#but man just. its so frustrating. all that effort for those pearls and it's just WASTED

[captainmoonlite]

i am being so so normal rn*

*thinking about the way both cat and marwood are the children of fifth monarchists. the way that both end up tied to and having to care for older men whose minds are worn down by both age and time spent in prison. the way those same men become more extreme and show more hateful views towards women as time passes. the way both cat and elizabeth cromwell have absentee fathers who missed most of their adolescence and fled the country for entirely different reasons. the way neither of them found the place or trust to find what they had in common because they were too occupied keeping secrets and trying to protect themselves and their loved ones. the way that the recent wars and the religious/political divide they created has continued to linger and affects so many elements of so many people's lives

[lcsthings]

A SMALL PART OF HER WAS HOPING HE’D FORGIVE HER ON THE SPOT. But they are far too much alike, stubborn as a mule, to truly let go of past grievances so easily. Regardless, it still stings no matter how much she reminds herself that this is to be expected, all the while biting her tongue to prevent from letting go of any scathing remarks she might regret. It is a great effort, that. It isn’t fair to demand his understanding when she’s never truly explained everything that has happened to her, but it still frustrates her nonetheless. Keeping him in the dark had been for his benefit, for his & the Crow’s safety, and also to let him know, in some way, that his problems & goals still mattered to her even when, unknowingly, she had a world on her shoulders that should take precedence. She had never wanted to burden him with that knowledge, especially since there was nothing he could’ve done to help if he wished to. Ciri didn’t want him to think he mattered little in comparison when that isn’t even close to the truth.

NOW GO BACK HOME WHERE YOU BELONG. She looks as though she were struck, but quickly schools her expression into stone. “I’ve never come and gone just because it ‘suited’ me,” she begins, her words sounding hollow to her ears. “I once told you I was being followed — I hadn’t been lying. I wasn’t able to stay here as long as I wanted without bringing something terrible to this place. I had already involved people I cared about, I didn’t want you to be burdened as well.” And a part of her had hoped to defeat everything on her own — to prove to those around her that she was capable, though that only further hurt the ones she loves. “I wasn’t able to tell you then — ” Avallac’h had warned her not to, though even now she understands little of why she trusted that bastard, “— but I can now.”

EVEN IN THE DARK SHADE OF HIS ROOST, Ciri could see the shadows of bruises on his face. She's always up for a brawl, but to see he’d gotten in a scrap without her, and had gotten hurt in the process, upset her even more. While it did serve to prove Jesper’s and Wylan’s point, the ugly smattering of color on his face didn’t please her in any way. “I will be back,” she says finally, understanding then & there that he had no intention of backing down; they both didn’t.

THE LITTLE WITCHER TELLS HIM SHE WILL BE SHELTERING AT THE VAN ECK ESTATE, lingers for just a moment hoping the Crow might stop her, and then she is gone. Jesper and Wylan say they are happy to have her, but it is clear her moping does no one any good. She throws herself over couches & moans theatrically, eats more than her share of meals, and ignores their insistence that she try again. They don’t know, however, that she’s been sneaking back any chance she gets when Ciri is certain Kaz isn’t in his room.

LIKE A SWALLOW, she leaves behind small trinkets: flowers the blackest of black, tiny stones of varying cut & size — even black pearls from the shores of Skellige, of which she was told a story by Geralt of a favor he did for a man wishing to present one to his wife ( she had to fight off harpies & sirens for this, though she isn’t able to tell Kaz that no matter how much she wishes to rub it in his face ). A part of her, the vindictive royal in her, wanted to cut the head off a great beast & throw it at his feet, as both tribute and pettiness. She, however, decides on a snail to be placed on his desk, its icky trail illuminated on the table by the lamplight. For his stupid hair to slick back, she thinks, and the grin on her lips is anything but sweet.

IT IS SMALL THINGS TO LET HIM KNOW THAT SHE’S STILL HERE, THOUGH HE MIGHT NOT SEE HER. And while she grows impatient, desperately hoping to see his face, she holds herself back. She tries anyway. It is late in the night when Ciri comes back again, this time knocking to alert him of her presence. “Kaz,” she calls, a tired utterance. “It really is best if you just accept that I am not going anywhere. I will haunt you otherwise. I will be your poltergeist.” A pause and she adds, almost tentatively, “You’ve never robbed me of my time; I gave it to you freely. I wanted you to know that.”

He didn't care that she was back. He also didn't care if she left again after seeing Jesper and Wylan — which he was sure she was going to; she'd had just as much a weak spot for the Crows as he had, after all. Nor did he care if whatever had been between them still existed in some shape or form. Kaz didn't even care if he ever saw her again, or not.

At least... those were the things he told himself as he wandered the streets of the Barrel on his way back to the Crow Club. He knew they were all lies, of course, but lying was easier than accepting the truth. And anger had always come naturally to him.

The days that followed were rough. More than once he had to fight the urge to make his way over to the Van Eck mansion to question if she was there, or if she had left again, after all. His temper, too, was volatile and dangerous for anyone who dared to even sneeze the wrong way in his presence. And more than once he left Dregs territory in search of a fight. One of those fights had left him with a busted lip and a handful of bruises. Despite the beating he'd taken, however, it had also been very cathartic, and had left him feeling more at ease than he had felt since her arrival.

It was still difficult to sit still, to push Ciri out of his mind, but he knew there were more important things to deal with. There was a gang that needed their leader, not a boy caught up in his feelings for someone he was sure he wasn't going to see again.

Kaz had just settled down behind his desk with the previous day's books and a glass of the Crow Club's fermented cherry drink, when he heard something outside of his window. For a moment, he thought it was just the crows dropping by for their dinner — a tradition he'd kept up since Inej had left — but then realized it sounded much heavier than a couple of birds. Before he could get up to investigate, someone appeared in his room. The cane was in Kaz's hand before he realized who it was. And all the hard work from the previous days was undone within seconds.

"Yeah? They're hopeless romantics, of course, they'd think something as unrealistic as that." Keeping his voice steady was a bigger challenge this time than it had been the last time, and Kaz made a mental note to send his friends a strongly worded letter as soon as he got the chance. The mention of Inej, however, had Kaz avert his gaze, and suddenly the Crow's head of his cane became incredibly interesting. He missed his best friend as much as he had missed Ciri. Losing both of them had broken something inside of him he didn't know could break.

"Save it, Ciri." The words were quiet, nearly inaudible. There were so many things he wanted to say; all of them fueled by anger and hurt. "I don't care. I don't want to hear it. You come and go whenever it suits you, like one of those fucking tourists. And you know what I do with tourists: I lure them in, I rob them, and then I send them back on their merry way none the wiser. So, please. Leave. I've robbed you of your time, and you've got your fun, your experiences. Now go back home where you belong."

[kikilefangirl]

Owed Part 2

Steve Rogers x reader

(Word Count: 2689)

(Gif not mine, but I love it)

The view from your penthouse was everything you could ask for after a long night.

“I want you and the team waiting for me in Paris by next week. You know the drill.” You said, picking up one file in particular.

You ignored Mo’s groan and whatever it was she was trying to explain. You grimaced at the photo staring back at you.

Alexander Pierce. He was long dead, but some of his associates had yet to be uncovered. The name of one in particular caught you off guard. Avon. Presumed dead, body never recovered.

The images of his face hovering over you, forcing you to use your powers bombarded your senses. You crumpled the paper out of instinct. He was too slippery to be dead, and you were going to make sure he really was.

“I have another job that requires my attention. Solo.” You told her.

Mo nodded at your seriousness and pulled out a pair of pearl earrings. You marveled at their simple beauty. After living a life filled with ugly things, you had earned each and every luxury.

“Recording device made in your style, boss. Leverage, if need be.” Mo explained. You immediately put them on and smirked.

“Thanks, Mo. Now tell me how distro went.” You sat across from her, taking time to compare notes and make sure all the money was delivered to all the right people.

You took ten percent. Your team got five per person. And the rest, went to your people. Stacks of money left on project window sills, in a fifth grader’s backpack during the afterschool rush, left in a college kid’s dorm room. The money was scattered across the city, securely in the hands of struggling black families who certainly weren’t getting help from anyone else.

