot dad. Apparently, you're his arch-nemesis.

○ Pairing: Dilf!Namjoon x Single Parent!Reader

○ Rating: Sfw

○ Genre: Kidfic, strangers/romantic interest, an attempt at humor

○ 1 / 100 Drabble Challenge (Single Parent)

○ Word Count: 1204

○ Warnings: Shockingly none!! aside from my terrible sense of humor, jokes about Crime!!, and also Namjoon's dimples

○ Notes: Inspired by this tweet. I hope you enjoy the first drabble of my 100 Drabble Challenge I'm doing with @sailoryooons - Please check out Hali's drabbles throughout 2024, too! Happy New Year, besties! ✨

○ Post Date: January 1, 2024

○ Masterlist | Send me ur thots

○ What was Jai listening to? GOAT - Number_i

“I don’t make the rules to this gang shit. I just play my role.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, and you cock your head to the side in disbelief. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Namjoon adjusts his black baseball cap. His bicep bulges out of his short sleeve when he lifts his arm.

You’re too old to be thirsting for a man like this. In all honesty, you’ve been acting childish all day – literally. It’s the last day of school before summer break, and your daughter’s preschool teacher invited parents to an end-of-the-year celebration. Having the privilege of working a hybrid schedule means it’s relatively easy for you to swing by the school with primary-colored cupcakes in hand. They’re the disgusting ones kids love that’ll stain their fingers and mouths bright blue. Oh, to be a four-year-old. So easy to please.

Unlike little Yuna’s father, who has a stick shoved up his ass, and for what?

“What are you even talking about?” you ask with your arms crossed against your chest.

You’d said literally five words to the guy, intending to start a pleasant conversation while the kids ran around the playground and the other parents mingled at the picnic tables outside.

“Hi, I’m Y/N, Brooklyn’s parent.”

Apparently, that was offensive.

Namjoon’s sharp eyes drag up and down your body, and you try not to let his heavy gaze affect you – and fail when you feel your stomach dip.

“Brooklyn said Yuna dresses weird,” Namjoon finally says with a pout that shouldn’t look so cute on a grown-ass man.

“Did she?”

“Are you calling Yuna a liar?”

“No!” This man is so volatile. “I’m just surprised, that’s all. We’ve been practicing using kind words, but, well, you know how kids are…”

Namjoon doesn’t look convinced.

You feel antsy under his gaze, unsure what to say or do. Are you supposed to apologize? Maybe that’s the mature thing to do. You’re still new to this whole “I’m suddenly responsible for an entire human being even though I barely even know how to take care of myself” thing. It’s a little bit unbelievable, actually!

“I’m sorry for Brooklyn’s judgmental behavior. What kind of weird-, what kind of clothes-” you stumble through what you already know is a shit apology, “Which one is Yuna?”

“That’s her.” Namjoon nods in Yuna’s direction.

You look across the playground to the swing set, where a little girl is lying on the swing on her stomach and spinning around with her arms and legs hanging limp. She’s wearing her hair in asymmetrical pigtails, one higher on her head than the other. Her sneakers are mismatched, as are her colorful knee-high socks. Her pants are polka-dotted, her shirt striped, and she’s got a bright purple cape tied around her neck.

“She’s adorable,” you say softly.

“She’s weird as shit.”

Your mouth hangs open when Namjoon shrugs.

“What? She’s my kid; I’m allowed to say that.”

“Fair enough,” you concede with a smile, “So, we got beef now?”

“Yup.”

Namjoon crosses his arms against his chest to match your stance. You tell yourself it’s very inappropriate to be eyeing your new enemy’s boobs when you’re in the middle of a showdown.

“I’m not gonna lie, I don’t think I’m down for going to war for Brooklyn. Usually, I just like to blame her bad behavior on her dad,” you say with a barking laugh. You cover your mouth with your hand when you snort. “Sorry, that was inappropriate.”

“You’re good,” Namjoon finally cracks a smile, and, wow, it’s breathtaking. His eyes crinkle at the corners, his teeth are big and bright, and he has dimples… “Yuna’s mother doesn’t let her dress how she likes, so when I have her, I let her do what she wants. Self-expression is important, y’know?”

You nod because he’s right. Kids should be kids.

“Plus, I like being the fun parent.”

“Right! Who wants the parent with all the stupid rules?” You perk up, taking a step closer because now you’re partners in crime rather than enemies. Maybe. You’ll work on it. He’s too cute not to get up to some parental crime with—gang members, not rivals.

“Not cool parents like us,” Namjoon lightly elbows you.

“Yeah, they can’t ride with our gang.”

Namjoon makes a face the moment the words come out of your mouth. He bites both lips, rolling them in and hollowing his cheeks, eyebrows raised.

“What? What!” you gasp, knowing when you’re being made fun of, even if it’s in silence.

“Don’t ever say anything like that ever again.”

With a huff, you give him a tiny punch to the arm and tell yourself that it isn’t because you want to feel how tight his muscles are.

“You’re the one who–”

“HEY! NO HITTING!”

Groaning, you throw your head back as a tiny blur of pink collides with your body. Brooklyn tugs on the hem of your shirt, repeatedly chanting, “Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey,” until you crouch to meet her at her level. Taking her little hands in yours, you hold them to your lips to give her knuckles a quick peck.

“You’re right, I shouldn’t have done that to Mr. Kim,” you admit, “I should apologize, shouldn’t I?”

Brooklyn nods, and the bulbous beaded hair ties at the end of her pigtail braids swing like a deadly game of tetherball.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Kim,” you say as you look up at Namjoon. He taps his finger against his chin in mock thought, and you can’t help but think that you’ll actually punch him if he fucks up this teaching moment by pretending not to accept your apology.

“I forgive you,” he says with another grin that makes you feel like a silly teenager.

“Y’know, Brooklyn, Mr. Kim told me something about you and Yuna…” Brooklyn immediately ducks her chin to her chest. No one has ever looked guiltier. “It’s not very nice to talk about how people look, love. I think you should apologize to Yuna, don’t you agree?”

It takes very little convincing for Brooklyn to run off toward the swings. She flops on her stomach in the swing beside Yuna, and then, after a bit of talking, both girls spin around.

“If Brooklyn throws up from doing that, it’s your fault,” you mutter to Namjoon.

“Real aggressive coming from someone who just physically attacked me.”

“Okay, Mr. Gang Shit,” you quip back, catching Namjoon’s widening grin out of the corner of your eye.

“Listen,” Namjoon touches your elbow, his fingers lingering just long enough for you to give him your attention. Heat spreads along your forearm and makes your fingers tingle. “I don’t really accept either of your apologies. You might need to try a little harder to get me to forgive you.”

“Oh.” You feel your stomach twist.

“Might want to start with getting dinner with me, and then we can see where it goes?”

Oh.

“I mean, if you think it wouldn’t hurt my street cred being seen with the likes of you, then, yeah.”

Namjoon grabs his baseball cap bill and pulls it down until his hat covers his face. “Don’t make me rescind this offer because I’ll do it.”

“Yeah, yeah, we’ll see how it goes.”

Disclaimer: All my writing is fictional and for entertainment purposes only. None of these characters are meant to actually represent the real people mentioned in the stories.

All rights reserved © @gimmethatagustd - Do not copy, repost, modify, or translate any of my writing. Do not use my writing for any AI purposes whatsoever. Do not use my fics for anything aside from reading and commenting on them. My fics will only be posted on this Tumblr and on AO3 (gimmethatagustd & daddytaehyungie). Request an AO3 account here.

#bts x reader #namjoon x reader #bts fanfic #namjoon fanfic #jai writes #gimmethatagustd #gang shit #100 drabble challenge

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azriels-shadowsinger · 2 months

Note

No. 13 for Azriel please ❤️❤️🤌✨

“Everything reminds me of you, it's driving me insane”

Azriel x Reader

wc: 1.4K

a/n: kinda inspired by cardan’s letters. if yall read the cruel prince series then u know. get ready for some angst yall.

prompt list

“This is the last straw Azriel. I can’t handle not being a priority in your life! You always choose Rhys, Cassian, Elain, work, or literally anything else over me. I have only seen you once in the past week, and we live together for Cauldron’s sake! I feel like I live with a ghost. You’re gone before I wake up and you return after I fall asleep!” You yell between tears. “I can’t do this anymore. I love you, but it is too painful to keep living like this.” Azriel realizes where this is headed.

“Y/n, please. I’ll be better. I promise!” He begs, desperation in his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Azriel. You had your chance, multiple actually. It’s too late.” You turn away, unable to look at his heartbroken face without potentially giving in. You can feel his shadows attempting to reach for you as you walk out the door.

———

January 7th

Dear y/n,

Rhys won’t tell me where exactly you left to, but promised he would deliver this. I understand that you are angry with me and that you need some time to calm down. I hope that you will return soon so we can work this out. I love you and I’m sorry.

Sincerely,

Azriel

———

January 29th

Dear y/n,

Point taken, dear. I know I messed up, but it’s been weeks and I miss you.

I know you are getting these letters. Rhys said he ensured they would be delivered. I guess that doesn't guarantee that you will read them. Nevertheless, I am sorry for my actions and I am taking steps to create boundaries in my life so that I can have more time for you. I can prove it, if only you would just come home.

With deepest apologies,

Azriel

———

February 14th

My love,

I had hoped you would return before Valentine's Day. You always loved celebrating this holiday. I know you won’t see them, but I still got you flowers. They're on your nightstand.

It's been over a month. I miss your voice. Please come home.

Azriel

———

March 7th

Y/n,

If this is your way of punishing me, then consider it a success. I’m a wreck without you. Please come home.

-Azriel

———

March 30th,

My heart,

I am begging you to come home. Come home and yell at me, come home and fight with me, just please come home. I love you and I’m so sorry.

Always with love,

Azriel

———

May, 15th,

Y/n,

I understand what you meant about feeling like you were living with a ghost. Everything reminds me of you, and it’s driving me insane. I am haunted by these traces of you around our home. Please end this torment and come back to me.

-Azriel

———

June 7th

I’m sorry.

I love you.

Why are you doing this to me?

I hate myself for causing this and pushing you away.

Do you still love me? Do you even miss me?

Please come home I can’t take it anymore.

I love you I love you I love you I love you

I miss you.

———

Y/n,

This is my last letter. I won’t bother you anymore after this. I hope that wherever you are, you are happy. I will always regret taking your love for granted.

Eternally yours,

Azriel

———

It was another sleepless night for Azriel. He was plagued with the memories of every single time he chose something or someone else over you. He’s past the point of beating himself up over it, but rather, he considers this the worst punishment of all. Being forced to relive each memory over and over, unable to change it. Hating himself and drowning his sorrows in whiskey.

He hears a knock at the door. It’s probably Cass or Rhys, doing their weekly check on him, since he rarely leaves the house anymore. Azriel chooses to ignore them.

They knock again.

“Fuck off, I’m not in the mood tonight guys.” He barks in the direction of the door, taking another sip of his whiskey.

Another knock.

Cauldron boil him, his brothers were relentless. He was going to open the door, but only to yell at them to leave. He grumbles angrily to himself all the way to the door.

“I said I wasn’t-“ It's not Rhys or Cassian on his doorstep. Instead, he sees you, holding a stack of letters. His letters.

This is another dream, he thinks. He must have fallen asleep on the couch. When he wakes you will be gone again, having torn the rip in his heart even wider. But until then, he lets himself indulge in the dream. Azriel doesn’t hesitate for another moment before pulling you into a tight hug.

“My dreams must be especially cruel tonight because somehow I am able to smell your perfume. I can feel your heartbeat.” He mumbles, face buried in your hair. His shadows encompass you two, whispering in Azriel’s ear y/n, y/n, y/n

“This isn’t a dream, Azriel.” You say softly, pulling away to look at him and placing a gentle hand on his cheek. It takes him a moment to realize what’s happening, but as soon as he does, he pulls you back into a hug, even tighter than before. You feel hot tears fall onto your shoulder as his shadows surge around you.

“My love, my heart, my star. You came back to me.” He sobs. Your heart breaks at the pain in his voice. You had known he was probably upset about the breakup, but in an attempt to heal and move on, you never opened his letters… until last night.

After several long minutes of intense bear hugs, he finally manages to let go. Well kind of, he can’t seem to let your hand go yet.

“We should talk, Az.” You say nervously.

“I will do anything you want if it means you will stay.”

Gods, you were the worst person in the world. This poor male, who you still love desperately despite your best efforts, is so broken over you leaving.

“I’m not going anywhere, Az.” You reassure him. He finally loses a small bit of tension in his shoulders a the words, but his hands seem to hold tighter. You take a deep breath, trying to prepare for what you have to say.

“I didn’t read your letters until last night. I was trying to get over you, and so I avoided reading them. In an attempt to move on, I had convinced myself you were happy without me. But I couldn’t move on. I couldn't stop loving you. When I finally read your letters, I realized you truly had changed. I should’ve read them months ago. I should've never left. I’m so sorry Azriel. I understand if you need time or if you can’t forgive me but-“ He cuts you off.

“I forgive you. I don’t need time. I only need you here.” He’s so quick to dismiss every mistake you made, it breaks your heart. It will take a long while to reassure him that you aren’t ever leaving again, maybe a lifetime, but that’s okay.

You take notice of his dark circles and how skinny he has gotten. Gods, has he eaten at all since you left, you wonder.

“Let me make us some dinner, then we can talk more, okay?” Azriel nods and reluctantly lets go of your hand, following you to the kitchen like a lost puppy.

———

After several long hours of tears and brutal honesty, you and Azriel lay in your bed, embracing each other.

You spent the next week holed up in the house, reconnecting and reigniting your love for each other. You even took extra time to apologize to his shadows. They were very happy that you were back and made sure to show you so.

True to his word, Azriel never took your love for granted for as long as you both lived. And true to yours, you never left again.

I think I may do this prompt again later with someone else in more of a rivals to lovers type scenario, but I kinda just felt like this was fun for this one and wanted to try it idk

prompt list

taglist: @fxckmiup

#acotar #a court of thorns and roses #azriel #acotar fic #acotar fanfic #azriel acotar #acotar x reader #azriel x reader #my writing

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greatooglymooglyyy · 2 months

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ANGST HURT TO COMFORT PLZZZ ANYONE ANY PLOT I NEEEDDD ITTT🤌🏼

Say Goodbye (Chris Sturniolo)

a/n: first of all, careful what you wish for anon cus this hurt to write 😭. second, this can either be a series or a standalone so y'all lmk. also it was very inspired by a quote I saw on tiktok which I used in the story so ✨that is not mine!✨ (but i think y'all will know that)

contains: angst, breakup, crying, emotional chris, not-so-happy ending, 900+ words

I will not cry today. I will not cry today. I repeat the mantra over and over in my head. Get through today and you can cry all you want.

Pictures of Chris and I are laid out on my carpet, tape still clinging to each one. His hoodies and shirts that I’ve hoarded through the years are folded, freshly washed, on the bed.

