#[urban fantasy] mirror woman

[nerdraging4point0]

Blood of Eden // Bad Omens Urban Fantasy AU (Chapter Sixteen)

Tropes and Tags: MM, MF, MFM, MFM, instalove, too much sex, tattooed men, polyverse, shapeshifters.

CW: 18+ only minors DNI. Urban Fantasy romance, Smut. Angst. Fluff (ish), Story includes D/S themes, mentions of blood and gore, mentions of drug use and distribution, mentions of prostitution, unprotected sex, male receiving oral sex, female receiving oral sex, cuckolding, P/A sex, P/V sex.

This work below is fictionalized ideas and stories involving real people but does not directly reflect their thoughts, feelings, or behaviors. Please keep in mind that this is a work of fiction.

Taglist(click to be added): @ladyveronikawrites @mysticdoodlez @poisongirl616 @shilohrosechicken @cookiesupplier @meliferafaerie @concreteemo @itsafullmoon @letmeadoreyoux @transparentwitchnightmare @spicywhenspeaking @somewhere-diamond @iknownothingpeople @darling-millicent-aubrey @somebodyels3 @jakeygvf21 @badomensls @dominuslunae @mountains-to-move @sundamariis @caitcoreeeee @crimson-calligraphyx @darkmxgician

The sway and jostling of the armored truck was enough to make her stomach churn and bile rise in the back of her throat.

The constant lurching and bouncing as the heavy vehicle rumbled over the uneven, potholed roads created a nauseating rocking motion that threatened to overwhelm her senses. With only the meager, bitter-tasting wheat grass shakes she had been subsisting on for days sloshing around in the empty cavern of her stomach, she knew that one more good tossle of the tank-like truck would likely cause her to erupt in a violent display of retching and vomiting all over the armed, imposing figure sitting next to her. The close confines of the armored personnel carrier, combined with the stale, recycled air and the pungent odor of sweat and gasoline, only exacerbated her unsettled stomach and heightened her nausea.

She swallowed hard, willing herself not to give in to the overwhelming queasiness, but the relentless sway of the vehicle made it an increasingly difficult battle to maintain her composure. Gripping the edge of the hard metal bench beneath her, she braced herself against the constant lurching, praying she could make it to their destination.

Rosa’s gaze wandered to the tall, striking blonde woman sitting across from her. Her intense green eyes were fixed intently on Rosa despite the sway as they navigated the winding city streets, stopping and starting again with a sense of purpose. Rosa couldn't help but feel a twinge of unease, noticing the occasional flicker of what seemed to be sadness or regret that would flash across the woman's features. Gone were the sharply tailored suits Rosa had become accustomed to seeing her in - instead, she was dressed head-to-toe in sturdy, form-fitting leather, an ensemble that gave the impression she was prepared for battle at a moment's notice. Rosa had been offered the same outfit, having bern in the same clothes for several days with only rags and bowls of water to sponge bathe in, it was nice to wear something clean for a change.

She felt lightheaded, exhausted, but to afraid for her life to sleep. Visions had begun to return, flashes of an old style home that looked like its foundation was cracking and the roof fallign in begain to flash across her mind. She had never seen this place before, but the faces in it were familiar. Jolly, Maria, Oli along with several other guard members and their masters all huddled around laptops and take out containers. They all looked bleary eyed, bags hanging from their eyes boring lines into their cheeks. of Jolly from Noah’s perspective and the glimpses of himself as he’d stare in the mirror made her heart ache. Despite being able to see him she couldn’t connect to him, the shots of poison she’d been given daily by the Magistrate-poison she herself had made-kept her powers limited.

Exhaustion had begun to set in, her head feeling light and dizzy from the ordeal, but the overwhelming fear for her life kept her from succumbing to sleep, lest she leave herself defenseless against whatever fate had in store. Visions had began to resurface, flashing across her mind's eye in vivid detail.

Glimpses of an old, ramshackle house materialized, its foundation cracked and crumbling, the roof sagging precariously overhead. Though she had never laid eyes on this dilapidated dwelling before, the faces of its inhabitants were strikingly familiar. There was Jolly, his usual jovial demeanor replaced by a weary, drawn expression, dark circles bruising the delicate skin beneath his eyes. And Maria, her brow furrowed in concentration as she hunched over a glowing laptop screen, takeout containers scattered haphazardly around her. Oli was there too, his posture slumped with exhaustion, joining several other shadowy figures - members of their guard, and their elusive masters - all gathered in this forgotten place, their collective gaze fixed on the technology before them.

It was as if the very walls of this crumbling shelter were imbued with the weight of their collective burdens, the foundation threatening to give way under the crushing pressure. Yet, despite the dismal surroundings and their haggard appearance, there was a resolute determination that burned in their eyes, a silent acknowledgment that whatever task lay before them, they would see it through, no matter the cost.

Her heart ached with a profound, visceral pain as the tears began to well up in her eyes, blurring her vision. The uncertainty of the situation weighed heavily on her, the unanswered questions gnawing at her mind. Would she ever see them again - her friends, her loved ones, the people she had been separated from in the chaos?

She hadn't laid eyes on Nick, since that fateful day, and the haunting fear that the worst had befallen him consumed her thoughts. Was he even still alive, or had he suffered a tragic end?

She couldn't be sure if the images in her mind, the visions of them escaping to safety, were real memories or simply the desperate fantasies of her hopeful psyche. Perhaps they had all been captured, and these flickering, ethereal impressions were nothing more than the mind's attempts to cope with the trauma, to envision a better outcome than the bleak reality.

The uncertainty was agonizing, the not knowing eating away at her resolve, as she struggled to discern truth from fiction, to separate the real from the imagined. All she could do was cling to the glimmer of hope that somehow, against all odds, they had made it to freedom - but the lack of any confirmation left her wracked with doubt and overwhelming sorrow.

As her eyes slowly drifted shut, a kaleidoscope of vivid new visions began to dance and swirl behind her lids. Faded century-old castles, their crumbling stone walls and turrets silhouetted against a sweeping night sky filled with constellations she had never seen before, their strange patterns and unfamiliar celestial arrangements captivating her. Then the scene shifted, and she found herself running breathlessly through a shadowy, labyrinthine landscape, her feet pounding against the ground as she fled from some unseen pursuer, yet no matter how hard she ran, she felt like she was getting nowhere, the scenery unchanging around her. Fragments of her childhood then came flooding back, the old haunting nightmares she used to have as a little girl - dreams where she was always being chased, hunted by some malevolent presence, her friends by her side as they desperately tried to escape, only to wake up in a cold sweat, tears streaming down her face as she cried out that she just couldn't get away. Those had been such frightening, visceral dreams, the kind that linger long after waking.

As she replayed the haunting images of her nightmare, a tiny detail suddenly stood out to her, one that sent a chill down her spine. Among the sea of unfamiliar faces, one of the women's eyes had caught her attention - they were achingly familiar, as if she had stared into them before. It was more than just recognition; there was a profound connection, a glimpse into the very depths of this stranger's soul. Though she had only just met this person a few days prior, the intensity of the eye contact in her dream felt like she was seeing a part of them that she had never meant to uncover. It was as if the veil had been lifted, exposing a vulnerability and intimacy that shook her to the core. It was a tiny detail, easy to overlook, but one that had the power to unravel the very fabric of what she thought she knew.

A sudden surge of adrenaline coursed through Rosa's veins, igniting an intense, visceral reaction within her. Something was undoubtedly off - no, not just off, but something was actively coming, approaching with an ominous and foreboding presence. Sitting upright in her seat, Rosa's heart began to pound thunderously in her ears, drowning out all other sounds around her. A strange vibration reverberated through the air, sending a prickling sensation across the back of her neck as the fine hairs stood on end, her body instinctively going on high alert. Just as she frantically tugged at the seat belt strapped tightly across her chest, a violent jolt ripped through the vehicle, lifting the wheels clean off the ground in a terrifying moment of weightlessness. Rosa's stomach lurched as the truck was violently wrenched from the road, her mind racing to comprehend the perilous situation unfolding around her. Something had gone horribly, catastrophically wrong, and she braced herself, heart pounding, for the inevitable impact that was to come.

The sudden and unexpected reversal of gravity sent the vehicle tumbling end over end, its passengers helplessly thrown about like ragdolls. Rosa felt her body lift off the seat as the vehicle flipped, her arms and legs flailing uncontrollably in the air around her. Weapons and other loose objects scattered chaotically, flying up towards the ceiling before crashing back down in a disorienting display of chaos. The experience was utterly disorienting, like being trapped in a never-ending, dizzying spin cycle. Just when it seemed the ordeal would never end, the vehicle slammed back down to the ground, the roof crumpling inward. Rosa's body lurched forward, and she felt a sickening jolt as her seatbelt caught her, the impact sending a sharp pain through her chest.

As the vehicle came to a rest, Rosa found herself surrounded by the motionless forms of her fellow passengers, one body sprawled across her feet, a trickle of blood oozing from the victim's nose. Dazed and disoriented, Rosa's ears were ringing and her vision blurred, but she could make out shadowy figures approaching the wrecked vehicle. The doors were suddenly wrenched open, and the figures began pulling bodies from the wreckage, climbing into the mangled interior. Rosa's seatbelt came undone, and she felt herself falling forward, only to be caught by the shadowy figures. Blinded by the bright sunlight as she was carried from the vehicle, Rosa let out a small cry of pain, her eyes clamped tightly shut against the glare.

“Easy, sunshine,” the soft tones made her nerves settle instantly, despite her pain she reached out blindly for him. Her hand clasped his warm fingers encasing her weak digits, “We got you now. You’re safe.”

****

As Noah approached the overturned vehicle, his heart sank at the sight of Rosa's limp, battered form. Frail and bruised from the violent accident, her eyes were sunken in and her cheeks hollowed out, giving her a haggard, worn appearance. 

What had they done to her? 

Noah knew the team had spent hours carefully planning this raid, but he had been uneasy about the decision to flip the truck, fearing the potential consequences. Still, it had seemed the only way to ensure the other guardians would be disoriented enough that they couldn't fight back properly, if they even chose to do so at all. As Noah watched the black box tip over three times before finally righting itself, his stomach turned with a sickening dread. Wasting no time, he tore open the doors and charged inside, desperate to extract Rosa as swiftly as possible and get her the medical attention she so clearly needed. 

The normally vibrant, strong-willed woman now looked a complete wreck, her body battered and her spirit seemingly broken by the ordeal. Noah could only imagine the terror and pain she must have endured, and he vowed to get to the bottom of what had happened and ensure those responsible would pay for their cruelty.

Noah's heart raced as he carefully carried the limp form of Rosa in his arms, her body feeling unnaturally light and fragile. With a sense of urgency, he rushed towards the dilapidated safe house, its crumbling walls the only refuge they could find in this perilous world. Gently, he laid Rosa down on the old, bare mattress, the springs creaking under her weight. The mattress offered little comfort, the coarse fabric scratching against her skin, but Noah knew it was the best he could do to keep her safe in this moment.

As soon as Rosa's head hit the mattress, Maria came rushing to her side, her eyes wide with terror and concern. Bending over the bed, she tenderly pushed the tangled strands of hair away from Rosa's pale, lifeless face, a choked sob escaping her lips. "Oh god, what did they do to her?" she cried, her voice laced with anguish.

Before Noah could even begin to formulate a response, Morgan, one of the magistrates who had been on the transport truck, approached them, her expression grave. "It was some kind of serum they created," she explained, the weight of her words hanging heavy in the air. Joshua had explained there had been a celestial hidden among the magistrate but Noah had never imagined it would be someone so high up. Morgan had always been ruthless as a leader, angry and fearsome, but only when pressed. Otherwise she would sit silently in the corner. “They seemed to find it in the storage on your computer,” her face turned to Jolly as Noah saw the shadow fall across his face.

“They experimented with it. It was more potent this time around. I managed to sneak in a potion with her food. Without it she’d be dead. But it did very little to combat the serum side effects.” Maria sniffeled as she bent down to kiss Rosa’s forehead.

“What do we do now?” Jolly asked sitting cross legged on one side of the matress taking their girls hand in his. 

“They dosed her every morning, she got one just before we packed up. Wait it out for the night. She will need food.” Morgan leaned against the door frame folding her arms across her chest.

“We will take care of that,” Joshua came up behind her, “In the meantime we need to look for a bigger safe house. With the casualties of the accident the magiatrte will be out looking for us.”

The two celestials drifted down the hallway deep in discussion. Their centuries-old friendship was evident in the comfortable ease of their conversation as they exchanged ideas and made plans, their voices a melodic cadence that seemed to reverberate through the very walls. Meanwhile, Oli quickly squeezed past them, his focus intent as he hurried into the room. Without a word, Oli wrapped his strong arms around Maria’s trembling shoulders, offering comfort and support.

 "Come on, love," he murmured, gently pulling her to her feet. "She is safe now. And I need your help." Maria nodded mutely, her face streaked with tears, as she allowed Oli to guide her from the room, the couple disappearing down the hall. 

 Noah carefully crawled onto the mattress, tenderly pulling the unconscious Rosa close to him. Relief and joy etched across his features - she was here, she was home, and heaven help anyone who dared try to take her from them again.

[blorbortion]

happy pride month!

i figured its as good a time as any for me to finally post my gay book recs 😌

theyre overwhelmingly YA as im a young adult and thats what ive been reading, but im widening my horizons, so stay tuned for more mature entries! ill be updating this list as i read more gay lit.

WLW 4 or 5 out of 5 stars

- She Drives Me Crazy by Kelly Quindlen (les/bi, enemies to lovers, sports, set in high school, YA)

- The Falling in Love Montage by Ciara Smyth (great writing, appealing characters and authentic chemistry, i think les/les, YA)

- Not My Problem by Ciara Smyth (also amazing, also les/les, has heavier themes, YA)

- Last Night at the Telegraph Club by Malinda Lo (historical - 1950s, asian american sanfran culture, butch/femme, YA, deserves its popularity. do Not read the spin off its not worth it)

- Cinderella is Dead by Kalynn Bayron (fairytale retelling, feminist focus, les/les, YA)

- This Poison Heart + This Wicked Fate by Kalynn Bayron (urban fantasy, bi/les? i think, poisonous plants, greek mythology, two books, YA)

- How to Excavate a Heart by Jake Maia Arlow (les/les, YA, lots of "reclaimed" slurs, lots of secondhand embarrassment, but if you wanted something seasonal for winter here you go - its not bad!)

- A Spindle Splintered + A Mirror Mended by Alix E. Harrow (fairy tales, lesbian mc, other wlw side characters, fun and short, written for tumblr and its obvious, sometimes depressingly real)

- This Is How You Lose the Time War by Amar El-Mohtar and Max Gladstone (time traveling, enemies to lovers, short chapters, tries to be poetic and sometimes it succeeds sometimes it doesnt)

- Our Wives Under the Sea by Julia Armfield (horrors of the ocean, it doesnt get better - no happy ending, still beautiful though)

- Salt Slow by Julia Armfield (women-focused horror short stories antology, i would call it bisexual moreso than lesbian, definitely worth a read)

- Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe by Fannie Flag (a story that takes decades and focuses on many characters, two of the most prominent are in a same-sex relationship, lovely and bittersweet at times)

- The Well of Loneliness by Radclyffe Hall (set in the early 20th century and quite sad, a very relatable story of a gnc lesbian woman growing up and living as an "invert", looking for her place in the world)

- Affinity by Sarah Waters (historical - late 19th century - mystery, set in a large part in a women's prison, mc suffers from depression, spiritualism is a strong theme)

- Everyone in This Room Will Someday Be Dead by Emily Austin (contemporary litfic about a depressed lesbian with severe anxiety, a tough read if you relate but SO good, and against all odds it has a happy ending)

MLM 4 or 5 out of 5 stars

- If This Gets Out by Sophie Gonzalez and Kale Dietrich (gay/bi?, YA, secret dating, two boysband members, alternating perspectives)

- Boyfriend Material by Alexis Hall (fake dating, cringe but somehow fun when you get into it, very organic writing)

- Red, White & Royal Blue by Casey McQuiston (gay/bi, YA, enemies to lovers, actually fun!, better than the movie^tm, a bit cringe with the ~progressive~ lines and fanficky moments)

- Time to Shine by Rachel Reid (gay/bi, sports romance, there were so many beds and still they chose to sleep in one together, very fun + funny)

- Icebreaker by A. L. Graziadei (bi/gay, rivals to lovers, YA, sports romance, a little internet-y at times, theres a side poly relationship)

- More Happy Than Not by Adam Silvera (NOT a romance, super depressing, a lot of deep homophobia, but also beautiful. i gave it 5/5 on goodreads, YA)

- Masters of Death by Olivie Blake (a fun urban fantasy with a large, found-familyish cast, some slight Harry Potter references and a lot of humor and existential pondering, lovers to strangers to enemies to lovers, bi?/bi)

- All For The Game series by Nora Sakavic (gay/bi m/m, such a guilty pleasure but its SO good, its like a sports anime but 1. the sport is made up 2. its actually gay 3. theres the mafia involved??, very early 2010s with how edgy it is but its worth it i promise. a LOT of trigger warnings though, if its important to you - CHECK THEM BEFOREHAND)

honorable mentions that arent very gay focused but are very good

- If We Were Villains by M.L. Rio (campus novel/dark academia, the m/m is mostly subtext, heavy style of writing but so worth it, shakespeare abound, please read it)

- Graveyard Shift by M.L. Rio (a halloween-y mystery novella about rats, mushrooms, academia and journalism, a Very Slight f/f element but its enough for me to put it here)

- The Raven Cycle by Maggie Stiefvater (YA, fantasy, literally so good, not much of the m/m romance but when it happens it HAPPENS, 5/5 im obsessed with this series)

- The Tusks of Extinction by Ray Nayler (a short sci-fi novel about bringing mammoths back, multiple povs, one of those is focused on a gay couple - which is irrelevant to the story but i loved the book so im using this opportunity to promote it)

- When Among Crows by Veronica Roth (polish folklore inspired urban fantasy, a 3 person found family, very short (160 pages) and reads quickly, if youre polish yourself though be prepared for cringing - language errors abound, a little m/m)

- Several People Are Typing by Calvin Kasulke (a short epistolary novel about a guy with an office job whose soul got sucked into the Slack app. written entirely in Slack messages. VERY funny, quite thought-provoking and at times beautiful! has a small sprinkling of m/m)

less than 4 out of 5 stars but i read them so ill state my opinion anyways

- A Scatter of Light by Malinda Lo (YA, wlw - bi/les, great writing boring story, gnc lesbian compared to a boy later revealed to identify as nonbinary, homophobic slurs "reclaimed", cheating, unfinished sideplots)

- Ash by Malinda Lo (YA, wlw, bi/les i think, fairytales, fantasy, uncomfortable het age gap, moral of the story - love triumphs all)

- The Charm Offensive by Alison Cochrun (YA, mlm, gay/gay?, lots of awkward internet popculture references, slurs, writing mostly fun and engaging but at times felt like an educational PSA)

- The Coldest Touch by Isabel Sterling (YA, wlw, les/bi, marketed as lesbian Twilight - do not be fooled, the author is weird abt race too though, the romance isnt really fleshed out)

- These Violent Delights by Micah Nemerever (mlm, an attempt at dark academia, the start was interesting but then it turned into disgusting fetishization of violence in a gay relationship, written by a tif and you can tell)

- Conversations with Friends by Sally Rooney (the mc is bi and her best friend is a lesbian, the characters are all awful, it kinda felt lesbophobic at times but i dont have proof)

- Hani and Ishu's Guide to Fake Dating by Adiba Jaigirdar (wlw, YA, as you can guess fake dating, also rivals to lovers iirc?, its nice but just didnt catch my attention much)

- A Million to One by Adiba Jaigirdar (wlw, YA, a heist on the Titanic, i dont know why i keep giving this author a chance, you need to suspend your disbelief so much its inadvisable for atheists to read it)

- Honeymoon for One by Rachel Bowdler (winter holiday romance, les/bi ("pan"), lots of grief and conflict and not enough of the romance developing, so many awful mothers??)