You nodded, impressed with the good team you had and their dedication to your cause. It was exactly why you couldn’t let them get involved in your personal agenda.

“Lock up for me. See you, Mo.”

You grabbed your purse from the counter and headed out the door.

…

It had been one of those restless nights Steve was becoming more and more familiar with.

He and Sam stayed up all night trying to get Bucky to remember you. Anything about you, actually. Confirmation that your name was really Y/N, more clarity on your powers. Steve did not appreciate the interruption that was Tony Stark busting into the room.

“Heard you had a special night, Boy Scout. Too bad you couldn’t get laid in the process. Anyway, the bombshell you ran into stole thirty million dollars up under your noses.” Tony announced.

So that’s what you were buying time for. A robbery. Steve placed his hands on his hips in frustration.

“Anything useful, Stark?” Steve asked begrudgingly.

He was going through a dozen or more screens, his mind going a mile a minute. Tony hadn’t even acknowledged Sam or Bucky and probably wasn’t going to. His attention was solely on whatever information he was fixated on.

“Got her. She looked directly at the camera on fifteenth.” Tony said in an annoyed voice. He blew up the photo, and it was definitely you. You were dressed more casually than last night, but the way you held your chin, the slight part in your lips, everything was the same.

Steve couldn’t help the small smile that found its way on his face. You weren’t hiding from him or anyone. Bold, if nothing else.

“Find out if there are any Hydra members that were never caught and cross reference with her file. If it matches, she’s going after them.” Steve said.

Bucky had a lost look in his eyes, something Steve had learned was his knee jerk reaction to anything Hydra. His friend had lost so much to those people, and he could only imagine what Hydra took from you.

“What’s our next play, Cap?” Sam asked. Steve reached for his shield.

“Suit up. And don’t let her get a beat on you.”

…

Access to Avon’s office wasn’t hard.

You slipped into the building afternoon rush, right off the street. Using the security officers to bypass each checkpoint, making it into his private office wasn’t hard, either.

You kept your head held high as you opened the door, making sure to have each guard flank you. Avon was sitting at his desk going through papers when you strut into the room.

“Six eight three.” He said, his panic never outweighing fascination. You sat down in the chair across from him, never once breaking eye contact on the way down.

“Hi, doc. You didn’t forget about my promise, did you?” You asked.

He was much older than before. His salt and pepper hair had gone gray and he shaved off his mustache. For all intents and purposes, Avon looked like a normal old man. His unassuming appearance hid the evil he had committed in his life from plain view.

But you knew as soon the good doctor laid eyes on you, he hadn’t changed at all. The same lingering gaze still made your skin crawl.

You spurred into action. In an instant, you had Avon under your spell, guiding him towards you.

“The roof. Move.” You prodded.

As he trudged on completely at your mercy, and you knew he’d be dead by nightfall. It was the only ending you could accept. The ghost of his needles and his gloves fingers pressing into your skin over and over again...

And the memories always stayed.

You clenched your jaw as all the anger and hurt tried to bubble up to the surface. You couldn’t even lose your cool to a dead man walking. He needed to die with the image of the woman you had become in his mind, not the little girl who cried until she had no tears left.

Your little group calmly made it up to the roof. It was bare for the most part. Cold. Gravelly, too. You flinched as the strain of occupying so many minds grew the longer you held it.

“Please. Please, six eught three.” Avon cried. Bastard couldn’t even call you by your name, even if he knew it. Just an experiment number.

You reared back and decked him square in the face. Blood dripped from his nose as he stumbled back. You could see the wild eyes of a mad scientist, admiring his handiwork.

You snarled and tagged him again, forcing him to the ground. He whimpered as you squatted down next to him, knife in hand.

You were about to kill him yourself, but a wicked thought came to mind.

“You worked so hard to make me, doc, it’s only right you offer me the same courtesy.” You whispered devilishly.

As you rose to your feet, so did Avon. He trembled all over, but he had no retort, no defense, no excuse. Avon made you to his standards; he knew exactly what you were capable of and how efficient you were in the field.

You offered him the knife and he took it with shaky hands. He would die by his hands, the same hands responsible for the death of hundreds. A familiar feeling stirred within you, your powers intensifying.

Avon’s eyes glazed over with purple for a second, before returning to their usual brown. His death would dox you from the country for years to come, and if it rid him from the world, then so be it.

“Y/N! I know what they did!”

Steve.

He’d seen your little message, because he and Bucky were running full speed a rooftop away. Their powerful bodies absorbed the impact and kept them moving, with Steve pulling slightly ahead of Bucky. There had to be more.

A glimpse of movement above you alerted you to Sam. When you met him in person, he seemed normal enough, but maybe he was enhanced. That left you to deal with three bogeys alone.

Good thing you were good at improvising.

“I know what he did.” Steve said in between ragged breaths.

He had just landed on the other end of your rooftop with Bucky just a few yards away from him. The two men had their whole get ups on, minus the helmet. His blonde hair stuck to his sweaty forehead, and his chest heaved from the effort.

You didn’t respond, you couldn’t. You just stared out at Steve without releasing your hold on Avon. If he knew about the doctor, he had to know what Hydra trained you for. Violence and death was always going to be your path, at least with Avon you’d get a say about who, where, or when.

“You should’ve stayed in your tower, this doesn’t involve you.” You warned. Steve was supposed to be a story you told about the time you met Captain America, and now he was in front of you again.

Where your last meeting was fun and playful, it wasn’t just business anymore. A hardness that came from years of waiting for the chance to end your torturer once and for all outweighed any new feelings you might have had.

“You tried, Steve,” You added, just loud enough for him to hear.

Steve shook his head and a hard determination settled in his face.

“We’re not done yet,” He said. Your hair blew from the wind behind you, and your eyes glowed purple. With a wave of your hand, Avon stabbed himself in the gut.

With a strangled cry, the scientist dropped to his knees.

At the same time, you let go of the security guards and they clambered for the exit. Taking advantage of their spectacle, your powers seized on Bucky. Beads of sweat trickled down your face from the effort of Bucky’s mind alone.

The man stilled for a split second as his eyes turned purple. In the next breath he was tackling Steve, seeing his friend as Alexander Pierce.

You picked him because was probably one of the few people who could hold Steve back until the task was complete. It made tactical sense, and you had to make your little tricks last.

The irony and guilt of controlling a man who had lived a long life under the thumb of others with no free will, wasn’t lost on you. It had to be done.

Avon’s cries became louder and his blood was everywhere, the strong sickly smell burned your nostrils. You stared at the dying man without an ounce of regret.

Just before you commanded a second strike, Bucky had pinned Steve to the ground and you let go of your hold on him. Avon would be dead soon enough and it wouldn’t take long for Steve to go after you once freed.

Avon opened his mouth in a silent cry, his teeth bloodstained as he tried to stay alive. You hovered over him and spat.

“Hail Hydra,” You snarled. His gurgles were the tell tale sign he was fading fast, choking on his own blood. You wondered how many black girls Avon had deemed failed experiments until he succeeded with you.

As you began to make your escape, a shot rang out.

Avon’s body fell backwards as the bullet pierced his skull. Even though your heart raced and you couldn’t hear much of anything, looked up and it clicked immediately.

Bucky was standing with his gun still pointing at Avon. The lone shell casing laid at his feet. Everything went into an uneasy silence with each person waiting to fall off the edge.

Steve flung his shield your way, and it caught you in the shoulder. You fell backwards, and black spots interrupted your vision. For a moment you laid there in a daze.

Steve hovered over you, flipping you on your stomach, holding your hands behind your back. You struggled against him, to no avail. Taking a deep breath, you surveyed your surroundings.

“It didn’t have to go like this,” Steve said wistfully. You stilled, and only the sound of heavy breathing and the occasional gravel crunching under your weight.

Bucky was behind you somewhere, and you were eye level with Avon’s body. It sent an involuntary chill down your spine.

Sam had been circling the skies above the chaos, and he would be your way out. It was over once he landed in your line of sight.

You made Bucky the target. Sam made a beeline for the brunette with a twisted face. You bucked up at Steve, who wasn’t easily moved, but he didn’t need to be. The second he looked down, you had him under your grasp.

But once the super soldier lifted you to your feet, you let him go, indulging for one last time. No powers.