I grab my box and sigh, kneeling to start placing everything neatly inside it. I walk around my room, collecting all the small gifts and trinkets that hurt too much to keep. When I’m done, I take a deep breath and do what I've been dreading most; slipping off my promise ring and biting back a sob as I drop it in with the rest.

Dropping the box outside my door on my way, I slip inside my bathroom and splash cold water on my face to help calm down. I do my skincare routine and minimal makeup, thinking it will help deter me from breaking down in front of Chris. My phone dings and I glance down at it reading a message from him asking when I’ll be there. It makes me want to throw up knowing that it might be the last text from him I ever get. I steady myself on the counter and look into the mirror, squaring my shoulders.

“He’s just a boy.” I tell my reflection. Maybe if I say it enough, one day it will be true.

*******

The drive to his house is slow and silent. I take in everything about this feeling, about these roads, trying to soak it in one last time. When I park in front of his house, I shoot him a text to come out. I don’t think I’m capable of saying goodbye to all three of them today. I watch as he comes out of the house slowly, carrying a box of his own, and give myself one last pep talk before I step out of the car. I go to my trunk, retrieving the box from it, and then leaning against it as he stops in front of me.

“Hi.” He says and I almost smile at how normal he’s making this feel. Almost.

“Hey. Here’s your stuff.” I say, stepping out of the way so he can drop my box into the trunk and then handing him his. He takes it wordlessly, his body squirming like it always does when he’s anxious. I stand there for a couple of seconds not knowing what to say before I nod and turn on my heel.

But before I can reach my door, Chris calls my name softly, his voice breaking, and I pause. I look over my shoulder and the pain in his face almost doubles me over.

“Oh, Chris.” I say and he loses it, dropping the box to the ground and taking three quick steps toward me. He wraps his arms around me and buries his head in my neck sobbing and I let him, squeezing my eyes shut and rubbing circles on his back. We stay like that for a few minutes, rocking back and forth and probably looking insane to anyone passing by before he pulls away and wipes at his face.

“I love you so much.” I say, my voice cracking as well now. “God, Chris. I wish it was enough.” He shakes his head, tilting to look up at the sky.

“Me too.” He says, half laughing with no humor. “I love you too. But, oh my god, I wish I didn’t. If I knew it would feel like this to let you go, I would have never..” He trails off but it doesn’t matter. He’s already gutted me and he seems to know it. He kisses his teeth and steps toward me again, but this time I take a step back and he halts.

Not for the first time, I waver in this decision. I could let him take it back. I could let him kiss me and carry me inside; delay the inevitable another week, maybe even a month. But, I’ll still lose him. He’ll still be too busy chasing a dream that doesn’t have room for me. He’ll still make promises he can’t keep to keep me. And we’ll still be hurting. So I do the only thing I can for the both of us and whisper goodbye.

Chris nods twice quickly, wincing as if I hit him. “At least, let me hug you one last time.” And I do, stepping into his embrace again and nuzzling my face into his shirt. I breathe in his scent, try to commit to memory the way it feels to be so wholly surrounded by him. He kisses the top of my head and I sigh deeply before pulling away.

He releases me, brings a hand up to push my hair behind my ear and gives me a weak smile. “You don’t have to become a stranger. We can still be in each other’s lives.” It sounds like a plea from his lips and I want so desperately to take it.

But I just return his smile, the tears I’ve been pushing away finally welling in my eyes. “You know that’s not true. Neither of us can handle that.” I take a deep breath and reach up, smoothing my thumb across his jaw.

“I hope you get everything you ever wanted, Chris. And I hope I never hear a thing about it.” With that, I finally slide into my car, forcing myself not to look in the rearview as I speed away from him.

a/n: part two available now

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larluce · 28 days

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Have you ever thought of the episode A Servant of Two Masters with a scene like Ella Enchanted when she breaks her curse? If you don't know the scene or the movie, that's okay because I have ✨a vision✨

Like that:

Merlin inside is dying because he's trying to kill Arthur and that's his worst nightmare, but Arthur decided that needs to be open and honest to Merlin and just tries to confess. I don't know how they got there, but just imagine that Arthur is talking sweetly to Merlin, holding his face with love and going to kiss him, but Merlin is crying because he's with a knife in his hand and trying to stab Arthur in the back. He breaks the curse, but Arthur saw the knife and assumes the worst.

I did watch that film! "A Servant of Two Masters" had the pontential to be very angsty indeed. But of course they decided to make it comedy. Not that I didn't like it anyways, but a more serious take like the one you are proposing would have been GOLD.

I recently saw a post similar to this, not quite, but kind of captures the same idea: LINK

But you inspired me. So I'll add this to your vision:

Just as the movie, Agravaine orders for Merlin to be arrested before he can explain anything, proclaiming he's in alliance with Morgana. However, Arthur, though still very hurt and confused, starts to analyse the situation. Why would Merlin try to kill him now? Is not like he didn't have better chances before. Has he done something to make Merlin change his mind about him? What did Morgana offer him? And why a knife? Merlin literally serves him his food, he could have poisoned him, find a more discret way to do it, he's a physician apprentice for gods sake! Was his servant this dumb? Then he remembers, Merlin was crying through all of it, and he seemed like he was trying to tell him something but couldn't. He thought it was due his emotional confession that his servant had tears in his eyes, but now... could it be that Merlin was forced to do it? Maybe Morgana threatened someone dear to him? Like his mother or Gaius. Or maybe he just can't bare the thought of yet other person betraying him, specially if is Merlin, that now he's making excuses for him? Doesn't matter, he can't execute Merlin, even when his uncle keeps insisting on it. So he just keeps him in the dungeons ad pospones his death sentence as much as he can.

Just as Arthur gathers the caurage to go visit Merlin to ask for answers, against his uncle's wishes of course, Gaius aproaches Arthur and tells him Merlin was under the fomorroh's control giving him the burned cut head of the snake as a prove. He explains he went to visit Merlin and Merlin gave him that and told him Morgana put it in his neck to control him when he was captured, but somehow he managed to break the spell. His uncle intervenes, telling him is all lies, that Gaius just wants to save the boy because he's dear to him and accuses him right then and there of being the traitor they were looking for. For Arthur, however, there was never a doubt, his Merlin is innocent, he never wanted to betray him. He almost cries of relief and, ignoring his uncle and his physician's dicussion, he runs to see Merlin.

His smile fades once he gets there though, cause Merlin, his Merlin, is hanging from a rope. Horrified and in full panic mode, he puts him down as quickly and as carefully as he can. He yells desperately for the guards to fetch Gaius and starts making CPR, but even when Gaius later appears to help it's too late. Merlin's dead and Arthur's whole world is put upside down.

There's a note Gaius finds hidden in Merlin's clothes, it says: "I'm sorry, Gaius. I couldn't fight it much longer, I could feel it, growing back again, trying to control me and I couldn't let it, not again. I would rather cut my own arms and legs and being burn in the pyre a thousen times than hurt Arthur, much less kill him. I won't go through that nightmare again. Please tell him I love him too, that i never mean to do it. I love him more than I love myself. But if he doesn't believe you, if he hates me forever, it's alright. I don't blame him, so don't blame him either. Keep protecting him, please. Specially from Agravaine. Loves you, Merlin".

Gaius shares this letter with Arthur and of course he breaks all over again, but then he asks, "Why did Merlin told you to protect me from my uncle, Gaius?". Gaius doesn't want to answer at first, but Arthur commands him and Gaius answers carefully "he believed he was the traitor, sire". Arthur responds after a pause "And you believe that too?". There's a silence before the physician says "I gave him the pergamine and the ink, he said he wanted to write a message for you that later I would deliver. I was a fool, I should have known..." he sighs. "But I wonder... where did he get the rope?". And that's when when all clicks to Arthur. Agravaine was the one insisting on killing Merlin inmediatly amd Merlin didn't have access to any rope. He confirms it when the guards tell him Agravaine visited Merlin once, they couldn't hear what the man was telling to the boy, but it sounded like he was threatening him.

Agravaine was the traitor, Agravaine gave Merlin the rope. Agravaine is the reason his Merlin now is gone.

Arthur goes to his uncle a sword in hand and demands answer with the blade on his throat. First he dinies it, but then he laughs. "You killed my sister. You and your father" he admits. Arthur's expression remains as a stone "What did you tell him?" Arthur demands. "I just offer him a less painful way to die". Arthur kills him, but finds no satisfaction. He's dead inside. His Merlin died thinking he hated him and he let him believe that. He didn't visit him for days after all, he didn't confront him inmediatly for answers, he let his uncle cloud his mind. This was his fault.

Arthur looks at his sword and puts the point of the blade on his heart. He's about to push the blade when suddenly the doors open and the sword flies from his hand. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" a familiar panic voice shouts at him and Arthur turns. A Merlin with golden eyes is running to him and then hugs him tightly. "Are you mad?!" Merlin's still scolding him, but Arthur's just watches him in shock. "Merlin" he's only capable to mumble.

It turn's out Merlin's magic saved him somehow. It just put his body on the verge of death enough to make the fomorroh believe that the body was uninhabitable so it left his body completely. His mortal body was now too weak though, so his only vital energy left is his magic. That's why his eyes are constanly gold now. It takes a while for Arthur to understand it. Specially the magic part, but honestly, he's far too happy and relief to have Merlin back that he can't be mad about Merlin lying about his magic. In fact, if anything, he's thankful for it, since it saved Merlin's life.

"But you didn't plan that, did you? You did actually try to kill yourself" he accusses however, still heartbroken at the fact.

"It was the only way I could think of-"

"Never, Merlin" he commands him very serious. "Never do that again"

"I can't promise you that"

"Then any harm you do to yourself, I'll do it to me"

"You can't do that!" the warlock shouts horrified. "You are the king! You have a kingdom-"

"Our kingdom, Merlin! We built it together and it's nothing without you either"

"I'm just a servant, an illegal warlock now. My life doesn't matter."

"Don't ever say that again!" Arthur holds Merlin fiercely. "Didn't I tell you're the most valuable person to me? The only person I could trust with my life" tears run down his eyes.

"But.. I lied to you. I even tried to kill you"

"Lie to me then, kill me. You have my permission"

"Arthur-"

"No, I just got I glimse of what a life without you would be and I won't live it again. Not for a second. I can't lose you again".

"I can't lose you either". Merlin cries too. "My magic, everything I am, is yours. It has always been yours". Arthur caresses his cheek.

"Then let me take care of what it's mine"

Between tears, they kiss. Is not really tender or passionate, but pure necessity for the other.

"I'm sorry" Merlin snifs separating the kiss "Gods! My eyes won't stop shining" he says embarrasssed and tries to cover them.

"Don't" Arthur says while he uncovers his eyes gently. "They're beautiful" Merlin smiles but then sighs, sadly.

"The rest won't think the same"

"You don't have to worry about that"

Arthur gives Merlin a royal pardon so he's the 'only legal sorcerer' unless until he can make magic legal again completely. Gwen and the knights accept him inmediatly. The rest are wary at first but eventually they accept him too, when they realise he's the same clumsy servant they always knew. As Merlin recovers from his near death experience, his eyes glow less, but Arthur loves to see Merlin's eyes turn gold everytime.

Aaaand that's all I got. My imagination can't do much.

#merlin bbc #bbc merlin #merlin #merthur #merlin fanfic #merlin prompt #merlin fic #merthur fic #arthur and merlin #merlin and arthur #ask me anything #ask #i got carried away

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saturatedstarlight · 2 months

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an: heyyy long time no seeeee ✨✨✨ i wrote a lil something for the gojo girlies out there. Um idk why i’ve been on a huge gojo kick, but here i am🙄. (I love you suguru i swear🥹)

Oh this was inspired by @yuwuta ‘s little drabble it’s soo cute i loved it. ne wayss, enjoy!!

cw: teasing, penetrating, riding, fingering, reader is a switch, gojo switches, mentions of good girl/princess, and thee honored one

wc: 2744

_________________

“Don’t piss me off Satoru.”

“Wh- How is asking you— my girlfriend, a favor, pissing you off? Y-You don’t even know what i’m going to ask you yet.” Gojo follows your out of your shared bedroom, a slight whine to his velvety voice, it annoyed you how he could always get what he wants when it came to you so you decided to hold your ground, arms crossed, hip jutted as you look at him expectantly, eyebrow raised.

“Ask me.”

“My goodness, so sassy…”

“Satoru, I will hurt you.” He responds with a juvenile smile, holding his hands up in defense. “Okay, okay, I umm wanted you to…” his sentence finishes off with incoherent mumbling.

“What?”

“I said I wanted you to wear my glasses when we have se-sex…” a faint blush clouds his pale face, the first time you’ve seen him this red, practically ever and you put down your defenses, interest unusually piqued.

“Oh-“ a small smile adorns your youthful face and full lips, you perk up at the idea.

“I thought you were going to ask me to wear a butt plug or have a threesome with your boyfriend again…” your eyes narrow at him as you rests your arms on his shoulder, your fingers tangling in the hairs at the nape of his lean neck.

“Why? Are you reconsidering?” He perks up, his crystalline eyes looking up at you as he rests his head on your chest, nuzzling into your bust.

“No.” You thwack his forehead, an exasperated sigh contorting your face.

A few weeks go by and the conversation you had with your boyfriend lost from your memory. The simple fact that you were both extremely busy with work had made it easier to forget. There was one night you both decide to dedicate just to each other and while you usually give him a hard time generally about… everything, you decided to be a bit more agreeable for him tonight.

You find him spread out on the couch of your apartment, eyes closed, mask pushed up slightly on his forehead, and legs spread wide. He had just gotten back from a special grade assignment so all of his energy was spent on exercising curses.

You sit next to him, gently taking his hand, he didn’t even acknowledge you yet, breathing slow and steady as you lean against him, pouting in his direction.

“That bad huh baby?”

His voice is low and raspy, despite his exhaustion, this entire persona he was sporting did wonders for your imagination.

“J-Just a bit, but I could handle myself, it was the students that worried me.”

You toss your leg over his thigh, straddling him and leaned against him, still pouting at his discomfort. A sultry yet whiney air to your voice as you press your tits against his chest. “Anyway I can make you feel better Satoru?”

Lips finding purchase on his neck, softly nibbling and kissing him there, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t acknowledge it, you frown, pulling away.

“Hmm?”

“I didn’t tell you to stop.” You blush, a deep singe to your cheeks and an even deeper pulse between your legs. He spoke with so much authority and ease, it came so naturally to him and yet… he spent most of his time pestering you by being a whiney baby.

“Ohh, so this isn’t Satoru, this is ‘the Honored One’ huh?” You pull back your body, perched right on his knee and and he finally opens his heaven like eyes, narrowing them at you.

“Don’t mock me.”

“I’m noottt… okay I am.” A small giggle escapes your lips but you try to reconcile for your teasing by kissing him softly a few times. Both your lips soft and gentle as his kisses you back, finding it hard to resist your advances, no matter how many cursed demons he has to fight.