- Running With Lions by Julian Winters (YA, mlm bi/gay, the writing isnt that good, a bit of misogyny)

- Don't Want You Like a Best Friend/More Than a Best Friend by Emma R. Alban (victorian era les/les romance, a very light read - dont expect a historical drama, theres a large focus on other m/f pairings. warning: lowkey step-sibling "incest" - read the book description)

- You're the Problem, It's You by Emma R. Alban (sequel to the previous position, victorian era mlm gay/gay romance, dont expect historical accuracy here)

- You're Not Supposed to Die Tonight by Kalynn Bayron (wlw YA slasher horror with supernatural elements, the final girl trope plays a big role, i dont read horror often but this one is not good even though i like the author)

- The Magic Between by Stephanie Hoyt (gay/bi mlm, main character with OCD, an interesting though maybe overdone magic system, overall though just a goofy tumblr romance - nothing special, but good fun)

- The Nightmare Before Kissmas by Sara Raasch (bi/? mlm, holidays with magical royal families, romcom but not a lot of the rom - you can tell the author usually writes fantasy and not romance, fun and silly but nothing amazing)

sekcja polska 🇵🇱

- Noce za nocami i Noce aż po wieczność autorstwa Małgorzaty Wilk (wampiry w Warszawie, pierwsza książka homo m/m druga bi w/m - ale oryginalna parka nadal na pierwszym planie, dużo drugoplanowych postaci lgb i innych par jednopłciowych, nie ma żadnych slurów ani praktycznie nic o trans, lekki i bardzo zabawny styl, bardzo przyjemna dylogia)

- Zanim dojrzeją granaty autorstwa Rene Karabasz (bułgarska powieść o specyficznym stylu, główna bohaterka jest lesbijką i albańską burneszą - zaprzysiężoną dziewicą)

- Pawilon małych ssaków autorstwa Patryka Pufelskiego (pamiętnik geja wyłoniony jako najlepszy w konkursie na pamiętniki osób LGB/T przez co został wydany oddzielnie od reszty, świetnie napisany, bardzo prawdziwy i wzruszający)

- Krew, która nas dzieli autorstwa Edyty Prusinowskiej (główna bohaterka jest bi, jest też istotna postać lesbijki która gra hetero femme fatale ale jest ciekawa, YA, wampiry, fajna lekka lektura, szybko się czyta)

- Córki tamtych wiedźm i Prawdziwe wiedźmy autorstwa Weroniki Łodygi (dylogia wlw, les/les?, middle grade, mało romansu w pierwszej części, Hogwart ale polski i tylko dla dziewczyn, główny wątek rozwija się dość późno)

- Lato w pionierskiej chuście autorstwa Kateriny Silvanovnej i Eleny Malisovej (m/m o gejach na pionierskim obozie w ZSRR, spoko koncept ale słabe wykonanie, diabelsko potrzebuje redakcji)

[violets-in-her-arms-writes]

WIP Intro : La gloire des femmes en deuil

Title : La gloire des femmes en deuil

Genre : urban fantasy

Status : first draft

Target wordcount : 50k+ (I don’t actually know how long this thing is going to be, but knowing myself, it’s going to be longer than that)

Actual wordcount : 0

TW : blood, violence, misogyny

Synopsis :

Eve Mastema Dupuis lives a quiet life in the town of Diciennes: she runs her magic store “Herbes et Miroirs” and sees her brother twice a week, and her grandmothers and the rest of her siblings once a month. She doesn't need much more, really. And who cares if she's the eldest Dupuis and still doesn't have her own garnet mine or celestial orchard? Who cares if the parental circle regularly forgets her existence? She's long since made her peace with it. And she's far too busy trying to get a mysterious woman out of a mirror and finding a solution to her failing magic to care what the Cercle Dupuis Major thinks of her. Maxime, unfortunately, doesn't share her feelings. He doesn't fit in Diciennes or its Academy the way he does in their hometown, not the way he'd like, and having given up their name, even for a few years, for his education makes him resentful. He is a Dupuis. Worse, he is the first Dupuis son, and he is used to everything falling into his lap. So when his parents promise him his mine and orchard if he comes home, he begs his sister to go with him. Eve has promised herself she'll never return to Meluya for more than a weekend, convinced that she could never escape and would end up dying in their hometown if she gave up the life she'd fought for. But Eve has loyalty in her blood. If her siblings call, she'll answer. She just hopes she can change their minds before she has to make a decision as drastic as returning to Meluya…

Settings : a magical shop (or two) ; a cottage at the edge of the woods ; a cold house ; a small town ; a gothic manor

Characters:

Eve Mastema Dupuis || [30] || lesbian || witch || suffers from crippling loneliness ; loyal ; fucked up magic ; knowledge is power (but you know nothing, Jon Snow…)

Capucine Mastema Dupuis || [15] || witch || the one with the braincell ; friendly ; ruthless

Maxime Dupuis || [25] || homosexual || filius nomine || heir of the Dupuis’ family ; indecisive ; loyal ; proud

Théo Dupuis || [24] || bisexual || secundo heres || malewife ; magical librarian ; ready to thow hands anytime

Gabrielle Phenex Dulac || [24] || bisexual || witch || can’t believe she married a Dupuis ; done with everything ; this close to just running away from this town

Other characters include several 4 grandmothers with their own issues, the parental circle (TW), Capu’s friends, a woman trapped in a mirror, a swamp monster, a scarred woman and the moon.

More about the world : magic is a strange, volatile things and to controle it, it's best to unite several magical families in a single Circle. Women, for some reason, are born less often than men, which means that each Circle only has a single woman for two or three men (or even more, if the main family is powerful enough). Eve parental Circle (Cercle Dupuis Majeur) is composed of three fathers and one mother, but none of them have any interest in her life. Out of all her siblings, only Théo has his own Circle, with Gabrielle Phenex Dulac, but theyr are mourning the third member of their Circle. They have four grandmothers, two of which do not have a Circle anymore. The magical world is still separate from the human world, with entire city blocks dedicated to magical users in big cities like Diciennes, and magical-folks-only towns like Meluya.

[PLAYLIST] [PINTEREST BOARD] [GENERAL TAG]

This story is (probably) going to be my NaNo project this year and one of my main subject for Sapphic September!

[bisexual-horror-fan]

"No Place Like Home." Leslie Vernon X FEM! AFAB! Reader.

Okay! So the amazing and wonderful @applesontheground wrote me a Leslie Vernon fic for my birthday and I adored it so much I didn't want it to end. She encouraged me to continue it, and so I did just that, and then she joined in and kept it going, and it became this beast of a collaborative piece that ended up being thirteen thousand words. It started off as being just for me, and true while it is still very self-indulgent, it's turned into something for all of you as well! I hope you enjoy!

---

Rating. Explicit. Length. 13K. Leslie Vernon X FEM! AFAB! Reader. She/Her Pronouns. Warnings: Reader Is A Killer Obsessed Freak. Banter. Drinking. Murder. Blood. Gore. Ropes. Restrained Reader. Threats. Reader Kinda Wants To Die But Not In A Suicidal Way. Canon Aligned Meta Talk. Man Handling. Vaginal Fingering. Cunnilingus. Blow Job. Messy Oral Sex. Throat Fucking. Cum Eating. Scar Worship. Many Feelings. Vaginal Sex. Multiple Orgasms. Overstimulation. Raw Sex. Cream Pie.

---

You understood that it was a joke to begin with.

Living in a rural area, there were a lot of empty spots between the bricks that made up Glen Echo. Most of it was the usual urban legends and small businesses that just didn’t keep up with a world changing around it, turning to joke about it amongst themselves.

To you, though, there was something comforting and endearing about the pace. You were a bit of a way from home out here but found yourself filling those gaps and making the best of it. At the end of the day, being somewhere new had its moments that paid in turn for the shortcomings it could put you through.

Simply being “attracted to the area” was only half of a lie; you had shown up because of research on the mythos. You could admit that you even looked into it a little too much. The idea of the enigma who nested in the area – a man that fabricated his whole being just to relish in the spilling of unsuspecting blood – was utterly fascinating. You could find the Photoshopped news clippings and chase almost laughable clues sitting around town for days if you didn’t have a day job to occupy you.

Even remembering the life outside this Autumn night, silent and swift as a cat under a new moon, was something you finally decided to release from your attention. Halloween was no time to worry about a day job, and with that you began dawning your costume. Think like the woman you dress as, you told yourself with a smug grin to the mirror. The iconic blue and white dress fell into place on your body, resting on the midway point between your thighs.

Prudes would call it too short, and company you meshed with way better would tease that it’s far too long. It didn’t help that you wore accents that drew attention to your legs on top of that, those knee-high socks with laced hems and the ruby red slippers, which had a taller heel for an accent.

Life beyond the fantasy you were basking in was far behind you, tightening the red bows that kept two well curled pigtails hanging down behind your ears. With a touch like that, only the thickest of skulls wouldn’t know who you were.

Leaving home, following that yellow brick road that lead out of the small confines of the shabby town and into the rural space, you soon caught up with similarly dressed heathens who were raising their flasks and opened cans of alcohol to you, recognizing you were part of the pack that was heading to the supposedly haunted orchard as part of some middle finger to the belief that anyone smart enough to live out here would abstain.

The possibility had been mentioned that he – a walking spirit or man that pulled the strings as quickly and seamlessly as he did steal souls, whatever he did – would find everyone there, and he would not like what he was seeing despite the high spirits.

“Then what?” A girl expertly stepping along the uneven road beside you, a little too tough to be dressed as Princess Peach, but you quickly digressed because she wore the white elbow-length gloves well.

“Then, we become history.” Someone up the road replied, “Immortalized as the idiots who tried to party with Leslie Vernon.” Putting a fist up, you saw the blue and white Letterman jacket he was wearing had a few rips in it, and that his face was painted a ghoulish grey and rooted with purple veins along his jawline to accent it. Something about him seemed eerily familiar, but then you considered it could be something generic, very plain in the visage of an undead high schooler that the Halloween stores would sometimes parade for the uncreative minds. The fact he was holding a bottle of Jagermister only made you squint a little harder before centering your thoughts back to the road beyond the crowd again.

It was a joke to begin with, but you were still finding yourself wanting to believe it. Almost as if you wanted the party to be at real risk despite the blanket of calm everyone had draped over it, additionally nursing with booze and jokes. Surely, there would be a twist from him to combat the weak one that these costumed groups thought they were pulling.

He can’t deal with all of us, right?

You found yourself needing to take a deep breath at the thought that in your wildest fantasies that he somehow could.

After passing a fence down the trodden path, the air around you was wordlessly shifting. As though it was on a cue from where you were standing, trees were clearing from the sky to allow a half-moon to illuminate the dirt road before you, and somewhere in the lump of unclear horizon sat the dilapidated Vernon farmhouse. Bunches of yellow and rouge apples rest within the first trees that you were passing, a signal you had made it to the orchard.

A breath pulled tight into your chest; eyes as wide as you could make them while you continued to peruse, to listen to every little noise outside of the murmur of people. The Jager man offered you a drink from the cooler that they were lugging out with the rest of the crowd, and after fiddling through the soggy ice, your hand secured a vodka shot between index and middle fingers while the rest of your hand found the rim of a canned pre-mixed drink. He then said something in a pompous tone, but it was otherwise unintelligible to you, so you just laughed it off to go back to soaking in the sight before you instead.

Even after basking for a good portion of the party’s setup, you still weren’t done. You decided to give it a rest, be a little more social. It was the omniscience embedded within you to realize how you looked, staring wistfully into the orchard surrounding the clearing that everyone was gathering in, not interested in any person at a Halloween party. Too suspicious, and despite knowing there were no tricks up your frilly short sleeves, you were aware no one else knew yourself as well as you did.

You began striking up conversations to avert any of the oddly placed suspicion that might have been drummed up, complimenting costumes as the two drinks you had snagged were put down between giggles and conversations about what kind of final girl was the best kind You fell elbow-deep in bringing up a classic archetype, the movie buff who called plot twists and elements that would play out in their own story before they happened, someone locked eyes with you. You didn’t stop, of course, but held the stare from across the party as you went on.

“Please, where would we be without those dudes half-baked and quoting The Creature from the Black Lagoon? They’re the ones painting the picture for the rest of the clueless victims.”

You couldn’t quite pinpoint what about him really excited you. First off, the thrill of him being the Scarecrow and unintentionally matching you passed as you failed to recognize the shape worn on his mask, and the absence of straw in the torn holes of the rest of his getup was only a final nail in the coffin of your hopes. He was just…some mope-mouthed zombie, or a haunted doll.

The people you had been speaking to were well into buzzed territory, taking the lull in your conversation to go stumble into another aesthetically appropriate chat circle while you waited for this new acquaintance. He continued to wade through the crowds that you had been standing off to the side from, and finally piped up as soon as he could be heard from behind everything.

“Looks like you forgot Toto.”

You snickered at that, and shrugged, “Yeah. None of my friends’ dogs wanted to do it, sorry.”

He made an amused noise at that, then pointed to the drink in your hand. “Want me to grab you another one?” You shook your head, grimacing a bit, “No, no. I’m still working on this, and besides- Even in stoppers, not a great combination to keep drinking with these shoes on.”

“Even in what?” He stooped a little to hear better, and you demonstrated it by walking perfectly stable along the uneven terrain, wading off the dirt clearing everyone was gathered in to show off a pair of high heels in all their red, glittery glory on forest brush. “Heel stoppers. They keep me from sinking in all this mud and dirt around the property.” He whistled a bit as you did a fancy little turn, accenting the agility they provided, and he complimented, “Pretty smart. You do that just for parties?”

You bit your tongue, smiling as you walked back over and admitted, “More to just keep in the race should I need to run.” The inquisitive glow to wide eyes suddenly narrowed, and he scoffed, “Run from what? It’s pretty harmless out here, save for those dudes who won’t stop saying they’re gonna climb the roof. It’s gonna give out the second any weight gets put on it…” He faltered, arm shooting out to the farmhouse like it was obvious from where the both of you stood, “Looks that way, anyways.”

“That’s what you think, dude. Do you know where you are right now?” He was silent; merely staring on at you, almost through you. You smiled and elaborated for him, “The Vernon Farm. Leslie Vernon’s resting place?”

He scrunched his eyes and hummed, “Can’t say that’s ringing a bell. Enlighten me.”

You felt as though the words couldn’t fall faster from your mouth, crafted into the same story you loved to tell the locals (as if they weren’t native to the area that it all started in, hearing the tall tale since they were in grade school).

“Isn’t that fucking ingenious?” You paused partially through the story on how he had committed a few murders within a span of the last three years, part of you trying to steady yourself as you realized you had spilled your guts to a man whose face you hadn’t even seen, “He’s up and coming still, but I think he’s taking a lot of cues from the greats of these serial killer types. I mean, morally abhorrent, but I’m no snob to that.”

“Wow.” He looked away in a rather brisk motion, but seemed amicable to the subject, “It sounds like you’re really banking on this dude to be some kind of mastermind.”

“Please.” You shrugged, “I mean, these murders that happened over three years seem pretty real to me. Whoever, whatever’s been utterly elusive on a rural farm for so long – still Vernon as we see him – he absolutely knows about stuff like this coming on the horizon. I can see it already, it’s so practical now that I have my actual eyes on this place.” You pointed up to a tree you had been perusing, “There’s an electrical wire trailing up this tree, perfectly on the outskirts of the crowd where someone can – no, will run towards it if they get spooked. Seriously, doubt anybody in our group put that up there, it’s not covered in all these goofy Halloween decorations.” His own eyes slowly trailed up your arm, catching on an exposed tattoo before briskly tearing away to see what you were talking about, following your pointed finger.

You then gave the unimpressed tone right back, “That’s going to do something. Electrocute someone, take power to something that’s even more gruesome. It’s too high off the ground to be some sort of cutting wire, right?” His eyes went back down, sizing up your confident expression with a halfhearted blink, “Pretty sure whoever, whatever Vernon is, has more than rocks in his head. Fueled by more than just hearsay, ghost stories…”

Finding humor in your almost asinine explanation, you found this was better timing than anything that’d come afterwards. You were surprised he was even still standing in front of you, as you figured you may as well introduce yourself, still caught in a starry-eyed smirk. You offer up your name.

He shook your hand nicely and replied, “Nice meeting you. I’ll let you in on mine after the party.” Finding it almost bold in nature, looking to fulfill some type of promise with that reveal, you blew him off. Rolling your eyes, you asked, “Sure. Then what can I call you until then?”

Still holding your hand in a mockingly polite way, he mulled, “Just call me the wizard himself. … Or the Scarecrow. Whatever works for this costume, Dorothy.” Taking his hand out of yours, he flicked one of your pigtails while pulling away slightly, just enough to leave you able to recall the subtle warmth from standing beside him as something so much stronger just mere seconds ago.

He had glanced at your arm again, so you decided to keep the topic going. “If you can’t tell, I’m kind of fascinated by these slasher types.” You gave him a good view of your tattoos, and his eyes traced over it, silent at first but the approval shining through in a thoughtful roll of his neck as he took in the entire picture again, every detail having soaked in through painted eyeholes.