You leaned into Steve and crashed your lips onto his. In response, he gripped your waist, and held one of your hands in his. You snaked your other one up to the nape of his neck, nudging him even closer to you, if that was possible.

For at least one moment in time, the two of you were utterly and completely lost in each other.

You slowly pulled away from him, the fantasy disintegrating before your eyes and his. Phantom heat from his lips still warmed your own as Steve’s conflicted gaze stared down at you.

You blinked and quickly regained control, this time showing Steve his first love. It was a dark haired woman with bold red lipstick. She seemed strong and daring.

You regained your focus.

Luckily, Bucky hadn’t gotten to Sam yet. You broke out in an all out run, drawing him nearer. He believed he was holding Steve up instead of you, and that he was taking him to their tower. In reality, he was flying you to a drop off point at the docks. The strain of Steve’s mind and Sam’s was taking a toll. You ran faster.

In seconds he dove down towards you, taking you up in the air with him. Steve was out of range after the first block. But Bucky’s haunted gaze was stamped into your brain, even as his figure disappeared on the horizon.

The weight that he had helped you kill Avon was something you two would share forever, just like that cell. You gulped and wondered what he would tell Steve about you.

The wind whipped everywhere as you soared through the air. It was a welcome noise to black out the silence.

When you landed, you took the opportunity to make Sam sleep. When he awoke in an empty shipping container he was sure to have a headache, but he’d be fine more or less.

You stumbled to the guard, whose eyes widened at your haggard appearance. Your shirt was full of dirt stains, you had Avon’s blood on your jeans—your saving grace was the fact that you made it in time.

“There must be a mistake, this ship travels during the night shift.” He said.

You pushed a stray strand of hair out of your face and smiled.

“I’m sorry, I’m looking for the one that leaves at dawn. To see the sunrise.” You replied.

Titan and his games. You clicked your tongue, antsy at being out in the open for so long.

The guard guided you up the port, to a massive ship. As you boarded, the man led you to a room deep in the heart of the vessel.

As soon as the door opened, you smiled at the older man in a Captain’s uniform.

“You smell like shit.” He told you, motioning towards the decadent bathroom. You scoffed and rolled your eyes.

“You’re a lifesaver, T.” You said. All of your things were waiting for you in the bedroom. The guard had disappeared.

Titan walked past you, and out the door without another word. You thanked your lucky stars you had friends and favors to collect all around the world.

Finally alone and safe, you shrugged your shoulders and stripped everything off. A hot bath was waiting for you. The water swayed softly as you got in and the boat left the port.

You closed your eyes and let your muscles relax in the heat.

“Paris.”

[everlasting-yours]

Breathe Me

Chapter II of Bittersweet Escapades series

Taeil x Reader

Romance, Smut (oral, female receiving, squirting, fingering, sucking)

So, 2nd chap is updated, yeey! I'm here to slap y'all for sleeping on this boy, this guy, this man and I'm here to present you different side of Moon Taeil...a wild side. So yeah, I planned this way different to be than it is but there ya go! It's shorter than one with Taeyong but much intense...though it's just a 4-star rated smut 😳

Hope you enjoy this, and let me know if you have any feedback or any suggestions, please!! 🥰

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

Taeil proposed to you right after one month of dating. Your friends would name it to be ludicrous and insane at the same time, but both of you could not bring yourselves to pay any care to what people talked about. You just knew you were meant to be with one another; for each other - together and forever, never apart. 

 

Your wedding was of a small venue decorated in white lilies and airy curtains but none mattered more than your oath on eternal love and loyalty - in good and bad, for life and death. Your parents have not been much happy about your choice, but their duty to support a child's happiness was far greater than the urge to oppose your felicity. 

 

Taeil's kiss is not at all the same as those movie stars, but one steeped in a passion that ignites. It is the promise of realness, of the primal desire that lives in us all. And with the kiss, he tells you that he is awake, connected within, that he embraces himself rather than hide as a copy of those romantic idols. Taeil was a good lover and when a good lover loves you, good things happen. You rise in all ways. You believe in yourself more. You begin to thrive in ways you never realized were possible. You become more, a better version of yourself, yet still yourself. When a good lover loves you, it's all good, that's how you can be sure you are right for one another.

 

So, Taeil begins to trail kisses down your exposed neck slightly nibbling on sensitive skin as you close your eyes to savor the sensations while your hand brushes gently over his face and hair. He already went down on you.

 

As much as you love to look down at him as he lies between your thighs, at other times, you love to lie back and just enjoy the sensory overload. One thing is for sure, when you are in bed, you must touch him. It is a need beyond desire, it is as basic to you as breathing. Breathing, his scent. The scent of beloved man you've vowed to love unconditionally until the last wind leaves your lungs and takes you into nothingness. You felt pretty and loved and appreciated, and Taeil felt proud of accomplishing all that - to let you know how pretty you are, how much loved and appreciated you are. How important you are to him.

 

"Baby, you're gorgeous", heaves Taeil in between your legs, hungry and full of love eyes never leaving yours before you feel his warm breath on your mound and thighs. He is being a devil and delaying his contact with your pussy right now. In frustration, your hips rise as if to meet his mouth and you hear a soft laugh erupt from him. 

 

"Does my baby need me?"

 

"Yes, God yes I do."

 

Taeil finally lowers his face to you and lets his morning stubble rub against your soft inner thighs. The burning sensation only heightens your arousal for him. Your soft moan of pleasure gives him an idea. Taeil moves his face over your full puffy lips and rubs his face back and forth across them, causing the burn not only to ignite on the tender skin there but deep within yourself.

 

Your response was exactly matching his expectation. Your lips become fuller yet, but they slowly part allowing your scent to perfume the room. Wet, wild, untamed, and lustful, your pussy calls out to him of your need. He swirls his tongue through the soft down covering your womanhood, then stops for a moment. He then begins to nip at the lips moving back and forth between them causing them to engorge further. Taking a lip in his teeth, he treats it much as he does your nipples. Licking, sucking, lightly biting, and pulling it away from your body, he watches your face change over each movement.

 

A small hand of yours caresses his face and plays with his hair while the other moves to your breasts. You cup and knead each at a time, drawing your fingers towards your nipple until you had the aureola trapped between them. With a slight tug, you pull the breast upwards until the nipple slides through your fingers. You shudder as the breast falls back to its place. Reaching across, you perform the same act on the other, though your movements are a bit rougher, belying your growing arousal.

 

Taeil's eyes look up over your body, to your hands ravaging "his breasts" wishing it was him who handles two perfectly shaped protrusions instead. But your taste calls out to him, as the slick juices run between your lower lips and over his mouth. It is here he will stay and play.

 

Through your fog of passion, you become aware of Taeil's muffled voice. You open your eyes and look down to see his focused on your own. He lifts his glistening face for a moment.

 

"Open yourself for me, I want to see your fingers touching yourself. I want to feel your fingers under my tongue."

 

You feel the blush rise to your cheeks, but you willingly lower your hands to your pussy. Latching your thumbs over the swell of the mound, you dip in your index and middle fingers of each hand and split yourself open to Tails as if offering him a summer ripe peach. Your scent fills the air once again making Taeil inhale deeply, shivers running down his spine. Holding the lips open, your fingers glide up to the clitoral shaft as you place one on each side of it. The hood has retracted, leaving the clitoris standing up and hard. He thinks to himself it looks like a pearl, glistening with wetness. 

 

"Good Lord, I'm so lucky to have you. You're so beautiful down here, love."

 

Your fingers begin to glide back and forth along the sides sending ripples of pleasure through your body. Taeil's tongue snakes out and touches the tip of your clit causing your body to arch as if to ask for more. He is about to combust right then and there at the erotic sight displayed before his eyes.

 

You slide one hand down further, your finger poised at the opening. Taeil watches in fascination as you flick it back and forth, just pushing the edge in and out. Your other hand is still stroking your clit, making your pussy all the wetter. Finally, your finger dips inside, circling up to find that soft spot that drives you crazy. Slowly, ever so slowly you slide the finger in and out. You painstakingly draw it up through your slit and then bring it to your own mouth. Eyes locked on each other, Taeil watches you trace your lips with your wetness before licking your finger clean. His eyes darken and narrow over this wanton display you have given him.