“I’ll have you know that you are dating someone with a very reputable name in the Jujutsu realm.” His voice is pouty and whiney, just how you like him.

“Yes, the honored one, sent straight from the Heavens the herald of peace and order from the Gojo Clan—

Deciding to get up, you find yourself curtsying in front of him.

—should i bow or curtsy? Which one would you prefer, my liege?” Gojo sits up, fully giving you his attention and pull you back on top of him with an eye roll. “Stop that, you know I don’t like it.” He pressed his face to your chest, words muffled and whiney again, hugging you tight.

“Ahaha baby, I’m just trying to make you feel better, you know I hate it when you come back drained and lifeless like the rest of the sorcerers and it’s bad enough they’re also all very sexy, you have to be the one who at least is fun to be around.”

“Why are you calling them sexy?” He squeezes you tighter making you giggle, resting your chin on his head and kissing his forehead you smile.

“Who said sexy? Was not me.” You meet him down at eye level, matching his cute pout.

“You asked me how I could feel better, right?”

You nod slowly, blushing as you feel his hands slide up the oversized shirt you were wearing. “Mhmm, anything.”

“Are you sure?” He smirks his finger tips finding your nipples, massaging them and squeezing them as if you belonged to him and you gasp, biting your lip and nodding slowly.

“Yeah, ngghh… wanna be good for you-“

He perks up instantly, carrying you to your shared bedroom. “Damn baby, I should pretend to be worn down more often.” His entire personality changes, he’s more confident and teasing as he lays you in bed, climbing on top of you, lips pressing up against your lower stomach, sliding up the excess fabric from your shirt up.

“You were faking it?!”

He laughs loudly, pulling you to the edge of the bed by your hips. “Yeah… and you are so gullible my cute little gullible princess, mwah mwah mwah.” He kisses your inner thighs obnoxiously, holding you in place.

“And since you said you wanna be good f’me, you have to keep your promise.” Gojo whispers, taking your earlobe between his teeth and tugging gently making you whine.

“You make it very hard for me to like you Satoru.”

“Well it’s a good thing ya love me so I’m not too worried about the liking bit-“

Gojo spoke with a certain determination, a velvet venom that had your pretty little slit throbbing for him and it pissed you off at how just a few sentences could have you a whiney, needy mess.

“Now- be a good girl, and turn around f’me baby.” You roll your eyes and does as he asks, despite him playing the weak and sickly card, you had been craving the sweet stretch and pull of his thick cock for days now.

It drove you crazy how often you thought about him cumming all over you, stuffing your abused hole to the brim and fucking his cum back inside you, the way he normally did. How he’d leave you a whiney, overstimulated mess, hole gaping and sticky and would leave you to go on missions as if it was nothing.

He frustrated you to no end, even memories of him frustrated you and that made you wanna sink on his stupid cock even more, milking him for all he’s got.

He’s leaning over you, hands rubbing you ass slowly, he pulls your thin white panties to the side, ogling your slit.

“Ah look at this beautiful ass and my beautiful-“ kiss “pussy” kiss “just waiting” kiss “to be fucked” kiss kiss kiss

Your whines are muffled into a pillow and you toss your rear back against him, his nose pushing past your folds in the best way possible. Gojo pulls away, lips sucking your entrance so mean, his hands continue spreading your cheeks apart and grants you a firm slap, making you whine even louder.

“Hey— what happened to you being my good girl?” He asks, sliding a finger inside you.

“N-No fi-fingers -toru, need you. N-need your cock…ve’been waiting all week.” Gojo lazily pumps his finger inside you, pushing it in deeper and harder with each thrust.

“Awe does my slutty little princess want me to fuck her? Hmm~”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes as he fingers you, your hips slightly meeting his finger tip. “Y-yes, fuck me.”

“Hmm…” he leans over your body again, wet mouth against the shell of your ear.

“How about you fuck my finger like you would my cock baby, and I’ll see if you can have it, mkay?” Your whines grow louder and hips move faster against his digit, you clench and unclench around him, dragging his finger with every clench of your sopping hole deeper inside you. Although, it wasn’t enough.

Both you and that cocky little shit knew that.

“P-please- toru, another— another finger i-“

“You what? Want another finger? But I thought you said tonight was for me?” His faux pout frustrated you more as you continue to toss you curvy little ass back on his finger.

“I thought you said you’d do anything to make me feel better.” Gojo found himself enjoying this way too much— found his pants growing tighter and tighter from your whines to your cute little ass— he found himself thanking the heavens for you every night…

And— truth be told, his week was tough, not so tough that he couldn’t handle it, more like the higher ups giving him shit tough. The mission he went on earlier this evening went smoothly. He even bought the students ice cream afterwards because it ended quite early. But you don’t get to know that.

Gojo had already sensed your doting behavior, lingering touches, and longer kisses in the morning from you so he figured he might as well try to get extra sympathy from you, especially considering you don’t give it to him often.

His ego huge enough.

But still, every glance, cute little pout you offered him, even watching you brush your teeth made him horny. And while he is a man of restraint, he just wanted to see how long this “good girl” act would last before your true nature came out.

And that was his weakness.

Your fingers yanked at the bed sheets and your bed swallowed your whines and cries for more of him and yet Gojo did nothing.

Believably so considering he was well.. Gojo. You knew he liked pushing your buttons, frustrating you to no end, he loved getting under your skin even before you two started dating saying that he loved the rush and the thrill of watching your cute little face get all worked up and annoyed whenever he came around.

…fucking sadist.

With your ass ricocheting off his fingers once more you stop, it wasn’t enough. You were fed up with him.

Slowly you slide off of him, leaning forward and you turn around, a frown on your face and malice in your eyes.

Gojo smirked, loving the dark look in your eyes, your disheveled sex hair and your clenching, dripping thighs. He found you so sexy like this.

You crawl over to him and slowly unbuckle his pants, no words having been exchanged between the both of you.

Shirt be damned, you can ogle his abs some other time, the only thing your mind was set on was his thick heavy cock, with a pink angry head, veiny base and that delicious curve you always found yourself salivating over whenever you gave him head.

(You were not giving him head by the way)

“I am never feeling sympathy for you again.” You pull him down to the bed, crawling on to his lap, aligning his thick leaky head to your begging hole.

Gojo knew not to touch you like this, he knew all you wanted was his cock, nothing more and he tossed his head back softly, releasing a breath he didn’t realize he was holding when you touched him, pumping his cock slowly, spending extra time on his tip letting your finger tips encircle that enraged frenulum some more.

“Spit.” You commanded, having him spit in the palm of your hand, saliva slowly dripping from his glossy, plump bottom lip and you rolled your eyes, you knew what he was doing.

Your small hands find their way back to his throb, pumping it slowly, if it weren’t for that incessant ache in your pussy, you would have edged the shit out of him but you decided to save that for round two.

And with a few final passes of his tip from your clit down to your entrance you sink onto him, nice and slow, your eyes nearly rolling out of your head as you do so, that familiar feeling just settling so deep within you— no words could describe how this felt.

Gojo hisses, “Fu-uck bab- baby, j-just like tha, ‘r perfect so so fuckin’ perfect for me… the tightest little thing all f’me…” he places his hands on your hips.

You both know you couldn’t handle this all on your own, so he took his chances and pushed you down even further, having you release dry laughs as he throbbed inside you.

“Hah— ah— fuck, S’toruu..” you lean your head on his chest, panting softly as you adjust, clenching and unclenching.

“Fuck baby, this is perfect, you’re so so per-“ his eyes found his signature sunglasses on the bedside table and he perched them right on your nose, biting his lip. “Now you’re perfect, now comere.” Gojo pulled you by your chin to meet his lips in a firm kiss, teeth knocking, lip biting and moans exchanged like currency. You wrap your arms around his neck and he lifts you off him, slamming you back down, making you scream into his mouth again and again with every slam of your hips.

“Mm— more ‘toru more..” you meet his thrusts with abandon, both of you chasing your separate highs together, unsure of who was fucking who. Tits bouncing, skin slapping bliss was all gojo could focus on, that and the fact that he was ready to pump so much cum into you at any given moment but with all the teasing he figured he’d at least let you come on his cock first.

“Th-ats it baby, juusst like tha-“ his words short and breathy as he slides you back and forth on his cock, your clit catching his length as he moved you.

“Fu— you feel me? Feel me so deep inside you? Yeah?” You nod, unable to think, a few more thrusts away from having no thoughts at all. “Wan’ me to fill you up? Cum in this slutty little pussy? Yeah? I know you do baby.. mhmm— yeahh, use that cock baby, take whas’ yo—urs.”

Tears brim your eyes, a nice achey burn settles in your pussy, and your cunt clamp down around him with an iron grip as you cum, nails digging in his back, head buried in the crook of his neck as you let him carve more of his cock into you.

“Fu-fuckin fill me up baby, r-right now fu- please please need you…” He looks up at you, pushing the glasses up off your face, your tresses pushed back in the process, a dopey glare filling your eyes, the venomous one long gone as your orgasm fills every crevice of your brain like smoke, senses dulled and hearing shot, you cum hard around his spurting cock, which pushes deep inside you, filling you with everything that he’s got, a weeks worth of sexless nights with you. He holds you down, refusing to let you escape his thick, gloopy load as he rocks it into you deeply, body tense and stiff while he fucks it back into you.

You slowly bounce your ass on him cock, dribbles of his cum leaking on to your thighs and the sheets and it’s like this annoying yet lovable man in front of you could do no wrong. He was perfect to you, an angel.

Intimate touches and panting are shared between you both, your fingers lightly trace his chest, (he took his own shirt off) and his find your hair, softly petting you.

“Sorry for deceiving you, I just really wanted to be babied tonight.” His confession makes you smile and you snuggle closer to him.

“You always wanna be baby girl, toru.”

“Nah uh… sometimes I wanna be the honored one.” He pouts, kissing your forehead. You smile, kissing his chest softly. “I love you, dork.” You yank his ear, “Ow! What was that for?!”

“That was for the sole finger you fucked me with.” He laughs, sliding that singular finger down to your ass playfully.

“Satoru!”

#jjk men #jjk fanfiction #gojo smut #satoru x reader #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen #jjk drabbles #jjk imagines #gojo x reader #satoru smut

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e-claire · 1 year

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Misophonia sucks so fucking hard and no one anywhere ever wants to talk about it. Literally the only people I've ever had listen to me about my Misophonia are other people with Misophonia. So fuck it, Misophonia Awareness Post or something, I want to vent.

Allow me to describe what it is first for all the lucky people who aren't fucked over. Misophonia is likely an Audio-Processing Disorder (Potentially some form of Synesthesia) in which certain sounds trigger a fight or flight reaction. Trigger sounds can vary and sometimes after long term exposure it can create a reaction to the visuals associated with those sounds. It is possibly genetic, there is no known cause, there is no known treatment, there is only suffering and ways of generally kind of reducing that suffering. When I hear people chewing I am filled with a rage that can only be described as "Bordering on a primal desire to Kill." and there's nothing I can do about that. A family member or friend takes a bite of something crunchy and I have to sit there and exist with thoughts of pounding their fucking skull into paste with my bare god damn hands and then afterwards I have to go back to "being normal". I have to just pretend that didn't happen, I can't do anything with those emotions, I can't put them anywhere, I can't talk about them with anyone or gain any understanding or sympathy from others for having them.

When I see someone chewing food anymore it's borderline impossible for me to remain in the room with them for any more than a few seconds because the mere sight of them chewing makes me physically ill and inspires in me a sense of deep disgust and panic that I could never ever hope to describe.

I tell people about what it's like and I get one of four reactions :

"Oh I think I have that too" With a weird amount of curious excitement at the concept of having a fun new quirky thing to mention in conversations. This means that they don't have it, and they'll then proceed to list off a couple different things that literally no human being likes to hear and how much that thing "annoys them". This makes me want to kill myself.

"Wow, Yikes." Through a grimace. This means I was too open about how it makes me feel and they now think i'm a either a freak, liability, time bomb, or over-dramatic, and will do everything they can to avoid the subject in the future so that I can't make them uncomfortable. This makes me want to kill them AND myself.

Immediately eats something really loudly to set me off as a "joke". This means that they're an obnoxious piece of shit that I have to try my absolute hardest not to beat to death with my bare hands. This makes me want to kill them, if that wasn't already obvious.

"Oh. So that's what this is called." This means they have it, and we can both engage in a brief period of mutual trauma sharing that helps us know we're not alone, and that our curse is unfortunately shared with others. This makes us both somewhat melancholy, and kinda ruins the vibes until something fun happens.

And then we get into the "How do you make the pain stop", and good news! You can't. There is no way to make it stop. But you can make it hurt less with ✨Spending Unbearable Amounts of Cash✨

You can buy a billion different types of earplugs that will all do great at muting the world but always leave you incredibly unaware of the world around you and leave you fucked in-terms of listening to media.

You can buy normal headphones that will kind of work but never mute the world around you anywhere near enough and vaguely frustrate you constantly, but hey at least you're a bit more accessible! Try combining these with a combination of rain and static noise playing at all times in the background for an extra layer of silence :)

You can buy ANC headphones that cost infinitely too much money and are almost always built to break so that they can farm cash from you in repairs, but the ANC is so useful despite not working perfectly that you can't really exist without it so you're gonna spend 200+ dollars every couple years because you don't have a choice, and spend every single day 24/7 wearing hot heavy over-ear headphones! Use the Rain and Static Noise combo with this as well for the best ANC effect.

And inevitably, all of these options will give you hearing problems, potentially make you aware of new trigger sounds, and always leave you a step behind everyone else when a conversation happens. Pro-Tip : For when the sounds are really intrusive and you're on the verge of a breakdown, Combine ANC with Ear Plugs and the R&SN background audio to basically kill noise in it's entirety for a little while :)

AND NOW WE GET TO THE PART WHERE I SAY WHAT THE FUCK CAN YOU NORMIES DO TO MAKE OUR SUFFERING LESS FUCKING CONSTANT.

Listen to us. Don't ostracize us for experiencing emotions we can't control and don't mean or want to act on. If you can, try your best to do the trigger noises quietly, and try your best not to do the trigger visuals in-front of us. We know it's not something you can control entirely, but if you can make the effort to make our lives suck less, we'll really fucking appreciate it.

And if you try to get back at us during a fight by eating something really crunchy to abuse our disorder for your benefit, I swear to god I will hunt you down personally and subject you to the most violent and painful torture I can manage before killing you and hiding your body somewhere no one will ever find it so that your loved ones never have the closure of knowing if you died or if you're still somewhere out there. Thanks for reading even though I know you didn't because the length of this post is frankly unhinged and i'll probably only get like 2 likes at best.