“You know, I didn’t take you as someone who saw so much in a dynamic like that. The killer and his final person, I mean.” He carefully crossed his arms, like he was letting this creepy façade rest its head for a moment as he speculated, “Almost sounds like you want that for yourself, or at least to see it for yourself, straight out of the movies and the stories.” You smiled unapologetically, and although it sounded like you were playing along it was spoken in earnest, “Oh, do I.”

He stared off into the tree line with you for a beat, and hummed, “A girl like you really seems to chase after that, stick around in places where it can’t help itself.” You rolled your neck a little, adjusting in the scratch of the costume, as alcohol started permeating on your tongue a little heavier. You admitted, “Can’t help being such a go-getter with this. I almost live for it, which means I have to die for it too, I guess.”

“Go-getter.” The words themselves felt like they could be sarcastic when he echoed them back to you, but something earnest coated his voice as he suddenly affirmed that, “You’ll find it. It’ll find you. One or the other.” A hand came up, grasping at an imaginary subject in front of him as he spoke in even more earnest. “Ghost stories or not, something about that attraction. It’s palpable…magnetic, even.”

He then pulled a handle from his pocket, and you soon saw from the size of it that it hadn’t been inside, but rather sitting right in plain view over the top. The stranger shrugged rather peacefully. “It’s like the two can’t keep away from each other.”

That blade didn’t look plastic. You raised an eyebrow; it didn’t even look chrome; it was chipped in certain spots and narrow in a way that fake weapons just couldn’t emulate. Wear and tear made marks like that. You got one more look at his mask, a few second thoughts shutting you up well and fine.

“I’m keeping that promise, by the way. We’ll talk a little later. Can I count on you?” he asked, friendly enough as you merely nodded, trying to act like you were thinking before the nonverbal answer. He slid right past, not towards the crowd, but into the shadows of the apple orchard that surrounded the farm. No one even looked twice at the noise, so minor that it was easily blamed on the wind, should you not know better.

“Oh.” You spoke to yourself, staring down at your drink, “Oh, now that just isn’t fair.”

~

What in the fuck was he doing?

You felt the rope constrict tighter, one of his long arms stretching over one shoulder to take the other end towards your back. Silent, you merely matched his own lack of words because you were more confused than terrified. Maybe even a little let down.

This was how you told him you had wanted to go, at the hands of some dude like him, and he isn’t even killing you.

Between the small talk by the tree and reuniting with him now, to say you had been put to the test to be his victim would be an understatement. Between the classic straggler at the party who disappeared for far too long only for a severed arm or head to turn up to people hanging from the rafters of the farmhouse or in the trees, everyone had scattered, herded together by the supernatural entity of Vernon, and picked off to the best of his abilities. The ones he hadn’t been able to physically get a hold of got caught, you had noted when you ran by that wire and saw someone electrocuted at the foot of the tree it was wrapped around.

What do you know? I was fucking right.

Securing the entire hog tie, he suddenly lifted his haunches from you. Before you recognized he was gearing to leave, that was it. Turning onto your back and haphazardly sitting up, ignoring how your dress rode up slightly in favor of looking through the trees, he had slipped off again like the ghost that he was trying to emulate. You almost wanted to holler at him: The fuck is THE Leslie Vernon doing taking live captors? Is he getting bait? Playing with the food before consuming it?

Pondering had honestly brought you to a comfortable seat on the dirt beneath your backside, not caring if it was starting to pour into the backs of your socks, or even accidentally slip under your skirt, peppering your bare thighs before you readjusted with a huff. You had a hunch, one that finally helped your dry throat find its gloss and find its voice again.

“Not gonna lie, you’re kind of screwing this up.” You called out, and he emerged from the dark, like he knew your own speculations that would come to the light, much like himself: He couldn’t run off yet. Still saying nothing, he tilted his head to one side. It was impossible to tell if he meant it in admiration or disbelief. Regardless, you heard a shuddering breath behind his mask.

“You know,” You crossed one ankle over the other, calming the pulse between your legs, “I always assumed you’d want to keep this brief. Especially if I’m not your final victim.” He made a beeline back over to you, crouching to one knee. Instead of an unnerving whistle or hiss, he gave you an honest mutter in disbelief. “Please. For you?” He asked, and you curiously let him go on, “If anything you’ve told me tonight is true, about yourself and about your passion for what I’m doing, I almost want to ask for permission.”

A hand came up, sans his weapon but nail just as pristine, as he ran feather-light tracks over the outline of the tattoo resting. “I mean, you weren’t lying about your commitment to this sort of lifestyle. These all look pretty real to me.”

“Rub a little harder, even.” You dared, looking down at the primed muscles stretched on the back of his hands, “I don’t mind if you need to prove to yourself that I’m the real deal.” The pristine curl suddenly became lighter, intimidated even as it fell away, and he quickly digressed.

“It isn’t about that, the sweet honeypot at the end of every horror movie. I always thought it had something more to do with the journey, the planning…” He swung the sickle, breaking through the itchy rope and not courteous enough to keep it from catching threads from your dress. He gasped, “I’m a lot like you, in that I will admit it’s nice, but…I want this whole event to be special, you know?”

Pausing, his eyes scoured your body for a couple seconds before his two hands, the curved blade falling in his lap to give way for nimble fingers pulling the rest of the rope apart, taking it from your body and letting it fall along with the weapon. Still, most of it fell to your own lap. Looking at each other, the sigh practically tumbled from behind the mask. Whether it was relief or exhaustion, neither of you cared to label it. He almost seemed put off by something, squinting at himself more so than anything about you or what you were doing.

Then, with the same hands, he pushed the mask up over his face. Seeing him, not the mirage he had been flowing through the entire evening like water vapor, he smiled through a painted on frown. It had been an accent paint, it seemed, something to abscond in case the wooden face didn’t fool a wandering eye. Everything was smoke-colored and smudged over his expression, beginning to get sweat through, and somehow making the smile lines in his face more prominent simultaneously. It was as though you could see everything and nothing at once.

“Special,” You echoed, “I know what you mean. I know exactly what you mean, Leslie.” You cocked your head at the sound of his name on your lips, “Can I call you Leslie?”

“Absolutely. Think we’ve both earned the right to be friendly with each other.” He answered with a harmless nod, and just as swift as he had stripped down to the man that he was, he was shoving you backwards with the heels of his hands. “I honestly don’t know why you’re asking. It’s so clear you knew to use my name long before-“ He framed your arms against the dirt, pinning both the extremities, “we ended up here.” You let your head fall back, the earth supporting heavier realizations as you simply murmured, “Yeah, maybe I did.”

He shifted, as though physically feeling you would do something about this. Rough denim pulled against your bare leg, and even if you could attempt to fix your skirt, you knew you were far past the point of wanting to. Anyone who could see either of you was dead, or rather you could notice from the peripherals of your stare into his own that there was a body nearby.

Whether or not it had been intentionally turned away from the two of you, that was something you enjoyed leaving up to the imagination. You couldn’t even register before he collided into you a little too hard, his hand slipping in a pure excitement that made it hard to keep steady when he was on top of you the way that he was.

It made the fact you talked about the things that you would do about your interest in him all the more diabolical, eyes snapping open and looking past his short dark hair that had been styled by accident to stand on end from how he had removed the mask. You told all of that to his face.

When he finally pulled back, he peered down with an almost euphoric, electrified look to his eyes. “Sorry. I get a little antsy – and you probably knew that, too.” You had no idea what he was talking about until the slow ooze of blood went over the cupid’s bow of your lip. “You’re fine, they happen easily.” You almost coughed through your speech, laughing at imagining just how dishevelled he had you in a matter of a few movements, a few touches that were far from the only ones going forward.

He flicked the sickle, and you watched some stray streaks of blood fall into the dirt, permeate into a diabolical splatter of what you could assume to call mud. “…Listen, we can discuss this away from the rest of the…the party, maybe?” He asked breathlessly, and when you nodded once again leapt off of you with the same pace, the same ethereal ability.

“Well,” You let a string of bloody spit fall from your mouth, as ruby in color as your lipstick and as your shoes, letting him pull you back up by the back of your neck and suddenly hoist you off the ground. You didn’t move as he hefted you over one shoulder; rather, you turned your head and asked, “So, let me just ask this. You’re not gutting me? Stabbing me? Not even slitting the throat, letting me go out in a more iconic fashion? Where the hell are we again?”

Leslie stopped. Readjusting you, the loose threats of your dress along with your soft hip pressing into the side of his neck, he straightened the skirt over your backside with a lingering hand and hummed, “I’ll put it like this: you are not in Kansas anymore.”

Your hands rest on his back, not for lack of support, or fear that he’d drop you, but just because you could, he was right here and he was letting you. Through rough thermal material you could feel how firm he was underneath, defined muscle definitely present, fabric slightly damp from sweat and whatever else from the effort he’d expended this evening thus far. Your nose hadn’t stopped bleeding, a slow drip, he was still carrying you away, somewhere, and you watched as stray drops fell to the ground, bright red standing out amongst dark and loose dirt, like a farewell to the rest of what the party had originally thought it had got itself into. In all honesty, they all assumed it was what it was: a joke.

This was no goddamn joke, tangible as the flexing back underneath your palms.

It’s quiet for a moment, your mind is whirring, wandering as it always is, and watching the faint blood trail, dressed as you were, perched on the monster himself’s shoulder? 

It’s like something out of a fairy tail in a way. The big bad wolf and the little red victim, but instead of a trail of breadcrumbs leading to a gingerbread house, it’s a pathway marked with blood mixing into the earth, and it’s leading to-

A glance around, gaining your bearings. It clicks as soon as your eyes leave the ground. The Vernon farm house.

Oh, this is what he had in mind. He wants to bring you inside. 

You would have been fine getting anything from him, you would have let him fuck you back there in the dirt and loved every single second of it, but apparently he had other plans, better plans. 

You love who he is, and more importantly, you love who you are. 

Furthermore, you have no illusions about yourself either, and certainly no shame. You would have let him do all manner of things in the cool evening air and under the light of the moon, no less than ten feet from a body that he himself had brought to the ground. He deemed you worth more, better than a nasty fuck in the dirt- No. He thinks what you are going to do together is better suited under a roof, in a proper bed.

He thinks you are worth that extra care and effort, and he thinks you deserve the Vernon home’s comfort, warmth, safety…

You suppress a laugh as the word safety floats through your mind. He takes you inside, barely mindful enough to close the door, but enough to give the needed privacy. Up the stairs, you have to stifle another giggle, his shoulder driving up over and over into your sternum inadvertently. He doesn’t even care to notice, let alone say anything about it – especially since you seemed to be thoroughly enjoying yourself. Into the closest guest room, he slings you off of him and onto the bed.

The idea that you are safe with Leslie fucking Vernon is, laughable, hilarious, and yet – seemingly and inexplicably – true. He looks like he is too excited, like he doesn’t know what to do first.

You jump into action, knowing the role deserves such from both parties. You reach out to him, propped up on one elbow, your other hand is open, a move of your fingers, a small invitation to join you on the surprisingly plush surface, it certainly beat the dirt outside (mythos ingrained couldn’t make it any more pleasant after all). He takes you up on it, starts to crawl onto the bed, it’s not as slow as before, as if now that he’s experienced it once, he is craving to be on top of you again too much to not rush it, and soon enough he is. 

You revel in his weight on top of you again, your hand that was previously reaching out touches down on the back of his neck, you sink further into the mattress with a sigh. You speak, you ask, “How are you feeling?”

“How am I feeling?” He asks, and you nod once, “Yeah, after everything, we kept you pretty busy tonight, running around, you feeling tired yet, Vernon?”

A shake of his head, small smile, addressing him by his last name is fine too it seems, good to know. He tells you, “No way, not at all.”

“No?” The question is innocent in tone, but not in what you hope to gain from it, and he says, “You have no idea the stamina I am capable of.”

“Show me?”  You asked, tone thoroughly hopeful, almost offended by the notion you’d underestimate him. Still, you wanted him to make you understand, and not only that, but to not stop until he was sure you understood.

The implication is obvious, the motives clear, yet he still tilts his head a little and asks, “And just how should I do that?”

He’s being so fucking coy about it, he has to know how endlessly attractive that is to you. You fight the urge to grouse, a playful musing of, must you do everything is left unsaid.

Hand on the back of his neck moves up, fingers slide through short dark hair and thread slightly, twist as much as they are able, and you use that to tug him down as you move up so your lips meet. It’s fitting you suppose, there has to be a point where this happens, right? A shift in your dynamic. He’s still instigating, doing the set-up, but you can’t be stock static forever.

That isn’t the point, it isn’t your role. It isn’t any fun if he’s the only one doing the moving, otherwise you might as well just be one of the bodies abandoned in the dirt outside, chilling and succumbing to the elements as you two lay here.

The flavour of him hits your senses due to the union you’d just forced, mostly it’s salt and the paint he wore. It doesn’t taste like any normal make-up you’d ever worn, but it’s him, just as much as the light apple you managed to gain a sense of was. The idea of him taking a small break and eating from the orchard on the job is weirdly endearing, if not a bit funny, but there are better things to focus on. Mostly like, where the fuck did he learn to kiss like this? Was he this good, were you this hard up, or was it everything else? The tension, the build up, the chemistry or as he so succinctly put it earlier, the magnetism? 

Either way, you simply cannot bring yourself to care as he settles in closer to you, body more flush to yours, really letting you soak up the feeling of him on you, letting it consume you more easily not just into him, but the moment itself.

The rhythm and ease, back and forth, push and pull, inhale and sigh, your lips part more, and then you’d realized something vital just now, in your haste to kiss him you’d honestly forgotten about the fact you were still bleeding. You pull back, about to apologize, but that look in his eyes makes you stop again, shining in the low light of the room. The words die a quiet death on your tongue, lingering there before being buried with the taste of iron on your palette.

He doesn’t let you, his hands are on you now, too. Your grip loosens while his tightens, another shift with one hand in just about the same place yours was on him, the back of your neck. His mouth stained differently than before, more red like yours was, and he says, “Not yet.” before leaning in to take further. 

He is getting bolder, more confident, dare you even say a needier edge to this, the thought passes through your mind, How does he like it? He definitely knows himself and what he’s doing. Also, how long had it been for him?

When was the last time he had someone in his bed, kissed someone, touched another person without the express purpose and idea being violent fanfare? Clearly you are not the first, no way anyone is this capable on their first go with no previous experience to back themselves up, but when was the last time he had penetrated a warm body below him in a different sense? It sends a thrill through you, weeks, months, fuck, years? The very idea certainly made you feel special. 

You’d been returning his affection this whole time, matching him in enthusiasm and pace. You wanted to ask, to know, but should you ask right this second when his mouth felt so good slotted against yours? You could talk more later. Right now, your body is betraying what you really crave: a move of your hips against his, a grind upwards, and you feel with perfect clarity how much this is getting to him too. The friction is good but nowhere near enough, the move is repeated twice more, and it just gets better, it makes you want to go further at the warmth that is blooming inside as well as kick off your sparkly heels and shed much more clothing than just that. Something eager, like how he had collided so harshly with you just prior to this, was rushing to the hilt. Practically gagging on its leash, the seams of your panties rubbing you to near pain before anything even passed the barrier of clothing.

Again, maybe you were just that predictable. His hand tracing from the waistband of your skirt to glide along the socks, his mind was going straight to those heels. You crease your brow slightly as you feel his fingers stick past the spot where the shoes still wedged fast to your foot, and without taking his mouth off of yours, he pushes one of them off. Then, the other with a similar urgency to his movement, the same brisk shuffle of the other hand. When you glance down, he’s holding both of them in one hand, caring not to throw them to the floor but rather set them gingerly by the foot of the bed.

“Those shoes got some thought in them,” He commented when he saw where your eyes had been, “I respect the craft, so I’m not here to wreck those heel stoppers.”

“Well, that decides it,” you say in a serious and emphatic tone, with your brows still pinched together, "I have to blow you."

A laugh, small and shocked, before he asks, "Right this second?"

"Do you have a better or more appropriate time in mind, Leslie?" You say it teasingly and even after you expounded earlier about all the things you would do, even after proving your devotion to the supposed “cause”, it was as if he still didn’t believe you to back it up and be so forward. He had a lot to learn about you.

In the interest of continuing to be forward, you lean in that direction, sitting half up to meet his now kneeling position he took when removing your heels, hands are back on, setting to work on his overalls as you say, “I think I can pencil you in for around four pm next Wednesday if that suits you better?”

“Lots of jokes from you right now-” He starts, and you laugh, as if he didn’t open with one himself earlier, didn’t set the tone, the snaps undone you tell him, “Trying to keep the mood light, it was getting pretty hot and heavy there for a minute.” 

“Are you complaining about some good, solid sexual tension?” He asks as you tug the denim down. You admire the way the dirty off-white material is stretched across his arms and torso, eyes linger while your fingers abandon the straps, settling into the openings near his hips to get it the rest of the way off. “Never, just don’t want you to blow your load too fast, you know?”

“Be honest.” He implores with a smile, and you shrug, eyes break away as you say, “Maybe I want to make this last a bit longer, don’t want to rush something I’ve been wanting for so long.” 

It is honest. You want to savour it, especially because who knows if this is a once in a lifetime offer that will expire after tonight. Perhaps the sun will rise in the morning, then proceed to set on whatever is between you and him right now.

You push the thought aside as easily as you do the rest of dark muddy blue fabric with his help, no time to think about all of that when you have this right now. Enjoy the moment as it happens, for what it is, or regret it forever. Either this is the one and only, the possibilities as infinite as the entire evening felt, or the hopeful first of many, and in either scenario your full attention is deserved.

“That is something I can completely understand.” 

You’re sure he can. Tossing the clothing on the floor with much less care than he gave to your shoes, you notice his current state and ask, “Woah, commando under there, huh?”

“Freedom of movement is important. Gotta stay aerodynamic with all the running, chasing...” He points out, and your hands come up. “Never said it wasn’t”. Verbally, you reply, “Fair enough.” That doesn’t put you off, the idea of him doing this so unencumbered wasn’t bad at all. You reach out again, hands help him with his shirt, and he is more than amicable but at the same time points out, “You are still awfully dressed.”

“You know you can do something about that, anytime you want to.” Making your own point in a similar tone that he did earlier, but before he can start to worry about removing white and blue checkered frills, you are much closer. Hands on his shoulders, another kiss not stolen, but willingly given.

