#(this means if it cannot shake itself loose it is at my complete mercy

[d8tl55c]

i liked to watch them squirm. L' /_'L'-/,=-_ |'|-• <-'/|'-|['- |'['-,=|..' [,-_|((,=•-|

bkg from that one screenshot of old outskirts

[chockfullofsecrets]

Critical Role: Waiting For My Mind To Go To Sleep

(Read on AO3)

Rating: Teen & Up for Caleb having a pretty bad day

Summary: He levers himself up from the little nest he’s made of his arms, his sudden suspicion the only thing keeping him from stumbling over the word. “This does not tickle one bit, by the way.”

“Okay,” Caduceus says. “Did you want it to?”

Caleb can't sleep. Caduceus decides to take matters into his own hands.

Wordcount: 5.3k (SAVE ME)

A/N: so this turned into... something... i think it’s safe to say in general that if you ever feel like Caleb, please take a deep breath and do something nice for yourself <3 

For anyone who's trying to keep track - set after Difficult, with a bit of reference to Staying Warm.

---

Caleb has not possessed a desk in a long time, so it is a shame that he is currently wasting his new one as a place to rest his head while he waits for exhaustion to take him.

He’s counting off the end of twelve minutes, growing increasingly frustrated as the simplicity of the numbers fails to stop his brain from running itself in ragged circles, when slow footsteps sound out from the hallway. “Oh, you’re still up.”

It’s Caduceus. Caleb peels himself off long-dried sheets of spellwork and tries to make himself look a little less like an empty shell of a person. “Ja, I am up, what can I do for you.”

The slight downward tilt to Caduceus’ eyebrows in an otherwise placid expression radiates disappointment. “You said you were going to sleep, earlier.”

Earlier being an hour and forty minutes ago, when Caduceus passed by him with a full teapot on his way to the roof. Strange, given that the kitchen is just next to the staircase and his study is on the opposite side of the house. He sighs and rubs at his face - there is a chance, however slight, that this time pressing at his temples will actually help with the headache even if he deserves the fucking thing for getting them here in the first place. “I am working on ah, a new spell, I am a little distracted.”

It’s not a lie, exactly. Studying is distracting him from sleep, and the cold comfort of possessing a house and certain debt gifted to them by a major political faction of the Kryn dynasty is distracting him from studying, no matter how nice his desk is. The last time his life took such a turn, he was a young man recently arrived in Rexxentrum with his two best friends in the entire world - he can think of many, many good reasons to prise the jaw of this particular gift horse open.

The problem, then, is stopping. Easy enough, when he can turn himself into a bat, but his distracted attempts at study and the resulting failures have removed even that avenue from him today. It is lucky that the Dynasty has yet to ask a new favor from them that would require him to cast.

But then, he has never held much hope for luck - and, oh, Caduceus has moved much nearer at some point.

“I will sleep,” he acquiesces, nodding in the vague direction of a flowing sleeve, and refrains from adding any sort of incriminating time frame. “You should get some rest as well, mein freund.”

Caduceus clears his throat, somewhere miles overhead. “Your arms are going to get sore, if you keep doing that.”

He looks down. Takes a deep breath and lets it out as he pulls his hands away from the scars and lays them flat against the fine wooden grain of the desk. “Thank you.”

That should be the end of it, he thinks, and he can go back to counting miserably, but the smudge of pink in his peripheral vision stays stubbornly present. “Is… is there something else?”

“You know,” Caduceus says with that unruffled serenity of his, “I think I’m going to make some more tea. I’ll bring you a cup, and we’ll sit for a while.”

Caleb winces.

He is fond of Caduceus, very much so, as he is of all his friends. It is just - it is not that he doesn’t know he is terrible, anymore, he has revealed all but the worst of it in Felderwin and their group has decided that his contributions are worth the trouble of associating with him anyway. But Caduceus, who cares so naturally and unselfishly, who operates with a faith in everything around him that Caleb cannot begin to understand - something about his knowing gaze is unsettling, when Caleb cannot tell what he knows or how he is judging him.

The part of him that is tired would welcome a friendly presence to lull him to sleep, instinctively knowing by now that they are safer here than nearly anywhere else in the world. The other part, bitter and exhausted, trusts no one. Least of all himself, when he cannot even think through political machinations.

He’s waited too long to respond - he can feel Caduceus’ gaze now, prickling at the side of his head. “I can bring some of this to the kitchen, if that is where you are going.”

“Oh, I was thinking we could use your bed,” Caduceus says. The visual of Jester waggling her eyebrows suggestively springs to mind, and he bites the inside of his cheek before he can smile. “Why don’t you go lie down, and I’ll be there in a minute with the tea.”

It sounds more like a command, really - Caduceus wanders off, and there’s nothing to do after that but to retreat to his room. He begins the rote process of shucking his boots and socks in deference to the warm night and reaches up for his holsters.

His fingers close around the buckles, and suddenly he is frozen, possibilities of disaster everywhere. It will be safer if they stay on him, even though they are in the middle of a residential neighborhood, he has to keep them close-

He breathes out, slowly, through his nose and strips them off as well. It feels like a punishment, but then, maybe that is how he can stop himself from thinking too much. Not that it has ever worked before, piling discomfort upon discomfort like a stone wall, but if it is what he has to hand at the moment then so be it.

Next, the bed. He takes a step towards the bed, knowing that is where Caduceus will expect to find him - but his mind is still spinning with a dozen different threads, spells and spycraft and a sudden curiosity as to what the Kryn stuff their mattresses with, surely they do not grow hay or cotton here-

He’s still standing there when Caduceus ducks through the doorframe, large fingers wrapped with delicate care around the handles of two mugs, and shuffles one of them forcefully into his hands. “There we go. It’s not too hot, is it?”

He gulps the first sip down inelegantly. It’s the perfect temperature to warm his throat without burning his tongue, as Caduceus’ tea always is, but it feels - wrong, somehow - “Is there something in this?”

Caduceus blinks down at him. “Oh, did some of the tea leaves get through the strainer? I mean, they’re probably pretty tiny if they can do that, but I can try to pick ‘em out if they’re bugging you.”

“Ah - I mean - it tastes-” He pauses, proceeds more delicately. “There is not anything in this meant to put me to sleep?”

Caduceus looks surprised, for a moment, before patient amusement washes over his face - Caleb glances down, awkwardly, and hopes that the gentle steaming of the cup in his hands hides the way his face flushes. “It’s not drugged, if that’s what you’re asking. But with how tired you look, I’m not surprised that’s what it feels like.”

“Oh,” he says. Maybe if he downs the entire thing in one shot, it will do him the mercy of knocking him out here and now anyway.

Suddenly Caduceus’ hands are on his, gently pulling the empty cup away from his fingers and setting it down next to his holsters. “Mind if I sit?”

“No,” Caleb says, and then “Uh-” as Caduceus takes him by the elbow and starts leading him in the direction of the bed. “Wait, what are we doing?”

“C’mere,” Caduceus tells him, easing himself down at the edge of the mattress and folding his legs up beneath him.

He stares stupidly. “Where?”

“On the bed, ideally.” Caduceus says, and tugs him a little closer. “Didn’t seem like you were gonna make it there yourself.”

He should walk around to the other side and lay down there, he knows, but months of travel with these people have ruined him - he sits automatically next to Caduceus and leans into his side as he might if they were stopping for an hour of rest before realizing what he’s done.

He jerks away. “Ah - you meant to lay down, of course, I will just-”

“Nope,” Caduceus says, and promptly snakes his arm around Caleb and pulls him over into his lap.

His back hits Caduceus’ knee with a solid thump - he flounders for a moment, trying to figure out where all his limbs are among the tangle of long firbolg legs, and then he realizes that Caduceus is watching him.

Their eyes meet. Caduceus smiles down at him, seemingly unbothered by the presence of an idiot in his lap. “There, you’re laying down,” he says. “Comfy?”

“Hnnnng,” Caleb whimpers. He rolls over as best he can and buries his face in his arms, unwilling to bear the eye contact - how many more things can he do wrong today?

Caduceus hums thoughtfully.

The next thing he feels is softness as gentle fingers undo his ponytail, combing through the strands, and arrange his hair to lay loosely around him - they smooth the last of it down and start massaging the back of his head, rubbing gently behind his ears.

It is so completely unexpected that it undoes him; he spares a single moment of thankfulness that he’s washed his hair recently and succumbs to the simple bliss. “Oh, Scheisse, that feels good.”

Caduceus’ belly, pressed warm against his side, shakes in quiet amusement. “Thought it might,” he says. “You’re not easy to calm down, are you.”

“No,” Caleb says, honestly regretful. Even as the rush of tingles from having his scalp scratched washes down his back, he still cannot make himself stop thinking - about whether he has manipulated Caduceus into doing this by being too lazy to take himself to bed earlier, about what he can do to return the favor-

“I know you think that I am neglecting myself,” he says finally, groaning a little as Caduceus drags a thumb firmly down the back of his neck. “I know I need to rest so that I can cast, I just - ah - it is tricky-”

Caduceus pauses, rubbing at the edge of his shoulder blade for a moment. “Of course you can take care of yourself.” He punctuates the statement by untwisting Caleb’s spine with a loud crack that leaves him gasping in sudden relief as a good amount of the tension in his back disappears. “Doesn’t hurt to have a little help, though.”

He scratches lightly at the backs of Caleb’s ribs. It’s pleasantly sharp, little pinpricks of sensation rushing up and down, and Caleb squirms happily for a moment into his hands before he realizes.

He levers himself up from the little nest he’s made of his arms, his sudden suspicion the only thing keeping him from stumbling over the word. “This does not tickle one bit, by the way.”