#Misophonia #Misophonia Awareness #Actually Misophonic #Disorder Awareness #Mental Health

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vivendraws · 4 months

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drunken stupor. (lucifer morningstar x named!reader)

in which the lightbringer and a very inebriated jophiel converse solemnly about their melancholic tumbles from grace.

content and warnings: excessive alcohol consumption, swearing, angst of course. the reader in this is named jophiel and lucifer’s fall is not lore accurate because i wanted them to be able to empathize with the reader at least a bit. just sad lesbians being sad lesbians guys !❤️❤️

word count: about 2,963 give or take.

✨special thanks to @agathaandgwenslesbian , my biggest inspiration.

— “ walk with me, little lamb…

𖤐

your fall from grace was less than justified.

scrubbing the Morning Star’s quartz floors with fury, you reminisced about your time in heaven, your once beautiful wings, plumed and well groomed with beautiful white feathers and a holy glow that you wore so, so well. now you had no wings, just stubs that once were soft appendages that signified your sacred position in the gates of heaven. how you missed the bright light of the heavens, the smell of chrysanthemums and what you could only describe as purity that filled your senses. the heavenly experience was truly something you longed for again.

but you were being punished. you were being punished because you had feelings, feelings for a mortal and you acted upon them with great sin. you felt stupid. you cursed yourself. stupid, stupid, stupid. every day you spent in Lucifer’s kingdom you dreaded, and the longer you were there the more you longed for your mortal companion whom you assumed had moved on by now as all mortals do. that thought pained you.

and that Morning Star, the Lord of Lies, the Lightbringer - to you, the light-take-away-er. if the scent of sulfur and rotting wood and burning flesh in the air wasn’t enough, you had Lucifer over your shoulder almost constantly, their piercing blue eyes observing, watching, all-seeing and all-knowing of every thought you had about the place. and they absolutely relished in your suffering, which made you all the more infuriated.

what seemed to make you the angriest though was why Lucifer bothered to pester you about how you fell. after all, they didn’t give two fucks about you, your position, your job, how you felt. you constantly refused to tell them, which made them ask more, and more, and more, and more, until they made you snap like a weak tether. until you would scream at them to stop asking, beg them to stop being so fucking nosy so you could wallow in self pity without being mocked and bothered by your fall. and yet they did not care, and carried on anyways.

today was different. you finished your duties, setting the scrub brush back into your bucket and dusting off your white robe that the lightbringer picked for you - and specifically for you, you noticed, because everyone else dressed in a darker solid color. you sighed and lifted the heavy bucket of suds, straining your arms to some extent before a gentle hand laid itself on your shoulder. well, speak of the devil.

“wonderful to see you working so hard, sweetling. i take it you’ve finished your chores, hm?” their voice rang like a gong against your eardrums. you grumbled, turning slowly on your heels to face them.

“yes, my lord.” you answered plainly, gazing down at the dirty soapy liquid in your bucket.

“well… you know, Jophiel, i never thought i would find myself commending you for your hard work, but you’ve polished my floors wonderfully. they’re so pretty, aren’t they? pure quartz tiles. white and angelic.” they wore a small grin, eyes examining you and your figure. that comment seemed to have struck a nerve with you as your brows furrowed, which only made them chuckle in response.

“is there anything else you plan to assign to me, my lord…” you asked with a clenched jaw, feeling like you would’ve blown a gasket then and there.

“why, yes, there is. walk with me, little lamb.” Lucifer held out their hand for you to take, which you did not. their smile faded as they lowered their hand. you set the bucket down, staying close to them, refusing to look at them.

you and Lucifer walked in silence, treading to their chambers. they did not typically allow servants such as yourself in their space, as they seemed to be extremely anxious about it being kept private, but seeing as how they only took interest in you, you knew you were an exception to their peculiar rule of ‘my eyes only’. entering the room bombarded you with… pleasantry, which surprised you, and you gave lucifer a short glance, perking a brow as you looked around and took in the scenery and new scent.

for the first time since you fell you smelled something sweeter than sulfur, something less putrid than rot and death. this was comforting, a sultry vanilla and spice. of course you had never been in here before, why would you be? the newness of it all was almost overwhelming. lucifer took a seat in the sofa nearest the fireplace, leaning forward to pat the chair across from them in which you assumed you were supposed to sit in. as you plopped down into the seat you felt nearly swallowed by the comfortable cushion of the chair, the soft texture of the arms. you gazed around the room again, admiring the carved marble of their fireplace, and their neatly made bed, which they probably made themselves. you didn’t blame them for that.

as much as you hate to admit it, they had quite the sense of decoration and knew what sort of furniture belonged where. it reminded you of your mortal companion’s home… how you missed her.

“my lord,” you cleared your throat, but you dared not make eye contact with them, knowing your place after it was beaten into you by Mazikeen, “why have you called me here… are you going to make a fool of me again? ask me about how i fell?”

the Lightbringer chuckled, reaching for the bottle of wine and two conveniently placed glasses from the small side table next to them, pouring you a glass and one for themself. “no, sweet Jophiel. i think i’ve been going about it all wrong, we are strangers after all, hm? tell me about yourself.”

no. you weren’t strangers. you knew who they were and they knew well who you were by now. you just… did not know enough about them, and they didn’t know much about you besides what they could force out of you.

“i was heaven’s messenger.” you muttered, cautiously taking the glass of crimson liquid they handed to you. “i was one of the elite, the favored, the most beautiful divine.”

“tell me something i haven’t already heard.” they took a small sip from their own glass, side eyeing the fireplace for a moment. “i hear that all the time, what makes you special?”

you were at a loss of words, truly, nearly angered again as they uttered that sentence. you would dare call them blasphemous, but not to their face, or to anyone else. you grumbled as you chose your next words carefully. “i’m special because i nearly had a chance to return.”

Lucifer’s color drained from their face, as if their porcelain skin could get any lighter. for a moment they glared at you with a fire that burned like a thousand furious suns. that was their dream. that’s what they’ve been longing for this whole time and their fucking servant gets the chance? “and, how did you manage to accomplish that feat?”

“i was simply close with the messenger angels. we were all tight knit and spent most of our time together.” you shrugged, finishing off your glass of wine as your eyes slowly met Lucifer’s exasperated gaze.

their look suddenly softened, and a gentle smile pursed their lips. “i’m happy you received that chance. i’m sure you were beyond disappointed with the idea that you were ineligible in the end?”

“i was.” you nodded slowly, watching curiously as Lucifer leaned forward to fill your glass again. this time there was more, as they seemed to no longer care how much you consumed, their sudden pang of hatred towards you creating thick tension.

“what a shame.” they handed you the bottle, not feeling up to another glass as they set theirs to the side. you watched them tap two long fingers against their knee, thinking carefully about their next words. what would they say to you? their eyes occasionally flicked to the bottle of wine in your hands as you poured glass after glass in awkward silence, the silence slowly becoming comfortable silence as you felt warmth rise in your chest, your cheeks flushing, the world around you appearing as though you had astigmatism.

finally breaking the silence you spoke up, drunken thoughts becoming drunken confessions as your soft sigh caught the Lightbringer’s attention. “i miss her.”

“miss whom?” Lucifer asked, perplexed by the randomness of that statement, leaning back against the sofa cushions.

“my mortal…” your speech didn’t slur yet. your mortal? Lucifer was interested now, their attention focused on nothing but you.

“you… loved a mortal?” they blinked, crossing one leg over the other, piecing two and two together.

“yes, loved her so deep, so pure, s’one of the purest mortals…” you looked into the bottom of the bottle, hoping to drown your confessions with more of the red liquor, but the bottle was empty.

“what was her name?” Lucifer asked quietly, hoping they hadn’t overstepped.

“s’was uh…mmm. Destiny.” her name rolled off your tongue like you had spat up the acid from your stomach - with how drunk you were, you probably had by accident. who knew angels were light drinkers. the author certainly knew.

“Destiny…” the name echoed from the Lightbringer’s lips, the way they spoke her name with respect, and not ridicule, as the other angels had done, was relieving. “you fell because you felt for Destiny, little lamb?”

“yes, n’she’s probably looooong gone by now. she was so… she was so beautiful…” you whined. “she had pretty green eyes that brought stained glass to sh-shame, and her sk-kin was beautiful too, was dark n’speckled with porcelain patches…”

— standing before your maker, you could not pray yourself out of this situation. you were guilty and caught red handed before the angelic court, not even necessary to stand trial for your sin. all of your memories played back in your mind like a cassette tape…

…the first time you saw her you were scouting souls, routine work for you, reporting back how many were to come in and how many were to go out. you decided one day to take a break - after all you chose to use a human form, to get closer to the mortals, and you could always return to your work, since you worked at a calm pace. you were fascinated by them, so you decided to be them temporarily whenever you had the chance - and you chose a library to enjoy mortal splendor, in other words, books. the librarian was her, your sweet destiny, helping you choose books, helping you read, helping you, only you in that moment…

…the last moments you spent together, you knew you had to return to heaven. she already knew your secret, already knew what you were and why you were here, and accepted it. parting ways was never easy even if you were doing simple things for her like market runs or even helping with her chores. this was no different, your last hug spent shortly, much to your dismay. you kissed her tenderly and promised her that you would return. you promised her you would come back for her. you promised you would make all of this up to her the next opportunity you got.

but that opportunity never came to you.

now as you uttered no words for your case, your fate set in stone, you gazed into the eyes of your father, who else but God to make this sort of decision, who else but he who judges the harshest in the grand scheme of all things. your eyes flicked back to your fellow angels, their eyes averted from yours, disappointment heavy in their hearts.

you closed your eyes and braced yourself for whatever punishment you were to receive, unexpected that it was to be sent to hell, banished from the heavens. you dropped to your knees and begged for forgiveness and mercy, but you were denied despite your higher status amongst the ranks. a harsh breeze enveloped you, and before you knew it you had tumbled into the gates of hell, your wings burning, nostrils on fire from the scents that filled the air and the smoke that polluted your lungs. —

Lucifer nodded as you explained, listening, as if they were a therapist holding a notepad. “im sorry, Jophiel. truly. i can’t imagine how it feels to fall from the heavens because of your adoration for a mortal with an expiration date… i only know what it’s like to fall and fall from love.”

before you drunkenly scolded them for that comment on the living, you were intrigued by that last bit. you knew Lucifer had fallen, and now that you finally gave in and told Lucifer about yours, it was only fair lucifer told you about their own, every last goddamn detail to make up for their pestering.

“tell me about your fall. i want to know. i want to know everything about it.” you narrowed your eyes on them, watching them think of something to say, before their expression softened and their smile faded.

“i don’t know if that’s wise of me to talk about little lamb.” they focused their gaze on something that wasn’t you. this made you upset.

“you don’t get ta do that to me, Lucifer Morningstar. you done nothing but pester me about how i tumbled down here, jus’ for you to not tell me what happened to you too? boooooooo.” you taunted them, but silenced yourself as they raised their hand to quiet you down.

“fine. i will tell you how the great samael fell.” they sighed and grumbled, looking pained. their fall was a heavy subject, something they had not spoken about in eons, something that they preferred not to speak about. but they supposed it was only fair.

— rebellion.

rebellion and war and love and sin, truly a long, painful battle for the Morning Star, their love for another angel, their pride and their desire for self rule. they did not like being told what to do nor when to do it, especially by God, who made them the angriest. they were the most powerful, bested only by God himself, their abilities unmatched by other angels.

this did not stray them from their love for another angel, Nephele, a soft and kind and tender soul, the only being strong enough to ground and calm the lightbringer when they began their prideful quips and spats with God, or when their tantrums grew worse because of the severity of their punishments.

their last straw came about after having been caught with nephele, tossing peony petals into the fountains and holding hands and quietly admitting their scandalous affections. they had plans to run, to escape, cast themselves out of heaven and make peace with each other’s presence for eternity, how lucifer longed deeply for such, but it never came to fruition.

pleading for forgiveness, Nephele received mercy; Lucifer would not lower themself to that degree, they chose instead to rebel and conquer and destroy. wars were fought, battles were consequential and the consequences in question were severe. heaven became a battlefield and Lucifer was at the forefront before archangel Michael struck them down with force and fear.

Lucifer feared nothing.

but on that day they feared for the life of Nephele.

worried that she would suffer more, Lucifer surrendered. archangel Michael claimed his victory and moved forward on their decision to cast Lucifer out of heaven, banishing them to a hellscape of their own fate, a product of their immense power and strength that kept them locked in for eternity.

and so, the Lord of Lies lost their spirit and their love, their new role to punish and destroy and contain their power to the best of their ability. they have never been happy since losing their faith in the divine. —

you blinked, taking in the story as best you could while being past the point of inebriation. “wow.”

“we are not all that different, you and i.” Lucifer spoke softly, easing the tension between the two of you and earning a giggle from you.

“i s’pose we aren’t, Lucifer.” you raised an empty glass as if you were toasting to that statement, leaning back into the cushions of your seat.

“thank you for telling me your story, Jophiel.” they gave a subtle nod, rising to their feet and gazing down shortly at you.

you met their eyes on you, confused, dazed, seeing two of them, your eyes darting back and forth between the two figures. the Lightbringer’s hands reached for you, their grip gentle as they lifted you under your arms and allowed you to relax in their hold as they carried you to your chambers.

“why are you bein’nice to me?” your speech slurred, and you felt like you were flying, despite Lucifer not moving fast enough to make even sober you feel such a way.

“it would be cruel of me to be unkind to you in this state.”

“but you’re the- the bloody devil, aren’t you s’posed to be evil?” you hiccuped.

“not to drunken fools.” they sighed.

“ohh.”

“mhm.”

Lucifer carefully opened the door to your room, that you had decorated to your liking, which they admired. they set you down against your mattress, watching as your eyes fluttered open and shut and open again, your brain indecisive on whether or not you were to fall asleep.

“rest your head, little lamb. you’ll forget all about this at dawn, i'm sure.” Lucifer’s voice was tempting. your eyes finally settled shut, and you succumbed to your drunken stupor, having drank yourself into unconsciousness.

they watched you fall asleep slowly, staying for some time to ensure you were okay before they let you sleep and rest off the drunken buzz.

perhaps the devil did care after all.

— 🦇🩸

87 notes · View notes

softlyspector · 1 year

Text

Mothers

Summary: A year after his mother’s death, Marc travels back to Chicago to face his father. He doesn’t expect it to be easy but he also doesn’t expect it to be so hard. He especially doesn’t expect to find refuge from the hard moments in a little known witch’s shop a few blocks over. And definitely not in one keeping watch over the family’s piano.

This chapter: Marc is trying. Really, he is. But mothers are never an easy topic. Or, Marc attempts several difficult conversations.

Tales Untold; Part V - Series Masterlist

Pairing: eventual Marc Spector x Reader (eventual minor Steven Grant x Reader and Jake Lockley x Reader)

Word Count: 8.9k

Warnings (this chapter): angst, fluff, Marc Spector's terrible, oblivious flirting, lots of ✨touching✨, known menace Jake Lockley, mental health issues, feelings of guilt, tense relationship with a parent, mentions of past death, mentions of past child abuse

A/N: Hello! Here is the chapter a day early as promised! This part was originally 3k, oops.