 

"Fuck, you have no idea what you're doing to me, Y/N. Fuck..."

 

Taking his tongue, Taeil swirls it about your clit, much as a tornado would dance over the prairie. Circling it, he lowers the tip of his tongue until his fingers are now dancing over your fingers as well. Wishing to delay your climax and tease you a bit more, Taeil moves down from your clit to your folds. His tongue searches out your wetness hidden between the folds. Acting like a man parched and seeking to quench his thirst, he delicately laps between them, pulling what he craves from you. Dipping his tongue just into the opening, your husband presses down a bit and then licks his way to your clit, stopping just short of it. Your hands fly outward, clutching at the sheets.

 

"F-fuck, Taeil...oh, God..."

 

Ignoring your wanton moans, Taeil grabs a pillow and pushes it under your hips, raising you up, giving him better access to not only your pussy, but to your round, soft ass. Now he takes his hands and parts you, seeing all of you from your tight puckered opening to your clit which is larger than ever. It is his task, his duty, a command he's devoted to fulfilling - he needs to make you soak the sheets and drown him in your sweetest liquids gushing out of your entrance.

 

"Look at me baby," briefly pausing, he whispers.

 

As if on cue, you look down at him staring into your depths. Taeil slides two fingers into you, filling you up. Slowly he fucks you, his chocolate brown eyes locked on your own darkening in desire and want. You rock back and forth in rhythm to his thrusts. Your breasts rise and fall with each breath, more ragged and passion-filled than the last. Withdrawing his fingers, it is you this time who watches as he brings your taste to his lips. Opening his mouth, Taeil savors your juices. Dropping his hand to your pussy again, he strokes just the slick opening, teasing you into begging.

 

"Please Taeil, please...please, eat me. Fuck me with your tongue, just do something. Please..."

 

Taeil smiles a self-satisfied smile at your desperate whines and places his hands on you again. Determined to drive you to the edge and beyond, he dips his thumbs into you and pulls you wide open. Lowering his face to your pussy once again, Taeil thrusts in his tongue, tracing you from the inside. You about go insane. Bucking your hips; to control you, Taeil rests his body on your legs, in effect pinning you down to hold you still.

 

"Hold still now, do not move, Y/N."

 

On his own command, Taeil doubles his efforts now, licking, sucking, and tasting all of you he possibly can. He hears your fingernails dragging over the sheets as you try to obey him and stay still. Your lack of movement has turned into vocalization of your pleasure - loud moans Taeil and yourself are pretty sure could be heard in the entire building start to get immaculately louder if possible. Sensing precum in his briefs while enjoying the music to his ears coming graciously in waves, he speeds his tongue against the folds when he starts to feel under his mouth your trembling pussy, building up to a crashing orgasm. He pulls your legs up over his shoulders, cupping your ass, pulling himself to you as if he was going to devour you literally.

 

"Oh Taeil, oh baby...now, now, now! Please don't stop, oh baby....never stop."

 

Suddenly, he feels your warm wetness squirting across his lips damn sure he has taken you to the edge and beyond for you to cum this hard. As you shiver and shudder coming down from orgasm, he kisses his way up your thighs, to your breasts, and then finally gathers you in his arms before kissing you oh so tenderly. You sigh in contentment, basking in his care and love for you. As your heart slows down, a smile begins to play around your lips. Taeil looks down at you and asks.

 

"Why the smile?"

 

"Hmmm, 'cause baby, it's my time to pleasure you."

 

To breathe in Taeil's scent...you feel what only three words could describe against his lips as you switch positions, straddling his clothed, hard cock.

 

"I love you..."

[daintykeith]

DESERVING

Title: Deserving

Summary: A one-shot love story featuring Arthur Morgan and John Marston in which John struggles to understand Arthur's new behavior around camp.

Word count: 1.6k+

Notes: mild cursing | feedback is appreciated!!!

Tags: @southernlynxx @rdr-secret-cupid

I’m your secret cupid, @southernlynxx !!! I'm so sorry this took forever dear; the past few weeks have been totally insane and out of my hands to control. I chose your first wish and decided to mix it up with some good reassurance (happy) angst which i found fitting for the theme; 

John trying to understand & accept Arthur’s affection around camp! I hope you enjoy it, happy late Saint Valentine’s day!!!

P.D → I was inspired by this photo I took in my game! Totally worth it.

John never thought it would be like this.

At first, it was awkward—maybe bizarre. But that was just the beginning.

As the sun rose from the West, John walked out of his tent like a dead man; dark bags under his eyes and scratching his side, yawning without shame. Thirty minutes of sleep—or less—felt great. Just what he needed, right? Taking guarding rounds at night for the past few weeks to avoid him. Yes, that man. The one who had become his greatest relief and headache at the same time, Arthur Fucking Morgan.

While John agonized, Arthur was at his best. Refreshed, clean, and glowing like a damn pearl who had found its way to the surface, gleaming under the Sun—too shiny for John’s liking. Thankfully, his tormenting and seductive eyes were nowhere to be found yet. But, why was John avoiding him as if he was a pest? It’s complicated, you’ll understand later on.

John walked to the empty soup cauldron and grabbed the coffee pot next to it and a metallic cup nearby. He sighed as he sipped from the coffee he had just poured himself; feeling the smoke coming off his mouth like locomotor steam. He needed it to be functional, it had become his coal and main source of energy.

He stood next to the fire in the common area, waiting for Dutch to give a speech he had asked everyone the night before to hear. Why the hell would he give a speech so early in the morning when even the rooster hadn’t yet given his call to the sky? He wondered, staring his distorted reflection in the coffee in his hand.

It was a quiet morning, everyone who woke up, quickly waved at John and left to grab a coffee, or so it remained until the feared one appeared. He walked graciously without effort, his shirt had some buttons undone that showed his chest and collarbone, looking like a damn angel. He rinsed his face and John saw with detail from afar how every drop of water dripped down his face and neck. It made him thirsty. That man was no other than Arthur Morgan.

Arthur ran his hand through his hair and over his nape. To John, that man could’ve been the Devil himself walking on Earth, an angel who had fallen from Heaven for his ego. He was too full of himself, afly in making everyone blush in a moment’s notice. Before John could realize, Arthur was staring at the red in his cheeks and grinned, satisfied from his reaction.

“Damn you!” John whispered, looking anywhere but at him as he burned his tongue and narrowed his eyes.

Arthur, with his smug grin, quickly grabbed his coffee and sat next to the fire a few feet away from John, who didn’t know Arthur was just mesmerized with his foolishness, head over heels for a stubborn and reckless but loveable little piece of shit—a nickname truthful to his nature. A true rascal! Against his better judgement and all prognostics, an all-standing jinx befell upon him like rain in a desert.

He admired John from the ground, his strong jawline, the scars on his cheek that ran to his nose and the corner of his lips. However, his foul mouth didn’t catch up with his beauty—quick witted and far too fast for his train of thought that always got him in trouble. Arthur drank from his coffee and looked at John in the eye who, this time, didn’t turn their gaze away but held it dearly.

“What are you thinkin’ about?” John asked with his raspy voice, trying to sound uninterested but contradicted by the widened pupils in his curious eyes.

A walking contradiction, Arthur thought with a grin. “Wanna’ know?” He took a long swig of his cup and let it sit in his lap.

John hesitated for a moment.  "No." Nevermind.

The blue-greened eye man cleaned the corner of his mouth with his thumb and licked it and slightly blushed. "What a shame."

John couldn't stop staring Arthur, something had lit in the corner of his mind.

"Anyway, what does Dutch want this early in the morning?"

"Don't know, don't care."  Arthur rolled his eyes and looked at his feet.

John gulped, bothered by Arthur's sudden behavior to which he decided to blind the eye on.

"He's been acting... strange," John mutters, making a long pause.

He was right. Dutch had changed; it was the gleam in the eye he had always told them to not have—those of an ambition far too great, burned by being too close to the Sun. Everybody had noticed but kept quiet, making a silent agreement in not talking about the matter. John had a hunch of what it meant, but also kept quiet.

"No more than you; what's going on with ya'? Did the wolves eat the brain whole? You've been avoiding me!"

Did he notice? He knew he wasn't hiding the fact so well, but admitting it hurt his pride.

"The hell you sayin'?! No, I haven't!"