If the excitement you felt when making out fully clothed before was good, him bare under your exploring hands was incredible. You are torn between the feel of his mouth on yours and how the planes of his skin under your careful palms. He had some good scars, ones you would be getting a much closer look at if you weren’t so consumed with how his tongue was working into your mouth. Lower and lower, fingers trace until you are down past his ribs over a particularly gnarly scar on his side that makes him tense. A small breaking apart, lips hardly lifting from his as you ask, “You good?”

A hum of acknowledgement with a nod as you trace over it again, you think this is it, you think this is the big one he got from Her and you are touching it, evidence of their bond and connection, foraging your own private moment with it.

You don’t linger, you don’t want to make him uncomfortable but from the way he is breathing you don’t think he is bothered by it, you think he’d let you do more to it and maybe later you will.

For now your hand is concerned with going lower, thumb slipping over his hip bone until you find what you really want, a fleeting thought of empowering yourself makes a smile pass your lips briefly before you kiss him again, swallowing up the gasp he lets out from the firm grip you take.

Christ, this was going to be good, you could tell, but you can make it better still. You break away to lean down a bit, spitting into your palm before taking back your position, your hand is gliding much easier. You think of putting your mouth to better use. You don’t want to use just your hand; can anyone blame you for wanting to satisfy an intense oral fixation, something that made you hit the ground running at the drop of a dime? Not only that, but you were good at it, and you wanted to show him just how good you could be. To see what reactions you could draw from him when your fingers dig into his hips and pull him in close and down your eager throat made a mantra clear as day cross your mind, almost blinding you as you felt yourself tense slightly in anticipation. 

Stop thinking, start doing.

You make the move, sliding lower on his body. More passes of your mouth, brushes of your lips, quick pecks placed as you travel down, admiring as you go and your hand never stopping. The look on his face made him seem that he was merely allowing it, but as he got more sensitive to each meeting of your mouth against his skin, his posture was starting to slack.

Jaw to neck and neck to shoulder, his shoulder to chest and his chest down his stomach and fuck, you see it: the edge of that brutal scar. You lick your lips quickly, and the pure impulse pushes you to lean in. While tightening your grip on his shaft, your tongue licks up along the length of the raised tissue. He responds as if he’s been electrocuted, a choked sound that was desperately trying to abscond itself made you clench the empty space between your legs. It seems you took him by surprise yet again. Thank God for the hand you have on his opposite side while you work him over, or he might have just toppled right off the bed.

You let the underside of your tongue pass over it once more on your way down until you are finally stomach down on the sheets, right where you need to be. After all, previous thoughts of knowing where Her story ended and yours began was a line you were willing to dance along.

The hand on him slows as you make that first contact, you start with a kiss, something soft and akin to reverent. It’s just to kick it off, but quickly the experimenting turned to knowledge, then knowledge to want. You’re quicker now, and a hungry mouth opens as you take almost half in one go. A light moan around your mouthful, lips close and with the seal formed you suck deeply.

Some people might be grossed out by the taste of him after a night's activities. You are not one of those people. The tang of him is strong, and it is very welcome. The taste of him and heavy weight on your tongue along with remnants of the drinks from what felt like an entirely different night ago made you grind your hips into the mattress as you bob back once before driving down again – harder, taking more.

A hand finds your hair along with a quiet curse, a half smile can be heard in his tone, “Shit, you’re eager, huh?”

Eyes glance up through your lashes, along with a nod that doesn’t stop your pace. You merely slow for a moment, fingers on his hip squeeze, and you use that to draw him closer. You are going to take him to the base and swallow around the head of his dick, even if it suffocates you. Forcing your head down is easy, taking him deeper is no issue, you are plenty motivated, a straining of your neck as you keep leaning, hand pulling him towards you until finally you achieve your goal.

It took a few rocks back and forth, a minute amount taken more each time, until your nose is buried in trimmed coarse hair. Another moan reverberates out of you, somewhere deep in your throat and then up his shaft. Nails bite into his hip as you move him back a hair, and you suck down a deep breath through your nose before your lips are locked once more around his base.

You suck, your tongue moves in slow lazy circles on the underside of his shaft as an opener, yet you still listen as his breathing pitches, becoming laboured. You take the chance and give a strong swallow.

He lets out a groan, the hand in your hair threads, and he tugs, “Fuck-”

That is what you need to hear. No, that is what you live for. A telling tone, rough and faltering into something less confident. It was almost like he was vanquishing that idea, and letting it go where it needed rather than where he saw to fit. You swallow him again, and another sound pours out from above you. You repeat yourself with another swallow, a sound to match once more, and you throb.

Finding some guarded clarity for a second, he then says, “You know you, ugh, you don’t have to do all this.”

Brows quirk, and you move back, pulling him out and noting how he’s dripping in your spit. Your hand locks onto him tightly as you move seamlessly, not breaking stride, and you squarely look up. “I thought you were smart.”

He laughs breathlessly, eyes hard to see from a half confused and half pleasured grimace before he questions, “What?”

Your opposite hand comes up, thumb dispatching the spit that had slipped out, while you maintain eye contact. You tell him, “I’m not doing this to impress you, Leslie. This is just how I like to do this, or else… What am I doing here?”

You lean in and slip the head back between your lips. You suck again, his head tips back as your hand works his shaft in tandem with your mouth and then a few pumps later pop him back out, finishing your previous train of thought, “This? It’s just as much for me as it is for you. Trust me.”

You set back to work, hand slows, and you work him back into your mouth, sucking indulgently all the way, a blanket of bliss taking over. Fingers are loose around the base of his shaft, and you bob your head up and down. The rhythm is casual and easy, you are just having fun with it at this point.

Like the loosening grip on control, he seemed more than happy to let you play. It gave him the time to have what you said linger on his mind.

A minute later, he then let his head fall back down and asked, “What do you mean, it’s just as much for you?”

You didn’t want to stop, so you think you can show rather than tell. Your hand that wasn’t holding him in place while you continue to fuck your mouth with him slips down. A hand goes up your skirt and into your underwear, finally giving reprieve to that wall that kept the last of hidden details from what was before both of you.

Fingers slip down, and you are soaked.

You pushed two into yourself, and gasp as much as you can with him in your mouth. You rock back and forth, fucking yourself on your fingers, and God, that felt so good. You linger for a moment before your hand is pulled out and held up, still shivering from the inside out from its protrusion. His fingers catch your wrist, and he brings it closer to see them slick, a mess running down them and strings of arousal breaking apart when you splay your fingers. 

Undeniable evidence of just how much this particular act does for you. 

You’d hoped he would understand, and he does. Synchronicity is further bliss, so much so that you have this much of a read on him. It was something more satisfying than just grazing the books, the articles written capturing mere glimpses of him. For fuck’s sake, he has your fingers in his mouth. He sucks and tastes you, and apparently likes it so much he moans (not in a dissimilar fashion to how you did upon tasting him.)

Fuck, you had it so badly for him. 

You hadn’t wanted to stop. Urges to keep going until drool was trailing down your chin and neck were throttling you, and you were a breathless mess who was somehow even wetter by the end of it. Looking up, it was becoming clear that he had other plans. It’s shown on how his face once again grew dark, similar to what you had seen when the mask had come off. Eyes fixated on your face, taking in features with a few restless heaves of his shoulders, a still ocean in his expression as he thought for another second.

“You want to know about me?” He asked, smiling as he let go of your wrist. “Let’s scratch that. This business is a lot about improv, if you didn’t already know, and here comes an improvised thought.” He readjusted, finding some footing in the way he was kneeling, and he leaned in a little more – to a point where you could smell yourself on his breath. Another grind against you, he shuddered out the words.

“Let me get to know a little more about you for a second.”

You were frozen in place, merely humming in response as he suddenly turned his attention lower. With a smoothing motion, your skirt rode up your hips along with the heels of his hands, pushing it like something in his way, which you suppose it is.

Suddenly, just as quick and almost erratic as he had been the more he was enjoying himself, enjoying this, and enjoying you – he was off the bed for a split second. You didn’t watch, just waited, made yourself more comfortable, because it was a pattern of his to come back when he did that. Your mouth feels tragically empty at the loss of him, but you have a good feeling whatever he is about to do will more than make up for it. 

“God, they’re the same color as the slippers-” He lamented for half a second, speaking of your red panties he had revealed when he moved your skirt out of the way, but as soon as he had left he was back. Something cold slid underneath the fabric of your underwear, and with a thoughtful turn to rest on a small edge between your skin and the elastic made you realize what it was.

How did you not see that coming? He held it with a steady hand, a semblance of trying to keep some control with something so sharp, as he caught his breath. Pulling upwards in an almost savage motion shattered the otherwise serene, quiet moment.

“Sorry if you were thinking about wearing those again.” He shrugged, no remorse in his tone. You chuckled at that and replied, “You think I’d get rid of them even after that?” As you finished the rhetorical question, you saw him holding them in an iron grip with the hand that didn’t have the sickle.

“Not what I meant.” He said the obvious aloud, and in a quick move of his arm he threw them out of sight, “Good luck finding those again.” You scoffed, head falling back on the bed as you lamented, “Will it be as hard as learning your na-”

He cut you off again, this time with a hand feeling your entrance with the same careful precision he had given with the weapon. It was your turn to shudder, fingers curling in response to the feeling almost immediately as you got your last word out, “Naaaame?”

“Everyone knows my name.” Leslie reminded you, “At least, around here. I’ve done a great job with making it all common knowledge, but…” You stared with lidded eyes as he finally let the middle finger pass your walls, unable to keep the expression of a surprise that broke the final assumption that you couldn’t feel this wet, this hot. Neither of you could keep talking, awe striking both of you from making the connection.

The moment overtakes, there is one thought that breaks through the haze, lingering in the now mostly empty space of your mind, “Leslie Vernon is inside of me.” 

To be fair, he always has been it seems, once you learned about him, it was like he set up camp in your mind, your heart – fucking Hell, into the very marrow of your bones, he took root, curling around your spine all the way up your brain stem. It’s like an infection, poisoning you, making you sick.

You never wanted to get better. If this is what being ill is, then you want to be staying under forever. He’s been in you in every way but a very physical way, but now?

As he almost totally withdraws his middle finger and then adds his ring finger next, he has broken that last barrier, and you need to hold on for dear life to keep yourself from spiralling out. You writhed slightly, trying not to clench your legs and prevent him from doing what he needed to. He started to pump a few times, but it was growing too much again. That same face falling over him like a blanket, he ducked down. His fingers felt incredible, but his tongue was something that made an involuntary gasp come with an inhale, then a shaky cry fall from you with an exhale.

He was mute, focused with a furrowed brow as his mouth merely ghosted, then settled into where he felt fit best. One lick up through your folds had him deciding quietly that he needed to get more comfortable for this, wanting as much of you exposed as possible. Fingers leave you and his hands lock onto your hips. He tugs you down as he moves, showing his strength, no matter how you had made him look weak in full view. The reminders he could do anything he wanted prompts a small moan to slip out.

He has his knees to rough hardwood, your legs remain splayed, and he gets to it. 

You’d thought about this very thing often. It had been an impossibility, a complete pipe dream to be taken by his mouth, but here he was turning the thoughts into one hell of a reality. There had to be a figure that he was rather good at that, even outside his other work. You look down the length of your body to see those weathered hands resting atop your thighs, his eyes closed and that mouth of his getting into a rhythm of doing some frankly criminal things, neck muscles flexing in the process.

His tongue was eager but minded its pace, going from bottom to top, hole all the way up and over straining and hyper sensitive flesh before repeating the action. It made you tense with a quick inhale as your body became taut, the easy simmer of pleasure from the first contact. The tension and tease of a rise upward culminating in the bright burst of feeling that hits when he passes over your clit, to then the leftover buzz when he pulls away briefly to drop back to do it all over again.

It’s wonderful, it’s maddening, and before you could even hope to start to put together the thoughts to form a sentence to complain he knew, somehow he knew just when to move on.  His mouth becomes much more focused, the movements are drawn out and unhurried. Very comfortable, light brushes of his tongue over your twitching bud through the hood make your body respond in kind, unable to remain still. You are so perfectly worked up, it is like you can feel every move, no matter how miniscule with rough palms holding your legs in place during the times they jerk more heavily, and a rough stubble scraping against the edges of your inner thighs. His lips, soft, slick and pliable – they’re phenomenal.

He’s intuitive. You knew this going in, but he is paying very close attention and realizes that gentle passes of his tongue are doing more than something firmer and with more pressure, the real winner though? Using his lips to, not even suck really, more he was just using them to provide smooth gliding and very wet friction, the heat and careful attention is doing you in, the amount of touch is perfect, the pleasure it hoists upon you is near overwhelming.

It’s like a kiss, honestly. A filthy, completely mind-bending, make your knees give out if you were standing kiss, but a kiss all the same. It’s intense, passionate, makes your head spin and fingers twist into the sheets harder. You aren’t even aware of the sounds you are making as your thighs squeeze his head, pitched moans and cries, out of breath and broken praise and encouragement that spills forth without thought. It’s quiet, whispered out hushed over the wet sounds of his mouth as he worked, “Leslie-”

You sound wrecked as you tell him, somehow finding the words to utter, “-jus-just like that-” and he does as asked, keeps the stride. In moments, it has you begging, a weak and pathetic plea of, “-don’t stop, ple-ase, fuck!”

He hums in acknowledgement, and that makes your legs move involuntarily again with a gasp. One of his hands lifts off your thigh, but you are much too consumed with the seal of his lips around your clit, the quick passes of his tongue and the pressure building steadily to notice his hand moving. The loudest moan of the night is torn from you when his hand is back between your legs, those same fingers taking up the same space they occupied before. 

You are even wetter by this point, the two fingers slide into you with no resistance at all and at first? He doesn’t do anything with them, he just allows himself to sit inside, let you use him as something to clench on, to feel the effect he is having on you, the flex and pulsing of your walls. Within another minute of your breathing getting worse, more pleas that somewhat resemble words but fall short, that is when he curves them, curls them up and with one pass he finds it, the rougher and spongier tissue and he presses. 

You choke out the first half of his name, a cry of, “Les-!” 

His mouth is still providing that light and simple stimulation, exploiting how sensitive and easy you were, but his fingers decide to be steady, relentless, consistent presses to that same spot over and over. 

You were done, gone, fate was sealed, right on the precipice and nothing was going to stop it from happening, as inevitable as him and you ending up here, you were going to come. 

Words were not needed, as if you could form any right now. He knew, all too aware, with lips around your clit and two fingers deep inside you. Your eyes slip closed, brows are creased, and you are trembling; that bad habit of yours creeping up again, so totally consumed with feeling and sensation, on the bleeding edge of what might be the biggest orgasm of your life that you are not currently breathing. Holding a lungful of air in, your form taut and your body rife with tension. In that wonderful plateau of fantastic torture of that compact moment before it all hits, the space prior to the world splitting and your mind going blank from pleasure. He is consistent and that is just what is needed to slip over and finally fall. 

The first natural reaction is to let out that breath you’d been holding in, as the string snaps and the pressure begins to unravel you, an unsteady exhale that is broken in the middle leaves you, a sharp gasp back in. The sound you let out could be read as his name, it is like it starts off with the “Le-” sound and then instead becomes a chorus of this breathy sound, not a laugh, but close enough. It seems that way because of the open-mouthed smile that has taken over your face. Losing control of the breaths that followed after, you let yourself tumble through an ether of forgetting who you were, who he was – you just knew there was a connection feeling one hell of a hot flash, a touch between one another that could fuel your interest for lifetimes.

You squirm and shift, his fingers were still pumping in and out of you, the other hand on your hip, holding you firmly in place, so you couldn’t wiggle away, making you feel every second of it as he feels it from his side too, every twitch and clench. His tongue has slowed, light passes over your clit still caught between his lips, keeping the stimulation going is vital, ensuring the most feeling out of your peak but still managing to not overwork you. 

You don’t think you can adequately describe how good it feels, but you can’t describe much of anything when you are totally thoughtless like you are right now. It takes a while for the feeling to ebb and slow and eventually stop, and you to return to yourself. Your breathing returning to some semblance of normal was still a ways off yet. You felt weak, boneless and helpless. You barely notice him lifting his mouth or his fingers slipping out of you, the only acknowledgement of the loss of contact a short exhale and your eyes starting to open, you feel the movement of him before you register the sights, eyes taking a moment to refocus. 

How could you even begin to describe the look on his face at this moment? Eye’s alight, chin wet, grin on his face and teeth partially exposed, you’d think the look he wore was one full of mischief and promise of what is to come, pure unadulterated excitement for what is next. You think your own face is betraying your own true emotions as well, and you are positive that yours match his, if anything you think you have a much more distinct tint of want. When he adjusts, between your legs, hands hooked under your knees and grinding himself against you? That shows that you are more than ready, more than wanting. The small smile that was on your face, playful and light, drops as his shaft cuts through you, sliding up over and through your folds, the head of him passing over your clit, and it steals your breath again, 

Another movement of his body against yours, of his hips slotting against you, has you sucking in a hard inhale, and the next move to rush the exhale. Head tipping back, a hushed call of his name for the who knows how many-th time tonight. Enveloped by a thud that brings his hips into yours, a cover of heat that fills your entire body and makes you nearly lose grip of the bed underneath you as you adjust to the push.

Your vision is fixed on the main point of contact between you and him, of him hard against you, soaked, it felt much better than it had any right to. In the frenzied process of him eating you out your costume has gotten even more messed up, the hem of the skirt pulled higher, you are glad for that, more skin on skin contact is always good of course but with the blue and white out of the way there is no worry of the view being obstructed. 

The visual was stellar, his breathing was matching yours and that makes you tear your gaze away up to his face. Your eyes catch his, your breathing is pitched and in sync, chests rising and falling and staring into each other, it escalates further without direct communication. His body moves a tad lower, your hips angle, and then he is lined up just right, slick tip leaking pre-cum prodding at your more than prepared hole. It takes less than ten seconds for you to be telling him in a half annoyed and hurried voice, “Do it already Verno-”

You don’t get his last name out. A hand suddenly comes up from where it had been placed lower on your body to find a hold around the base of your neck, pushing the muscles on either side together. It was something secure, helping to keep your head angled up, but also a reminder of who needed to stay in control. Especially catching the glimpse of his eyes, elusive as ever. If you hadn’t been far too down this rabbit hole, you’d want to bargain that. Truly, who was pushing whose buttons?