“Okay,” Caduceus says. “Did you want it to?”

Squirming a little more, he bites back the traitorous yes, please that forms on the back of his tongue. “No.”

“Then be good and stay still,” Caduceus says, and keeps scratching.

Caleb huffs and sticks his nose back into the crook of his elbow. “You are very bossy sometimes, you know that?”

He tenses as soon as he says it - there is a reason he keeps these things to himself unless he is talking about Beauregard, who seems to prefer his annoyance to most other things that leave his mouth.

Caduceus just chuckles. “You don’t have any siblings, do you.”

“No,” he says - and then, if only because they have been on his mind of late as he thinks about politics and consequences - “old friends, though, growing up.”

“Shame,” Caduceus hums, hands sliding down to scuff at his sides. “Then I guess you’ve never been in a tickle fight.”

There is the familiar, guilty, sting, thinking of the past - but one more thread of thought could hardly make the tangle any worse, could it? Of course Astrid and Wulf had known he was ticklish, they knew everything about one another. In the beginning, when there was still time for such things, he remembers them abusing the knowledge at times when Ikithon’s clear favoritism rankled a little too much, or, more rarely, to play - it had been much easier, then, to make him smile.

And then Molly, with his infernal grin and equally devilish fingers prodding for every sensitive spot he could find, the teasing - and that night by the fire, just before Hupperdook, his arm blazingly warm around Caleb’s shoulders in the winter chill as he jostled him around and assured him that it was perfectly normal to want such affections.

They are kind memories, even with the bitter regret of his own blame in their ending, and -

Verdammt, his ribs are starting to get sensitive.

He tries to breathe through it, but his lungs are fidgeting as badly as the rest of him would like to, startled and giddy; instead, he presses the edges of his fingernails into his palms and tries to see reason in the dark cradle of his forearms.

This will not help him sleep. He is wasting Caduceus’ time, if he lets this continue. It does not matter what he wants, when he has no right to ask for any of it.

“Caduceus,” he starts. The syllables shiver on his lips, too close to laughter for comfort. He tries again. “Caduceus, I - I am feeling much calmer now-” His heartbeat pounds loudly in his ears. “-if you would let me up-”

“Hey,” Caduceus says. “You got all tense again, stop doing that.”

“I just-” The path of Caduceus’ ministrations drifts over his sides, sending already-tingling nerves into high alert, and he panics. “Let go of me!”

It is the exact worst thing he could say, made worse in the harsh tone in which he spits it - the hands that have been chasing pleasantly up and down his spine still and lift away, the simple action radiating just as much disappointment as Caduceus’ furrowed eyebrows earlier, and his back arches in a miserable attempt to follow them before he can stop himself.

He bites his lip. He needs to apologize. He needs to crawl away and back to his desk like the worm he is, as heavy as Caduceus’ judgment is weighing down on him. He needs to do something other than lie here-

“Well, you don’t look very calm,” Caduceus says mildly. “You okay?”

“I am fine,” Caleb grits out automatically. He cannot be incapable of even the simplest of thought, he cannot-

“Huh.”

One of Caduceus’ hands makes its reappearance, suddenly, at his neck, two fingers slipping along the stubble under his chin to rest on his racing pulse and catch him in his lie.

The other, even more inconveniently, reappears just by the exposed hollow of his left armpit.

Suddenly, he cannot think of anything at all - he jumps and squeaks and curls away as best he can, fighting back the tremulous ah-ah-ah-! of burgeoning laughter that bubbles up behind his teeth as five fingers flutter merrily against the thin cotton of his sleeve.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Caduceus says placidly. He stops moving his fingers, but they just stay there, just barely touching, as if he is daring Caleb to try and crush them under his arm and see what happens.

Things seem very dangerous in a completely different way than they did seconds ago - if he was at peril of sinking, before, the feather-light presence against tender skin makes him feel like he might float away. He holds as still as he can, waiting.

Still, he shivers all the way down to his toes as Caduceus clears his throat. “You know, I have a sister - had? - uh-”

“May have, if you are uncertain,” Caleb says automatically, decades-old Common grammar lessons rushing to the forefront in lieu of any instinct that might actually be useful, and promptly bites his tongue.

“Sure,” Caduceus concedes, and gives his armpit another good tickle. Caleb squeaks again and tries fruitlessly to wrap his arms more tightly around his head. “She’d swear up and down that she wasn’t ticklish too, when she didn’t want to be. Not that it helped her much if you got a hold of her feet.”

Caleb becomes suddenly, horribly aware of his own exposed soles - he is facedown on the bed, his knees will not even bend the right way to let him hide them against the mattress-

Caduceus must catch the involuntary scrunch of his toes - he laughs, low and pleased, and pats him warmly on the back. “I think your ribs were working out just fine, but if you’re curious-”

“I am not.” Caleb says hastily.

Something swoops, low and excited, in his belly.

It really isn’t fair how tall Caduceus is, especially when it means that he can keep one threatening hand pressed to Caleb’s ribs at the same time he reaches for his feet. Caleb, still bundled facedown in his lap, only realizes what is about to happen when he feels a soft, fuzzy palm close around his heel. “Oh - oh, bitte-”

The first pass is a single fingertip, drawing tiny circles on the calloused ball of his foot. It hardly feels like anything at all, and for one foolish moment Caleb lets himself relax.

Then the fingertip drifts down to the softer arch, wriggling into a crease as his foot curls reflexively, and it tickles like a motherfucker.

“No, no, NO,” he yelps, and scrambles blindly through the next few moments -he jabs something solid with his elbow, cool air rushing on his face as he twists and pulls his knees in, but all that is secondary to the rush of relief as he gets something beneath his feet and jams them against it. He squeezes his eyes shut and pants, clutching his chest as if he can will his lungs into proper behavior.

Something knobbly vibrates against his shoulder.

He freezes. “Um.”

It takes a long moment for him to realize that he is, somehow, still in Caduceus’ lap - his shoulder is pressed to homespun cloth and a bony chest, his feet are crowded up against one of Caduceus’ thighs as the rest of him perches on the other.

His seat shakes a little as Caduceus continues to laugh at him. At this point, Caleb can hardly blame him.

Caduceus lets out a long, happy sigh just above where he’s pressed his face back into his hands in blatant embarrassment. “Oh, we’re going to have to hold you down for that, huh.”

He says it so matter-of-factly, like it is a foregone conclusion that someday Caleb will find himself with his ankles pinned and teasing fingers coming for him, helpless to stop them. It’s far too easy to picture, just now, and despite himself anticipatory giggles start to well up in his chest.

Unacceptable - Caleb presses his lips together, burrows as far into his hands as he can and tries fervently to pretend that he is not still well within range of someone capable of doing all of these things. What is wrong with him? Nothing is happening, no one really wants to tickle him, it is not funny-

Caduceus’ fingers, though, are still moving - one hand is dancing over the tops of his feet now, hardly touching, worrying at his ankles and the sparse hair on his toes. It doesn’t even - it shouldn’t tickle, but he can’t stop thinking that it might, or that Caduceus might reach for his ribs again, and he is too tired to redirect his thoughts anymore, he feels halfway to dreaming already, and - “Hnnmm - heeeh -”

His cheeks are already warm from the desperate effort of not laughing, but they burn even brighter as the giggles start flooding out.

Caduceus can surely hear him, for all that he is hiding his face and never intends to reveal it again, and besides that he is squirming, winching his arms to his sides and scrubbing his feet uselessly against the rough fabric of Caduceus’ trousers to try and get away from his fingers without lifting them. “Heheeeh - ahaha - oh, stop, stop, help, I cahahan’t-”

Curling up in a ball doesn’t seem to help at all - a small part of him knows that he’s more or less tickling himself at this point, but all that means is that there’s nothing to get away from as he twitches and begs, no mercy from his own overtired brain, no one to help him get out-

Just as the panic really starts to choke him, something warm and grounding wraps around his shoulders.

He regains just enough awareness to feel Caduceus’ huge palm cradle the side of his head and pull him into his chest. “Shhhh,” he soothes, so low that it rumbles through the both of them. “I’m here, I’ve got you. Breathe, breathe.”

Caleb comes back to himself slowly, like the tide pulling back from the rocky cliffs of Darktow - the exhaustion is still there, burning behind his eyelids, but the thunderous crash of his heart in his ears slows to a steady echo under Caduceus’ touch. He takes in a tentative breath and nearly buckles from relief as it stays in his lungs.

Caduceus murmurs something to himself, pensive. Caleb hears it more through his chest than his ears. “Better?”

He sucks in a few more breaths before he feels calm enough to answer, slumping further against Caduceus and drawing his hands cautiously away from his face. “I am fairly sure that is not how ti- ah, how that is supposed to work,” he says tiredly. “But at least it is over. Caduceus, I am sorry-”

“Oh, I’m still going to tickle you,” Caduceus says, and Caleb nearly starts choking again.

A thousand startled exclamations catch in his throat. “Why,” is the one he gets out, and oh, he does not even begin to know what to do anymore with the excited little twist in his belly at hearing Caduceus’ words.

Gentle fingers take his chin and tilt it up until he can see Caduceus looking back softly back down at him. “You’re not being very nice to yourself, are you.”

That wrenches a rueful little smirk from him. “And why should I be?”

“Don’t do that,” Caduceus admonishes. He doesn’t - frown, exactly, just looks at Caleb more intensely until he has to fight the urge to wriggle himself loose.

“You were disappointed, earlier, when it didn’t tickle, don’t think I didn’t see it.” He tries to shake his head, but Caduceus holds him still. “I saw how you looked when I said we’d have to hold you down later, too - you want me to tickle you, Caleb, so I’m going to. That’s enough.”