Arthur smiled in response, as if it was the answer he was expecting.

"Why?"

John narrowed his eyes.

"Why what?"

"You know."

He stood up, spilt the coffee left in his cup into the fire and slowly walked to John. His body swung with temptation, a fierce cat-walk with a daring look in his eyes.  John felt like his feet were stuck to the ground, unable to take just one step aside to avoid the storm walking straight to him. His metallic eyes were bewitched by  Arthur's; he sure knew how to charm him every damn time.

He didn't stop until he towered over John, trapping him with his voluptuous figure.

"Why are you so shy?" He whispered to John in the ear with a burning breath that heated and tinted his cheeks in deep red.

John forgot how to breath. He was so close that he felt their bodies touch and their minds collide.

"I, uh..."

"you what, dear?"

How shameless could the bastard be? Didn't he have any limit?

"I don't wanna talk here; let's go somewhere else." John imposed in a soft mutter.

"Alright."

They went to John's tent taking hands. They were cramped in such a small place, where their breathing burned eachother's skin and only a dim light shined through the entrance. A long pause arrived when the world had seemed to stop rotating and time had gone somewhere else, making everything but them oblivious and unimportant.

"I don't understand why are you doing this," John said with long sigh, finally giving in.

John rested his head in Arthur's shoulder, feeling his body finally relax after the tense moment.

"I thought we were a secret, ya' know?" he muttered, "a thing only you and I knew. Our thing."

Arthur combed his fingers through John's black hair, softly caressing the back of his head and humming in agreement.

"I don't seem to understand why you smile at me every time you see me or why you, like, want to touch me every time you can—or when you look at me like that."

"Does it make you uncomfortable?"

"No! I, ugh... I don't know."

Arthur chuckled. “I get it.”

John sighed in relief. Did it mean he would stop acting weird? I mean, Arthur would always be a bastard no matter how you look at it, but he called it an improvement.

“I'm sorry” he continued ”, but there's no stopping me in loving you.”

What. In. The. World. That's not what he meant!

“Arthur, you're not listening—”

“Every damn word, of course I do...”

“Then why are you doing this?!” John buried his head deeper, frustrated. “I'm an asshole, okay, I get it. But that's not a reason for you to do this to me.” Enchanting me, making me drunk with every word you whisper. Damn you.

“John, I—”

“I don't deserve it.”

A long silence between them came to be except for the more recurrent footsteps outdoors, stumping into the grass and dirt. John held tighter to Arthur, who stepped back only to take a closer look to his face, eye to eye.

“Listen closely, you little piece of shit.”

John flinched to the sudden grab by his collar, wanting to look away but Arthur only held his gaze closer.

"There's no denying that you are an idiot— but my idiot. I'm a fool myself, an old dirty bastard that's only getting older with every day that goes by, thinking that I'm the happiest man alive every damn time I look at you and even though I know I don't deserve it either. I ain't a good man, John. And you fucking know it." He grabbed his collar stronger as if it was a threat, with that dead look in his eyes that had seen the deeds their owner had done.

After Arthur realized what he did, he let John go.

“If it was about deserving, John, you would've never been mine."

He gently took John's hand laid it in his face, placing a gentle kiss in the back of his hand.

John couldn't speak a word. His mind had gone blank except for the beautiful image of Arthur lovingly playing with his fingers, laying kisses in the tip of his fingers, and the words that uttered in the corners of his mind, echoing Arthur's whispers.

"I'm sorry, John. But I beg you, let this damn fool love you and show it to you."

John placed his hand in Arthur's earlobe. As if both had read their minds, they looked into each other's eyes before leaning into a soft, gentle kiss.

Their kisses never tasted sweet. It was rough, with sweat and blood that was so common in there lives. Neither of them deserved the sweet taste of paradise, but they were making one of their own.

“You make me feel like a fool, Arthur.”

“You too.”

John wished this moment lasted forever. He wanted to enjoy the moment when their souls had gotten closer, but a voice outside called.

“Arthur, John, Where are you?!” Dutch called, irritated of waiting.

They separated and held each other's gaze for a moment.

“We should go,” John whispered tenderly as he rolled he eyes.

“Let's go,” Arthur chuckled.

Arthur gently held John's hand before heading out of the tent, ready for the world.

[houseofhurricane]

ACOTAR Fic: Bloom & Bone (17/28) | Elain x Tamlin, Lucien x Vassa

Summary: Elain lies about a vision and winds up as the Night Court’s emissary to the Spring Court, trying to prevent the Dread Trove from falling into the wrong hands and wrestling with the gifts the Cauldron imparted when she was Made. Lucien, asked to join her, must contend with secrets about his mating bond. Meanwhile, Tamlin struggles to lead the Spring Court in the aftermath of the war with Hybern. And Vassa, the human queen in their midst, wrestles with the enchantment that turns her into a firebird by day, robbing her of the power of speech and human thought. Looming over all of them is uniquet peace in Prythian and the threat of Koschei, the death-god with unimaginable power. With powers both magical and monstrous, the quartet at the Spring Court will have to wrestle with their own natures and the evil that surrounds them. Will the struggle save their world, or doom it?

A/N: Bloom & Bone is back with a chapter in which many things happen... including, FINALLY, some Vassien moments. I hope you enjoy! You can find all previous chapters here, or read Bloom & Bone on AO3. Thank you for reading! ❤️

When Elain takes them back to Prythian, they appear in the Spring Court, and Tamlin has to stop himself from gasping as he takes a deep breath. There is a rot at the center of Koschei’s world that permeates the very air.

Beside him, Lucien’s face reveals no expression.

“You’ll need to tell the High Lords that Beron is dead,” Lucien says, his voice far away. Tamlin feels his heart contract in his chest. He’s heard Lucien speak like this, when he smuggled his friend over the Spring Court border. After Beron killed Jessaminda.

“I would have left him to the monsters if the tethering spell hadn’t worked,” Elain says, reaching for him. He shrugs off her fingers.

“I wanted to kill him,” he says, burying his face in his hands. ”My own father, and I wanted to end his life.”

“He deserved it,” Tamlin says, his hand on Lucien’s shoulder, addressing him the way he would a soldier. He waits until the gold and russet eyes meet his own. “You did this world a favor, Lucien. He would have gladly destroyed us all for a bit more power. He would have killed everyone in that meeting.”

Lucien’s face is still and lost.

So Tamlin thinks of the things he needed to hear after the war with Hybern ended, when he was left all alone. The things that Lucien, who is the best of all of them, perhaps the only truly decent male in Prythian, deserves to hear.

“You will not feel as if you did the right thing now. Maybe you never will. Because there is some part of you that knows it is unnatural to kill. You will wonder if you are becoming a monster, doing what you’ve done. Perhaps feeling what you judge as too little regret. But this is the least monstrous part of you, Lucien Vanserra. You are a good and decent male. I have always known this to be true.”

Lucien’s shoulders heave, and he ducks his head to gasp and sigh into his hands. Tamlin squeezes his shoulder and does not look away.

When Lucien looks up at him, his eye is red and his cheek shines with tears. His golden eye whirls as if it is trying to take in a world it does not recognize.

“My brothers will be at each other’s throats. And my mother -- I am needed at the Autumn Court.”

A second later, he vanishes into nothing.

Before Tamlin can speak, Elain’s hand is on his arm.

“We need to go to the Summer Court,” she says, her voice infuriatingly calm. “Tarquin was about to offer you his army.”

The rage rises in him and for the first time in months, Tamlin cannot claw it back. The sight of Beron grabbing her, his knife against her neck, the monsters circling above, Elain in danger on every side, danger she created, all of these fears overcome him, transfigure into fury.

“You think we will not speak of what you just did?” The words are a roar in his throat, the syllables barely formed.

“You know that Beron would have ripped apart this world for just a little more power,” Elain says, trying to spit his own words back at him, but her voice trembles.

“You threw yourself into danger. You have no idea how powerful a High Lord is. Beron could have killed you with half a thought.” His voice is still rising, filling the hall like thunder.