His own face changing, a setting of his jaw, eyes harder and committing to focus on yours. He takes, slides home fucking finally and fills you to the hilt. You don't cry out yet, instead opting to make a sound akin to a strangled whine. Hands reach out blindly, unconsciously, wanting to cling to something, to him, a desperate attempt to ground yourself using his body as the means to an end. Your nails scrape against skin as he moves back, taking half of himself out before forcing back in all the way, changing the previous sound to a gasp and that sound, is what changes all of this, really sets it all in motion. Like he knew you had doubted the control within him, and that just made you all the more palpable to what came.

It isn’t tentative or nervous, confidence is gained quickly, it feels right, correct, a give and take that has you and him not working against each other but instead with one another. His hands lock back around your waist, you arch closer, a flick of your tongue against his throat, tasting the salt of his skin has him driving into you deeper, and so it goes. You are trying to hold on, literally, while you adjust to the stretch of him as well as the gravity of the situation, Leslie-fucking-Vernon is inside of you right now, holding you, fucking you. 

How the Hell are you meant to cope with this? You hoped, but weren’t even truly sure he was real until you met him, and now a good roll of his hips had you moaning something close to his name. You’d wonder what your life was, what it had turned into, but why would you question such a good thing? In fact, where you would be and go after this was as far from you as it possibly could. You, instead, in a very healthy move by the way, lean closer still, lips brush the shell of his ear, nearly chest to chest you ask quietly, rushed, “Fuck me harder?”

You are met with a simple and single word, hummed out in a tone that tried to find some sort of sharp edge of condescending but falling just short of fascination instead, “Demanding.”

There was a brief reposition, making sure both of you were ready for some goddamn finale that this night deserved. He’d more than proven his strength to you by this point, and yet you still find ways to be amazed by how he shows it to you, in the sheer force he exerts as he complies with your needy request. It’s good, more than good, but you know it could be better still, the mental stimulation was incredible alone, just a little more was needed. His grip on your waist is keeping you right where he wants, holding you firmly to the mattress, but you do what you can, what you need, feet finding some purchase on the sheets, a slight bending of the knees and you, or rather he, found it. The reaction is immediate and obvious, the moan you were midway through is choked, a tremble that nearly rivals the first ones that wracked your body when he made you cum with his mouth and your own mouth clamping shut. Thighs squeezing his hips and your soaked hole clenching around him tighter, he doubts the hint could be more obvious if it was a neon sign flashing in his face. 

Doesn’t mean he still wasn’t going to be just a bit of an asshole about that, mostly, because he knew you got off on that kind of thing. He holds in you, a purposeful grind that stimulates you both inside and out, a pathetic sound tries to break out as your eyes shut, and he asks, “You okay?” 

You nod, short, curt, he isn’t relenting, another grind but this one ends with him pulling halfway out before filling you completely again, this time you can’t stop the moan that slips out, “You sure? You are being awfully quiet.” 

Before you can try to conjure a reply or attempt to defend yourself, he stops playing around, no more easy but devastating grinds he is back to the previous pace he was setting. There is no true reason to be holding back, who was going to overhear you? The corpses outside? It was laughable, further still, you couldn’t shut up now, not with how he’d locked onto just where you needed him. The litany of moans and gasps might be embarrassing if you weren’t currently drowning in pleasure, you are very unaware of much, just focused on the fact that you needed this feeling to continue, it was overwhelming in the best possible way. Nails biting into his skin and your eyes locked on his, hardly able to process any visuals, you can hear his voice again over the heaving breaths and skin on skin. 

His question makes you realize he was responding to you speaking, brain on autopilot it’s sluggish but catches up. You are connecting the dots through the context clues of his words, his near saccharine and condescending tone and question of, “Yeah? Right there?” 

Makes you come to the fact that you must have been letting out a surely pitiful chorus of, “Ri-right there, right there-”

You lean in further, hoping if you debase yourself further still he’d continue, he’d see this through, he’d make you break apart as strongly and beautifully as he did before. “Yesss-”

You were not far off at this rate, perfectly worked up and so sensitive. 

If the build up before could be described as a slow climb of a staircase, you’d say this one is more akin to an elevator ride that you can feel in your stomach, a rushed ride to the top but one you wouldn’t dare dream of complaining about. The height feels as though you were on top of the world all the same, where nothing could reach you quite like the view would. Looking to him, you concurred it was just as breathtaking. You don’t need to tell him, again, everything else about your body language and the fact he is stuffed to the hilt inside of you tells him you are nearly there. 

The state of being stuck in that lovely frustrating plateau was nowhere near as long as the first, from near the edge, to on it, to thrown the fuck over happened faster than you thought possible. He helped you, continued to hold you, fuck you through it and wring every ounce of pleasure he can out of your spasming cunt. The come down isn’t easy because he simply is refusing to let up, even when you try to pull back a bit, adjust, he isn’t having it, hands slide from your waist to under your legs, resting behind your knees. You can’t escape, he holds your legs closer, pressing them down, he abuses you further, enjoying how you reacted to the intense over stimulation. 

You find your voice again, use it for something more than moaning incoherently, “Leslie-fuck, please, ease up-” 

A minute shake of his head, his grip under your knees tightens, a hard swallow he tells you firmly, forces out, “You can take it.”

You clench around him again, another pulse of heat races through you. “Oh my God-” You gasp out, he’s right, for him, you could and would do just about anything. 

You try not to be crushed under the intensity as you look up at him, and that’s when it hits you, the uneven pace of his breath, thrusts becoming more erratic, he’s close himself and the prospect of him reaching his own end buried inside you is unbelievably exciting. One more word is grit out, “Almost-”

In your fervent excitement, you nearly cut him off, begging for it, “Do it.”

You don’t plead for him to not pull out, you don’t wrap your legs around his hips, you want him to make the choice himself, willingly, craving him to take that leap and that risk with you. Your streak of good luck has not yet run out because he does just that, another slam of his hips into yours, and he cums, holds mostly still, the force of it makes him shudder with your name on his tongue, and you feel near endless pride at that. The shudder of his shoulders completes an already perfect picture, something that would linger like cobwebs in your head.

It’s quiet now, no more noise from the bed or from your bodies against one another, just heavy breathing, and you aren’t in a rush to go, but slowly you do untangle. Your hands slip away as do his, legs are back on the mattress, and he slips out of you, the mess that follows that action staining the sheets and thankfully not your hiked up costume. He falls beside you, and you aren’t sure what to do from there, is it weirder to want to cuddle up with him or to not? 

The same question about whether you should leave is on your mind but, he answers both, an adjustment, an arm around you as he sighs out, “You already ran enough earlier, you can stay a while.”

You let your eyes close as you get comfier and do just that, he might be a killer but he’s courteous enough to let you get a few hours sleep in his bed before you go. 

Even as you began the long walk out, you still weren’t quite sure what to do to cope with meeting Leslie Vernon. Even waiting until the Sun was up to let yourself be known to the world again, a new soul forged from a night you couldn’t even begin to explain to others – let alone rationalize to yourself – didn’t do much for your mind, bogged with a confusion that only knew one thing.

You had enjoyed it despite all that had happened. It still touched your skin, scents still held in your costume, and stepping onto the uneven earth again, you then concurred you knew two things.

You still had the heel stoppers on.

Traversing the uneven road back towards Glen Echo. They were doing their job fairly well, albeit the muscles in your legs were singing another kind of song, straining at any sign of a bend or a shift in your weight. Scanning the surrounding area, you were nearly left thoughtless – because speechless was well and achieved, sitting like a plug in your throat.

There was no one left. Presumably all of the people who had come with you were dead – or left in a state of hopeless confusion just like yourself. For them, it’d be time to put together the facts on what had really happened that night.

But for you? It was the time to paint alongside Leslie’s own fantasy. You had spoken with him about what to say, where everyone had gone, and what had exactly happened to you. It was as gorgeous as the rest of his work, and something you felt rather unique to be touched by, to know the truth behind the…

Behind the mask.

The feeling you were being watched was well weighted on your shoulders, and there was something ever so taunting about knowing when you turned around or tried to meet it, there would be no way to talk to him. Leslie was an open book – you could even call him an open heart, but he also had a job and a name to keep pristine and mysterious as it had been when you had entered the domain of the Vernon orchard.

You considered it a little funny, then a little unexplainable. That just made the thoughts tread foggier water. Part of you wondered if it had even happened, knowing that it didn’t sound serious as you kept telling the story to yourself while walking home. He had given you something straight out of a fantasy, and you then concurred that was his specialty, wasn’t it? There was a solemn recognition that you were going to be the only one that should hear about it.

Still, you then shifted, feeling that there were no longer panties under the dress, (he ended up being right, you couldn’t find them, unsure if they were genuinely lost, or he stole them). That was no joke.

[reallygroovyninja]

Blurred Lines Part 2

The early morning light filtered through the blinds of Lexa high-rise apartment, casting sleek lines of shadow and light across the room. She lay in bed for a moment, her eyes open, gazing at the ceiling, her mind already racing through the day's agenda. The life of a corporate VP was a relentless cycle of decisions and responsibilities. 

With a disciplined sigh, Lexa slid out of bed, her feet touching the cool, polished floor. Her apartment was a reflection of her professional success – modern, minimalist, and impeccably organized. The walls adorned with tasteful art, the furniture angular and stylish, each piece carefully chosen to project a sense of sophisticated efficiency. 

In the kitchen, her high-end coffee machine hummed quietly, producing the perfect cup of coffee with the press of a button. Lexa filled a sleek, designer travel mug, her movements brisk and purposeful. She appreciated these small luxuries, brief moments of personal indulgence in her otherwise structured life. 

Pausing for a moment, she glanced at a photograph on the kitchen counter – a serene landscape, a contrast to her urban existence. It was a silent nod to her hidden longing for the tranquility of nature amidst her bustling city life. 

Dressing for the day, Lexa chose her attire with careful consideration. She selected a sharply tailored suit, its fabric rich and commanding, paired with a crisp, white blouse. The suit was a statement of her status and authority, a necessary armor in the corporate world. Her shoes were elegant yet practical, high heels that clicked authoritatively on her apartment's hardwood floors. 

Before leaving, Lexa stood before the full-length mirror in her hallway. She adjusted her jacket, smoothed her hair, her expression a blend of confidence and introspection. The reflection staring back at her was that of a powerful businesswoman, poised and ready to conquer the challenges of the day. 

As she was about to turn away, a soft presence emerged behind her. Clarke, with her gentle demeanor and understanding eyes, appeared like a comforting echo in the mirror.  

Clarke’s arms slipped around Lexa’s waist, a warm and reassuring embrace that contrasted with the cool precision of Lexa’s corporate armor. Lexa’s initial posture of rigid control visibly softened under Clarke’s touch. Her eyes closed momentarily, allowing herself a rare moment of vulnerability, a silent acceptance of the comfort offered. 

In the mirror, the contrast between them was striking yet harmonious. Clarke, in her more casual attire, her blonde hair falling softly around her shoulders, radiated a sense of freedom and emotional openness. Lexa, in her business suit, the epitome of corporate success, yet in this moment, her façade was gently stripped away by Clarke’s affectionate gesture. 

Clarke’s hands moved slowly, caressing Lexa’s torso, a soothing motion that spoke volumes. It was a silent communication of support, understanding, and deep connection. The tension in Lexa’s shoulders eased, her expression softening as she leaned back slightly into Clarke’s embrace. It was a rare moment of stillness in Lexa’s usually hectic life, a peaceful interlude in the reflective glass of the mirror. 

The world outside continued its relentless pace, but in the sanctuary of her apartment, time seemed to pause. In Clarke's hold, Lexa found a moment of tranquility, a gentle reminder of the life and love existing beyond her professional realm. Her eyes met Clarke’s in the mirror, a shared glance that needed no words, rich with meaning and mutual respect. 

Suddenly, the ring of her phone pierced the silence of the room, jolting Lexa back to reality. The sound was a sharp reminder of the world she actually inhabited, one of schedules and responsibilities, far removed from the gentle fantasy she had momentarily indulged in. 

Lexa blinked, her eyes refocusing on her own image in the mirror. The corporate VP, the woman of control and authority, stared back at her. The softness that had momentarily graced her features faded, replaced by a familiar mask of composed determination. 

With a deep, steadying breath, Lexa mentally chastised herself. "Get a grip, Lexa," she muttered under her breath, her voice a low whisper. 

She straightened her jacket, a physical act to realign her thoughts, her posture regaining its usual firmness. The reflection in the mirror now showed the Lexa Woods the world knew – confident, unyielding, a pillar of strength in the high-stakes corporate arena. 

With one last glance at her reflection, a final affirmation of her resolve, Lexa turned away from the mirror. As she stepped out of her apartment, her mind firmly anchored in the present, the fantasy of Clarke's embrace lingered like a whispered promise, a secret yearning safely tucked away for another day. 

[manicali]

Synopses for my stories!

Twisted Daydreams Envy’s Angel

Last Reign of the Sol King Free Therapy

A young woman named Ash stumbles upon a magical world of dreams she like many before her stumbles upon this fantasy world, meeting a number of bizarre people along the way, Including but limited to, A mysterious grinning creature at a play pretend tea party inside a broken home made of cardboard(Smiley), a lovely lady who knows everyone and her pet snake Noodles(Camilla), and an antisocial eccentric toymaker with a habit of giving his creations life only to take it away. (Clover). On the particular day she stumbles upon this world, Day, an impulsive deity, decides to let her keep her memory. of this place. Once Ash falls out of this place, she desperately tries anything and everything to claw l way back in. Little does she or Day know that her moving between worlds is shaking the thin veil tha separates the codependent worlds or dreams and reality. Now the two worlds are entangled in a web madness that Night herself cannot untangle.

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With the north islands ruled by a corrupt dynasty, a millennia long bloodline marred by illness and insanity, the council government is based among the elite academics at the renowned Institute of Magic in the country’s capital, a city known for its rich history and mysterious disappearances of students. Despite this reputation and the urban legends surrounding the prestigious school, many scholars dream of attending. And three of those students are the main focus of this story.

Meet Rowan, David and Emilee. Rowan was raised at the institute, by the institute, for her whole life, never a glimpse of the outside world David is from a small island in the southwest. He is a scribe. And finally, Emilee is a practical apothecary mage from the far side of the mainland, past the mountains. These three scholars of the supernatural are roped into political dispute, high society and dark secrets!

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Envy’s Angel is a romcom comic about an Angel falling in love with a human. It’s the one I’m currently writing. Envy is a young man obsessed with demons, and so he tries to summon one, a pacifist scholarly demon to converse with and further his studies. Buuut he gets the runes wrong, he doesn’t summon a fallen Angel, he summons an Angel of sins, Haziael, who, annoyed that Envy isn’t impressed by them, starts to follow him. Chaos and romance ensues.

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Seven students who wake up with no recollection of where they are, looking like they definitely shouldn’t. Physical appearances warped and minds foggy they must find a way to escape the spire, a seemingly endless tower of nightmares, all while discovering new and horrifying abilities!!! Horror stories look back from the mirror and ghosts haunt them in this dysfunctional comic! What lies beneath them, outside the spire? Only time will tell! Tune in for more!

[pngin-lvr]

Okay so i stayed up all night last night reading solo leveling and i have to say sung jinwoo is absolutely aroace

Like sure the guy was busy trying to save his family and then the world and you could make a case that he didn't have time for sex or romance or even that it all happened off screen because it wasn't important to the story but no. He's aroace.

The only time in the entire series he thinks about attractiveness is when he's looking at the mirror wondering if he's attractive after someone accidentally confessed to liking him. He literally takes a woman on a date to an amusement park and tells her that he invited her because she's his only /friend/ Not to mention that she's probably aroace too because of how she blushes and smiles at him like he just said something super romantic.

Now that I'm thinking about it, the writer and/or artist is probably on the aroace spectrum too because you can tell that they are trying to make this a romantic relationship without actually adding any of the things that allo people seem to include by default.

There's no observation of the other's good looks, no daydreams of romantic nights out, no sexy outfits, nothing!

The closest thing we get is when cha hae-in says that he smells nice but since literally everyone with any amount of power smells awful to her it's more of a plot point than anything else.

I don't remember if i was going anywhere with this but yeah solo leveling: excellent urban fantasy AND aroace representation

[eldritch-flower]

Excerpt from my urban fantasy epic, "Zenith", because I'm writing this one 'reveal' scene and it's so difficult I HAVE BEEN WORKING ON IT FOR A WEEK AND I'M TIRED OF IT. Anyway, Zenith act 2 spoilers below the cut <3

Christ, the world was going insane.

It has always been insane, sir. You just never saw the truth.

Maybe Cuán was the one going insane. Hearing the voice of a dead man in his head, seeing all those- those mirrors that Danny said he wasn’t supposed to.

It was obvious something was going on. Something he didn’t understand, something he wasn’t privy to like the rest of his so-called ‘friends’ were. But he’d been drawn into whatever fantasies they claimed by murdering Jedidiah Shaffer in that casino. Cuán had thrown himself into the shit without a shovel to dig himself back out. And he had to live with that, consequences be damned.

So what? He was surrounded by alleged beings of… inhuman nature, most likely powerful. He didn’t doubt that any of the three in the room with him could kill him if they really wanted. Did they want to? No. They would have done it by now.

None of them were the kind to procrastinate.

“Cuán?” That was Afshani; dear, sweet Sammy. Cuán raised his gaze from the bohemian patterned rug thrown across the floor. “Are you alright?”

“Not really.”

Tommy huffed out a stiff laugh, strong arms folded over his chest. Tommy… should Cuán even still call him that? Or was he supposed to address the God as such?

“You said you’d already had experience with True World folk, Cuán. We didn’t mean to overwhelm you,” Sam said gently. The softness of their voice was like a cleansing lotion to the turmoil in his heart.

Susie frowned, studying Cuán indiscreetly: “You’ve seen others?”

The man nodded, slowly, and her mouth fell open.

“Other than me?”

“He said he’d seen a grindylow,” Sam said quietly, and Tommy raised an eyebrow. “And – Cuán, forgive me if I’m wrong in saying so… but you mentioned a banshee.”

“Aye.”

“You’re kidding,” Susie breathed out, sitting forward on the sofa. Her nails clawed at the plush fabric of the arm like, well… like claws. “Cuán, please tell me you’re joking.”

“Ain’t the type of thing I’d deem funny, Shiori,” he said stiffly.

“You’re done for, Dunleavy,” Tommy supplied unhelpfully. His words were contrite and filled with the same mirth he always spoke with, but the god’s face was a display of uncertainty that Cuán had never seen embedded in the strong lines of his jaw, in the set of his brow. He looked nervous.

“Don’t say that, Vulturnus,” Sam snapped, losing their collective mind for a moment as they examined Cuán with honey-flecked eyes.

“We can figure this out,” Susie said quietly. “People have outrun their fates before.”