Caleb opens his mouth to tell Caduceus that he doesn’t want it, that he has long since accepted that tickling is a happy and childish thing for those who do not have to try all the time to not be terrible, but he can’t quite get the lie out under his steady gaze. “I shouldn’t,” he says instead. “I should sleep, I am just wasting your time.”

Caduceus huffs, cuddling him impossibly closer and rubbing a thumb over his cheek, and Caleb has to close his eyes - he does not know, sometimes, how these people can be so careful with him, so willing to offer affection, unless he has tricked them somehow. He does not know how to repay it, either. It is hard to tell which piece of his ignorance is worse.

“You’re not. We’re going to talk about that, someday, when I’m not trying to put you to bed,” Caduceus tells his eyelids. “But that night after the dragon, a little tickling put you to sleep just fine - and you were doing all right until you decided you were going to be stubborn.”

Caleb has to smile at that, just a bit - Caduceus sounds openly affectionate, if mildly frustrated, and even though he does not deserve that it is a little funny to think that he might be as much of a troublemaker as Jester or Beauregard simply for refusing to sit still in Caduceus’ lap.

Caduceus pokes lightly at the slight round of his cheek. “There, that’s better.”

He loosens his grip, then, letting go of Caleb for just long enough to loop his arm around his chest. Caleb opens his eyes, curious - Caduceus is smiling at him, slow and mischievous, and his elbows automatically twitch halfway to his sides before he realizes that Caduceus’ arm is in the way and blocking him from getting them all the way down.

That tricky, light feeling takes hold of his chest again. “Ah - Caduceus?”

Caduceus adjusts his grip a little and raises his other hand, wiggling his fingers in a way that might be considered thoughtful if they were not pointed distinctly in Caleb’s direction. “Yeah?”

Despite everything, Caleb finds that he is fairly good at reading people when he needs to be. Which means, in this case, that he can tell - Caduceus is trying to make him more ticklish.

Unfortunately, that doesn’t stop it from working.

He widens his eyes entreatingly. “I was not being stubborn! I - I just panicked-”

“I told you to be good and stay still, didn’t I?” Caduceus’ arm is more than long enough to wrap all the way around his skinny chest, especially without the holsters - his hand curls carefully under Caleb’s arm, and he has to press his lips together tightly to avoid laughing then and there.

“I couldn’t!” he pleads. “You - you were-” He stumbles over the word itself, half hoping Caduceus will interrupt him again - but he doesn’t, just holding him steady. “I was trying,” he finishes lamely, willing himself not to blush and failing entirely.

Caduceus is grinning at him now, through his beard, smug in that gentle way of his. “And I was trying not to rile you up too much.” he muses, “Suppose we’ll just have to tire you out instead, how’s that sound?”

Caleb gapes. Caduceus is the nicest and gentlest of all of them; surely he is not about to trap Caleb in his lap and tickle him until he cries. And surely he should not want it, the traitorous squirmy feeling in his belly up and fluttering like a live thing.

The long, downy fingers of Caduceus’ free hand pluck his shirt loose from where it’s just barely still tucked in and slip underneath to tease at the fuzz of hair on his tummy, and such logical reassurances suddenly lose much of their weight.

“You - you planned this,” he accuses breathlessly. “You did, I didn’t - hm! - even do anything-”

“I mean, I don’t plan a lot of things. Dinner, mostly.” Caduceus prods at his belly button and he jumps, completely off guard for what comes out of Caduceus’ mouth next.

“You’re just really, really ticklish.”

Caleb whines. Just saying it makes every nerve in his body hum with anticipation, now, and when Caduceus pokes his belly button again he’s sensitive enough that he can’t hope to fight back the peal of laughter. “Don’t.”

Caduceus snickers and just keeps poking at the same spot, sending him into a tumble of frantic laughter as he twists this way and that and fails to escape. “Oh, that helped, huh?”

“No, no, oh nohoho-”

The hand holding him in place tickles gently through his shirt at the softness just above his ribs - usually he is protected by layers of leather and paper there, enough to hold off one of Veth’s crossbow bolts, but all he can do now is whimper.

Caduceus’ free hand sneaks up his other side and repeats the process under his shirt, and he shrieks.

“Heh,” Caduceus chuckles, and eases off for a moment. “You gonna be good if I’m not holding on to you?”

Presumably he wants to get his other hand under Caleb’s shirt and torture him even more, but that’s not the reason Caleb reflexively clings to his arm. “No, no, I need-”

He cuts himself off before he can say that he needs Caduceus to hold him, largely because he does not want to admit it even to himself.

Luckily, he does not need to say more. “Okay, I’ve got you,” Caduceus says easily, and squeezes him a little tighter. “Let me know when you’re done, yeah?”

Before Caleb can ask what that means, Caduceus’s fingers spider under his shirt and start kneading, gentle and merciless, at the top of his ribs.

Caleb breaks instantly. He can’t get his arms far enough down to protect himself, can’t hope to get loose - he tries to bite his lip for a moment to stop himself from laughing, flinging his hands back over his face, but all his breath rushes out in a sudden squeal as the first shock of ticklish sensation hits him in full. “Ahahaaaaa - aaa!”

Caduceus tickles one side of his ribs until he’s sobbing and kicking, completely insensible, and then lazily spiders down over his sides and belly and back up to the other side to tease and tickle as he pleases. He tickles up into his armpits, around the soft curve of his tummy, and rubs his thumbs into the bony outcrop of his hips through the pockets in his pants - he goes back and forth, back and forth, until Caleb loses track of time and numbers and which language he’s begging in and can only measure how much air is left in his lungs before he starts wheezing again.

At some point, he can’t hold himself upright any longer - he sinks down against Caduceus’ bracing arm, but it only stretches the skin over his ribs further. He wails.

It goes on until all he can do is gasp and snicker weakly as Caduceus prods his way back up his side, stopping to trace at each ribin turn. His eyes drift shut, at some point. He doesn’t think he’s ever been tickled so badly in his life.

Still, it seems that there is the possibility for it to tickle even worse - Caduceus’ hand finally, finally slips out from under his shirt, and he just manages to gasp out a sigh of relief before it closes gently around his ankle.

His eyes spring open. “Mein Gott, bitte, bitte, not there,” he hiccups. “I’ll die, I’ll die, please!”

Caduceus hums - held upright, he can just see Caduceus’ wrist pinning down the top of his foot as his index finger traces a light, tickly circle around the thin bone of his ankle. “Tell me what you’re thinking about.”

Caleb grasps for the threads of his thoughts, heedless of confession in the face of being tickled more, but to his surprise there is little left to worry about - even the exhaustion feels far away now, his whole world narrowed to the warmth of being held here.

“Nothing,” he says honestly. He giggles a little as Caduceus’ fingers keep moving. “Ankles, maybe.”

Caduceus laughs aloud at that, letting go of his foot and untangling their arms as he briefly nuzzles his forehead. Caleb’s seen him do it to the others, before, but never to him. He sighs at the warm, fuzzy pressure against his hairline, the light huff of breath that stirs the mess of his hair. It’s nice.

“Alright. Off to bed with you, Mr. Caleb, come on.”

He’s already dreaming, he thinks - Caduceus has to help him over to the pillows, where he flops out and curls contentedly into the blanket tugged over him. Maybe it’s that he can barely move from exhaustion, cheeks still sore from laughter, but the bed has never felt better.

Drifting off, he allows himself to hope foolishly that this might not have to be the last time.

[circe-poetica]

6.One

One, from the RUMI Oracle Card deck, by Alana Fairchild, artwork by Rassouli

“I have abolished duality from myself. I have seen the two worlds as One! One I seek, One I know, One I see, and One I call.”

~ By RUMI

“You look for me and what do you see? You! Am I playing games with you? Holding up a mirror for you to behold God? Yes! These are games of love and truth. Look for me and find yourself, for I am you and you are me, and together we are one, playing hide and seek in love’s great playground.”

“Like molten gold, poured from the furnace of divine love into a one of a kind mold, you are created uniquely and of divine essence. You are both the lover and the beloved. There is no aspect of your life separate from your spiritual journey, and there is no aspect of you that is not of divine origin. So then why the frowning, the fear or the questioning? Let me share a sublime secret with you; let me whisper it into your heart now. There is nothing to fear. All is unfolding according to the divine genius and there is a sweet shift in store for you. No matter how dire circumstances may appear to be or despairing you may feel, there is still an avenue through which fulfillment and resolution will be granted. This will happen! That is because the Divine seeks wholeness of the one. That means anything and every part of existence (and that includes you and all aspects of your being and life) is claimed by the Divine. Your return to the Divine keeps rigorous, flawless accounts. Therefore, nothing shall be left unaccounted for – not even that which seems to be outside divine attention and grace at this moment.

You must remember that you are a living heart, the dweller at the center between heaven and earth, star and soil, light and dark. If you cannot summon the joy to rise up and meet the Divine Beloved, fear not. That cunning lover lies deep within the depths waiting to gather you into sacred embrace as you descend into the darkness. Either through flying or falling, you shall be caught and tangled up in divine embrace. So fear not. Cast aside worry and concern. Know that you are thoroughly itemized on the divine ledger and not one moment of your struggle or suffering shall miss the hawk-like gaze of the ever-attentive and heavenly beloved.