“He had to deliver me alive to Koschei. He wasn’t going to kill me.” He can see the effort she is making, to keep her face calm, her voice level. He’s seen his courtiers wear this face, and that realization almost stops Tamlin in his tracks. But he cannot stop imagining her in Koschei’s grip, in Beron’s, Elain Archeron with her kind spirit and her wide lovely eyes and that golden power, great enough, he thinks, to create new worlds, but not the kind of magic that will defend her against a death-god.

“Koschei cannot have you under his power.”

“You cannot defeat Koschei either, High Lord.” Something has shuttered in her gaze, though her tone has not lost its courtly veneer. She crosses her arms over her chest, the gesture like the donning of armor. “You cannot lock me in some warded chamber and leave me to rot. You’re needed in the Summer Court, and I need to go to Feyre.”

The breath Tamlin takes is ragged and loud, and Elain’s eyes snag on his, tender for a second before they shutter once again.

“She and Rhysand went to defend the bone in case there was an attack on their court.”

“You can tell them at the meeting. They will return. A week ago, you barely trusted them. Or so you told me.”

“Rhysand just offered you an army.” He notes, in spite of himself, that she does not call him Rhys.

“An army I likely will not need.”

She scoffs at him, her eyes overbright. “You think Beron raised his sons to be any better than he is?”

“I will admit that I hoped Lucien would inherit the Autumn Court in the event of his father’s death. But even a war within their court will require troops.”

“And if the sons agree that an alliance with Koschei is worth the risks?”

“All the more reason to make sure that nobody can snatch you away.”

“I have been taken from this house and from the Summer Court at this meeting of the High Lords,” Elain says, lifting each finger with a frustrated little flick. “You act as if you can guarantee me safety, but that is a lie.”

“And you are waiting for me to give you a real excuse to run.” The rage rises in him again. He feels the claws at the backs of his hands, tearing through his skin. “What will you tell them at the Night Court? That the monster in the Spring Court was just as horrible as they’d expected?”

He stalks toward her, his eyes on hers. He wants to see the moment when her frustration turns to fear. Instead, she reaches out her hand, grabs his wrist.

“You’re going to want to calm yourself before the other High Lords see you,” she says, and then they are in the passageways.

“I am not your puppet,” he manages to say around the fangs in his mouth, the jaws of the beast.

“I have never wanted to rule,” she says, her fingers a brand at his wrist. “But I believed for too long that a man would save me. A good man, a powerful High Fae male. That all I needed to do was play the delicate damsel and I would have happiness and safety. I think my father died to give me that life. I hid in the garden for too long, Tamlin. I am not going to let Koschei force the crown on my head. And I will not let you lock me away, either. I will become a monster, and gladly, before either of those things happens to me.”

His pulse thrums against her grip.

“It is very easy to become a monster,” he says, and he bares his teeth at her.

The silence is laden as she considers him. She could leave him here, amidst the passageways, he thinks, no matter what she promised him. He would have to find another life entirely, if he could not find the door that leads to Prythian.

“Are you angry because you thought Beron could kill me, or because you thought I could kill him?”

Tamlin begins to feel what he felt in that other world, held by the High Lord who’d invaded his lands while he raced towards her, too far away to reach her, save her. And then his vision turns to the female before him, glittering in her golden gown, the light of her own power, amber and diamond and gold and pearls all fading in Elain’s own glow. Sometimes I think I can make whole worlds, she’d told him.

“I thought he would kill you,” he says. He’s answered a different question than the one she asked, and he sees that truth register on her features.

“Men like Beron always think that women like me are only useful as objects.”

He doesn’t correct the human wording. She’s saying something with those words which makes them a revelation, not a mistake.

He takes a breath.

“I am not an object either.”

She only looks at him, her brows furrowed.

“You have grown very used to commanding me,” he says, and when the anger fills him once again, edges his voice, it is a relief. It is better than seeing Beron holding Elain, intent on turning her into a corpse.

“You are too used to going unchallenged.”

“I have done everything you’ve asked of me and still you are waiting until the moment I give you an excuse to run.”

“After what happened to my sister--”

“How long will it take for me to prove to you that I will never treat a female that way again?”

“What if I tell you centuries?”

He takes a breath, forces himself to smirk at her, reminds himself that he is the High Lord of the Spring Court.

“Could you wait centuries, Elain?” She goes wide-eyed but does not speak, so Tamlin continues. “I have followed you into unknown worlds without question. You could leave me here and still I trust you and the power inside you, your command over yourself. I think you like having this power over me. But I am not yours to command, as if you were...”

There are three names he thinks of, all of them offensive and cruel in this moment: Amarantha, of course, but also Feyre, the false innocent she’d been when she’d returned to the Spring Court, driving it to ruin. And Tamlin thinks, without wanting to, of his own father, his vast cruelty like a trap always ready to clutch at anything that could hurt his youngest son.

“I am not whoever you think--” Elain starts to say, then stumbles forward, pressing her fingers into her forehead, her palms against her eyelids. Tamlin reaches for her, leaning her back against him so she can breathe easily. He holds her while her body tenses and shivers, when she groans and gasps over whatever she sees behind her eyelids.

Finally, she drops her hands and leans back against him, her head banging against his armor.

“Vassa and Eris,” she says, each word a gasp. “I saw them -- dead, and Koschei…”

“It was a vision,” he tells her, running his hands down her arms, hoping he’s right. “Do you think you can find them?”

“We need Lucien. And probably Rhys and Feyre, at least. With Eris missing and Beron dead, he could have run with Vassa. That amount of power would probably seem like enough to take on the world. We need to find them quickly and with all the strength we can muster.”

Tamlin realizes, in this moment, that he does not mind Elain telling him what to do. She’s right.

“Do you think you can make it to the Night Court?”

“Feyre will be there.”

“I’ll stay here and wait for you,” he says, shocked to realize that he means what he’s saying. Even if it means an eternity in these passageways.

Elain turns to face him, and for a moment something blazes in her expression, fierce and wanting, and she reaches out her hand, her thumb tracing the line of his cheek.

“I promise on my life that I’ll return,” she says, and then she disappears.

&

&

&

When Feyre and Rhys run to her, for a second Elain thinks they are attacking. It’s only when Feyre hugs her close that Elain lets out a breath.

“Beron is dead and I think that Vassa and Eris have escaped Koschei,” she says, as soon as Feyre has let go. “Did anyone come to steal the bone?”

“Everything is safe,” Rhys says, and she realizes he has not answered the question at the same time she sees the tiny drops of blood on the skin of his hands and face, which undoubtedly stain his black clothes as well. She wills her stomach to calm.

“Do you think you can winnow to Vassa and Eris if Lucien can track them?”

They stare at her and Elain realizes she’s torn through her story, barely caught her breath.

“I had a vision,” she says, “I saw Vassa and Eris dead, with Koschei looming over them, looking like he’d killed them. Eris was missing. You heard what Beron said at the meeting, who he’s in league with. If Beron sold him to Koschei and Eris is the High Lord of Autumn, with that power newly in him, he could believe that it’s enough to escape with Vassa.”

Feyre and Rhys exchange a look, and Elain feels her chances slipping away. Maybe she can find Lucien on her own, take them to Vassa afterwards, but against Koschei she can only disappear.

“I know it sounds ridiculous, but if Eris is High Lord, isn’t it worth the trouble?” She does not mention Vassa, doesn’t want to hear her friend dismissed.

“How do you know that Beron is dead?” Feyre asks her, in a voice that is not sisterly but also not unkind.

“He grabbed me and I pulled him into another world. Lucien killed him. He’s figured out a tethering spell that will hold between worlds. That’s not important. But Beron is dead.”

“Where is his body?” Rhys asks.

“Eaten by monsters by now, I think.”

Rhys starts to respond, but Feyre nudges him with her shoulder.

“He tried to bring me to Koschei,” Elain says, crossing her arms. “I don’t care that he was a High Lord. I would have found a way to kill him if Lucien hadn’t.”

Rhys and Feyre exchange another look, but this time their incredulity is less intimidating.

“What is your plan?” Rhysand asks.

“We need to find them and keep Koschei from getting his hands on Eris and Vassa as quickly as possible. I don’t know if he’ll kill them or if he needs them for his own ends. Rhys, you can winnow us. Lucien should be able to help you track them and hone in on a location. And Feyre, your magic is a new thing entirely. Maybe you’ll distract Koschei. Or destroy him.”