I'm still unsure if anyone actually reads the author's notes, but I want to say thank you again. This chapter contains the scene that inspired the series! Memories and relationships are so complicated, especially when your perspective has to shift and you have competing views, and when other things like grief come into play it only makes things more complicated. This chapter tries to tackle that. I'm sure many of you can probably tell, I have issues with my own mother (mine is not like the reader's, or Marc's), and I just want to say thank you for letting me write something so cathartic. Moon Knight in general is really special to me but that facet in particular really hit home and made me question things about myself and my own childhood. I hope it resonates with you all as well and that I've done the topic justice.

Again, I want to give a big thank you to all of you who have been keeping up with this series. I love you so much, and thank you for all the continued love and support. It means everything to me. Comments and feedback are so appreciated! Please let me know if any additional warnings need to be added. For full series warnings, please check the series masterlist, which will be updated as parts are posted!

Tales Untold, Chicago 7:48 PM

Marc sighs loudly through his nose.

“Stop being a pussy about it.”

“Shut the fuck up, Jake.”

Jake promptly flips him off where he’s reflected in the shop’s front windows. Marc just huffs out another breath, irritated, and tunes out his muttering alter. He grips the cold steel rung of the ladder he’s standing on, both for support and to ground himself.

He misses Steven at that moment, because Steven would leave him alone about the date.

Probably.

“...said date -,” Jake continues. “Steven would agree with me. We definitely heard date.”

Or, maybe not.

Steven would probably harass him about it just as much.

“I also heard date, mate,” Steven chimes in agreement suddenly. “Definitely said date.”

Marc rolls his eyes.

So, he wouldn’t then. He would not leave Marc alone about it.

Marc grits his teeth and ignores both of them, reaching a hand out to finger one edge of the curling burnt orange wallpaper.

It’s true. You had said the word date to be sure.

It’s a date, is precisely what you’d said.

But people said that shit all the time. It was just an expression.

You hadn’t meant anything by it.

You couldn’t have.

It was just an expression.

It’s just something people say.

“Fuck off,” he snaps at both of them, when they continue muttering, trying and failing to refocus on the peeling wallpaper in front of him. “You’re distracting me.”

Jake snorts and Steven shushes him.

That little outpouring of emotion had been nearly a week ago, and Marc tries not to regret it. He tries not to let the shame that curls around his shoulders, that grows like a slow moving vine around his lungs and heart, strangle him.

But his heart beats like a caged bird whenever he thinks about it, like it would snap his ribs just to be free from his body. The nervous flutter of his pulse serves to remind him that he’s said too much to you.

That you did not deserve that kind of weight on your shoulders.

“I’ll just go on the fuckin’ date then.”

“You -,” he snarls, rounding on the glass, the ladder wobbling precariously, “- will not.”

Jake just smirks and crosses his arms, like he’s proud of himself for being able to get a reaction out of Marc.

Marc rolls his eyes again, so hard this time it hurts a little.

He’s still getting used to Jake, still trying to come to terms with having him around, especially when Jake seemed content to antagonize him most of the time.

It’s playful, really. Like the annoyance of a sibling that was intent on getting a rise out of him.

Even with Jake’s teasing, he’d much rather be here on the ladder staring at your wallpaper than upstairs.

He feels guilty, for leaving you alone with his father. But agreeing to have him over at your place for dinner at all had been more than enough of a challenge on its own.

It had been hard. To walk his father over to Tales Untold, his safe place, and meet you at the door. It had been hard to watch you smile and tilt your head, and lead them up the stairs. It had been hard to watch you turn your attention onto someone else.

They’d sat around your kitchen island, and you and Elias had done most of the talking while Marc sat silent and tense, not sure how to join a familial, familiar conversation.

You had set a beautiful spread, with candles and your good silverware and crystal, and a tablecloth laid haphazardly across the counter because it wasn’t the right size.

Although Marc hadn’t spoken for most of the meal, he had watched you, and followed the careful way you made your way through the conversation, the way your hands moved when you got excited about something.

He’d even learned things about you - like that you hadn’t finished college and were a server before you moved back to Chicago.

It hadn’t been as awkward or painful as he’d expected it to be. But he feels a large part of that is due to the fact that you were there. He was in your space, your domain, and by extension maybe his own. You’re safe there, and so is he.

He doesn’t like to think about what that means, that he’s become attached not only to you, but to your place. That he’s starting to feel at home there.

Home.

He’s starting to feel at home with you.

His father hadn’t commented on the piano, and Marc still isn’t sure how to feel about it. But when the plates were cleared away and you offered dessert, Marc hadn’t been able to sit still any longer. A strangely nervous energy had sizzled in his veins, washing away any sense of security he usually felt around you.

Family dinners weren’t exactly pleasant experiences for him, and it had been a long time since he was forced into that kind of box, especially with his father.

He shouldn’t have left you alone, but he thinks you probably understand. He’d helped you clear the dishes, before he leaned in next to you at the sink and said, “I’ll wash ‘em later for you. No, listen, please leave ‘em there. I need to go work on the wallpaper downstairs.”

He hadn’t needed to do anything. The wallpaper is your project and certainly not a pressing one.

Your mouth had still been parted, where you’d started to protest his insistence with the dishes, and it had been a struggle to maintain eye contact when all he wanted to do was stare at your mouth. “Okay,” you’d pressed your hand against his forearm, warmth jolting up his arm. You’d slid your thumb along his skin and nodded, “Okay. Go ahead.”

And, despite everything, you and his dad seem to get along fine. You found easy conversation with most people and his dad was no different.

The day before the dinner had been more stressful to you than anything else. You’d fretted over what to make for dinner, and Marc had helped you grocery shop and cook. “My dad keeps kosher,” he’d said while you pushed a shopping cart down an aisle, nervously chattering about what you could make.

You had paused, head tilting to the side. “He does?”

“He’s a rabbi.”

“Oh,” you’d continued pushing the cart before you turned to him with wide eyes. “Oh, my god. Marc, you’ve eaten at my place so many times…It wasn’t - I mean I don’t know if it was kosher -,”

He’d pressed a hand to the small of your back, urging you along, trying and failing to hide a smile. “I don’t keep kosher. My dad does. It’s okay, it would have been on me to tell you if I did.”

You still looked nervous despite his reassurance, anxiously consulting the list of ingredients on your phone as you chewed on your lower lip. “Look, a kinda shortcut is to make something vegetarian. It’s usually kosher that way. And I’ll make sure everything in your kitchen is kosher.”

“Oh! I’m vegetarian.”

Oh, Steven would love that.

“Great,” he had reassured you. “Then we don’t have anything to worry about. I’ll help you. I’ll make sure it’s all fine.”

And he had. And it was. And he’d liked cooking with you, even though it didn’t seem to be something you did all that often.

Marc likes all the little mundane things you do together. Home improvement and grocery shopping and going to the hardware store and cooking.

He shakes the memory away and looks at the wallpaper again, orange and patterned with gold leaf. It’s curling off the walls, peeling down in strips in other places where you’d torn at it with your hands.

You’ve yet to paint your flower boxes, and Marc still hasn’t built you a new sign or finished repointing the brickwork. The fucking bell is still rusted where it hangs above your door.

Only one of the warped glass panels in the wooden front door has been replaced so far. A single pane of colorless glass replaced by a red and yellow image of a bird that you and Steven had made together one evening.

Despite all of those uncompleted projects, he’d caught you on a ladder earlier in the day ripping down strips of wallpaper when there had been a lull in customers. You’d had an odd expression on your face as you did so, one Marc couldn’t read.

Marc stares at the peeling paper, and what lay beneath. He wishes you would have said something before ripping it down. He probably could have salvaged it. The design is pretty.

“Marc!” You call. “C’mere, honey.”

He gut lurches with that pleasant little nickname you’ve gifted him. It feels unfair, like something he should get to call you, not the other way around. You’d first called him that in the hardware store, your hand curled around his bicep when you saved him from the sales person.

“Honey,” Jake coos at him. “Aw.”

“Shut up,” he grumbles before calling out to you, “Comin’!”

Jake cackles, and Marc knows he thinks he’s slick, but it's hard not to notice how much Jake has been showing up lately compared to before.

Jake likes you too, and he’s really only half joking about being the one to take you on a date.

He steps down the ladder to weave through the shelves to the back of the shop.

You’re just stepping down the last few steps of the back staircase, his father in tow behind you.

Before he can reach you, you’ve turned to his father and taken his hands in yours. “Thank you for coming over, Elias. I hope my cooking wasn’t too bad.”

“It was delicious. Thank you…for everything.” Elias’s eyes cut to where Marc stands before flicking back to you, an unreadable look passes between the two of you and he’s left to wonder what Elias means by that, what the two of you talked about.

Marc’s hands curl into uncomfortable fists at his sides, but he makes an effort to smile.

By the snort you try to choke back he doesn’t do a very good job. “You’re very welcome,” you say to his father. “Marc will walk you home.”

Elias blinks over at him again. “You won’t be coming with us?”

“I’m afraid not,” you say apologetically. “I have a lot to do around here. You see how Marc has been terrorizing my wallpaper.”

Marc shifts his gaze to you, glaring. “Right, it’s me terrorizing the wallpaper.”

To Marc’s surprise, his father laughs. “Okay, maybe another time then. For tea or coffee, whatever you prefer.”

You nod, though Marc knows you have no intention of ever accepting an invitation. Not without him, at least.

The thought warms him, just a little, that you wouldn’t even walk over to the house with them, not if Marc didn’t want you to.

He ushers his father ahead of him through the crowded aisles.

But before he can follow, you reach out and cup one hand under his arm, your fingers hooking in the crease of his elbow. “Are you coming back?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” you smile, rub your thumb against the delicate ridge of bone in his arm. “Tonight went well.”

“Yeah,” he agrees.

It did.

Even if he’d had to escape a little early.

You laugh again, though he can’t fathom why. “Okay. I’ll be waiting for you.” Your thumb traces over his skin again, before you release him and turn away.

Milwaukee Avenue, Chicago 8:15 PM

His father is talking about you, moving around the living room slowly, gathering up a book and his reading glasses.

Elias likes you a lot.

Since Marc’s breakdown, since he finally explained to his father how hard it is to be at home, things have been less strained between them. A certain tension still lingers in the air, but not as thick as it had. It’s possible to breathe now, possible to stand still.

His father seems to understand why it's hard for Marc to be in the house, why it's hard for him to be around Elias himself. And Marc supposes it's a good enough start.

Nothing between them is fixed and Marc isn’t sure it ever can be. He doesn’t know if he wants to try, if he wants to reconcile.

Is there anything to reconcile?

It’s the one question he consistently comes back to. He doesn’t know if what had been fractured between them can ever be fixed again, or overlooked.

“Are you heading back over to Tales Untold?” Elias asks as he settles in an armchair, his book on his knees.

“Yeah.”

Marc considers leaving then, just turning around and walking out the door without another word. But speaking with his father has become easier in the last week, like Marc broke the protective seal of cordiality that made both of them quiet.

He can do this. He can ask.

Elias looks surprised when Marc sits down in the opposite armchair and adjusts himself uncomfortably. “We gotta talk about the piano.”

His father slips his glasses on and then peers at Marc over the rim. “Okay, Marc.”

“We gotta talk about everything.” He swallows, remembering the way he’d broken the week before, dashed his heart on the rocks of the house.

For you. Because he was protective and worried about you.

But he doesn’t know if he can do all of that in one day. To ask about the alcoholism and the abuse and why his mother had hated him so much and why his father let her hate him.

“Not right now, though.” You’re waiting for him to come back, and he says as much.

His dad smiles at that, the twist of his mouth soft, and Marc can’t understand why it would garner that reaction. Marc doesn’t comment on it, decides he doesn’t want to know. “Why,” he starts, mouth dry suddenly, his tongue like sandpaper. “Why did you donate the piano?”

Elias’s shoulders relax, the tension bleeding out of them. “I know you think the worst of me, Marc. And I can’t really blame you. The two of us…we’re not good at talking. We never have been.”

Marc nods and waits, because it’s not an answer to his question.

The muscle along Marc’s spine pulls tight while he waits for an answer, like he’s on marionette strings about to be cut.

“Your mother never played the piano after Randall died, and neither did you. When you left, I still had hope that you’d come home. But when she died, that left me. Neither of you were ever going to play it again.” He glances away, “It reminded me too much of you. It was painful to look at.”

Marc goes still, trying to piece together what his father had just said.

Reminded him of Marc. Given away because it hurt, not because he was being erased, not because it reminded him of Wendy. It reminded him of Marc.

“I have to get back to Tales Untold,” Marc says abruptly, standing up sharply.

Elias nods, “You should just stay there. You’d probably sleep better.”

The suggestion catches Marc off guard. “I can’t just -,”

His father shrugs. “You could ask.” Before he cracks open the novel, he says, “We talked about Shabbat. You should both come to a service one Saturday. Together.”

“I…you did?”

“Yes,” he shrugs. “Seemed interested.”

He’s not sure why he says it, he should just turn and leave. “We had to go shopping for ingredients,” Marc says.

And then, before he can convince himself not to say anything more, tells his father about how you’d been nervous about cooking for him, and about the kosher incident at the grocery store.

Elias smiles and then laughs. “I think you’ve found a really good person.”

The words well up inside him, the urge to tell his father he doesn’t know what a good person is, not really. But the words die in his mouth, because it feels like an insult to you.

Because his father is right about that, at least.

You’re an inordinately good person.

“Goodnight, dad.”

His father doesn’t look up from his book, “Goodnight, son.”

Tales Untold, Chicago 8:58 PM

By the time he makes it back to Tales Untold, you’ve managed to rip down the wallpaper on an entire exposed wall.

“Well,” you plant your fist on your hip and examine the yellowed wall beneath, your other hand still tailing a strip of paper. “I suppose I’ll have to clean the wall.”

“Then what?” He leans back against one of the shelves, crossing his arms over his chest.

You purse your lips, humming under your breath. “Maybe I’ll paint a mural.”

“Oh yeah?” He watches your mouth twist, the flick of your eyes over the blank wall, like you’re seeing more than the empty space. “Why’d you want the wallpaper down anyways? We coulda fixed it back up.”

“Reminds me of my mom,” you say, suddenly bending down to gather up the paper left on the floor, bunching it up between your palms. “I mean,” your mouth twists to the side a little as you consider the wall. “This is all her. Not me.”

A sense of vertigo sweeps through Marc, because he associates everything here with you. “It is?”

You hum in confirmation but don’t look at him, your eyes firmly glued to the paper in your hands. “Upstairs. That’s my stuff. But everything else. The shop and everything out front was hers.”

And Marc becomes very suddenly aware of the fact that he’s never asked you. He knows nothing about your past, not really. In his mind, you’ve just always been there, standing in the sunlight at the back of the shop.