This oracle comes to you with particular guidance. There is a friction or conflict within you or your life right now, a sense perhaps of being pulled in more than one direction and confusion because of this. You are questioning; which path to take, this way or that? What if you choose this path and it turns out the other would have been better? But how can you know now what choice, if any, is most needed in your life? So many questions! Your mind is scurrying! There is no other word for it! Backwards and forwards it goes, to and fro, trying to settle upon the truth. I love you too much to allow this to continue unchecked. Surrender it. Give it up. The truth you seek is this: You shall be.

You shall manifest your destiny just as the acorn grows into the oak tree. You cannot be other than what you are and as you accept this, life responds. It breathes and relaxes around you so what you need can come to you more easily. It finds you, drawn to the need in you that is natural and inviting, and not a cause for anxiety or distress. The need leads to satiety. What is desired and what fulfills that desire is one. They are lovers that come to each other naturally, even though darkness and confusion, drawn to each other, following the natural course of the universe to become one.

So do not fret and fear, my beloved. Do not hold back from that which feels incomplete out of anxiety or distress. It is just the lover that will soon be joined by the beloved. Do not hold back from that which feels incomplete out of anxiety or distress. It is just the lover that will soon be joined by the beloved. You are not recognizing the moment before this occurs. So fret not, and instead, let that inner lover loose! Allow her to shake out her hair, put on her most sensuous perfume, and laugh as she dances barefoot in fields of lush grass and fragrant flower. Let her tempt her beloved to come close because she can be seen, she can be heard; her movement sends her scent through the air. She entices the yearning beloved to her. And soon enough they meet, and it becomes possible for, yet again, two to become one, and then there will be wild peace and ecstatic contentment within you.

If there is any part of you struggling to surrender the conflict between old and new, between what has been and what needs to be, between passion and duty, creativity and rationality, between this role or identity, then know this: even the conflict serves. Don’t choose either one and believe it is the answer. Sometimes the sacrifice is not one or the other, but the idea that it can be only one or the other! At another level, a level of divine resolution, there is beyond the apparent polarity and conflict a third way, the rising up to where there is only one perfection taking place constantly. Open your heart; you will find the bridge to understanding and trusting in that perfection there, where it has always been and will always be. Don’t worry. All is happening exactly as it should.

This oracle brings you particular guidance. There is a resolution and a perfect ‘coming together’ of elements in your life that might have seemed disparate or in conflict. Something you have been trying to integrate is so very nearly ready to ‘click’ into place. Perform the sacred honouring ritual and stay with your process. The coherence, the integration, the balance and coming together you seek is on your horizon, approaching you swiftly now.”

Sacred Honouring Ritual: “Place your hands at your heart and say aloud: ‘Rumi, who loves me unconditionally, I gaze into my heart and you are there! I gaze into your heart and see my own face! We are one. This oneness is contagious! May it swiftly affect every aspect of my inner world so that my outer existence aligns gently with perfect harmony with the great Divine Beloved. You and I are one with eh perfection of divinity unfolding, now and always. Through grace and my own free will, so be it.’

When you are ready, place your hands in prayer position and bow your head in reverence and recognition to the one divine plan unfolding. Say: ‘I surrender into the one truth of divine perfection which includes my own divine destiny now. Through mercy and grace, so be it.’

When you are ready, simply close your eyes and bow your head again. Then you have completed your ritual.”

~ By Alana Fairchild

It’s so easy to give up hope when things are not moving quickly in the direction of our desired outcome. Maybe we have been doing everything in our power to try and make something come to fruition.. to no avail. We might be losing hope, giving up or getting frustrated. We might be starting to lament; telling others how things aren’t going our way. Maybe we start changing our minds, weighing our options, getting dangerously close to repeating old patterns. We might be getting so caught up in what isn’t happening, that we forget to loosen up a little and just let it all Be.

So, now we have a message that things are in fact progressing nicely. That everything is turning out exactly as planned. That what you desire so fervently is manifesting itself as you read this. It is just a matter of receptivity, surrender and release of control of the if’s, when’s and how’s.

Take a little break from the hard work of focus and intention and have some fun instead! Raising your vibration doing something completely different from the task in front of you will actually help you get where you need to be. Being playful, taking a little time out to have dinner out with friends, take a dance class, find a way that feels right to you to socialize and be free. Or enjoy some time alone, listening to your favourite music, watching a funny movie or enjoying a relaxing bath; maybe try a guided meditation to take your mind off things.

Using affirmations and mindfulness, keep your thoughts as uplifted as possible while you wait for what is yours to come to you.

Dee

~Archangel Oracle

[beca-mitchell]

44. :)

blink and you might miss (1/1)

summary: Chloe has an idea for making movie nights fun. The jury’s still out on that, Beca thinks. Rated M/E. I’m so sorry.

word count: 3.6k

written in response to prompt 44: “Cuddle me.”

“Movie nights are terrible,” Beca grumbles. She’s brushing her hair quickly, staring at her reflection in the mirror of Chloe’s vanity.

Chloe nods, primarily focused on all the smooth skin on display - the way the muscles of Beca’s back bunch and jump with each movement of her arm as the brush passes through her hair.

Sighing, Chloe leans back, content to listen to Beca’s complaints, so long as it means that Beca gets to spend more time with her.

Their little friends-with-benefits scenario started about two months ago, near the beginning of the school year. A new year - Beca’s junior year and Chloe’s…second junior year - and Beca was newly single. Chloe would be remiss if she didn’t admit that she had been waiting for Beca as patiently as possible. This - this isn’t the absolute best scenario, but she’ll take it if it means she gets to have Beca, even for just a few stolen moments.

Somehow, they found their way together, amidst it all.

Beca sighs, putting the brush down and turning back to Chloe. Her eyes are sharp, bright, and thoughtful as she assesses Chloe for a moment.

“What?” Chloe asks, raking her hand through her own hair lazily. She doesn’t feel inclined to move for a while.

“Nothing,” Beca admits. “Just admiring the view.” She realizes belatedly the exact words she just expelled and flushes, crossing her arms. “Shut up,” she says quickly.

Chloe stifles a grin and instead raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t say anything.” She pats the bed. “Get back here, you nerd and cuddle me.”

It isn’t until much later when Chloe’s getting ready for bed and Beca is long gone that she’s struck with sudden inspiration.

Beca can’t quite believe this is when Chloe is choosing to this.

But she can believe it a little – especially after Chloe had been so delighted by her discovery just last week.

(“Shh,” Chloe hushes, brushing a wet finger over Beca’s lips. “You’re going to wake up the entire house, babe.”

Beca writhes, needing Chloe’s fingers back in her. Her eyes nearly cross at the sensation of Chloe’s fingers rubbing expertly at her clit, arching her back once more. “I don’t care,” she murmurs before she can stop herself. The air feels thicker and heavier, weighing down on her chest. Her hand rakes up Chloe’s back, trying to pull Chloe closer to her if it’s even possible at this point. “Please,” she whimpers. She’s so fucking close.

“You don’t care?” Chloe asks, interest tinging her voice. “So you wouldn’t care if I fucked you in front of all our friends?” Her fingers press deliberately and firmly into Beca.

It’s something about the timbre of Chloe’s voice and the little rasp that forms at the end of her inquiry. Beca groans as the imagery assaults her senses. Chloe had been teasing her all night, building her up only to stop and then start all over again. Now that Chloe’s fingers are being merciful, Beca’s brain cries out in relief and her defenses fall nearly immediately.

Rocking her hips up, Beca cries out, nodding against Chloe’s neck, enjoying the little puff of air that Chloe lets out as her arm tenses between them. “Yes,” Beca mumbles. “Yes, God – yes.”

She cannot be held accountable for what she agrees to when Chloe is two fingers deep inside her - no matter how true the statement might be.)

Beca knew she was in trouble the moment she entered the living room and saw the way all the Bellas were already arranged. There was no available seat except-

“Bec, sit here,” Chloe had said cheerfully, patting her lap. She even lifted the edge of the blanket for good measure, eyes wide. The picture of innocence.

Beca had rolled her eyes and ignored the way Amy snickered at her and the general giggling that had happened from everybody else.

She allowed Chloe to drape the blanket over both of them, nearly up to their shoulders. Chloe had then comfortably wrapped a loose arm around Beca’s waist and leaned her chin on Beca’s shoulder. “Tell me if you want to stop,” she whispered. Beca then felt Chloe’s hand trail up her inner thigh.

Beca did not object.

…Which why Beca is now struggling to keep her eyes open and focus on at least the opening credits of the movie. Chloe is rubbing her through her shorts – her dark, almost black shorts, a color for which Beca is grateful because of how wet she is at the moment. She can’t quite believe how bold Chloe is being, teasing her like this in front of literally everybody. Beca briefly sends a quick prayer of thanks up to the Heavens for the fact that Aubrey no longer lives in the Bella house. She’s not sure what she would do if Aubrey ever caught them.

Chloe’s teasing continues on and off throughout the movie for at least half an hour. By then, Beca is trying to stop from both squirming and crying out because of how close she is to coming. As she shifts backwards, she finally feels it.

Chloe pauses too, seemingly realizing that Beca has noticed what she had kept hidden under her loose sweatpants.

“Oh,” Beca whispers, low enough that only Chloe can hear.

“Okay?” Chloe asks back, lips warm against the shell of Beca’s ear.

Beca isn’t going to object – not when she feels herself clench around nothing at the thought of Chloe fucking her with her strap-on in front of all their friends. She nods, trying not to be too eager, but she knows Chloe knows anyway, because Chloe has a knack for these things.

God, she feels dirty.

Beca exhales as Chloe shifts the fabric of her shorts further, to accommodate their positions. The fabric pulls at Beca’s skin, but she could care less. She’s only hyper aware of how fucking full she is, sitting on Chloe’s lap fully, with a fucking sex toy inside her.