At the light in her sister’s eyes, Elain is sure she’s said the right thing. She enjoys it for a second before she says, “Tamlin is waiting for us between worlds. He didn’t -- I mean, I didn’t, think you’d want to see him here.”

“You trust him?” her sister asks, and Elain wants to say we have no time for this conversation, but she cannot summon irritation in the face of the hurt and love in Feyre’s eyes.

She thinks about Tamlin’s anger, about the pain in his eyes. How it would’ve been so easy to fall into her old habits, to apologize and leave him with a little smile that would kindle desire in his eyes. Instead she’d stood firm, and now he waits for her, entirely at her mercy. There are a thousand things they still need to discuss and argue over, but the truth is clear to her, swift and sure as instinct.

“I trust him,” Elain tells Feyre, and then, “and I understand if you don’t. But it’s Koschei and we need all the help we can quickly assemble.”

Elain can’t read her sister’s expression, doesn’t know if this answer is enough or caused pain or has perhaps further convinced the Night Court of her monstrousness. But Feyre reaches out her hand to wind around Elain’s shoulder, turns to Rhysand.

“Take us to Lucien,” she says, calm and sure, the voice that Elain would be glad to follow even into the bloodiest battle.

“He’s at the Autumn Court,” Elain supplies, and Rhysand draws them into the dark.

&

&

&

Lucien finds his brothers first, their raised voices drawing him to the room where Beron receives formal guests. His mind still stutters on the past tense.

“Our father is dead,” he says as he walks inside the room, cutting through Ealars’ growl and Fionn’s shouting.

“How do you know?” Caelan asks, his voice too calm. He is bracing himself to hear that Lucien is the new High Lord, readying himself to attach.

His brothers all know the truth of his parentage, and still they all eye him now, not knowing if the mantle of the next High Lord has landed on their half-brother through some mystery only the Cauldron could explain.

These stares make it clear to Lucien that the power has descended on Eris. Any one of his brothers would have claimed the High Lordship in a heartbeat if they’d had confirmation that it was theirs.

Before he speaks, Lucien readies himself to throw a shield, reveal the hidden dimensions of his magic. And then he says:

“I know that Beron is dead because I killed him myself.”

Ealars lunges for him, and Lucien throws a bolt of fiery lightning close enough to singe his tunic.

When he opens his mouth to speak, Lucien is met by a wall of fire.

Beron tortured and tormented them all, but the treatment warped something inside these three brothers, making them hard and cruel and instilling a deep longing for his approval, even his love. In spite of everything, Lucien is grateful to have escaped it. Can only hope that Eris, at his core, has done the same.

The air is an inferno around him. Sighing, Lucien winnows to his mother’s chambers.

The High Lady of Autumn, crowned by her gilded hair and swathed in deep green velvet, is seated in front of her mirror, holding her gold and topaz necklace aside as she dabs a perfumed salve onto her collarbone, which is purpled and swollen from shoulder to shoulder. She does not look up at the sound of Lucien’s footsteps.

“Who hurt you?” Lucien asks, the words rough in his mouth, the tenderness he feels almost unbearable.

“It’s not important,” she says, concealing the bruise with a twist of her wrist, allowing the necklace to fall into place. Once again, Lucien wishes that her mother had the talent for healing.

He takes a breath to brace himself.

“He’s dead, Mother.”

In the mirror, her eyes go wide and for an instant, there is such hope in them that Lucien feels his heart fracture. Then she schools her features into the appropriate distress, her mouth into the shape of a gasp.

“I didn’t want to kill him. He threatened my friends. All the other High Lords.” As he speaks, he clasps one hand around the other so he does not reach for her, does not put her in a position to betray her feelings, because in spite of everything he knows and all his years of schemes and observations, he’s not sure how she’ll react to the news that he killed Beron. “He would have destroyed this world for more power, Mother.”

He thinks of Tamlin’s hand on his shoulder, a brace.

His mother turns away from the mirror, her eyes lit with tears. She extends her arms.

“Come here,” she says, and he’s not sure if her tone is bland from shock or from years of practice in his father’s court. Even still, not knowing, he ducks his head and embraces her.

For a few seconds, she only holds him close to her, one hand coming to cradle his head the way she has done since he was an infant. He is surrounded by her fragrance of amber and cinnamon, and for the first time, he is not afraid that Beron will appear to tear him out of his mother’s embrace, or punish her for showing such affection. Beron, who was never his father.

Finally, his mother whispers, “Which one of you is High Lord?”

“I think it’s Eris,” Lucien tells her, trying to keep the disappointment out of his tone. His mother was the one who taught him how to scheme, after all, who taught him how to keep the tender parts of himself hidden. So of course she would never say thank you or I’m sorry or any of the other phrases he would most like to hear.

“Have you seen him?” she asks, her arms going stiff around him. She rises from her chair. “I’m worried that Beron--”

“I’ve seen everyone but Eris. They all knew that something had happened, but none of them have felt the power descend on them.”

“And you haven’t, either?”

He feels one side of his mouth rise, the mocking half-smile forming of its own accord.

“As much as I would love to rip this court from its foundations, Mother, you can trust that I would tell you if I were High Lord.”

She simultaneously rolls her eyes and reaches for him, squeezing his hand in both of hers.

“You should go to your father,” she says, her voice so low he has to stoop toward her to hear her clearly. “He will keep you safe.”

“You should go to him. Come with me.”

“It wouldn’t be safe for me,” she says, and Lucien wonders, seeing her too-bright eyes, if she really believes that, or if she’s just gotten used to using that reason for staying in the Autumn Court. Living under Beron’s rule. He’s wondered, sometimes, if the tenderness he feels to his mother was born out of desperation to have at least one loveable being in his life. If, under her sweetness, she isn’t just as calculating as the rest of the Autumn Court. But Lucien never allows himself to indulge these thoughts for very long.

“I’ll escort you,” he says, holding out a hand to winnow her, when the door bursts open, and Feyre and Elain Archeron dart into the room.

His mother’s eyes widen at the intrusion, her hands up to make a shield. At best, to his mother, it’s bad manners, the High Lady of the Night Court bursting into these inner chambers with her sister. At worst, it’s an invasion.

“Elain had a vision,” Feyre bursts out, before his mother can strike, while Elain gasps for breath beside her. “Koschei had Vassa and Eris, and we think they’re in danger. Rhys is across the building, trying to find you.”

“Apologies, Lady,” Elain offers, into the awkward silence, her breath still ragged as she drops into a curtsey, her heavy skirts shimmering around her. “Our mission is urgent and our time is short. We need Lucien to help us track them.”

At the mention of his name, the latest crisis breaks like a wave over Lucien.

“What happened in your vision, Elain?”

She bites her lips, her mouth a seam.

“What happened?” he asks again, taking a step toward her, not sure if he should be threatening or comforting. If Koschei manages to reclaim Eris, the future of the Autumn Court will be decades of war and bloodshed. If he manages to capture Vassa once again, if he harms her, Lucien is certain now that he will cleave the world in two.

“I had a vision of Koschei over Eris and Vassa’s dead bodies,” she says, the anguish in her voice so thick that he looks to her hands, to make sure she’s fully present in the room. “But even if we can prevent her death, we have to keep Vassa safe and out of his hands. Koschei wants to make her his queen. Give her control of this world.”

“You’ve been having visions again,” he says, surprised at the anger in his voice. He’s seen Elain every day for the past week, and she never thought to mention.

“I thought that it would hurt you more to hear the possibility. You’ve been doing everything you can, Lucien.” She rubs her knuckles at her eyes, her cosmetics smearing down her cheeks. “I will tell you everything when we have them both. As long as you can track them, we can find them.”

“I can’t winnow to Koschei,” he says, even as it occurs to him that Rhys is in the building, and why. If he uses the tethering spell, he can direct Rhys to the place where Eris’s magic has made itself known, stronger now with the High Lord’s mantle on his shoulders. Perhaps he can even detect Vassa, if his magic can be guided by his will. The two of them together a beacon, a tether. In moments, Vassa could be in his arms.

When he meets Elain’s eyes, he realizes that she’d already guessed at the way forward, believed he could do this, and his anger at her evaporates.

“Elain Archeron,” he says, just as Rhysand darts in the room, aiming a bow at the Lady of the Autumn Court, “I have no idea how anybody ever thought you were ornamental.”