“He knows nothing of the true world, Su. And he’s gonna have Reapers after him – “

Shiori bristled, leaping to her feet. “Who said anything about Reapers being involved?”

Tommy sneered: “The hospital think he’s an illegal. He didn’t have a licence.”

“He doesn’t need one! He’s a human!” The woman’s loud voice rang out, and Cuán pressed a hand to his temple as Shaffer sat in the forefront of his mind, content to watch and not say anything. His black amusement crept like a plague into Cuán’s own sensibilities.

“They don’t know that.”

Susie inhaled sharply, her jaw clenching, and she rounded on Cuán with fiery eyes. “You can’t just make anything easy for us, can you?”

“Hey, lady. You tell me first what a ‘reaper’ is and maybe I’ll get to workin’ on my teamwork skills,” Cuán growled back, green eyes narrowed in frustration. “You all sit here, playing human and pretending to care. But you’re so far removed from what it’s like to know nothing. So stop talking like I’m supposed to have a clue what’s goin’ on, and explain.”

Shiori stared at him, her dark eyes heated, knuckles white and clenched at her sides. Sam just watched him with a forlorn expression. Out of all of them, remarkably, it was Brown who looked the least concerned… and that, in and of itself, concerned Cuán.

Do not concern yourself with their fear. You are more than that. You are better.

[c-schroed]

Podcasts I Adore - SPINES

This week, I finished the last Episode of the "Mirrors" podcast by ZoomDoom Stories. Which means that I have now heard all of their marvellous productions. And now I feel this need to tell everyone what great stuff they make! Meaning that I'll write some reviews for all the three podcasts they produced and post them on iTunes et al., but before I post them there, I might as well leave the reviews here. So, tune in for some rambling about three audio fiction productions that range from "very good but sadly incomplete" to "so very fricking close to perfection that I really can't call it anything but DARN PERFECT". We'll start with the DARN PERFECT one:

"Listen again: Grove. Mosaic. Trumpet. Listen, and remember. Because those three words, those are the most important words in the world. This is SPINES."

"SPINES" is a fictional audio drama, which, like all productions of ZoomDoom Stories, is written by Jamie Killen, and congenially so. It is told in the form of podcasts made by its protagonist, a young woman who named herself Wren. At the beginning of the story, Wren seeks to find out what happened in a bloody ritual that she barely survived, and which left her without any memories of her past life, but with supernatural powers that she slowly has to explore.

Think "X-Men" meets "Supernatural", with a nice dash of Lovecraftian atmosphere and some sweet bits of Cronenberg-esque body horror. "SPINES" is a truly unique experience, and it clearly is one of the best stories I ever heard. What I love most about it is that it perfectly understands and respects the strengths and limitations of the medium it chose to be told in: Podcasts enable a very intimate way of storytelling, and the very talented voice actor playing Wren just perfectly allowed me to quickly grow attached to her and everyone around her. Wren has lovely quirks like naming every informant that reaches out to her after characters of anime shows she just watched, she has to deal with terrible situations and huge losses, and she is granted one of the most beautiful love stories I have ever heard.

And being told in the form of a podcast really helps the story to flesh out Wren. She comments the stories she tells in clear and unfiltered language and often directly addresses her audience. We, the listeners, also know exactly who this audience is. Besides people that are similarly gifted as Wren, most of the episodes are addressed to Zachary, a man she quickly saw during the ritual that started everything, and whom she since then feels weirdly attracted to.

Of course, telling a story in the form of a podcast also entails some limitations, and "SPINES" respects and works with these limitations better than any other audio fiction I have heard so far. The show's author Jamie Killen is very aware how information is told when broadcast into the public, which makes "SPINES" an all the more fascinating listening experience. For instance, huge changes in the status quo are often announced right at the beginning of an episode, because when something important happens that has to be told immediately, than why wait until it slowly unfolds in the narrative? A broadcast is not necessarily about suspense; it sometimes is much more about giving the important info right away, and then adding all the details. Furthermore, Wren is very careful with the information she shares, and often leaves out details that might help her enemies too much. Details like these make "SPINES" very special; it is one of the most thought-out and self-aware productions I know.

The second best thing that I love about "SPINES" is how each of its three seasons has its very own feel and atmosphere. Season one feels a lot like an urban fantasy version of "Supernatural", with Wren, on her quest for the truth about the ritual, encountering urban legends and terrible secrets scattered everywhere across the city she lives in. Season two, on the other hand, involves a lot of changes, and feels much more like a late-80s action show, with Wren being sent to different places from week to week; hopefully helping the people there with whatever supernatural catastrophe is going on, very much like a MacGyver or an A-Team. But with superpowers, and with more ghastly antagonists. Season three finally is characterized much more by urgency and emergency, with Wren and her allies always being forced to react to an enemy that they can never allow themselves to underestimate.

What also impresses me greatly is that every season ends with a perfect equilibrium of frustration and hope. There's always some kind of terrible catastrophe, but this terror is balanced out with something equally beautiful, making Wren never the triumphant heroine she might deserve to be, but giving her just enough hope to go on. I admit it; sometimes this kind of ending is too close to home for me, sometimes I'd just direly want Wren to win, and live happily ever after, period. But on the other hand, this masterful balance is what will always keep this story in the back of my mind, and close to my heart.

One final thing I want to mention, and I'll make it quick this time: Besides being a nail-biting story about fascinating superpowers and secret societies that worked among us for centuries already (which are depicted in the most realistic way I have ever seen!), "SPINES" is also a perfectly wholesome love story. I know I already mentioned this some paragraphs before, but I really can't stress enough HOW DARN WHOLESOME this love story is!

So. "SPINES" is the perfect combination of urban fantasy, horror, and romance. It has a perfectly fleshed-out narrator, played by an incredibly talented voice actor, and it masterfully uses the possibilities of its medium. To me, "SPINES" is close to perfection, and its very few flaws should stop no-one from giving it a try. As long as one likes horror, of course. The show can get quite drastic, from time to time.

10 out of 10 points. Sheer perfection. And a lifelong love for Wren and Shan and Winry. And Akira, and Bilal (because who would not want the literal perfect moment as a friend?). And all the others.

Besides my general opinion about the show, I'd also like to go into detail regarding three episodes that I find especially noteworthy. All of them are part of Season 3, so please be aware of minor spoilers.

Season 3, Episode 6 (Episode 22 overall): The Trade

This is my favourite episode. It marks the second time that the narrator of an episode changes to Shan, whom I adore at least as much as Wren, and it might have one of the most dramatic beginnings of all episodes. But what really makes this episode stand out is how well-thought its time-travel plot is. It makes perfect sense, and it involves my favourite temporal paradox, the bootstrap paradox (I you don't know it, go look it up; it's so much cooler than some poor dead grandpa). Plus we get to know a supernatural brothel in Vienna. Which I didn't even know I desperately wanted to hear about, until I heard about it. But now I need a spin-off about Ilsa and her Gifted courtesans. :D

Season 3, Episodes 2 & 3 (Episodes 18 & 19 overall): Iris, Part 1 & 2

There's much about this two-part episode that I really love, be it that it gives satisfying answers that I wanted to hear for a long, long time, be it that we're given a very credible reason for this story being split into two parts (once more, "SPINES" shows how perfectly well it is aware of its podcast medium). So I really, really wanted to like these episodes. But still, they turn out as some episodes that I really have trouble with. This might maybe due to me being not a native English speaker, but I have terrible problems with understanding the narrator of these episodes. So if you, like me, have problems with listening comprehension during this episode, please be reminded that there are transcripts of each episode. Although they currently can only be reached via archive.org's ever-so-useful Wayback Machine.

2019 New Year's Special:

This is a crossover with "Mirrors", another marvellous audio drama made by ZoomDoom Stories. And because I listened to this right after finishing the final episode of "SPINES", I did not know that it contains some major spoilers for at least the first season of "Mirrors". Furthermore, the events at the end of the episode play an important role in the third season of "Mirrors", but that's not that important in my opinion. But should you not know "Mirrors" by now and maybe want to listen to it later (which, again in my humble opinion, YOU DEFINITELY SHOULD!), then maybe listen to this New Year's Special after finishing "Mirrors" season one.

The episode itself was a bit of a disappointment for me, if I'm honest. Both "SPINES" (in at least one episode; i. e. episode 22: "The Trade") and "Mirrors" usually deal perfectly with all matters related to time-travel and temporal paradoxes; to me they really are a paragon of how to tell stories that involve different interacting timelines. So the way that time-travel is treated here is just disappointing to me. Don't get me wrong, please. It still is a perfectly entertaining episode. It's lovely to hear more from Wren and Shan, and it is hilarious to hear about the events in "Mirrors" from their perspective. But as to the time-travel aspect, well, I'm spoilt by now. I'm used to it being told so much better than here, with much less paradox narration. So this special might be the biggest flaw in both series. I mean, I'd still give it 7 out of 10 points. So that says more about how fabulous the rest of "SPINES" and "Mirrors" is.

[mfred]

🌟Mfred's Best Books of 2022🌟

Comfort Me with Apples by Cathrynne M. Valente

Original Review

It’s a fairy tale retold, a myth re-examined. It’s a mystery, a thriller, and a horror story. But it’s so much more, too. I was mesmerized - trying to understand what was going on, then understanding too much, with a dawning sense of horror at how it would all end.

The Duke with the Dragon Tattoo by Kerrigan Byrne

Original Review

This book put me through the wringer, you guys. I came out the other end definitely dehydrated from crying so much, but also filled to the brim with love and life.

Even Though I Knew the End by CL Polk

Sapphic. Urban Fantasy. Noir. Do I need to say more? OK, I will anyway! Chicago in the winter. Dames smoking Chesterfields and hunting serial killers. Underground queer nightclubs. And magic! And a swoony romance!

Hell Followed With Us by Andrew Joseph White

Original Review

Don’t be fooled, Benji is really turning into a monster. White pulls no punches. Bloody, gruesome, and terrifying. It’s so queer, so righteously angry, so necessarily vengeful. But it also holds a place for the tenderness and hope we all need to truly survive.

Thirteens by Kate Alice Marshall

A spooky and super creepy Halloween read, especially for a children’s book! Plus, the power of friendship, loyalty, and believing in yourself.

The Mind and the Moon: My Brother's Story, the Science of Our Brains, and the Search for Our Psyches by Daniel Bergner

Challenges the science behind mental illness and standard pharmaceutical treatments. At once eye-opening, engrossing, and also emotional.

A Mirror Mended by Alix E. Harrow

Lucky you! If you didn’t read the first in this series, you now get to read both amazing books! This time we see what happens when the Evil Queen wants a better ending to her story. And also what it means to survive a happy ending.

My Killer Vacation by Tessa Bailey

Original Review

I loved Myles. I loved his struggle. Every time Taylor did or said something, his heart clenched or he got sweaty or he desperately wanted to kiss her. He’s big, he’s tattooed, he’s unshaven and rides a motorcycle and he is a total dummy about his emotions. It’s great.

Paper Girls, Vols 1-6 by Brian K. Vaughn, Cliff Chiang, Matt Wilson, & Jared K. Fletcher

Friendship! Time travel! The 1980s! A war between teenagers vs. grownups! This graphic novel series has it all. And the artwork is amazing. 

Patricia Wants to Cuddle by Samantha Allen

Ok, how do you feel about The Bachelor? Cryptids? Horrifically funny violence? This book is so weird and also so, so amazing. 

Runaway Girl by Tessa Bailey

A poor little rich girl who really isn’t and a bear of a man dealing with unimaginable loss. Slow burn but awesome tension and chemistry throughout. Plus, the emotional wallop of falling in love. Everything good about romance novels.  

Such Sharp Teeth by Rachel Harrison

Original Review

Amazing. A novel about anger, trauma, families, romance, trusting others, and werewolves. It really takes a good, hard look at why and when and how and how often we get angry– and how we treat others and ourselves when we rage. The werewolf metaphor is grrrreat (see what I did there?) for examining what it means to be an angry woman, in/out of control. 

We Keep the Dead Close: A Murder at Harvard and a Half Century of Silence by Becky Cooper

Original Review

It took me almost two months to finish this book. But it wasn’t boring or slow. In fact, for such a lengthy book, it’s a real page turner. And it’s a fascinating blend of true crime, non fiction and memoir– how Cooper finds her own voice in the story of Jane Britton’s murder.

[autumnalwalker]

Empty Names Masterpost

I'll be updating this post with links as I post chapters. The intent is that everything I write for this project will be posted here to read in its entirety.

Also mirrored on Scribble Hub: (Main Story, Side Stories)

Cast list is below the "Keep reading" line.

Pitch:

A trans woman accidentally summons a demon while trying to DIY her transition with magic and computers...

A young wizard returns to Earth after his adventure in a magical otherworld only to realize you can never truly go home again once you've changed too much...

A teenage girl gets stood up for prom, kills a lake monster, and spends the next decade hunting down things that go bump in the night...

An assassin marries an immortal sorceress and allows the rumors that he murdered her to flourish once she disappears...

A world-hopping adventurer sees the potential in all of them and asks if they're interested in helping make the world a better place.

"Empty Names" is an episodic urban fantasy series about a group of misfits fighting monsters and grappling with existential questions regarding the interplay of reality, perception, and identity.

Genre: Urban Fantasy

Summary: Road, an adventurer with a penchant for jumping between different worlds tries to set up the sort of adventurers' guild so common in sword & sorcery setting in a modern day urban fantasy world where "adventurer" isn't considered a legitimate profession and magic and the supernatural are kept behind the scenes and out of public knowledge. The story is told from the points of view of the people that get roped into being the initial test run adventuring party but never Road's.

Update Schedule: Once or twice a month, depending on chapter length. New chapters get posted on Saturdays, when they're ready.

Overall Content Warnings: Genre-typical violence, gender dysphoria, anxiety, occasional mild body horror, death. I'll update this list as more is written and if anyone points something out to me that I should have included a warning for and missed. In general though, I aim to try to keep this approximately PG-13-ish, but we'll see where this all goes over time. Individual chapters have more specific content warnings at the top of the post with anything likely to be distressing below the "Keep reading" line.

Current Status: Rough Draft (just throwing things up as I write them with minimal review or editing)

I'm primarily viewing this project as practice for moving out of my comfort zone and doing more traditional prose with proper dialogue and action scenes and such rather than the journal format that I've been doing with @thearchivistsjournal. The original plan was to write a few sort of prologue/character introduction chapters and then mostly do a series of one-shots with the same setting and cast based on whatever random idea or writing prompt strikes my fancy that week, but as time goes on it's starting to verge more toward "continuous narrative". Time will tell how it eventually winds up I suppose.

Chapter List:

Hello World

Back From The Looking Glass

Dance Partners

Prince In Gold

Rite of First Refusal

Background Checks

Compilation

En Route

Test Run

Cleanup

Afterparty

Houseguests

Open Office

Down Low

Matters of Technique

Mall Rats

Embedded Media

Mom Energy

Shire

Changeling Child

Old Flame

Leads

Compression

Nostalgia

Euphoria (coming sometime in May 2024)

Love

Attention

Concern

Side Stories:

Scenes that don't fit well into the main story. They might come before it, focus on side characters, or just be conversations between the main cast during downtime.

There Are No Dogs At The Dog Park: Every full moon Eris does some volunteer work. Set a couple years before the main plot, shortly after Eris and Lacuna met and started hanging out.

Once Upon A Time...: A bedtime story by Sullivan Bridgewood.

Pop Quiz: A younger Ashan not-yet-Glassheart gets a refresher on terminology.

The Sphinx And The Spider: Two first-time interdimensional tourists run into trouble on vacation. (Coming when I get the motivation back to return to this one)

A Shining Shallow Sea: They say the Sorceress Bridgewood never gave a gift which she didn’t benefit from the giving. (More of a loose idea at the moment than an in-progress story)

Non-Canon AU:

I suppose at this point you could call it writing shipping fan fiction of my own work.

2023 Pride Month Drabble Challenge: A series of dialogue snippets from an alternate universe/timeline where Eris and Lacuna avoided ever learning about the existence of the supernatural, wound up meeting anyway, and became a couple instead of (or perhaps in addition to) best friends.

Core Cast:

Road:

The experienced adventurer and idealist who started this whole venture.

Very much the iconic "hero" archetype. Brave, strong, kind, strict "no killing" policy, etc.

The kind of person that you quickly feel like you're best friends with and can count on and share anything with, but then several months or even years down the line it occurs to you that you don't actually know anything about their personal life.

Humor/Color Scheme: Balanced

Sullivan Bridgewood:

Road's best friend since childhood and the only one who knows that under their heroic persona they're about one really bad day from an emotional breakdown at any given time.

Married for power and money and is using that money to bankroll this adventurers' guild startup operation. May or may not have killed his wife.

Kind of an asshole, but reins it in when Road's around for their sake.

Humor/Color Scheme: Choleric

Lacuna:

A trans woman whose introduction to the existence of the supernatural was a failed attempt to magically get a new body that resulted in a demon trying to eat her, and then being rescued by Road.

Now works with an unholy combination of applying AI-generated art algorithms and principles to create custom magic glyphs.

A walking embodiment of imposter syndrome, who vacillates between "I am a mad genius!" and "I have no idea what I'm doing and really am not qualified for any of this."

Humor/Color Scheme: Melancholic

Eris:

The team's physical powerhouse and heavy hitter. A veritable brick wall of supernaturally-reinforced muscle.

Survived a scenario out of a C-list monster movie as a teenager, enjoyed the experience more than she reasonably should have, and has spent the past decade since then as a semi-professional monster hunter.

Has sort of taken Lacuna under her wing as the younger sister she never had but always wanted. In spite of Lacuna being the older of the two.

Humor/Color Scheme: Sanguine

Ashan Glassheart:

Already went through the whole "little kid from Earth goes on an adventure in a magic otherworld and becomes a wizard" hero's journey/bildungsroman routine before this story even started. Except he was gone long enough that once he finally returned home there wasn't anything to come back to. Does a convincing job of pretending it doesn't bother him.

Mostly focuses on barriers, wards, bindings, and other such defensive techniques with his magic.

Actually doesn't mind all that much when strangers mistake him for a woman. Minds a little bit though when people call his wizard robes a dress. Minds a lot when people mistake his outfit for cosplay.