“Fuck,” she hisses. It’s less discreet than she thinks because Stacie’s eyes swivel to her and her eyes narrow either in suspicion or confusion. Beca’s not entirely sure how her brain manages to fire any cylinders at all at this point, but she quickly shakes her head and whispers to Stacie, “nothing, just – Chloe’s hands were a little cold against my arm. Er. Leg.” She tries not to waver, but her voice sounds higher-pitched than usual. Beca tries to make up for it by fixing Stacie with a confident-enough expression (she thinks).

Overall, it’s quick-enough thinking and appears to satisfy Stacie because she turns back to face the screen. Beca is only aware that it’s some romcom of some sorts starring Justin Timberlake and Mila Kunis – Stacie’s choice for the night, if Beca recalls the schedule well enough.

It doesn’t matter though, because Chloe’s arm is tightening around her waist while the other presses firmly on her thigh, pushing their bodies closer together. Beca stifles a groan, but she’s sure Chloe feels the tremble that rips through her body.

Beca had been dying for Chloe to bring out this toy again since the first time they used it.

Now that she’s confronted with it – literally – she can’t believe they waited this long at all. Chloe presses a quick kiss into her shoulder, her breath puffing out against Beca’s neck before she whispers “good work, baby,” in a soft, gentle voice that belies the way her fingers are digging into Beca’s thigh. Beca stifles another sharp inhale and allows her thigh to shift to the side. Chloe’s fingers immediately trail gently up her inner thigh, rubbing back and forth in a seemingly soothing manner.

Beca tries to breathe regularly – tries to fixate on how solid Chloe feels underneath her. God, she needs to be even closer – she needs Chloe to-

“Take them off,” she murmurs, as quietly as she dares. Chloe’s fingers pause and she seems to contemplate Beca’s words.

“Can’t,” Chloe replies, right in her ear. It makes her jump, but the action itself only reminds her that the strap-on is buried inside her. She shifts again, a little restlessly, wanting to take off her shorts completely. Granted, the shorts are loose enough that it’s not entirely painful, but it’s not the most comfortable.

Beca bites her lip, hoping Chloe won’t hate this too much. She groans and stretches her arms, before lifting herself off the toy completely. She has to bite her lip to stifle the whimper that threatens to escape and as quickly as she dares, quickly shimmies her shorts halfway down her thighs all while pretending to just re-adjust herself on Chloe’s lap. Chloe’s fingers tighten against her hips, and soon enough, she’s sinking back down comfortably – though as comfortably as she dares, taking each inch of the toy while holding her breath.

A quick glance around indicates that nobody has noticed or cared, which Beca is grateful for.

“Sorry,” she murmurs, tilting her head towards Chloe.

Chloe chuckles then, low against the back of Beca’s neck. “Desperate,” she teases. Beca flushes at Chloe’s knowing tone, hating that Chloe can read her so well – especially hating how much she wants Chloe at any given point in the day. Still, Chloe squeezes her hips comfortingly and moves her hands to trace little patterns on her bare thighs. “You’re okay,” she reassures in a barely-there whisper against Beca’s ear. Chloe’s hips shift then making Beca’s eyes very nearly cross.

Beca is not okay. She would never be okay again. Every inch of skin touching Chloe’s body only served to stoke the fire inside her. Greedily, she thinks, she would much prefer Chloe’s fingers in her, but the thought of whether she wanted them in addition to the strap-on only makes her body tremble again with want and she quickly banishes the thought from her mind for the time being.

“You two enjoying cuddling over there?” Stacie asks, voice low and teasing, just barely audible over the sound of the movie.

Chloe takes the opportunity to pull Beca closer and shift her hips in a way that Beca has to force herself not to squeeze her eyes shut. “Yes,” Chloe responds cheerfully. “Beca loves cuddling.”

Snickers from her so-called friends. “Does she?” Amy asks. “She always hits me whenever I try.”

“Maybe it’s because you try to sit on her before hugging her,” Cynthia-Rose chimes in.

Beca feels Chloe’s nails dig into her inner thigh. “Yes,” Beca manages to croak out. “This is fun.”

Their friends divert their attention once more and Beca exhales.

She hates this – she hates Chloe for likely enjoying it. She hates herself for enjoying it as much as she is at the moment. God, she can’t imagine the looks on their friends’ faces if they knew. Acting on instinct, Beca reaches down under the blanket, grabs Chloe’s hand and pulls it between her legs hastily. Chloe’s hand stiffens at first before she realizes what Beca is doing and she mercifully rubs at Beca’s swollen clit and down to circle her entrance around the toy as best as she can, but only for a few seconds before her wet fingers are trailing across Beca’s thigh and up, up - out from under the blanket. Beca blinks and dares to tilt her head a little to watch as Chloe slowly and deliberately flicks her tongue out to taste her fingers.

That damn eyebrow rises slowly as Chloe captures her own fingers with her mouth, cheeks hollowing in a purposeful show of sucking her fingers clean.

God, Beca hates her.

She whips her head back around and tries to refocus on the movie, ignoring the little pleased hum she feels vibrate from Chloe’s chest. Chloe’s hands mercifully find their way back to her body, resting low enough just under her belly, but Beca’s sure that the torture will resume soon enough. She shivers, drawing the blanket up more comfortably around their bodies, ensuring that nobody gets a free show in addition to the movie they’re watching (which has more sex scenes than Beca expected – she should really pay more attention to the synopses of the movies Stacie chooses).

Beca is distracted once again by Chloe shifting underneath her. This time, Chloe lifts her bodily as she readjusts on the couch, getting her legs into a more comfortable position. Now, Beca’s legs are spread a little over Chloe’s thighs and she quickly adjusts, biting back a groan when she has to lift herself and shift a little.

This is definitely not the most comfortable position and Beca is horrified to realizes that she has to sit through this for at least another hour or so.

“You’re sexy,” Chloe breathes out. Beca can practically feel the smile against her shoulder.

“You’re a tease,” Beca retorts out of the corner of her mouth.

Before Chloe can reply, the movie is suddenly paused and Beca’s entire body stiffens as Amy stands up. She feels Chloe’s hands tense on her thighs as well. Both their bodies lock up at the same moment and Beca is sure they’ve been caught.

“I need to use the bathroom real quick,” Amy announces. “Give me fifteen minutes.”

Everybody groans and stands up as well, stretching their limbs. “I’m going to get more snacks,” Stacie says, gesturing for Jessica and Flo to follow her. “Beca, do you wanna come? Or are you comfortable on Chloe’s lap?”

The sudden question startles Beca from where she had been subtly trying to shift and alleviate some of the pressure. Briefly, her brain fizzles out as she thinks of the many ways she could answer Stacie’s question. Glancing behind her, she sees Chloe is appearing nonchalant, on her phone, scrolling through a social media feed. Incredulous and mildly jealous of Chloe’s easy poise, Beca turns back to Stacie and shakes her head. “I’ll stay,” she says, surprised at how steady her voice sounds.

Chloe’s fingers move to rest lightly on her clit in response.

(Beca’s not sure it’s a reward - not when her entire body feels like it’s about to combust.)

Eventually, all the Bellas file out within the next two minutes, with Emily being the last and throwing Beca and Chloe a friendly wave on her way out.

(Nobody ever bothers staying, knowing that it might be a while before they reconvene.)

“Fuck. Thank God,” Beca groans, the moment they’re out of earshot. She stands, letting the blanket fall to the ground and shucking her shorts down so they dangle precariously off one ankle. She finally takes in Chloe’s own attire now that the lights are on and shining down on them like a spotlight on their sins. Chloe’s oversized top dons a ridiculously cute pattern of dancing penguins while her sweatpants are tugged down enough to reveal the shiny blue strap-on. Beca notes that Chloe came prepared - the fact that she’s sitting on an old hoodie, likely to stop them both from creating a mess on the couch. This was so premeditated that Beca kind of hates her for it. “Fuck, you’re going to make me come right now,” she says in a hoarse voice, moving to re-straddle Chloe’s lap.

“Cute,” Chloe comments with an infuriatingly cheerful smile. Her hands glide confidently around to hold Beca’s hips.

The placating tone she uses is diminished by the pure desire Beca sees in her eyes. Beca goes for a different angle, looping her arms around Chloe’s neck and leaning close so that their foreheads are barely touching.

Sinking down, Beca makes sure that Chloe hears every last drawn-out vowel in her moan. “I’m so wet,” Beca whispers. “Please, Chlo. Please, I’ll come - just for you.” She bites her lip, lifting herself up and sinking back down again, a quiet whimper escaping her. It’s a testament to how comfortable they are with each other at this point, the fact that Beca knows exactly how to get that gobsmacked expression on Chloe’s face. The thrill of satisfaction rushes through Beca among other things when she sinks all the way down on Chloe’s lap when she takes in the hazy expression on Chloe’s face. Chloe’s possessive streak runs hot, Beca has come to know, especially where Beca is concerned. It’s something that she’d like to address later, perhaps when they’re not having risky sex nearly in plain view of all their friends.

When Chloe doesn’t stop her, she does it again, biting her lip so hard that she’s afraid that she draws blood for a moment. “You’ve been teasing me all night,” Beca murmurs. She leans in to kiss Chloe, lingering for a moment with an open-mouthed, barely there brush. Chloe exhales heavily into the kiss, tilting her head to better accommodate Beca’s lips. Chloe’s grip tightens on her hips, pulling her closer.

“Are you…at least enjoying the movie night?” Chloe asks, between increasingly desperate kisses. Beca nearly crows in triumph, seeing that Chloe no longer cares about having any sort of control over her. She wonders if she can convince Chloe to bring her back to her bedroom.