He almost bites down the question. But he’s already tried his hand at one hard conversation, maybe he could do it again.

“What…uh, what happened?”

You turn and smile at him. “You don’t have to ask,” you say before walking away.

Marc frowns after you before following. “Yeah well, I wanted to.”

You stuff the long ribbons of ruined wallpaper into the bin behind the counter, leaning into the wood with your head propped on your fist. “I lived with my dad out of state. Chicago isn’t really my home, but I spent every summer here with my mom. I think she - I think she was like me. I think she felt things from the stuff people donated.”

Marc leans opposite you, leaving one hand open and extended toward you. He hopes it's not too obvious, that he’s hoping you’ll reach out and fold your fingers between his.

He feels a spike of jealousy sometimes, for how easily Steven touched you and how easily you accepted his touch. He doesn’t know for sure if it’ll be the same with him as it is with Steven.

You don’t immediately take his hand, but that’s okay.

Jake is reflected in a nearby case, gesturing at you. “Just do it.”

He ignores him, giving the tiniest shake of his head.

“Maybe that’s why you thought you knew me,” you say, mouth quirking in a smile. “Maybe we saw each other in the summer around the neighborhood.”

He nods, “Yeah, maybe. You think this thing is hereditary?”

“Maybe. We never talked about it so maybe she was just intuitive.” You shrug and then reach to take his hand as Jake calls him a coward for waiting. “Anyways, she passed away last year.” You squeeze his hand, “It was right around the time your dad donated the piano.”

You slide your fingers over his wrist, and Jake has gone quiet in the reflection of the case, carefully watching you. “I was meant to clean this place out. Sell it. I’d already gone through most of her things in the apartment and I was just starting on the shop when your dad came by. Something about it…I dunno, I felt like I should stay. Not like I had a career anyways. I never finished college and this place was paid off a long time ago so,” you shrug. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed the rest of the street got gentrified. I wouldn’t be able to afford it otherwise.”

You’re rambling a little, your words nervous in a way they’re usually not.

You look up and meet his eyes. “It gave me peace. I kept it for you as much as I kept it for me. I should have told you that before.”

He remembers the way you’d went still when you realized what piano he’d been looking for the first day he stumbled into the shop, the guarded, watchful cut of your gaze before he explained who he was.

Marc watches you for a long time, trying and failing to grip at the emotions twisting and roiling inside him. He’s not sure what exactly he’s feeling.

Both your mothers’ deaths had brought you together. His father had. The piano had.

Without any of that, he would have never had cause to come over to Tales Untold. He would have never had cause to meet you at all.

“I just left everything alone after that. Well, I moved my things in and repainted upstairs. But now, thanks to you and your criticisms of my storefront,” you smile and roll your eyes, “I decided I should make it more me. Y’know? Like upstairs.” You fidget again, glancing away from him, your grin fading.

Marc nods, still not sure what to say, the weight of something unknowable setting on his lungs. He never really considered that he might be impacting your life in any way. This weight isn’t uncomfortable, not like it usually is.

Your hands are still stroking over his, the pressure of your fingers pleasant and warm, soothing, and he doesn’t know what to say.

“I liked the orange.”

You grin, the sudden beam of your smile blinding him. “I did too. It just needs an update. I don’t want to erase the character of the shop. And I don’t want to erase her.”

Marc doesn’t know how to respond to that, since he’s had days he wished he could erase his mother. “I’m sorry,” he says, even though you’ll have no idea what he’s apologizing for.

“Hey,” you press your fingertips to the pulse point in his wrist. “It doesn’t erase your feelings, honey. It doesn’t make -,” you stop and take a breath. “She wasn’t perfect either, y’know. She was only a good mom when it suited her, and only when I got older. It’s why I lived with my dad. Even though it was complicated, I still loved her.” Your voice is quiet, “I think you struggle with that too.”

He doesn’t want to admit that. It makes thinking about Wendy all the harder, thinking about his past all the harder. “I don’t -,” he stops, meeting your gaze.

The shop is usually flooded with natural light. Now, you stand cocooned together in the low overhead lights. It casts odd shadows across your face, and a sudden exhaustion hits him all at once.

You don’t pull away, waiting. “It’s okay,” you soothe, still working the tension out of his hands.

“I don’t want to miss her,” he shifts, cradling your hands between his, slowly sliding his touch along your palms and the falls and valleys of your fingers. “That’s…it’s fucked up. I shouldn’t fucking miss her. I shouldn’t remember anything good and the piano -,”

He stops again, not able to continue. “I understand,” you muse. “It’s obviously not the same. But sometimes, I’m mad at her. She didn’t want to change who she was to be my mom. At the same time, I had a lot of good times with her.”

Marc looks up from your twinned hands at the same time that you do.

You disentangle one hand to shift an errant curl back from his face. “It’s okay to miss her. It’s okay to mourn who she was before. It’s okay to miss and mourn the mother she should have been to you. It doesn’t make what she did to you any less terrible than it was. It just means things are complicated. It just means you’re human.”

Marc doesn’t look away from you, chasing the cut of your gaze. Your lashes lie thick against your cheek when you look down, like you’re embarrassed about all you’ve shared. He doesn’t want you to stop talking. He’d listen to you forever. He doesn’t want you to be embarrassed about sharing things with him.

Instead of saying any of that to you, he nods slowly and says, “How’d you figure all that out?”

“It’s all I’ve thought about for the last year,” you shrug. “I’ve spent a lot of time with myself. I mean, you’ve probably noticed that you’re kinda my only friend,” you joke lightly.

“That’s not true.”

“Name one other person.”

“That girl at Flour Up. The hardware guy.”

You smile. “Okay, Marc Spector, the hardware guy is definitely a better friend to me than you are.”

“He’d like to be though, wouldn’t he?” Marc mutters, thinking of the other times you’ve had to go to the hardware store with him. Your laugh breaks the tension, the edges of your eyes crinkling up before he adds, “Steven, too.”

You before he can stop you, you’re tugging your hand out of his grip.

His grief only lasts a second though, because a moment later you’ve rounded the counter and yourself fitted into his arms, hugging him tightly. “You’re safe here,” your mouth is by his ear, your voice soft, and he can feel the movement of your jaw where it’s tucked against his shoulder. “You can talk to me.”

“I know.” And he does. “My dad said to ask if I could stay here.”

“You can stay here,” you say, even though it wasn’t a question. “Always.”

Marc turns you gently in his arms, presses you back into the counter. Your hands fly up to press against his biceps, your hands warm through the fabric of his t-shirt. “What?” You smile at him when he doesn’t say anything.

“My dad told me that he got rid of the piano because it gave him hope I’d come home. When my mom died, that hope died. He was alone. The piano was hope for him. It reminded him too much of me. And before.”

You blink, “What’s the piano for you?”

Home. It’s home.

It reminds him of his mother and what should have been.

He doesn’t answer you.

But you nod anyway and stroke a careful hand across his shoulders, drawing him in closer. You’re warm against him, pliant and relaxed against his chest.

You smell like peace, like warmth and that signature lavender.

Marc decides to accept the moment for what it is, whether he should or not, gripping you back tight. He slides one hand up your spine until he can cup his palm against the back of your neck, the other winds around your waist.

For a moment, he thinks your breath stutters, before it rushes out of you in a sigh and you soften against him.

It’s a show of trust he didn’t know he needed.

You hold him just as tightly, adjusting your grip around his ribs.

“Ask.” It’s Steven this time. “You’re clearly flirting with each other. Go on, Marc, ask about the date.”

He closes his eyes to Steven’s reflection and shakes his head as subtly as he can.

Marc doesn’t let go of you.

He doesn’t ask you either.

Tales Untold, Chicago 11:24 PM

Marc does the dishes, just like he’d promised to.

Like always, he refuses your help but lets you watch.

You stand close to him, just so you can feel the heat rolling off his skin. And although you want to touch him again, you don’t.

He’s much quieter than usual, and for someone like Marc that means he’s practically nonverbal.

He doesn’t seem upset, merely introspective.

But it doesn’t stop anxiety from swimming in your belly, worried you’d overstepped yourself downstairs.

Your situation with your mother was very different to his, that much you know even if you don’t know the details.

When he’s done with the dishes and the water is draining away you decide to give him a bit of space. “I’m going to take a quick shower.” A knot of unease rests uncomfortably in your throat that you aren’t sure how to swallow down. You aren’t quite sure what it means.

Despite the worry rooting down in your veins, you manage to smile at him, showing him where the remote to your TV is. “If you’re still hungry, the leftovers are in the fridge and there are snacks pretty much in any cabinet you open. Okay?”

“Okay.” He only answers you when the door to the bathroom is nearly closed behind you.

You suck in a breath and try to put Marc out of your mind and how much you’d said.

Too much probably, considering what you had been talking about. Marc is already so closed up, you should have just left it. He didn’t need your shit weighing on him too.

A laugh escapes you and you press a hand over your mouth, stifling the laughter when you remember accusing Marc of being closed off.

Maybe you were the same, and overthinking it too.

You can’t find it in yourself to regret touching him though. The memory of the warmth of him against you fills you both with an odd peace and a giddy nervousness. You’d never wanted to move.

You stare at the crescents in the tile under your feet, remembering the heat of his shoulder beneath your cheek, the scent of him something heady and uniquely Marc, the way his palm felt both possessive and protective on the back of your neck.

You shake your head as you step in the shower, trying to clear away the wings of thought that closeness carried.

Marc trusts you with the pieces of himself as he works through something you only half understand. You can’t break that, you won’t.

The warmth of the water serves to wash away some of the tension lining your spine, ease the anxiety still bubbling inside you.

You don’t want to admit it, but you’re eager to be back with Marc.

You roll your eyes at yourself and flip off the water, annoyed.

It feels like a crush. It makes you feel stupid, like you’re a kid again, how much you like him.

It takes you a moment to hear it, over the sound of the bathroom fan and the still dripping water from the showerhead while you towel off.

Piano notes.

A song is being played slowly and deliberately, a little clumsily as though the person hasn’t played in a very long time.

You find yourself smiling as you listen. Still dripping water onto the floor, you wrap the towel around your body and step out of the shower to push your ear against the door.

Marc seems to pick up confidence the longer he plays, the notes faster and more sure, though he does make quite a few mistakes.

He plays beautifully, if a little inelegantly, the same song you usually play for him. You close your eyes and listen, not sure what it means that Marc is finally playing the piano. You pull away from the door and go through your after shower routine as quickly as you can before dressing, not able to wipe the smile off your face, worries forgotten.

You half expect the music to stop as soon as you have the door open, but it doesn’t.

Marc doesn’t even glance up as you creep closer and perch on the edge of the bench, like he isn’t entirely aware that you’re there.

You don’t touch him, just listen quietly for as long as he plays, itching to play alongside him but not daring to interrupt.

When the song eventually tapers off, Marc doesn’t turn to you, like he’s afraid to look at you.

You scoot closer to him on the bench then, until your shoulder bumps his.

His breath hitches when you pillow your head against his shoulder. “Beautiful,” you murmur. “Really.”

Marc carefully lies his cheek against the crown of your head. “Thanks. Little rusty.”

“Not too bad,” you hum. “I’m definitely the better player though.”

You think you feel his lips ghost against your temple, but you can’t be sure.

The feeling is so brief, you’re sure you imagined it. But you definitely feel the little huff of a laugh against your forehead. “Yeah, you are.”

He lifts his head away from yours, but his hand finds yours, the warmth of his palm enveloping yours.

You don’t try to hide your smile when you stand and attempt to tug him up from the bench. “C’mon. That’s enough emotional turmoil for one day.”

Marc manages a laugh but doesn’t follow the pull of your touch. “What?” you ask when he just looks at you.

For a moment, you think maybe you’re looking at Steven and you just hadn’t noticed the switch, before you realize Marc just has his guard down. His gaze is wide and gentle. The ease of trust makes him look younger, looser.

“What?” you repeat. “What’s wrong, honey?”

That word on your tongue seems to pull him out of his thoughts, whatever doubt was making him hesitate.

“C’mere,” he says, his eyes going soft and shaded. “There’s somethin’ I wanna show you.”

You tilt your head and watch curiously as Marc releases your hand and stands. He pushes the piano bench out of the way, and then folds himself to lie beneath the piano.

Intrigued, you bend at the waist and meet his eyes. “Is this your way of telling me you wanna sleep there?”

He rolls his eyes. “Just c’mere. I’m trying to show you something,” he grumbles.

You straighten and pluck a pillow off the sofa before returning to him.

It’s shadowed beneath the piano, the air cooler than the rest of the apartment. You tap Marc’s forehead so he lifts his head and you can fit the pillow beneath his head before you settle next to him.

He’s warm, his skin molten where it presses against yours, and that odd little flutter returns to your chest.

You don’t even consider looking up, tilting your chin in his direction instead. His lashes look impossibly long against the arch of his cheekbone, his skin golden brown in the soft lighting. The dusk of the little cocoon you’ve created in the shade of the piano feels strangely safe and peaceful.

You wonder how much of that is Marc’s presence, and how much is the piano’s energy.

Marc’s normally stormy expression breaks and he smiles at you suddenly, letting you watch him before he reaches out and taps two fingers under your chin. “I know I’m pretty, but you can stare at me some other time.”

You scoff, despite the prickle of embarrassment that itches under your skin. “Sure, flatter yourself, Marc.”

Marc just guides your head up, until you’re staring at the underside of the piano.

Etched into the wood are two sets of initials.

M.S. R.S.

“Oh,” you say, reaching up to trace the outline of letters clearly made by a child’s clumsy fingers. “M S, Marc Spector,” you whisper and trace the letters slowly. “Who’s R?”

Marc doesn’t immediately answer. When you hear him swallow loudly, you turn your head to look at him, hand settling atop your stomach when you lower it. “Marc?”

“My brother. Randall.”

“Randall,” you repeat. “Right. Your dad mentioned that when he dropped it off. Said you and your brother played it together.”

Marc nods, just the slightest dip of his chin. “Yep. We did.” He reaches up and traces the letters now, and you watch his face carefully. He’s nervous, but otherwise fine. “That was before he died.”

“Oh,” you murmur. “I didn’t know. I’m so sorry, Marc.”

He turns to you, eyes flicking over your face. “Look, I don’t wanna - we don’t gotta talk about it.”

“Do you wanna talk about it?” When he just stares at you, you tilt your face toward his. You turn on your side and tuck your knees up against the side of his. Something warm roots down in you when he presses his hand over your waist and helps you wriggle closer to him. “It’s not about me, honey.”

His brows furrow. “Why do you call me that?”

“‘Cause you’re sweet,” you tease and smirk when he rolls his eyes. He leaves his hand where it rests against your waist, his wrist draped casually on your hip. His fingers flex on the edge of your t-shirt, fiddling with the edge of it, when he turns fully toward you on his side.

“I don’t know how,” he admits, fingers tightening on you, like he’s afraid you might slip away.