Humor/Color Scheme: Phlegmatic

[a-mole-of-iron]

Duchowiesen stories: Liftoff

Alright, so, update. Due to diminishing resources and abilities, I was unable to post anything for a while - and now, I’ll be starting to publish a series of very unpretentious short stories in the urban fantasy genre. And I don’t mean modern-day real-world with fantasy trappings; I mean a fantasy world with big cities and elaborate technology. There will be train journeys through magic forests, and visits to taverns with televisions and telephones placed therein; bureaucrats cataloguing ancient relics, and dragons doing aerial photography; elaborate underground cities lit by electric lanterns and overgrown by moss and mushrooms, and mystical deserts with towns raised on concrete pillars above the shifting dunes; welfare provisions for werebeasts and changelings, and vast industries supplying the people with affordable goods; and more besides, all in the setting that me and my friends have developed together.

Without further ado, I present to you: the fantasy world of Duchowiesen, and all of its many unusual and wonderful things, places, and people.

Story genre: comfy urban fantasy

Liftoff

At the Electric Lamplight Inn, it was an hour past lunchtime. The sun crept across the wooden tables covered with checkered tablecloth, with colorful mass-manufacture metal-and-cloth dining chairs around them and salt and pepper shakers with folded-up napkins close by on every table, along the bar and its selection of bottles of varying colors, shapes, and sizes that held alcohol as well as soft drinks, up the wooden beams that helped hold up the second floor, over the walls covered by vanilla-colored plaster and decorated with landscape photographs of meadows, mountains, boreal woods, and glaciers, and towards the clock and the nearby refrigerator with its curved outer surfaces and a glass door displaying cold foods and drinks. The barkeep was absent, and only a couple of people were there, eating their mid-day meal a little late. A big beast-folk guy with striped grey fur, wearing a jacket loaded up with carpentry tools and overalls that seemed sturdy as a cliff face, was treating himself to a good serving of meat and potatoes the inn sourced from the local farmer's market; two businesswomen in rumpled suits discussed trade as they helped themselves to fish with rice that they've systematically drowned in lots and lots of tartar sauce, and an occultist professional from the Southern Lands, with his hawk-like features alongside a fancy coat and pants covered in rune embroidery, was eating alone - or so it seemed if you didn't notice him having a one-sided conversation while looking into a mirror he had standing on his dinner table. The television standing next to one of the walls was set on mute, and even if it wasn't, at the moment it was displaying "The Wondrous World of Duchowiesen Dragons" - one of the most boring offerings among all the niche-subject documentary shows available on TV across the entire Federation, which was saying a lot. The time dragged out a little, flowing like a calm river - but then, another prospective patron walked through the door, a diminutive kobold engineer with their bright green scales and hemispheric sunglasses on their wide, gecko-like face, who was for some reason also wearing a labcoat far outside of any lab.

The kobold walked up to the bar, perched the sunglasses on their forehead, and said: "Excuse me, innkeeper? INNKEEPER?" in their high-pitched voice.

The innkeeper, a middle-aged woman wearing somewhat outdated and yet eternally cool clothing from the jazz era - a flapper look adapted for the everydays of the modern age - walked out to the bar to meet them. "Hello there. Would you like to order a full lunch, or book lodgings?" she asked.

"Neither, actually." the kobold answered. "I just want two deli sandwiches, a glass of mineral water, and a TV broadcast."

"Broadcast...?" the innkeeper asked, somewhat confused.

"Yes!" the kobold squeaked. "Could you tune your particle accelerator... sorry, TV set, to Science Channel One? Yours was the only place in town with a TV I could find on short notice!"

"Alright then." the innkeeper said.

She turned the dial on the wired TV controller, and the picture changed to show a sunlit desert, and in the midst of its sands, the Cosmodrome launch site with a rocket set up on the launch pad. The sound went back on, and the people eating dinner turned their heads to the TV, as they heard the ever so slightly portentous announcer read the text. The announcer went: "...seems that all of the pre-launch checks have been cleared, and the computers monitoring the site all read green. And now we're being told, the Cosmodrome is ready for launch, T-minus five minutes."

"Hey, what's with the broadcast? Is this live?" one of the businesswomen asked the kobold.

"Yes, it is live!" the kobold said. "They're putting the first-ever photo camera into orbit with this rocket! To think we're going to have all-encompassing pictures of the World at last!"

"Now I'm interested." the occultist said, still looking into the mirror on his table. "Sorry, my friend, we'll have to continue another time. What? Okay, that's good in my books. Bye." He folded the mirror's stand, closed up the small decorated shutters over it, and turned around to look at the television as well.

The voice behind the broadcast kept on talking. In the deadpan shared only by the most composed of Railway Commanders and emergency broadcasters, she said: "I am being informed the rocket's fuel pumps are completing their warm-up cycle, and the Skyguard shields with their EM plus Flux ward properties are ready to go. In a minute, we should have the hand-over of controls and telemetry to the radio channels..."

The people in the inn were interested but slightly flabbergasted; none of them really understood the technical terms involved, even as the announcer explained the rocket's systems in more detail. The kobold engineer was geeking out, however, their eyes transfixed by the picture on the screen. Minutes tensed like the strings of a violin as the launch approached, and finally, the announcer has proclaimed: "And now, we have the clearance for launch. T-minus ten... nine... eight... seven... main engines ignition... five... four... three... two... one!"

The broadcast picture showed plumes of steam, and then fire, blast from the lowest stage of the rocket, and just like that, it started ascending, leaving behind the launch tower with its cabling and pipes. "We have liftoff!" the announcer called, the broadcast switching to another camera that showed the rocket blast off into the sky, and disappear into the clear blue above the desert lands surrounding the Cosmodrome.

The kobold engineer looked at the broadcast as the announcer started describing the photography satellite the rocket was loaded with, then slammed their cutesy hands on the table and yelled: "That... WAS SO COOL!" Everyone else around them was in agreement, even though they weren't the same level of enthusiastic. The occultist looked at the screen with an unspoken wisdom, thinking about the sheer possibilities for new esoteric understanding that a view perch to see the entire world could open. The businesswomen wondered just how the world would change once the satellites get flying in earnest. The beast-folk carpenter was impressed by the engineering involved; many orders of complexity above what he did, but hey, he knew an impressive build when he saw one. Even the innkeeper was interested; the whole scene was dramatic and inspiring, and stirred emotions in all who were there to see it. Finally, the kobold picked up their deli sandwich and started chewing on it. One of the businesswomen asked them:

"Hey, you said you were looking for a TV. Are you just passing through like we are?"

"Yes, but I might become a regular commuter here, it seems!" the kobold replied. "I'm doing engineer consulting around the region."

"Odd! We're kind of in the same boat; our firm sells machinery parts all around the Four Cities area!" the other businesswoman said. "Mechanismus-Magiker GmbH, at your service."

"What about you, friend?" the kobold asked the beast-folk carpenter.

"Well, I'm on my way to the Inland Sea for the weekend." he said. "Funny you are from Mechanismus-Magiker." he said to the businesswomen. "I did renovations in one of your company's trade offices just a month ago."

"Oooh..." the occultist said, turning towards the others with an enigmatic smile. "Serendipity."

"Very much serendipity!" the kobold engineer noted with a goofy grin. "Who knows, maybe this is a sign that we should be here for the next rocket launch!"

"When is that?" the occultist asked, laying a pocketbook of solar and lunar calendars on the table.

"In 16 days, 8 PM for our current timezone." the kobold replied. "They're going to launch a radio amplifier satellite next!"

The occultist looked through the book, then smiled enigmatically again and said: "I have not found anything major, but... perhaps something interesting will happen if we join again at that day and hour. Who's with me to try and test this... small hypothesis?" There were a few seconds of indecisive silence, and then, one after the other, everyone else present responded with a variation of "I'm in!"

[thrythlind]

Urban Fantasy Video Game Concept

Time to ponder another video game concept.

Start with a first person sequence, playable prologue, length, maybe five to ten minutes. traveling through a darkened room of classical Greco-Roman columns and old broken statues and deep deep shadows, trying to avoid being spotted by something that you never get a good look at while also trying to get closer to it. Distorted voices, echoing sounds, no visible hands or legs in the character. When they get to the mark, a reflective surface starts to rise up, showing them an indistinct huddled figure hunched over a firelight.

Then wake up.

Third person perspective, focus on the protagonist waking up from the nightmare.

Most likely a specific character. Even if character generation, have a set surname (Greek probably, even if char gen results in a different presented ethnicity) and a non-binary given name (Alex, Morgan, Riley, Bryce, etc)

If character creation, default is a woman. 18-23 range but unspecified. If voiced, maybe six options, two with typical feminine mannerisms, two with typical masculine mannerisms, two without gender-associated mannerisms. Perhaps three voice actors. If tech available and doesn't sound terrible (we're doing a wishlist here so let's go for it.) then ability to pitch the voices up and down. Alternately, all three voice actors do variations of all six scripts.

Back to story.

Have character move around living space (house/apartment?) some basic interaction tutorial. Looking in the mirror (if character creation is present, this would be where that happens... with the lead up being a first-person cutscene of person moving to the mirror and then pulling back to third-person after character creation).

Some environmental storytelling implying college life, maybe something subtle to imply that magic is not unknown in the world... or at least that the protag believes in such things. Brouchures for a fortune teller, books on occult history, etc.

Looking in the mirror trying to shaking off nightmare (maybe more confused than scared). Yawning and leaning in to wash face... close up to see eye shift from human pupils to slitted reptilian and then back again. Blink, pull back, hesitantly wash face go about the rest... shift focus to going out the door and grabbing keys and wallet at the door.

Above sequence also 5-10 minutes (+ possible char gen).

Options - if action happens all in one city, then have a "day-in-the-life" sequence showing some key locations like restaurant, shops, clinic, library, etc. Maybe hub would be the college campus.

If there is a tour section, allow it to be skippable for replays into the first encounter. However, this idea is a pretty set storyline so might be low replayability.

First encounter

The protagonist is somewhere in transit, subway station or the like. Public, but a place they travel through frequently. Gets ambushed by unknown assailants. Human, thugs. Start the fight and pause, give player options:

Option 1 - Fight them off, provides combat skills. Option 2 - Run, provides movement/traversal options. Option 3 - Call for help, provides social skills.

Whichever option is chosen produces an appropriate objective on screen and HUD options leading in that direction. (perhaps mild, immersive HUD elements like in Hellblade where her health and power ups are subtly part of her char model)

All three objectives will probably still provide opportunities to try out basic fighting, traversal, and social skills.

Fighting Option - traversal for tactical advantage, social with police or witnesses after the fight Running Option - social to get someone to open a gate for you, fighting to shove loan thug that appears ahead of you Social Option - running to get to other people, small fight with one loan thug, followed by getting help from onlookers.

Possibly the player can complete any of the three objectives... But the game won't signpost those objectives (like you'll only have an exact count on enemies if you go for fighting option) and the skills you get will make the chosen objective the easiest.

Regardless of how the encounter goes. After basic tutorial of fighting/traversal/social mechanics, have a supernatural event happen. Perhaps a monster attacks. Reactions of any witnesses will determine if this is a world where magic is known but rare or if the protag is just into weird fringe stuff.

At end, the protag's eyes switch to snake-ish eyes again, but don't change back this time.

Cue Act 1 - Trying to learn what's happening to the protag and dodging attacks. Eventually come to the conclusion that the protagonist has inherited a curse and the thugs are part of a cult or secret society that is trying to track down and capture people with said curse. Perhaps from seeking out and talking to experts or tracking down the cult headquarters and either sneaking in to get lore or else beating the head of the local group and getting info from him.

Once again, signposted objectives are based on actions taken or dialogue choices, but other objectives can be completed but aren't made obvious and choices made will add skills to make the signposted objectives easier.

Skills are gained both when completing objectives and when choices signpost an objective.

IE in first encounter, if you choose to look for help, you'll get social skills, but if you get out of the encounter by running, you'll gain a traversal skill. The signposting making it easier to find objectives tied to the choice means that you're less likely to mix and match like this within one objective but is possible.

Supernatural skills come slow and come with changes. In the first supernatural skill in each track it is going to be related to vision and provide a HUD element, perhaps ability to read enemy health (which might also cause hostiles to stand out from neutrals and friendlies) or adding context to dialogue choices or highlighting parts of terrain that can be grabbed for traversal.

Supernatural skills come when encountering supernatural threats.

same pattern though, one skill gained when you choose how you plan to deal with the encounter, one skill gained when you actually complete the encounter. Major encounters only.

Minor encounters can provide skill advance over time but not in a single event. Connect this to achievements. Optional, not particularly connected to either supernatural or mundane. More number boosts or cosmetics (or love interests)

Doing a bunch of traversal stuff to get collectibles will get you traversal bonuses on each collection completion.

Doing social stuff will get you some bonus if you play them through.

Doing combat stuff will also get you bonuses when you hit certain optional milestones.

Traversal stuff could be urban exploration, collectible acquisition, rescuing people from fires or other emergencies, etc.

Combat can be random ambushes from the cult, saving people from muggers, random appearances of monsters, etc.

Social stuff can be romance options, matchmaking (if you don't want romance yourself), a mix (if you want polyamory), normal friend stuff like board game nights, negotiating job stuff, starting a business, dealing with college professors, etc.

Makes for six total skill chains:

Mundane Combat

Mundane Traversal

Mundane Social

Supernatural Combat

Supernatural Traversal

Supernatural Social

Each supernatural skill comes with a physical transformation. In act 1 this is mild.

Supernatural Skill tree is invisible, you see the skills you have, but not what's coming up. Replay and wiki of course would get around this quickly, but build into the feeling of not knowing what's going on with your changes. Also, allows for a mix of plot-relevant skill-gains and leap-frogging the "tree" when narratively convenient.

Maybe about a 3 to 1 ratio, maybe 5 to 1. many Mundane skills vs a few story-important supernatural events.

End Act 1 with character sitting down at night after this revelation and going to bed.

Act 2

prologue, another dream sequence, first person again, hands and feet are visible, Grecian woman, aristocrat, chained to a wall overlooking a rough sea. There's something vast and dangerous in the water, maybe occasional flashes of scales and coils. storm clouds make it hard to see. Play through trying to unchain themselves from the wall. Flashes of smaller figures in the clouds and spray flying around the big monster. Again, no clear image. Player gets free and starts trying to walk down a path. Sudden sound of crashing and what looks to be a massive wall of stone crushing down at them when something rushes by and pulls them up into the sky... last view of fluttering white wings and dream end.

cue the bulk of Act 2, tracking down the cause of the curse.

more encounters with the cult, perhaps more subtle threats, people in high social status. Analyzing why the cult wants people with this curse. What their plans are, getting names, etc. Near the end of Act 2, a supernatural skill will result in the protagonist's hair becoming snakes. Have this essential to final objective (whether the character completes the final "boss" fight via a traversal obstacle course, a social dialogue-tree puzzle, or a traditional boss fight).

Give suggestion that the cult is working for Stheno or Euryale.

Act 3

Act 3 begins with another dream. The player's sitting in front of a fire with partially scaly hands and hearing sounds of motion in the darkness around them. On the initial sound, stand up with a nervous sound and scanning the darkness. Distorted greek dialogue, can't be understood (actual speech but distorted) Keeping the fire between the character and the sound, flickering shadows and light against columns and statues. Then a final sound and turn to see a young Greek man becoming visible as they take a helmet off. They're looking into a reflective shield and have a strange carved blade (the Harpe)... dream ends

Act 3 is the character trying to track down and get to the gorgons that are apparently behind the cult. In the mean time, continue the minor side plots for the minor bonuses.

Tracking down Euryale and/or Stheno and working their way into their home/lair. Reveal... they're NOT behind the cult... and the cult used the protagonist to get through some of the gorgon-only security measures. Last encounter. Again, options are social, traversal, or combat to resolve Act 3. Difficulty in figuring out how to make each of the three equally exciting and make sense... alternately, act 3 could involve all 3 regardless...

End act 3, the cult gains blood from one of the two immortal gorgons (Euryale and Stheno) protagonist escapes. Immortals may or may not escape depending on player choices and level of success.

Revelation... "Your not cursed"

Act 4

Dream sequence, switching perspectives... start as a person with scaled arms and bronze wings, traversal heavy, getting up into a Greek fortress or castle... switch to a young man with a harpe fighting many warriors... switch to a young woman giving a speech to people outside the fortress and rallying support.

Dream ends mid conflict.

The protagonist now has to deal with being a descendant of Medusa, Perseus, and Andromeda.

Also now trying to figure out who is really behind the cult and why they want gorgon blood.

Also, meet cool great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-(many more greats)-aunts Euryale and Stheno.

end act boss is Polydectus who is now an animated statue after Medusa petrified him in the ancient past but he somehow is back to being able to act. Polydectus was given animation by the real main villain... Polydectus is basically a vain, arrogant, petty serial killer. Very smart, certainly a capable lieutenant, but not a true mastermind.

Act 5 prologue should confirm that Perseus/Medusa/Andromeda were a polycule/throuple. Deals with final mastermind... many options:

Athena or Poseidon

Other Greek God

Human seeking immortality

Witch Hunter seeking to create an anti-supernatural plague

???

Overall, I think each Act should be about 1-3 hours for basic story (creating a run time of 5-15 hours... Act 1 and 5 maybe the shortest acts.) With minor subplots maybe can take that to 4-8 hours per act. For a run of 20-40 hours. I know I said low replayability, but possibly having alternative big bads (with alternative minion strategy sets) and alternative side-plot stuff means it might take replays to get 100% completion. Perhaps New Game+ will give more context to the Perseus/Medusa/Anromeda romance.

[22003191artstudioiiib]

Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered edited by Heike Munder, Adam Budak

Spatial emotion in contemporary art and architecture. Migros Museum für Gegenwartskunst, Zurich & Laznia Centre for Contemporary art, Gdansk.

Half of this book is in German so it was an interesting experience to read.

An Immense Museum of Strangeness:

Department of Spatial Fantasies by Heike Munder and Adam Budak

Connections and intersections are incorporated practices: they govern and manipulate both our conscious and subconscious spheres.

Space has seemingly appropriated us, it possesses and determines our psychophysical states of acting and being

Everything seems to be spatialized, and space becomes the dominant practice of everyday life.

The exhibition aims to exploit the psychological associations of space in the multiplicity of its emotional overtones.

Using fears, and phobias to investigate the distortion of space and the multifaceted spaces in which energy changes

Temporary and permanent spaces and the feeling of each (literally the space feels temp/perm)

Investigating the relationships and emotional connections/engrained mental effects

A space is a literal space and also what surrounds you, a space is made up of both and will always be both, it is not a space without the other (because it's impossible not to have a literal space that communicates a sense)

It is interesting to read about the different readings people get within spaces and what they focus on/look for in their subject matter, from completely empty space to a space full of objects of a daily life that no longer exists.