Chloe’s thoughts follow along the same line. It had been fun, but Chloe has half a mind to just bring Beca back up to her bedroom. The insert had been rubbing against her all night as well, and she was close to combusting on the spot. She’s not even sure how she’s forming words, let alone keeping up the charade of watching the movie, only focused on ensuring Beca was entertained or at least distracted enough to not be bored.

Beca takes pause at the question, wonder coloring her features for a moment. Chloe blinks out of her daze, staring up at Beca with an adorably confused expression on her face. “I - yes,” Beca answers as truthfully as she can. She felt like most of it was torture, but it wasn’t entirely terrible. “Very much so,” she breathes.

“Yeah?” Chloe asks breathlessly before leaning up to nip at Beca’s lower lip. “You enjoyed that, didn’t you?” Chloe continues. Beca realizes she had been terribly mistaken that Chloe was giving in. “You enjoyed the thought of getting caught - of somebody figuring out what you were doing.” Chloe’s hand comes up to grip the back of her head, pulling her in so their foreheads are touching. “You couldn’t help yourself, could you? You’re so fucking wet right now.”

Beca gasps - whether from the sudden grip Chloe has on her or the spectacularly surprising “fuck” that Chloe just dropped - and only manages to wrap her arms around Chloe’s shoulders before lifting her hips once more. “Shut up,” she grumbles, eyes falling closed. “Before they come back,” she gets out, stiltedly.

“They won’t be back for a while,” Chloe murmurs. “Try not to make a mess on the couch.”

Beca groans, partly in complaint and partly in desire when the tip of the strap hits a particularly sensitive spot with a strategic shift of Chloe’s hips. “You try not - not to make a mess,” she says, moaning embarrassingly right in the middle of her retort.

Chloe’s lips seek Beca’s out again, a surprisingly graceful and sensual kiss for their current activities. Beca whimpers into Chloe’s mouth, enjoying the sensation of Chloe’s warm body pressed against hers while their lips glide slowly together. It’s something that Beca has enjoyed recently - getting to know the different types of kisses. This kiss is currently verging on hungry, though they’re both adept at managing the pace of their kisses now and Beca slowly brings it back down to mildly desperate before exhaling heavily against Chloe’s lips.

“Are you close?” Chloe asks against her mouth. Beca’s eyes flicker open and she sees the sheer pleasure on Chloe’s face: it’s evident in the way her brow furrows, the flush on her cheeks, her swollen lips. What gets her is the way Chloe’s eyes are blown and wide once her eyelids flick open. She stares back at Beca in a way that makes Beca shiver from the vulnerability of it all.

Beca had been close, but upon seeing Chloe’s expression, she’s pretty much right there- “Fuck, yes,” she groans out before reattaching their lips. Her entire body seems to coil and tense, as does Chloe’s beneath her. Chloe whimpers once, head falling back against the couch as she lets Beca ride out her orgasm with ease. “Shit,” she mumbles, squeezing her eyes shut as she forces herself back down on Chloe’s lap, mouth falling open with how full she feels.

Beca’s body collapses against Chloe’s and she grips Chloe’s shoulders tightly before pushing herself back, dazed.

“That was okay right?” Chloe’s hands glide up and down her thighs comfortingly as they sit in silence for a couple of minutes. 

Beca almost doesn’t want to leave because Chloe is warm and comfortable, but she’s growing mildly uncomfortable with the toy nestled inside her. “Yeah,” she mumbles. “More than.” She blinks, battling back the little wave of arousal that courses through her when she slowly extricates herself from Chloe’s grasp and settles back on her lap so the toy slips out and rests between them.

Chloe exhales heavily, her hands still rubbing soothingly along Beca’s body. She tugs Beca in for a quick embrace, lips seeking hers out briefly. “We should clean up,” Chloe murmurs before pressing her lips against Beca’s forehead. “Change. Before they get back.” Her words come out as staggered as Beca’s thoughts feel, so she agrees, if only to quickly relieve herself of the stickiness she feels between her legs.

They manage to make it back onto the couch. Beca tiredly allows Chloe to tug her into a half hug, her legs draped over Chloe’s lap comfortably, before Chloe tugs the blanket up around them. She’s comfortably snug in a spare pair of Chloe’s sweatpants and and equally warm sweater.

Her nose presses lightly into Chloe’s neck and she tries not to inhale too greedily, enjoying the scent that is so distinctly Chloe.

Chloe’s giggle is light and muffled when Beca tugs up the hood of her sweater over her head. “Tired?” she teases.

“Shut up and cuddle me, you psycho.”

fin. fic tag.

[estrellaxpolar-blog]

Marth finally gets a meta

The best lord needs to break into this brand new blog 👀

I’ve been holding onto this draft for a looooooong long time, and out of laziness or nervousness of the acceptance of some of my headcanons, I didn’t finish.

But then I remembered characters flow so much better when I can interpret them the way I want (*cough* Ephraim) so without further ado...

(Keep in mind a lot, and I mean, a LOT of these are headcanons of mine over the years. I know I’m not stating facts from the games, anime, or manga themselves. They will, however, be the default for how Marth is interpreted on this blog)

Enjoy this mess, I never format these professionally.

His social anxiety and insecurity

How can we not start out with this? It was one of the most obvious things for me about his personality from the start; that his insecurity with himself went past just being humble, going as far as to deny his own skills and accomplishments. He says things like this plenty of times in Fire Emblem Heroes alone.

“I have come to see my own powerlessness. As but one, I cannot accomplish anything.”

“I found victory only because I had first found so many allies who shared my new sense of justice.”

“I can accomplish nothing on my own. It’s thanks to my friends I’ve come as far as I have.”

He doesn’t feel strong at all, I’d even like to think he’d avoid using the Falchion itself at first just because he feels he isn’t worthy. He’s not at all the same kind of person his father was.

Aside of having low self esteem, he also lives with the idea that one mistake could cost a lot. Hell, he even blames himself for the deaths of his friends, feeling that if he’d done more, that alone would have changed the fates.

“If I’m not dependable, everyone else will suffer for it.”

For someone that thinks so little of their own strength, it’s a bit hypocritical to pin all of his bad accomplishments on himself alone. It punched me in the gut when I thought about it more, but he does not like himself.

Marth disliked his father

One of the reasons he thinks so little of himself is because it’s all he’s heard of his father growing up. (PATHETIC WEAKLING) King Cornelius wanted his only son to be the kind of King he was, and went out of his way to try and mold Marth into his ideals. It very obviously didn’t work, and for a multitude of reasons that will be covered throughout this whole meta.

For starters, Marth knew from a very young age that Cornelius wasn’t the best example of a man. Marth and Elice’s mother was the Queen and his first wife, but Cornelius likely had many concubines as well, something common among Kings who prided themselves in their sheer strength and power. This raised even more tension growing up, watching the mothers of Marth’s half siblings pitting their children against each other, a lot like the how siblings in the Fates games were. Marth didn’t look up to his father from the very beginning because of this, and when worse examples followed, Marth frowned at the very idea of being a King someday. He was taught that they needed to kill, to come out on top and show no mercy or weakness.

Unfortunately, mercy and gentleness were something Marth had a lot of. Cornelius tried to break him out of it, but Marth didn’t even like to fake brutishness to get out from under the harsh thumb of his father. He wasn’t the kind of boy King Cornelius wanted him to be in the slightest, and Marth knew he wasn’t a boy at all.

Marth wants to transition

Marth’s self esteem hangs on a loose thread because he is dysphoric. And because he was the only son of a strict King, he had no freedom at all to be the woman he feels and sees he is.

His sister thankfully noticed this in him at a young age. She didn’t understand it completely, but she would sneak him in to little tea parties when they were small and let him wear her doll dresses. Marth looks up to his sister more than anyone else he’s known, guiltily admitting he’d rather be her. He grew so fond of wearing her crown even after she was rescued, and he was glad she let him keep it. It was subtle, but it at least let him feel a bit prettier.

None of them dared tell their father while he was still alive, yet even after he died and Marth assumed the throne of Altea, he still remained closeted, thinking that his transition would be selfish. He convinces himself he’s just being crazy, and the older he gets, the more he has to bury the idea of his true identity.

He’s not innocent to the core

Despite everything that he feels he lacks, he’s not weak willed in the slightest.

After his home country was taken and he was the sole survivor from defeat or capture in his family, he was furious. He wanted to take revenge for his country, abandoning some of his ideals to train vigorously even when that meant he would bulk up a little despite wanting to keep his slender figure.

“I, too, have seen losses, so I can empathize. After fleeing to safety, I swore to restore my homeland with the help of my comrades. It was Nyna who entrusted me with the Fire Emblem…and it strengthened my resolve to fight on. I no longer fought for vengeance… I fought for the people.”

It doesn’t last long, but after all of those years in exile, growing up around soldiers, he picked up a bit of dirty humor. Imagine getting “the talk” from the biggest block head in the military. Ceada was in the same boat (I like to thing growing up dirt mouthing with soldiers is why she’s so unfazed in this Niles support) and the two would constantly joke whenever they weren’t under the watchful eyes of nobles. Marth is later like this with his close friends, like Merric or Kris, as surprising as it is considering usually his calm and delicate way of speaking.

Marth’s noble actions and words are more or less a front, covering up a child that never got to be a child. He’s playful, albeit awkward around new faces, and doesn’t see himself growing out of that anytime soon. He never got to be a child when he was growing up, save for those few precious moments with his sister Elice, and enjoys spending quality time being an absolute dipshit any time he can to this day.