You tilt forward carefully, until your forehead rests against his. Marc keeps his eyes open and on yours. His eyes are like amber, threads of coffee and umber darkening his irises. Pretty, expressive eyes dig into yours, rounded with something you can’t identify. “No one really does. It’s not easy.”

“Was it easy for you? Talking about your mom?” His nose touches yours, his breath warm where it fans over your lips and chin.

It’s a little hard to breathe, even harder to focus.

Really, you think, no person should be allowed to be so beautiful.

“No,” you manage to laugh. You hadn’t talked about your mother since she died, since her funeral. “I went in the bathroom and panicked about how much I said,” you admit, and Marc frowns at you, starts to open his mouth when you continue. “It took a lot of…of y’know, internal work, to make peace with it. Only really started to get past the grief and confusion when you showed up.”

You fold one of your hands into his chest, trying not to feel nervous about the closeness, the vulnerability. It would be so easy to roll into him, to press yourself into his chest and absorb the heat of him. “Really?”

“Mmhm,” you hum. “Reminded me that this place can still change, and so can I. I’ve been like a bug trapped in honey. Everyday was the same. Long shifts and terrible dates. And then you showed up.”

Marc blinks, like he’s confused, like he never considered that he might be impacting your life. At least not in a positive way.

It’s quiet for a long time, and you shift to tuck your head under his chin, so you were both more comfortable and the position was slightly less awkward.

Marc does tuck his arm fully around you then, dragging you closer.

You can feel his eyes on the underside of the piano, on his brother’s initials.

“He died when we were kids,” Marc swallows and the sound of it is like grief and mourning. “That’s when she changed. He wasn’t there and she was different. My dad didn’t know what to do. And I was…alone.”

You try to piece together what exactly Marc is trying to say. He has a way of speaking cryptically, saying one thing that was coded for something else. He always treads lightly, like he’s trying to lighten the load of whatever he’s passing on, making the smallest mark possible.

You think of the way he’d told you about what happened the night you met Steven. How he’d said he was stretched thin, a mild turn of phrase for what had clearly been mind numbing fear. The strength of his grief had been enough evidence, the tears and stress and those tiny broken blood vessels beneath his eyes.

“So,” you hazard a guess, “you only have nice memories of both of them with the piano?”

He relaxes against your hand when you press it up the length of his spine. “Yeah.”

“That’s why it’s so important.”

“Yes. And I don’t think -,” he struggles with the words for a long moment, clutching you tighter. “I don’t think I got to mourn. Either of them. I wasn’t allowed.”

You rub his back quietly and wait to see if he’ll say more.

You already knew, you could tell, that Marc just sits with pain, buries it, ignores it. But to hear him admit it shocks you a little.

When he stays quiet, hands drifting over your back and along your sides as though grounding himself in you and the fabric of your shirt, you say, “You have time now. I’m glad you came to get it. It’s okay. To have good memories, of both of them. It’s okay to want the chance to mourn.”

Marc’s arms tighten around you, and you burrow down into him, resting your face against his chest.

You consider asking him if he’d like to move somewhere more comfortable, but you’re already comfortable with him and sleep pulls you under too quickly.

When you wake, Marc’s arms are tight around you, your head pillowed on his chest where he’d turned onto his back.

The sun has long ago risen, and Marc is still asleep.

Halsted Street, Chicago 4:56 PM

Marc watches the hardware guy flirt with you again from the rearview mirror. This is your fifth trip to the store since the first one.

You had decided to layer neon lettering over the new sign Marc was making for you, smiling at him apologetically when he’d groaned. “Now we gotta go back to the hardware store.”

“Sorry,” you’d said. “I know you hate having to go out with me.”

His stomach had done a weird little somersault at your words. “That’s not - that isn’t why -,”

“Marc?”

“What?”

“I’m joking,” you’d winked at him. “I know you hate my hardware store friend.”

He’d just grumbled, “We should go to another fucking hardware store.”

But you are attached to this one now, the one Marc had dragged you to in the first place. It’s something he’s slowly come to realize about you, that you easily get attached to things and routines and people.

He hopes you’re a little more attached to him than that fucking sales associate with a crush.

At the end of the day, though, he’s just some guy with a crush too.

“Crush, eh?” Steven is watching you from the side mirror of the truck. “Me too, I think.”

Marc watches Steven for a moment, his eyes flicking back to where you laugh with the sales guy, still chatting about something in the afternoon sun. It’s hot, summer falling on the city with a vengeance. Your shoulders are partially bare to the sun, and you have one hand lifted to shield your eyes despite having sunglasses clutched in your other hand.

Steven is watching you too, his eyes round and big, like cartoon hearts are about to start floating around his head at any moment.

He’s put off telling Steven about the piano, and he’s been more than patient, even if he’s begun harassing Marc daily about the Cubs game that may or may not be an actual date.

It had only gotten worse since he slept with you in his arms, under the piano no less. He’d tried to stay awake that night, so he could have the memory of holding you that way, apparently completely at ease, relaxed enough with him to fall asleep.

The teasing from Jake had been brutal, while Steven had been delighted. “Nice innit?” he’d asked none too casually.

He told you about Randall and his mom. He asked his dad about the fucking piano.

Steven deserves to know, too.

He can do one more hard conversation, he’s done it twice already.

Besides, Steven always knew better than him anyways, was better at seeing up from down.

“Steven,” he says, catching his alter’s attention from where he’s staring at you with lovestruck eyes. “I wanna tell ya about the piano.”

“Bloody hell, Marc, right now?” He blinks away from you to Marc.

When Marc just stares, he nods. “Alright then. Go on,” he encourages quietly. “I’m all ears.”

Marc swallows, leans his head against the frame of the door. “Mom and me used to play the piano all the time.” He swallows, “All my - everything I remember is good.”

The image of the living room bathed in gold swirls back to the front of his memory. The dust motes, the laughter, the quiet of a Saturday morning.

For a moment, he can’t continue, his throat swelling closed with unshed tears. “That’s - that’s a good thing, innit?” Steven asks gently.

Marc swipes at his face even though no tears have escaped. “Yeah. I guess so. But it feels fucked up to - to miss her.” Steven sucks in a breath but Marc barrels on. “I can’t be angry at something that was good. When Randall - when he died, we stopped playing it. We never touched it again.” He presses his head back into the headrest and closes his eyes to Steven. “How am I supposed to hate her when I remember loving her so much?”

“Oh,” Steven whispers, his breath a rush, like he finally understands. “You can do both, I think. I do.”

“You do?”

Steven sounds meek when he answers, “Well, yes. It was hard. Knowing all the love I remembered, well, that it came from you. And knowing-knowing what she did to us. It was hard. It is hard.” Marc opens his eyes to meet Steven’s gaze. “She loved us. We’re allowed to love that part of her. No matter what came later.”

A tear does track down his cheek then, and Marc hastily swipes it away. “Yeah,” he croaks. “Well, that’s why the piano is so hard.” Steven nods, encouraging. “It’s not just about mom though, it's about Roro too.”

“Randall played the piano too?”

“I was just - I had just started teaching him. He wasn't good at it. It came naturally to me. One morning, we - instead of practicing, we scratched our initials into the bottom of it.” Marc stops and checks the rearview mirror, to make sure you’re okay, to make sure you’re still there but not approaching the truck yet.

You’re smiling, one hand still lifted to shade your eyes.

“Anyways,” Marc says, glancing back at Steven. “I don’t like having good feelings about any of it. It feels wrong. Like I’m forgiving her.”

The image comes unbidden again. The warmth of the living room, Wendy’s hands over his, the sound of prayer and breakfast being cooked, the dust motes hanging suspended in the air; Randall begging Marc to show him how to play, even though his hands were much too small.

He hates that he remembers laughter and love when his mom bent down to ask them what they were doing under the piano. She hadn’t even gotten mad when she discovered what they’d done, just smiled and held out a hand, beckoning them out.

“You can have both,” Steven says. “It’s alright, Marc. It doesn’t have to be all bad.”

It’s the same thing you’d said to him.

But it had been easier when it was all bad, simpler.

“I know,” he says. “I think I do.”

Steven starts to respond when the passenger side door opens suddenly and you climb into the cab. “Marc,” you say his name, huffing out a wild breath as you adjust yourself in the seat and yank your seatbelt into place. “We gotta go get some ice cream. It’s so fucking hot,” you swipe a hand over your sweaty brow. “It’s full of tourists, but do you wanna try Navy Pier?”

If it were all bad, he thinks suddenly, maybe he wouldn’t have met you. If it were all bad, he wouldn’t have found out that his father missed him, he wouldn’t have had a reason to hunt for the piano and visit Tales Untold.

Marc reaches over and takes your hand, folds your fingers between his. He says your name and when you meet his eyes, your smile disappears, replaced with a fretful expression. “What?”

“Nothin’,” he shakes his head.

You reach up with your other hand and touch his cheek, the corner of your mouth twitching upwards again. “Alright, go ahead and be cryptic and weird.”

“Hey,” he catches at your hand when you start to pull away. You look beautiful, your skin is glowing. Marc tries not to stare and fails. “We gotta get tickets. If you still wanna go to a Cubs game.”

You blink at him; long, slow blinks where your lashes kiss the space beneath your eyes. “Yeah? I thought you were getting them.” You tilt your head, “And then - pizza after? Isn’t that what we said?”

You’re close to him, your eyes wide as you lean closer to him over the center console. You smell like sunshine, like sun on skin, and beneath that like your usual lavender.

Marc presses your hand harder against his cheek, tipping his head towards yours. Your breath shakes when you inhale and your mouth parts gently when you glance down at his lips.

He wants to kiss you so bad there’s an ache in his chest. But he keeps his eyes on yours, your breath fanning across his lips, the scent of you like sweet mint.

When you meet his eyes, you look mildly confused, and Marc wonders for just a split second if you’re as unsure as he is.

Your eyes flick down again, and Marc watches your face curiously. There are no walls between you. He doesn’t feel like he has to hide anything from you. You’d already caught him at his very worst.

So, he should do this right - shouldn’t he?

He should wait. Do it properly. He’s never gotten the chance before, not really.

He clears his throat and inches back from you, pulling your hand away from his cheek as he goes, patting your fingers gently. The last thing he wants to do is let go of you, and so he doesn’t, folding your fingers between his instead. “Yeah, I can get us tickets. Just wanted to make sure you still wanted to go.”

You smile and then narrow your eyes. “Did you forget about it or something?”

Marc scoffs, feels the beat of the pulse in your wrist against his. Like he could fucking forget about it. “Of course not.”

“Not,” you repeat with the same inflection, a tease in your voice. “Listen to that accent.”

You glance over him, a strange fondness lodging in your eyes. “You alright? Looked like you were thinking pretty hard about something.” You reach up when he doesn’t answer to push a lock of hair behind his ear, like you’ve done a million times before.

But this time you say, “You should let your curls out more.”

Your fingers brush along his temple, the pads of your fingers soft. Marc basks in the warmth of your attention, the feeling of your hand against his skin.

“You like the curls, huh?”

You huff out a laugh and ruffle his hair until it falls in loose rings around his forehead.

He glares at you, and you throw your head back and laugh. The sound is unbelievable in its joy and he’s surprised he managed to draw it out of you.

Marc’s breath catches somewhere in his lungs, and he finds it hard to swallow down the feelings welling up.

Should he wait? Should he do anything at all?

This can’t last, this happiness in you. It never does, not when he’s around.

He hates the uncertainty that snaps a steel trap around his heart. But it's true, it’s always been true that people are better off without him.

You smile and twist a curl around your finger. “Look how pretty,” you coo at him.

Marc finds himself leaning into your hand when you cup his jaw. He wants to close his eyes and melt into it because he can’t be sure how long it will last. Your fingertips are just brushing his cheek when -

“Stop it. We are not doing this again, Marc. Stop thinking like that, asshole,” Jake says from the rearview mirror so suddenly that Marc flinches away from your touch.

You suck in a hard breath, and unlike the other times, it’s not a pleasant sound. “Sorry,” you pull back from him, looking horrified as you drop your hand.

“No,” he reaches for you again. “No, it’s -,”

You lift a brow, move your hand out of his reach, “It’s what?”

“Not you,” he shakes his head. “It’s not you.” He glances at Jake, who has the gall to lift a brow at him though he does look guilty for startling him, and then back at you.

“Oh,” you murmur.

Your face is closed off now, your smile a little strained, and he can’t tell what you’re thinking. “Okay.” You swallow, “I wanna go. With you. Just to be clear.”

Marc isn’t really sure what to say as you tuck yourself back into the seat, practically against the door, readjusting the seat belt before you fiddle with the radio, not looking at him, like you’re trying to give him space he doesn’t want.

He sighs, glares at the rearview where only his own face stares back at him now. He should know by now to take the chances offered to him, because nothing ever goes right otherwise.

He wonders again, why he even tries.

And this time, Jake isn’t there to interrupt him.

Thank you for reading! A special thank you to those keeping up with the series, and for all the continued love and support.

Comments and feedback are so appreciated. New parts will be posted Saturdays at 3PM EST! You can add yourself to the tag list on the series masterlist.

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azrielgreen · 4 months

Note

I feel like no matter how hard I try I can’t get over jealousy and insecurity and constantly comparing myself to other writers in the fandom. It’s either I don’t write enough, or I don’t write fast enough, I don’t write interesting or unique enough. If I get kudos, someone gets more, if I get comments, someone gets more thoughtful comments. It’s like a dark spiral in my brain. Do you have any tips on pushing through despite all the inner turmoil and noise? I’d be very grateful for your help!! 🖤

Hello, love, I'm sorry for the delay in answering. I wanted to give your Ask the proper attention in answering it.

Comparison is the death of joy.

I think jealousy and comparison in fandom is rife and no matter how much positivity and success someone projects, they too have had their dark moments comparing hit counters and kudos. In a fandom of THIS size it's deeply unhealthy, I personally believe, for us all to be so interconnected and visible.

I also believe that writers should write for themselves and the joy of creating something and crafting it, never expressly FOR the outcome of comments/attention but of course, that's becoming the norm now. People write to be popular. I see so many people at this point in the fandom not getting anywhere near the same amount of interactions they were a year ago, so comparisons and jealousy unfortunately become widespread, and equally, cliques begin to form to police the remaining attention as it slowly simmers down.

My tips for pushing through this would be first and foremost, write for yourself. Keep your true passion alive by writing what you fucking LOVE! Writing for other people will only ever go so far because attention wanders, interest fades and hyperfixations dissolve. If you write for yourself first, and share second, then you'll always be true to your inner creator and you'll always have ideas, passions and authentic stories coming alive inside you.

Secondly, and I know how hard this is for people, but stop comparing as much as you can. There will always be someone who has more than you and there are people who have less than you. Writing is art, art is to make people feel things they would not otherwise feel. To provoke humanity and lead us towards self exploration. To give comfort, empathy, guidance, joy, cathartic heartbreak and much more! I think so much of the true meaning of writing has been lost by the imposing domination of social media in fandom. I always recommend people trying to find that spark again, that little flash of magic that reminds you why you started.