Psychoanalysis and Space by Anthony Vidler

A great deal of this text is focused on phobia and the notion of sexual hysteria-fueled actions. The text begins by focusing on Freud's view of psychoanalysis and its connections to agoraphobia, and claustrophobia.

He rejected the idea that "space itself, or any material object of obsession was a cause" for phobias.

I had to skip through all the sections that mentioned him and his ideas cause they are centred on sexist ideals that just reaffirmed their opinions of women and women's sexual existence. If there is something 'wrong' with a woman, it must be connected to how little sex she is having/the fact that her sex is female.

This text didn't have much to do with the type of spaces I am focusing so I just skimmed through the rest and picked out any relevant pieces.

Space within the digital world is a mimicry of the real thing, it is an artificial simulation of a never-dying/never-ending space.

Insecurity by Design by Mark Wigley

A corporate building is a fixed visible face of the organisation it houses, there is often no indicator of which organisation has taken up residency on the outside of the building. Unless it operates as a business.

During the day the interior is shrouded in mirror and invisible to those outside of the organisation, at night the grid of fluorescent lights shines through. These lights are hardly ever turned off, their existence and ever-present shine dictate their importance compared to the workers who simply use the lights to see.

There are internal spaces that are not visible through the windows, even at night. The façade is dropped but all that is revealed is an empty room.

Their sky is replaced by the fluorescent artificial sky, continuous, brightly glowing, horizontal surface that veils the shapes of the light tubes.

Worrying Conditioning of Space

The uncanniness of a space is today more closely related to the invisible.

The representation of the visible is, in this case, an indirect way of transmitting information about a vehement viral epidemic

Modernity, up until today, has created artificial physical environments. It built itself on the urban as well as domestic mastery of space and its climate.

[reallygroovyninja2]

Blurred Lines Part 2

The early morning light filtered through the blinds of Lexa Woods' high-rise apartment, casting sleek lines of shadow and light across the room. She lay in bed for a moment, her eyes open, gazing at the ceiling, her mind already racing through the day's agenda. The life of a corporate VP was a relentless cycle of decisions and responsibilities. 

With a disciplined sigh, Lexa slid out of bed, her feet touching the cool, polished floor. Her apartment was a reflection of her professional success – modern, minimalist, and impeccably organized. The walls adorned with tasteful art, the furniture angular and stylish, each piece carefully chosen to project a sense of sophisticated efficiency. 

In the kitchen, her high-end coffee machine hummed quietly, producing the perfect cup of coffee with the press of a button. Lexa filled a sleek, designer travel mug, her movements brisk and purposeful. She appreciated these small luxuries, brief moments of personal indulgence in her otherwise structured life. 

Pausing for a moment, she glanced at a photograph on the kitchen counter – a serene landscape, a contrast to her urban existence. It was a silent nod to her hidden longing for the tranquility of nature amidst her bustling city life. 

Dressing for the day, Lexa chose her attire with careful consideration. She selected a sharply tailored suit, its fabric rich and commanding, paired with a crisp, white blouse. The suit was a statement of her status and authority, a necessary armor in the corporate world. Her shoes were elegant yet practical, high heels that clicked authoritatively on her apartment's hardwood floors. 

Before leaving, Lexa stood before the full-length mirror in her hallway. She adjusted her jacket, smoothed her hair, her expression a blend of confidence and introspection. The reflection staring back at her was that of a powerful businesswoman, poised and ready to conquer the challenges of the day. 

As she was about to turn away, a soft presence emerged behind her. Clarke, with her gentle demeanor and understanding eyes, appeared like a comforting echo in the mirror.  

Clarke’s arms slipped around Lexa’s waist, a warm and reassuring embrace that contrasted with the cool precision of Lexa’s corporate armor. Lexa’s initial posture of rigid control visibly softened under Clarke’s touch. Her eyes closed momentarily, allowing herself a rare moment of vulnerability, a silent acceptance of the comfort offered. 

In the mirror, the contrast between them was striking yet harmonious. Clarke, in her more casual attire, her blonde hair falling softly around her shoulders, radiated a sense of freedom and emotional openness. Lexa, in her business suit, the epitome of corporate success, yet in this moment, her façade was gently stripped away by Clarke’s affectionate gesture. 

Clarke’s hands moved slowly, caressing Lexa’s torso, a soothing motion that spoke volumes. It was a silent communication of support, understanding, and deep connection. The tension in Lexa’s shoulders eased, her expression softening as she leaned back slightly into Clarke’s embrace. It was a rare moment of stillness in Lexa’s usually hectic life, a peaceful interlude in the reflective glass of the mirror. 

The world outside continued its relentless pace, but in the sanctuary of her apartment, time seemed to pause. In Clarke's hold, Lexa found a moment of tranquility, a gentle reminder of the life and love existing beyond her professional realm. Her eyes met Clarke’s in the mirror, a shared glance that needed no words, rich with meaning and mutual respect. 

Suddenly, the ring of her phone pierced the silence of the room, jolting Lexa back to reality. The sound was a sharp reminder of the world she actually inhabited, one of schedules and responsibilities, far removed from the gentle fantasy she had momentarily indulged in. 

Lexa blinked, her eyes refocusing on her own image in the mirror. The corporate VP, the woman of control and authority, stared back at her. The softness that had momentarily graced her features faded, replaced by a familiar mask of composed determination. 

With a deep, steadying breath, Lexa mentally chastised herself. "Get a grip, Lexa," she muttered under her breath, her voice a low whisper. 

She straightened her jacket, a physical act to realign her thoughts, her posture regaining its usual firmness. The reflection in the mirror now showed the Lexa Woods the world knew – confident, unyielding, a pillar of strength in the high-stakes corporate arena. 

With one last glance at her reflection, a final affirmation of her resolve, Lexa turned away from the mirror. As she stepped out of her apartment, her mind firmly anchored in the present, the fantasy of Clarke's embrace lingered like a whispered promise, a secret yearning safely tucked away for another day. 

Lexa, her mind swirling with thoughts from the demanding board meeting she'd just left, entered her office with a sense of determined focus. Her role as a high-level executive was a testament to her strategic prowess, but today's discussions had left her feeling particularly drained. The board's scrutiny over her status as an unclaimed omega had always been a point of contention, and despite her professional triumphs, these personal intrusions were a relentless challenge. 

However, the sight that greeted her upon entering her office instantly washed away the strains of corporate politics. There, on her usually spartan desk, was an extravagant arrangement of two dozen roses. Their deep red hue glowed against the backdrop of her sleek, minimalist office, a splash of vibrant life in her world of steel and glass. 

A smile, unbidden and genuine, spread across Lexa's face. The roses were unexpected, a beautiful anomaly in her structured life. She approached her desk, her usual brisk pace replaced with a slower, more contemplative stride. Her hand reached out, fingertips grazing the velvety petals, a softness that stood in stark contrast to the hardness of her daily life. 

Amidst the blooms lay a small card, Clarke's familiar handwriting gracing the surface. "Thinking of you," it read, a simple yet profound message. Coming from Clarke, these words held a depth of meaning that resonated deeply within Lexa. Their professional arrangement had blossomed into something much more personal and real, a relationship that was just beginning to unfold in its full complexity and beauty. 

The smile on Lexa's face deepened as she absorbed the significance of the gesture. These roses were not just an expression of thoughtfulness; they were a symbol of the new chapter unfolding between her and Clarke. A chapter where personal connections and genuine emotions were no longer overshadowed by contractual formalities. 

Lexa placed the card gently back among the flowers, her eyes sparkling with a rare mixture of joy and anticipation. For a moment, she allowed herself to simply stand there, embracing the warmth and affection that Clarke's gesture had sparked in her. 

The challenges of her corporate role and the societal pressures she faced were still present, but now she had Clarke in her life, not just as a contracted companion, but as a partner in a burgeoning, meaningful relationship. The roses on her desk were a beautiful reminder of this new reality, a testament to the blurred lines they had crossed together, stepping into a future filled with possibilities. 

As Lexa circled her desk, ready to immerse herself in the day's tasks, the sound of footsteps approached her office. Anya, her long-time confidante, appeared at the doorway with her usual brisk efficiency. However, her sharp gaze immediately softened as it landed on the two dozen red roses adorning Lexa's desk, a splash of vibrant color in the otherwise muted office. 

The arch of Anya's eyebrow was eloquent, conveying a silent inquiry that spoke of years of shared understanding and unspoken communication. Her eyes briefly flicked from the roses to Lexa, clearly asking the unvoiced question: "Did something happen between you and Clarke?" 

Lexa, meeting Anya's gaze, couldn't help but smile. It was a genuine, contented smile, one that seemed to illuminate her face with a rare and unguarded joy. The roses, and the message they carried, were evidence of the changing dynamics in her relationship with Clarke, a transition from a professional arrangement to something more intimate and personal. 

Anya, reading the unspoken answer in Lexa's expression, stepped fully into the office and took a seat in the chair in front of Lexa's desk. Her demeanor was a mix of professional curiosity and personal concern, a balance she had mastered over years of working closely with Lexa. 

The room was filled with the subtle fragrance of the roses, a reminder of the personal aspects of Lexa's life that were usually kept separate from the workplace. Anya's gaze lingered on the flowers for a moment before meeting Lexa's eyes. 

Anya leaned slightly forward, her elbows resting on the arms of the chair, her demeanor reflecting both her professional role and her personal concern for Lexa. "I take it things are going well with Clarke?" she inquired, her tone carrying a hint of protective interest mixed with genuine curiosity. 

Lexa's response was accompanied by a brief, reflective pause. "I saw Clarke last night," she began, her voice carrying a note of subdued contentment. "She showed me around her new office." The mention of Clarke's office was more than a casual detail; it was a symbol of the growing intimacy and mutual respect in their relationship. 

Anya's eyebrows rose slightly, a silent invitation for Lexa to share more. It was clear that Lexa's interactions with Clarke were evolving, stepping beyond the boundaries of their initial professional arrangement. 

Lexa continued, a trace of introspection in her voice. "After the tour, we sat down and talked... We've decided to take things slow." The decision, spoken aloud in the quiet of her office, seemed to take on a greater significance. It was an acknowledgment of the depth and potential of what was developing between her and Clarke, a conscious choice to explore their relationship with care and consideration. 

Anya nodded thoughtfully, absorbing Lexa's words. "Taking things slow sounds wise," she remarked, offering a supportive smile. Anya understood the complexities of Lexa's life – the pressures of her corporate role, the societal expectations placed upon her as an unclaimed omega, and now the tender beginnings of a relationship that held both promise and vulnerability. 

Lexa's gaze drifted momentarily to the roses on her desk, a visible reminder of the connection she shared with Clarke. "It's... new territory for me," she admitted, her usual confidence tempered by a rare hint of uncertainty. "But with Clarke, it feels right to navigate it together, at our own pace." 

Anya leaned back, her expression one of understanding and encouragement. "It's good to see you finding this balance, Lexa. It's important." Her words were a gentle affirmation, recognizing the significance of Lexa's growing relationship with Clarke, and the positive impact it was having on her. 

Lexa, typically so guarded and composed, allowed a small, genuine smile to form. In the sanctuary of her office, with Anya's silent support, she acknowledged the shifting landscape of her life – one where professional success and personal fulfillment were beginning to coalesce in a way she had not anticipated. The path ahead with Clarke was uncharted, but for the first time, Lexa felt a sense of hopeful anticipation about the journey. 

After Anya had left, the office felt unusually quiet, the lingering presence of their conversation adding a personal touch to the professional space. Lexa found herself alone with the roses still gracing her desk, their vivid color a constant reminder of Clarke's thoughtfulness. She glanced at them, a smile touching her lips, and then her eyes fell on her cell phone lying beside a stack of documents. 

With a sense of resolve mixed with a soft undercurrent of longing, Lexa picked up her phone. She unlocked it, her fingers hovering over the screen for a moment before she began to type. The message was to Clarke, a spontaneous yet heartfelt response to the beautiful gesture that had brightened her day. 

"Thank you for the roses, Clarke. They're beautiful," Lexa typed, her words simple but sincere. She paused, considering her next words carefully. It was rare for her to express vulnerability, but with Clarke, it felt both natural and necessary. 

After a brief hesitation, she continued, "I miss you." The words appeared on the screen, stark and honest. Sending them felt like a small leap of faith, an admission of the depth of her feelings and the growing connection between them. 

Lexa hesitated for a moment before pressing send, her heart fluttering slightly with a mixture of anticipation and a rare uncertainty. It was a new experience for her, this open expression of emotion, especially in the context of a relationship that was still finding its footing. 

Setting her phone down, Lexa leaned back in her chair, her gaze drifting back to the roses. The office around her carried on with its usual evening quietness, the soft sounds of the city filtering through the windows. In that moment of solitude, Lexa found herself reflecting on the journey she was on with Clarke, a path that was both exhilarating and daunting. 

The phone buzzed softly beside her, pulling her from her thoughts. Lexa's heart skipped a beat as she reached for it, a small smile playing on her lips as she read Clarke's response. 

"I miss you too," it read, simple yet laden with emotion. The response brought an immediate warmth to Lexa, a feeling of connection that transcended the distance between them. Clarke's words, echoing Lexa's own sentiments, bridged the gap of their busy lives, offering a moment of shared longing and affection. 

[titles-for-tangents]

Joe Farrell Sometimes Has  Supernatural Shenanigans Happen to Him

With not just one but two excellent collections of Peter S. Beagle’s works coming out, it occurred to me some of his novels and short stories take place in the same universe and sometimes feature the same characters, but I hadn’t really seen an online list yet of what order they’re supposed to occur in chronologically. I came to reading his stories in perhaps the right order for me to be introduced to them but also completely ass-backwards. Sometimes, between my scattered short story collections, years of life happening, and rare library hauls, I’d remember that some of these characters had names that sounded vaguely familiar. I don’t own everything he’s ever published, robust as my collection is at this point, so if I make an error or learn of a new story that came out, then I will edit my list here. This will be a Part I, and I will make a Part II for the world of The Last Unicorn under the same idea (wish me luck).

Beagle takes titling his stories seriously, and his ongoing adventures of Joe Farrell have no real umbrella title that I’m aware of. Perhaps they will get one and their own book collection one day. So without further ado (and more for my past, dumbass, novice self):

Lila the Werewolf - Lila Braun is one of Farrell’s first girlfriends as a young adult. It doesn’t go well. Takes place in New York City. First published 1974 and has seen only a few reprintings since then (The Fantasy Worlds of Peter S. Beagle, Mirror Kingdoms, will be included in The Essential Peter S. Beagle, Volume 1). First appearance of Farrell’s best childhood friend Ben Kassoy.

The Folk of the Air - Farrell returns to Avicenna, California after having been away for a number of years and finds Ben, who also now lives in Avicenna, has both become a professor AND lives with an older woman named Sia. Sia lives in a nice, old house that just so happens to be a casual walk in the House of Leaves park, and sometimes she has goddess-tier powers. Seems to take place in the 1970s; is also the first introduction to Farrell’s longtime girlfriend with latent magic powers, Julie Tanikawa, and Farrell’s ancient Volkswagon bus, Madame Schumann-Heink. Farrell, Julie, and Ben get mixed up in the League for Archaic Pleasures where they playact at medieval chivalry, but sometimes the cosplay gets a little too real and reality starts to bend a bit. Your boyfriend’s shit, Aiffe, SHIT! Published 1986. Beagle notes in Mirror Kingdoms this one took eighteen years and four separate versions to write, and in We Don’t Talk About My Brother he describes Avicenna as a “shadow-Berkeley”. Note: this is the only entry here that’s never been properly reprinted to my knowledge. If you want to read this, you’re going to have to check if your local library has a copy or buy it second-hand. If Beagle’s Wikipedia page is to be believed, he’s currently rewriting it for an expanded re-new release. Hell yeah! Whatever happens in between here and the next entry, I’ve yet to find out.

Julie’s Unicorn (short story) - more than twenty years have passed between Farrell and Julie’s relationship “of picking up, letting go and picking up again.” Easily the sweetest of the four tales. Takes place in Avicenna and Farrell’s hair has gone grey by this point while working as a respected sous chef. Julie has a fantastic name for her black and white cat, “NMC”, short for “Not My Cat”, and somehow Madame Schumann-Heink has survived into the millennial age. I’m actually not certain when this was first published, but I first saw it in print in 2010′s Mirror Kingdoms, and it was later included in 2011′s The Urban Fantasy Anthology. Have you ever been so moved by a work of art it just makes you both heartbroken and fucking livid? Have you ever been so stirred by how well an artist captured their subject that you just needed to do something about it? Julie Tanikawa’s powers don’t always manifest, BUT WHEN THEY DO-

Spook - Takes place about five years later also in Avicenna (North Avicenna to be exact). Farrell and Julie have just moved in together into a loft and Ben heads up from Los Angeles to help them move in. Turns out the loft is haunted by a previous resident in the silliest way possible, and it sure as hell wants Farrell out. Farrell and Ben employ an old acquaintance to help with deciphering what to do about it, and Farrell has the idea to challenge it to a duel. The weapons of choice? Bad poetry. Bad poetry. It’s ridiculous and fun as fuck. First published in a 2008 3-story collection called Strange Roads and reprinted in 2009′s We Don’t Talk About My Brother. Beagle says he looked forward to recording an audiobook version, but I’ve not found any evidence that it exists, especially not post-Connor Cohran. Will be reprinted in The Essential Peter S. Beagle, Volume I and no audiobook is listed yet.  One of the nice things about these stories is that Farrell is such an ordinary dude, and yet he is alarmingly well educated in medieval music, mythology, and far more across that board. Farrell just owns a lute and knows how to play it, for example, and he can take any piece of classical music and arrange it for his lute. Farrell can be the best kind of pedant and is remarkably accepting and empathetic of other people and their situations, supernatural or no. And for as much as he tries to keep his head down and out of other people’s business, when their business comes knocking he’s thoughtful about where they’re coming from and just does his best to deal. Beagle also shines here in his knowledge of what people are like as they age and even though marriage in the traditional sense may not be the best fit for them, remaining life partners still is. I found Lila the Werewolf the toughest read, as it’s about toxic relationships with no easy answer, and Julie’s Unicorn easily the sweetest tale of the lot. The Folk of the Air takes a little while to get into, but once it gets going it keeps up that steam and all the characterization is handled memorably well. Spook is by far the most fun and we even get a little backstory into how Farrell and Julie met. Beagle tends to know when to come back to and touch base with characters he’s not quite done with yet, so if he ever writes more of what’s going on in the world of Joe Farrell it’s bound to be an entertaining ride.