Marth is a fucking yandere

Not to say he’s the level of insane that Tharja is, or a stalker to a love interest, but he can lose his mind when someone he cares about is in danger.

He’s very critical of the lives of those close to him, as evidenced in some more heroes quotes:

“I cannot allow a single one of my friends to die. Together, you and I, with everyone else, will win this war.”

“I don’t want anyone to die. Surely you feel the same way.”

“As a friend, you are irreplaceable. I will protect you”

His sister also stresses to the Avatar in fe14 that Marth can’t let go of the deaths that occurred in the war of shadows, and knows he will do the same in the upcoming wars. She berates this kind of behavior, admitting he will always be childlike in his values because he believes he could save everyone.

And if you all know me, you know I’m going to take this hot piece of info and run with it.

Going back in time and raising the dead aren’t things that he’d say no to when I came to reviving loved ones. And we know how “well” that can turn out in fire emblem........

Without proper help and support, he could go batshit insane with the torment a friend in danger could bring.

Marth’s half siblings

Speaking of going insane with the death of loved ones, I’ve pictured the stakes being higher when Altea was taken. His entire family aside of Elice was killed, and that includes his half siblings.

While he had a distaste in the idea concubines, it doesn’t mean he didn’t grow fond of a few, espera their kids around his age. They were still family to him, save for the ones with power hungry mothers who would rather see he and Elice dead in order to give their kids a chance to the throne.

None ever dared plot an assasination on the King’s heavily monitored legitament children, but there were incidences between the ones of concubines that were highly favored. This would shake both Marth’s and Elice’s peace while growing up, breaking them inside entirely when they were all picked off during the siege of Altea.

[stylinsonlibrary]

hey do you have anymore witch fics?

WITCH FIC REC

you’ve got this spell on me (everything you do is magic) by teenagedenigma (2k)

Harry accidentally turns Louis into a cat. He doesn't know how he's going to fix it, but he does know he'd better do so before he has to deal with Louis's wrath.

my only familiar by graceana (3k)

louis’ a witch and harry’s his familiar and no one can come between them.

“There’s my boy,” Louis coos, then stands on slightly raised toes to kiss Harry’s pink lips.

“Missed you,” Harry replies, his voice deep and raspy, as it always is right after he changes into his human form.

Everything You Do Is Magic by headlinecreative (5k)

October is a month of magic. Most carry on with their lives thinking that leaves change color from science and that the pumpkins no one has seen growing all year actually came from the ground. But others know the truth. That some possess the power to create life and take it away. Harry was one of those people.

(or the one where Harry and Zayn are witches, Liam and Louis are new in town, Niall may or may not be magic, and Harry thinks nothings better than the feeling of magic, till something is)

Always Darkest before the Sunrise (7k)

Salem, Massachusetts, 17th century.

“You have attacked without need and without mercy, you have used arts so dark they are of the Evil One, and for that you cannot be allowed to walk free.”

What?

Harry starts struggling. It’s no use, he’s not even doing it with any sort of rational plan, the whole town at this point stands between him and freedom, but the words leaking from the preacher’s lips are filling him with a bile more sickening than he’s ever known.

“Harry Styles, ward of the church no longer, you are under arrest for the use of witchcraft against the innocent townspeople of Salem, Massachusetts.”

Babe, There’s Something Lonesome About You by patdkitten (8k)

Louis is a hedge witch, who lives a lonely, solitary life. He's quite happy with his shop in Door County, selling New Age magics to the tourists. He also has his cats and his birds to keep him company. But his best friend Liam thinks he needs someone around, and he's got just the person: Liam's friend Harry is coming to the area for the tourist season and since Louis has all this space....

Love Potion Number 9 by noellehenry (9k)

Harry is a witch, albeit a clumsy witch. His spells never work out quite as he expects them to and his potions are at least hazardous. He is, however, talented in the kitchen: his pumpkin pie cupcakes are heavenly. He bakes them as a welcome gift for his new hot neighbour...

Dusk Till Dawn by larryandgaystuff (9k)

Bewitched by ReadInTheAM (11k)

Louis is a modern day witch. No, he doesn't have green skin or pointed hats and he definitely doesn't have warts covering his face.

However, he does have a cat familiar, Harry.

And though Louis' witchiness doesn't bother his normal life, he does get into some trouble while he was out of the house. Or at least, Harry does.

taken by the wind by lightofathousandstars (12k)

When he decided to move to London with his sister, Harry thought he would finally get to learn how to control his magic. He couldn't possibly have predicted that he would fall for her neighbour.

Or the one where Harry is a clumsy witch and Louis is making everything worse just by existing.

Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic by oopsiedaisy (12k)

“I bet,” Harry says softly before adding, “I could help you maybe? With your magic?”.

“Oh yeah,” Louis asks and motions her head towards the burnt flowers still smouldering in their vase. Harry's top lip quirks up on one side, “Hey. That was a real life magic show I put on for you.”

“Well what are you gonna teach me then Houdini?”

Louis is a witch with no magical powers who joins a local coven she finds on craigslist. Harry is the earth witch convinced she can help Louis find her powers with flowers, baby mice and everything nice.

Witch Harry by QuickedWeen (series; 2 works; 15k)

Harry Styles is a witch who owns the best flower shop in Manchester. Lottie Tomlinson is planning her wedding, and brings her brother along to her first appointment. Both men have been having a bad day and sparks fly.

Burn by anchortied (21k)

Louis is plagued by nightmares of being burned at the stake. Every time he closes his eyes he can see the flames, smell the smoke, taste the acrid smell of his own death in his nostrils. There is nothing he fears more than this.

Besides being something other than what he truly is. Which is, to say in the very least, a powerful witch. One of the most powerful in in the world, as far as he knows. His magic can't even be matched by Liam, who learned quicker than anyone he's ever met, or Niall, who's magic fire could burn through a whole village in a mere moment if he wanted to.

When Louis meets Harry however, he realizes that his magic isn't as strong as he thought. And as he tries to navigate through this magic, and the trials of friendships and lost loves that come along with it, Louis finds that being powerful is more of a plague than he realized. A plague that infects more people than he is comfortable with.

(A Witch AU based off of The Craft -a very loose interpretation)

Nocturnal Creatures Are Not So Prudent by patdkitten (24k)

Louis spins a finger in midair, like he’s indicating someone to turn around, staring pointedly at Liam as the faucet turns itself on and the can rinses itself in the sink behind him. Liam, moon burn him, doesn't rise to the bait, choosing instead to lean back on his stool and wrapping his hands around his own mug.

“Anyway, like I was saying and that you were ignoring, there's this new club near my school and I want you to go with me. Could do you some good, getting out once in awhile.”

Louis is a white witch with a little black cat named Hemlock and a best human friend Liam (they're a lot like Samantha Stephens and Louise Tate). When he's dragged out to a new club Liam's heard about from a friend and classmate, Louis comes face to face with that which witches do not touch: a charming vampire by the name of Harry.

love is divine by stylinsoncity (25k)

Being a witch doesn't help when it comes to unrequited love.

parsley, sage, rosemary & thyme by MediaWhore (series; 2 works; 27k)The one where Harry is a cursed witch living in a small town and Louis is the Detective Inspector who crossed his path.

A Practical Magic AU

Bewitched by Snowy38 (28k)

"I've got Louis."

He didn't mean it to come out that menacing but the naturally deep lilt of his voice wasn't helping. The female on the other end of the phone gave a hysterical squeal.

"Please! Don't hurt him!"

Harry frowned, lip protruding sullenly in mild offence.

"I'm not-I'm not going to hurt him," he argued.

"What do you want?" The woman cried, voice wobbling with emotion.

Harry frowned.

"I want Louis," he answered because wasn't that much already obvious? Maybe Louis' family were just really thick.

Work of Magic by Bekita (34k)

Even though centuries had passed since the Spanish Inquisition and the burning of Witches, these beings with magical powers still existed, in seclusion, always trying to avoid the attention of the persecuting Hunters.

The Sweetest Incantation by smittenwithlouis (40k)

Harry has been alive for decades, and yet he's never been as confused and dumbfounded. He's a witch, for God's sake. Can't get much weirder than all the magical things he's experienced throughout his lifetime. Never in a million years, however, would he have expected to be mere inches away from a hybrid. Or: Harry is a witch who's still working on developing his powers and Louis is a werecat who falls into his life and turns it upside down.

i never did believe in the ways of magic (though i’ve a feeling it’s time to try) by binarysunsets (55k)

Louis can’t shake the feeling that there’s something in the woods, pressing close and watching him with a heavy gaze. It makes him antsy, fills him with jitters. He wants to run, or scream, but he knows to do so would only put him in danger if there’s actually something out there after all. He’s sure he’s just imagining it, but his heart nevertheless pounds in his throat.

When Louis Tomlinson goes on a songwriting retreat to the Laurentian Mountains of Canada, this isn't how he expects his evening to go.

or the au where Louis is a singer who has been cursed to never make music again and Harry is a reclusive witch of the Canadian mountains who's going to help him break the curse.

domestic monsters by g_uttertrash (series; 8 completed works/1WIP; 234k)

Bewitched by photo41 (series; 2 completed works; 1 WIP; 241k)

[the-revisionist]

The Potencies and Prophecies of Madame Cliquot

[jesus that screenshot looks huge.]

Ask and ye shall receive, my friend. Happy New Year! 

Kiss prompt 10 is staring at the other’s lips, trying not to kiss them, before giving in.

The (unfinished) Ava Gardner/Deborah Kerr story that @wirepaladin refers to is here. And thanks to this prompt, I can consider it more or less complete (if not as mucky as originally intended, sorry). Onward. 