And thirdly, this is hardest to hear, I know, but when you feel like this, it's usually a good indication to take a break. When you feel anxious, unhappy or low, you're going the wrong way. Move away from what is causing this, especially if it's anything on the internet - a dangerous and often toxic microcosm with an echo chamber effect.

Writing in real life is a beautiful thing, too.

Write something just for you, don't tell anyone, then orphan it, never read the comments, and move on. Rekindle your passion however you can, romanticise your methods, find new sources of inspiration and above all, please, have fun! and if you're not having fun in fandom - a place intended for fun and fuck all else - then please, take a break, love. Nothing is more important than your mental health.

P.S - also take into a account how MASSIVELY skewed A03 stats are due to longevity/legacy fics. There is ✨NO WAY ON EARTH✨ if I posted YD today it would make it into the top 1000 fics out of 24k and that would be wonderful still, that has always been my experience in the past. No comparison is ever justified or solid and it is truly the death of joy. Write for you, for your friends, and the people who will read it in 10 years time who NEED it. Nothing else matters.

💜💜💜

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crezz-star · 7 months

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CREZZ⭐STAR

( do not reblog. this is just a pinned post.... )

Greetings! I'm Crezz! I DRAW WHAT I WANT and what I love and give me inspiration. I found myself drawn to Isekai fantasy genres lately! I also love sparkles, color gold/yellow, cats and DMC's NERO, very very much! ✨✨✨✨

I like games / manga / anime / comic though I do have my favorites that will be stated below:

✨ Devil May Cry series ✨

✨ Final Fantasy XIV ✨

✨ ONE PIECE✨

✨ Detective Conan ✨

Hazbin Hotel

Final Fantasy VII Crisiscore

Kingdom Hearts series

Final Fantasy XV

Tate No Yuusha no nariagari

MARVEL

I like to draw on my own pace as i do not like pressure nor being hired with a deadline. I work best when i'm taking my time because I find inspirations to fuel me to make the piece exquisite.

>> Also NOTE: I like a chill environment and time so I am very much the fiction is and only remains fiction type of person, meaning i'm PROFICTION / PROSHIP, and thus can tell the difference, and DOES separate IRL from fiction. Meaning I can handle seeing most dark themes as well. Although If there's things I do not like, I tend to ignore / mute or block it to avoid it. So i'd recommend you do the same if there's things you don't like that i draw / like / make or plainly of me being proship. Because I am not anyone's online babysitter. This is my blog and YOU came here. Don't act like you own me or control what I make. You don't, so don't go acting entitled.

>> Also 2nd NOTE: Pairings / shipping wise I have top / bottom positionals preference for very few particular characters. That being firstly DMC Nero (top only) and Roronoa Zoro (top only). While there may be times I like art that depicts them as the opposite, its more of appreciation to the art and skills of the artist itself. Nothing more.

>> Also 3rd NOTE: anywhere I go, which ever social media account. I block people. It can be the stuff they make (fanart of pairings i don't like) /say makes me uncomfortable or I see them agreeing or even doing cyberbullying and doxxing of others themselves. It's nothing personal. I just want to vibe and have a good time and avoid terrible people so I use block ( or mute ) . Especially on X where I go on blocking spree sometimes, block chain, to keep my timeline peaceful and thus peace of mind.

>> Also 4th NOTE: any anons planning to send hate in my ask box. don't even think about it. You will only make yourself look like really terrible laughable ( in a bad way ) clown because I will just delete your ask and block you. ( yes even when you are anonymous, there's an option to block, which if i recall correctly, it's your ip that tumblr blocks instead. ) save your energy. Because AGAIN in case you missed it. I DO NOT HOLD BACK IN BLOCKING. Use your energy on things that makes you happy rather than hating on people.

I hope you enjoy your stay! May the stars shine your path to a sparkling future!

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

LINKS

Gank ( with monthly art rewards )

X ( twitter )

Twitch

BLUESKY 🔞🪦🕊🔞

facebook page

pixiv🔞 🪦🕊🔞

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luckycharms1701 · 4 months

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*crawls carefully over to a deep and foreboding gaping hole and peeks my head over the edge to look inside. There I see three feral tumblrs prowling around and laughing maniacally (y’all know who you are)

I pull back a little to glance at the warning sign written in bold lettering “Mikey Well: DO NOT ENGAGE IF YOU DO NOT WISH TO FALL IN AND SUFFER THE SAME FATE”

I let out a little hum and tilt my head curiously, inching back towards the mouth of the hole. “They look hungry though…And it is the holidays…I wouldn’t want them to feel lonely…”

Turn slightly and grabs something out of my pocket. I glance at the random ask request sitting in my palm, considering for a moment. Then I shrug nonchalantly and with a sheepish grin, cautiously drop the ask into the Mikey Well*

Just wondering on your take on how Bayverse Mikey would handle having a friend/SO who’s exTrEmElY touch starved, to the point that most touches become super overwhelming. I think it would be interesting to see how he would handle that being the most physically affectionate of the turtle brothers 🤔

And then also how would Mikey respond to said individual finally feeling secure enough to request affection? AnYhOo, Hope you have a wonderful New Year and may all the good come back to you in the coming days. May you always feel inspired and never experience creative blocks! Here’s a little request for y’all to gnaw on for a while and once again please know how appreciated you are!🧡✨

ooooooo, a new request to gnaw on, i love those!!!!

and honestly, anon-chan, i wouldn't call it **maniacal** laughter! just a little, you know, crazed

we're certainly not reaching out to bodily pull you in the well with us

anyway, thank you very much for the new year's wishes! may you have a year that you've only ever dreamed of!

oh man what a request too thank you!! as someone who is seriously touch starved myself i have Thoughts

Mikey has so many feelings the first time you flinch away from his touch. He is sad that what he sees as an overture of friendship is apparently rebuffed. He is upset that you, who has been so kind to them, must still somehow see them as monsters. Why else would you shy away from his touch? He is angry, because he once again has been denied something because of who he is. Because of something he can't help, something that honestly, deep down, he doesn't really want to change.

It takes him some time, and a lot of pushing down his natural instinct to reach out, to realize that you don't let anyone touch you, not even other humans. To be fair, he's not really in a position to witness you interacting with other humans a lot. But April, Casey, and Vern all receive the same flinch that he did, so it must be a universal thing.

He feels the same things all over again. Sad, because he can't imagine going through life without the healing power of another's touch. Upset, because he should have realized sooner. Angry, because you are the one going through this.

Mikey's not the type to let this stand. But it's not like he can really do anything without your agreement. And he can't talk to you about it, it's not like you're Raph. Besides, he's still feeling a little... cagey? No, a little cautious around you. He really, really doesn't want to be proven wrong.

So he opts for the agonizing option of waiting. It's so hard, but it's for you, so he does it. He takes every opportunity to subtly (like a brick wall, but no one has the heart to tell him that) let you know that he's available to be touched. He hopes that with time you will reach out yourself and give him the permission he desperately wants.

When you reach out and touch him for the first time? Well, sunshine boy earns his name. He is so happy, even if he can't pick you up and spin you around the way he wants to. So he tucks that feeling away, for a time when that will be possible. He hopes that time is soon.

And when that time does come? When you finally come to him and ask for the affection he longs to give you? Mikey can hardly believe it. He starts small, though this too is hard for him. A press of his hand to your arm. A brief one-armed hug. A ruffle of your hair. Even those small touches are enough to give him joy. He's so happy that you're letting someone in, and he's especially happy that you chose to let him in, of all people.

When he gets to pick you up and spin you around the way it feels like he's always wanted to, it's only natural for it to end with a kiss.

#talking tag #writing tag #tmnt #bayverse mikey #i did Not intend for this to become a fic #it was supposed to be headcanon style #but i am still in fic writing mode i guess #so have this #`11111 #<- that was my cat #i'm leaving it because i love her a lot #hey hey spoon #yorsh #anything to add??

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astrhoeluvr · 1 year

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Astrhoe Observations Pt.5 🫂🥰🫶🏻

(Here we go again….👀😗)

Back to 👉🏻 my materialist 👁️🫦👁️.

a lil disclaimer : these are just my personal observations, so don’t take any of them to heart🥳.Some could be applicable to you and some would differ, so take all of them with a grain of salt OKIE! enough of me blabbing let’s get on with it🫶🏻🥰

😈🔥: Aries/Capricorn/Scorpio placements what is it with y’all and wanting to experience the enemies to lovers/rivals to lovers trope??! 👀🤨 (Not me calling myself out😁🤡)!

😃😭: Pisces placements be making eye contact with random ass strangers and start journaling about how they met their soulmate at the subway 😝😝 like baby no, they ain’t your soulmate 🥰.

🎤🎧: Pisces placements could prefer listening to old school music (70s, 80s, 90s etc) 👀🎧👩🏻‍🎤 whereas Aries placements would prefer listening to the latest upbeat pop/hiphop music 🎵🔥✨.

🌋🌍: 9th house placements could be really good at geography. They’re the one’s who’d randomly pull out a map during an argument and say HA! I told you the Colorado river flows through the Grand Canyaon!! Like??😭😭( YES WE GET IT!! y’all are smart 🤪🥱🫣).

🦴😖: I’ve noticed Chiron in Capricorn peeps could have broken a bone at least once in their lifetime😭.

👩‍🎤🧚🏻‍♀️🧝🏼‍♀️🧞‍♀️: Mutable placements could really be into cosplaying yk?? Or might have a thing for people who cosplay👀😌 (maybe a turn on?🫣😳).

😏🗣️: Libra in the 3rd house (Leo risings) are such SMOOTH talkers, like nah fr. Can literally lie their way out of any situation, y’all slick frfr😈👀🤨.

🔮🧿: Scorpio in the 3rd house (Virgo risings) have such amazing intuitions. They’re literally the friends who say “I told you so” 😀😗 cause they’re always RIGHT. (Yes I love Virgo rising’s!! AND WHAT ABOUT IT!!🥰 will always compliment them at any chance I get).

👩‍👦‍👦💖: Your momma’s 4th house sign could be a prominent sign in your chart.

For instance if your mom has Sagittarius in the 4th house, you could have prominent sag placements 🤔💭😗.

🤪😛: Sagittarius placements are either : let me tell you this story which really inspired me to tap into my philosophical side of being📚📖📆🧐👩‍🔬🤔 or let’s fuck this shit up baby!!!😈💅🏻🥰🥵🥳🎉🍾👯‍♀️🎊 (or both teehee🤭) - sincerely, a sag dom here!!😘.

Okay that’s all for today luvs🥰🫶🏻

(Please do not copy or plagiarise any of my work <33)

- san✨🍵🪴📖🧘🏻‍♀️

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neverlostmycrown · 17 days

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My Heart is Broken - moodboard ✨

Amy Lee revealed the inspiration of "My Heart Is Broken" saying: "A good friend of mine heads up an organization in New York that rescues victims of sex trafficking. My husband and I got involved and were really moved and horrified. As I was writing the song I was putting myself in that place - what would it be like to be trapped? Threatened? Alone? Unable to tell anyone what was happening because you're afraid of what would happen?" (x)

#evanescence #amy lee #rionka edit #moodboard #amy lee outfits #neverlostmycrown #ev3 era #my heart is broken #golden and blue

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shyblacksheep · 21 days

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hello! i have logged into tumblr for the first time in nearly 10 years because i wanted to tell you that your bre sketches from the other day ended up on my screen by chance, and i loved them so much that i was inspired to try my hand at drawing for... essentially the first time in my life as a result. this has been my OC for a while but this is the first time i've drawn them myself :D

this started life as a pencil on paper sketch with your work as a reference, before being traced into pixelorama (using my trackpad, because i gotta do what i gotta do), cleaned up a bit and colored in over there.

i just wanted to say thanks for doing the work that you do, and for helping me find a new hobby! ^_^

OOH MY GOSH, WOW??!! WHAA—!! 😱😭 I am like in stunned awe that my Bre doodles could even do that, welcome back! Your Umbreon OC is adorable as heck, I like the moon bandanna and I adore that it’s a shiny one at that, heh!

Aww! I’m also OVERLY honored that my art could get you into drawing, that’s like super sweet!!! It really made me tear up reading that! Incredible… inspiring…!! ;;w;; I hope you continue drawing and having fun! You already show a lot of potential!! 🥹✨

Thank you SOO much right back for sharing!! 💕

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msmirrorball21 · 3 months

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A list of my favourite f1 documentaries ever, that I also made with the help of this answer by @eliotheeangelis :

1) Fangio: A Life of speed - This one got me into f1, I think it’s a perfect portrait of racers and what makes the greatest of the sport so special.

2) Race to Perfection - Why didn’t I got myself into engineering??? this documentary series it’s mind blowing and it dissects very well the technology aspect through f1 history.

3) Ferrari: Race to Immortality - footage of ferrari in the 50’s and how the scuderia became a myth, and it’s so ✨aesthetic✨

4)Lucky!: Even though it’s about Bernie Ecclestone, it’s not about him at all. It’s a great picture of how modern f1 came to be. Also it’s very humbling, if there’s drama today, no there isn’t, nothing will top the drivers’ strikes and Max Mosely, and Jean Marie Balestre.

5)Brawn GP: It’s so uplifting, and inspiring, it made me want to get out of bed and work for my career when I didn’t. Even if Keanu Reeves it’s a bit random and a great conductor overall, it’s a very well written documentary.

6)Schumacher: This one made me realise, how much of an influence media has in the public’s perception of a driver, and it’s just beautiful.

7)SENNA: I think this one explains how he’s more of a myth than a man in the sport, although I’ve never believed he’s the greatest, in this it’s possible to see why senna is senna , and it’s also, well, fucking sad.

8)The Team ‘93: Great way of seeing how the sport has changed and how mclaren is as much as a staple as ferrari, also great way of seeing Senna in his last year with the team. And young Mika!

9)One by one, the quick and the dead (1975) or Champions Forever?: it’s very nostalgic, and it makes you wonder how on earth is this sport still around after the early 70’s.

10) Williams (2017) : I mean after watching this, I thought, Mansell could’ve only won with a team that was made with so many tears and sweat. It’s true passion for racing

10.5: Rush: it’s a great way of getting to know the sport even if it isn’t a documentary! And I love it, because I remember watching it when I was 12!

I haven’t watched: weekend of a champion, 1: life on the limit or Red 5: Williams and Mansell

A worthy mention of DTS because it’s good background noise and I think that’s why haas fans exist (rip TP Guenther), but I hate when I get all excited when someone tells me they like f1, and then they tell me they don’t watch races or follow the current season and have only watched two seasons of dts. And they don’t even know who Niki Lauda is????

#f1 #formula 1 #classic f1 #my personal list #I’m just sick of losing the same piece of paper over and over

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