It is damned irritating, Deborah thinks, to be in one of the most beautiful, sunny places in the world—and to continually dream of Scottish winter. 

On their off day she is sleepily roused from a siesta by relentless banging on the door of her bungalow and as a rapidly dissolving dream of accompanying her father on a hunt—vivid bright texture of snow, crunching boots, breaths suspended in cold puffs, flashes of blood—spills helplessly out of her memory while retaining such fleeting vividness and startling depth that she can taste the chill of it all even as she drags herself, bare feet slapping against lukewarm tiles, through a moat of humidity to the front door.

Unsurprisingly it is Ava who has come knocking, and with an adoring phalanx of attentive young men poised behind her and ready to serve their leader’s hedonistic causes. “Baby,” she says, “you look rough.” 

“Good morning to you too.”

“Good afternoon,” Ava corrects pointedly. 

“I was dreaming of the cold.”

“Is this a cue for me to get you something cool to drink?” 

“Oh God, no,” she groans. Why she thought she could ever outdrink Richard Burton was pure patriotic foolhardiness on her part; Scotland conceded quickly to Wales last night. 

Ava grins. “All right, no booze. Wanna go waterskiing?”

Ava’s off days usually consist of waterskiing with these beautiful men—extras, crewmembers, locals, indeed, any shirtless, charming, handsome man will do. From the beach Deborah always sees them in the distance, the boat slicing the water, the waves neatly spiraling in their wake. She feels like the stodgy stepsister in a melodrama, the unloved heiress—who could think Olivia de Havilland really plain? she wonders, apropos of nothing—and she experiences what she believes her character, Hannah Jelkes, would feel: No, not for me, this frivolity. Her resistance helps her settle more into the character. 

She maintains this stubborn self-abnegation even though she is routinely invited—nay, begged—by Ava to come along on these excursions. Hence Ava’s appearance now. The invitation itself is, of course, a masterwork of seduction: Ava, clad in swimsuit and sunglasses, contorted in a half-bow like a supplicant and moaning, “Please, baby.”

This day, of course, is no different. Except that Ava has a new bathing suit, a beautiful deep blue with little white anchors on it, and she puts a bit more oomph into the begging and the writhing, so much so that her breasts seem ready to leap out of the constraint of the suit as an irresistible enticement: “Pleeeease, baby.” 

“Ava, I’m exhausted.” Ava, your swimsuit is ill-fitting in all the right ways. But you probably know that. 

“Come on. Don’t let me go alone with all these assholes.” 

“You do realize they understand English? Especially the curse words.” 

Ava turns and looks back at the five young Mexican men. They grin and chuckle knowingly at her. “Aw, shit.” 

“Come back later. After dinner. We’ll have a nightcap.” 

“Fine. I’ll have to ask Burton to come along. He’ll be my chaperone.”

“Don’t let him fall into the drink again,” Deborah calls as Ava turns to go. 

“Honey, he’s been in the drink every goddamn day he’s been here!”

“You know what I mean!” 

As Ava walks away she waves back half-heartedly and Deborah can pretend as if none of it really matters. A sheet of consciousness, however thin, lay protectively over naked desire and only alone and half-asleep, half-drunk, half-aroused, can she pull back the sheet for a revelatory glance. Probably why she’s having dreams about home and childhood; the safety, the sanctity of the past counters these feelings. It does not change her. Nothing has changed. She will not tell anyone; as long as she does not act on these feelings, what is there to tell? There is an element of shame, certainly, the thrill of a secret to carry—but one borne of pleasure and not pain. Shame is a collusion of the mind and exterior forces, the result of immense pressure bearing down upon one, glitteringly transformative as a diamond. It is why, she thinks, some people revel in it. But how wonderful it is to whittle away at this tiny bit of shame by using it in her work. How wonderful, so wonderful if indeed that is her motivation after all. There was additional, newly minted shame attached to that—to see love and desire merely as prime tinder in sacrifice to the great god of art. Constantly reproving the convoluted theorem of desire that contorts and bleeds from the unreality of film into one’s life. 

She doesn’t see Ava for the rest of the day. Has dinner with Tom and Huston and Ray Stark. Drinks too much of a cool, delicious white wine, something Ray has brought back from civilization, and which leaves her swimming through a headache as she returns to the bungalow for the night. 

Again she dreams of snow—a thin, crackling layer of white so brittle she’s afraid to take a step, terrified the earth will crack open and swallow her whole and so she stands helpless and shivering until her bones rattle. It’s the rattling of bones that wakes her. No, it is a fleeting blast of cold damp against her bare shoulder. 

Awake, she gasps, sucks in a startled breath, and sits up. She had fallen asleep on the ratty couch in the main room, having draped a red linen sweater over a lamp to create a soothing penumbra of light that she hoped would prove conducive to warmer dreams. 

If she is still dreaming, then Ava has slipped into her dream—for Ava sits on the edge of the couch, triumphantly holding a well-chilled bottle of Veuve Cliquot stippled with condensation.  

“Damn, I’m always waking you up,” Ava says apologetically, except that there’s not an ounce of regret in her voice. She wears a white blouse and a loose skirt. She’s barefoot, with no makeup. She requires none; the shadows of a summer night are among nature’s finest cinematographers. 

It seems pointless to ask why she is here, so Deborah nods at the bottle: “Where on earth did you get that?” 

From outside, a distant ruckus draws near: shouting, male and female voices, a flashlight beam wildly whisking over the sky and perhaps causing a small plane to crash land somewhere. 

She hears Burton’s voice, authoritative and distinct: “Calm down.” 

Then the outraged lioness roar of his beloved Elizabeth, heard and far and wide and possibly all the way back to Los Angeles too: “Who the hell took my goddamned bottle of Veuve Cliquot?” 

Deborah gapes. She imagines headlines: Liz and Dick Murder Their Aging Costars Over Champagne! Mercy Killing, says Liz.  

Ava releases a torrent of contagious, girlish giggles. In a feeble attempt to smother their rapidly escalating laughter, they crash and curl into each other and Deborah feels Ava’s mouth on her skin, fluttering breaths convulsing against her shoulder.

The Veuve Cliquot Inquisition draws frighteningly closer. Ava draws in a calming breath and murmurs, “Hush,” the syllable drenched in the syrup of her North Carolina home, the same accent that Ava lets slip when she’s most comfortable with someone.  

Before Deborah can protest, Ava lightly places her index finger against Deborah’s lips. 

Mercifully, the disgruntled voices of the World’s Most Famous Couple fade away; at this point the World’s Most Famous Couple could dissolve into thin air for all she cares because Ava has touched her lips, however innocuously, and she cannot conceal her reaction. Her lips tremble and part expectantly and she imagines—she knows—that Ava feels the vibrato, the after-hiss of a cello string in a musical notation of her own making. She closes her eyes. When she opens them again she finds Ava staring curiously, head tilted, at her lips. 

Then, with a vigorous shake of her head, Ava leaps up and goes into the kitchen. 

“You should have seen it,” she calls. Deborah sits up frantically and tugs as her dress, as if some great impropriety had been let loose, a spirit accosting her. No, she tells herself, you are the spirit, you are the succubus. “It was like taking candy from a baby. They leave their goddamn door unlocked all the time, and I knew they were down at the cantina, so—” Ava emerges from the kitchen with a towel cosseting the neck of the bottle. With a confident twist she uncorks the bottle in one strong, flawless go.    

The merry pop of the bottle leavens the mood. Ava flops down next to her on the couch and they trade sips straight from the frothy cool bottle. 

“When you were a kid,” Ava begins, “did you ever imagine it?”

“Imagine what?” 

“All this. The travel, the people, the work. It’s all just so—unreal at times. You know? It hardly feels like real work most of the time. It feels unearned. Like I don’t know what I ever did to earn it. It’s a dream. I mean, hell, where I’m from—life was so—” Ava shakes her head. “So this life we lead now—so fantastical, so undeserved.”

She knows about Ava’s past—the hardscrabble existence of a family always on the move and one step away from ruin. “No. You deserve it,” Deborah says. “If anyone deserves it, it’s you.” 

Low and disbelieving, Ava laughs and once again puts the bottle to her lips. After a long and satisfying swig her mouth glistens; absently her tongue traces her upper lip, a last swipe to take in the delicate, deceptive potency of the champagne. 

She passes off the bottle to Deborah, who takes a tiny sip and strokes the cool green of the bottle; her thumb snags the label loosened by the damp. Someone, she begs silently, tell me what to do. But the glimmering lips of the woman next to her are prophecy enough; she cannot help but continue to stare at that mouth, slackened into sensuality, as she awaits an oracle-like pronouncement fueled by the grand spirit of Madame Cliquot.

Instead Ava’s glance lingers on her face—her cheeks burn as she realizes she is being scrutinized in precisely the same way; the contours of her mouth a bold detail of a memory yet to be made. 

“I’m not gonna say no,” Ava finally slurs.  

The pronouncement made, it is astonishingly easy enough to follow through; their mouths are in close proximity anyway, and the hesitant brush of their lips is enough of a spark to burn through them for the rest of the night—and for a surprising amount of nights in the weeks to follow. The escalating heat of their kisses are, at first, unbearable and maddening, but there is cool satisfaction in the release that follows and that night, as she sleeps in sweaty bliss next to one of the most beautiful women in the world, for the first time in days she does not need the shelter of childhood dreams. 

On the final day of the shoot, the same day that Burton and Elizabeth are set to return to the States, Deborah finds the perfect moment to slip into their digs unnoticed, where she tucks the empty bottle of Veuve Cliquot—nestling it seductively in a pool of perfumed French lingerie—into Elizabeth’s monogramed handmade valise.