She beams at him, says only, “I have to get Tamlin,” and disappears, the ripping sound of her passage between worlds so soft it could be the tearing of parchment.

“There’s no trace of her,” his mother says, turning from Lucien to Rhysand to Feyre with wide eyes.

“She has a particular gift,” Lucien tells her, not offering any more information on Elain’s powers, or the fact that she has, as promised, taken him to a dozen different worlds, though their visits have concentrated on Koschei’s original realm, quick trips which they spend scanning the sky for monsters and trying to learn everything they can about the workings of the death-lord’s magic.

He can tell from the twitching of their lips that Feyre and Rhys have other questions, but before they can ask, Elain reappears, holding Tamlin with one hand and reaching out with the other, as if she’s ready to ward off an attack. Though Lucien imagines that Rhysand is the greatest threat in the room, Elain’s eyes are on her sister, wide and pleading. And though Feyre does not smile, she also does not look away.

“Tether us, Lucien,” Elain says, and as soon as they are all bound, she pulls them away from the Autumn Court and into another world.

&

&

&

Tamlin tries not to fidget while Lucien, Rhysand, and Elain debate the last details of their mission, their voices echoing in the passageway between worlds. His part is simple: hold a shield against Koschei as long as he can. For once, he does not want to argue, and while he lets the killing calm descend on him, he follows the ebb and tide of their strategy as if it is a game among children.

Not wanting to be caught staring at the tiles at their feet or carvings on the doors that surround them, Tamlin looks instead at his companions, which is how he ends up meeting Feyre’s gaze. For a moment, his gut goes cold. And then he feels her in his mind, the dark warmth of her.

You will make sure my sister is unharmed, she says, the authority in that voice at odds with the soft little smile on her face.

Elain can take care of herself, he shoots back, and then, because it’s the truth, but I swear on my life that I will keep her from harm.

Around them, the strategy is decided with hesitant nods, but before they leave these passageways, before she leaves his mind, he tells Feyre, I am so sorry for all the harm I caused you.

Her blue-gray eyes go wide and she gives him the tiniest nod before she turns to Rhysand. His mind is empty of her presence.

There is no time for Tamlin to consider all the implications of what has just occurred, only the fact that he notices the absence of Feyre with no pain or guilt, the lightness in his body. He feels as if he could launch himself into the air from pure relief.

“So I will hold the shield, then?” he says to the group, returning himself to the moment.

“And transform into the beast if Koschei gets through,” Elain says, grave as a general despite her glimmering gown. He wishes she were wearing armor, that she was safe behind a thousand wards in some secret part of Prythian. But he knows that Elain would never agree to this, not when Vassa’s safety was on the line, when her abilities could help.

He reaches out and squeezes her fingers in his, hoping the gesture conveys what there is no time to say.

Lucien works his spell and they all gather around Elain. First there is a tear as they enter Prythian, and then darkness as Rhysand winnows them at Lucien’s direction.

They appear in a forest and at first Tamlin does not think they’re in the right world. The air is hot and the light is nearly red.

Then he realizes the trees around them are aflame.

“Do you see them?” Lucien mutters, barely audible over the crackle of the fire.

“Can you sense them?” Feyre asks, water blossoming between her hands, expanding until it is a bubble around them. “There has to be an end to this fire.”

“This is Eris’ magic. I can try and winnow us to its end,” Lucien says, and the world goes dark and roaring.

For a second, Tamlin glimpses an enormous lake, a mansion at its edge, sees Elain go pale and wide-eyed, whispers frantically to Lucien, and then they are in the darkness again, once again at the edge of the flames.

“Koschei spotted us,” Lucien mutters, and then, as if summoned by the words alone, the sorcerer is before them, grinning. Far from the lake where he should be bound.

“Thank you for--” he begins, but before he can start another one of his mocking speeches, before they’re transfixed and then caught, Tamlin slams his shield in place, forcing Koschei against the flames as Rhysand’s depthless night strengthens the blockade against the death-lord.

“I brought him,” Elain says, anguish in her voice, and despite the urgency of the moment, still Tamlin reaches for her, circles his wrist with his fingers, runs his thumb against the dip at the base of her palm.

“You are saving your friend,” he says, low so only she can hear it. “Go find Vassa.”

He hears her footsteps behind him, following Lucien into the trees, and it occurs to Tamlin that if Koschei breaks the shield and kills him, it will be all right. He will die saving his mate, helping her save her friend. He thinks Elain has always seen the possibility of a better world, a more beautiful one, and maybe now he is giving that world to her.

At that thought, he delves deep into his power and lets it move through him, green and golden, a thousand thunderstorms and a million leaves unfurling. The power of something new and dangerous, all possibility.

There is a sigh like rain and Feyre’s shield of water moves around them, another barrier against Koschei and Eris’ fire.

“How long do you think we can hold out against him?” Rhys asks, and Tamlin isn’t sure whether his drawl is a good or bad sign. He himself cannot feel even a flicker of Koschei’s power beyond their shield. But this does not comfort him.

“Koschei chooses his attacks precisely,” Tamlin says, and he is thinking of Elain, what will happen to her if Koschei breaks through. “He will wait until he thinks we’re flagging.”

“They’ve found Eris and Vassa,” Feyre says. Her voice is a little dazed. “But Elain’s mind is flickering. As if she has disappeared.”

As if she is trying to go to another world, but cannot.

I was the conduit, Melis had said. Elain was the key.

The knowledge washes over him in a wave of words that blare in his mind, echoing and damning. Koschei had chosen his retaliation with care. The death-lord had anticipated the possibility of a rescue mission, knew he could be outnumbered, overpowered. So he turned the rescued themselves into weapons.

He is just about to roar out his realization, insist that they go to Elain, who’s stuck in this world or worse, when everything goes black and roaring around him.

&

&

&

When Elain sees Vassa, she runs toward her, hands extended. Her friend does not look behind her, only sprints through the trees, trailing Eris, but despite the danger and desperation, Elain grins as she runs. Her friend is here. In the space of a few hurried steps, her friend will be safe.

She does not think about the clutch of Koschei’s magic, the way it clung to her when they winnowed from the lake. Tamlin’s magic had blasted her free. All she needs is a few more moments to put the plan in place. She’s seen what Tamlin’s magic can do to the monsters of Koschei’s world. With Rhys and Feyre, he’ll be all right, so long as she focuses on the plan, takes the necessary steps to save Vassa.

Rhys and Lucien had finally agreed to let her pull Vassa into the passageway between worlds, into a world at peace, and then back to Prythian. It was likelier that they’d lose Koschei this way. At a minimum it would be harder for him to guess each point on their journey. She has tried not to think of the marketplace she visited with Tamlin, the taste of those pastries and the sound of his breathing in the room at the inn, or how it would be to experience that world with Vassa. She does not want to give Koschei the opportunity to see the destination in her mind, this place where they’ll be safe.

She can hear Lucien behind her, the way he says Vassa’s name with such hope and desperation, and speeds her pace, willing herself to close the gap.

Then Vassa is only a few steps ahead of her, and Elain is close enough to call her name.

The Queen of Scythia stops and turns, and Vassa’s blue eyes are bright as sapphires. Behind her, the sound of Eris’ steps goes silent.

“He said nobody would come for me,” she says, looking first at Elain and then over her shoulder, at Lucien. Her voice is small and hesitant and lonely, the voice of a lost child, and hearing it makes something crack in Elain’s chest.

“I spent every minute trying to rescue you,” Lucien says, closing the gap between them, taking her hand gently in his. “I am sorry that it took us this long.”

There is something wrong, Elain thinks, with the tears on Vassa’s face. They do not look quite joyful. It is an expression she’d seen on the faces of women in ballrooms when a man they did not love made a proposal: a pain held back as much as their strength would allow.

Before she can say anything, Eris strides toward them.

“No pretty declaration for me, brother?” he drawls.

Power rises from him like heat from a forge, great waves of magic that clearly mark his presence.

As much as she would like to explain everything to Vassa, ask Eris a hundred questions, Eris’ power alone makes them easy targets for Koschei.

“We need to get them out of here,” she says to Lucien. He does not look away from Vassa, but he nods.

“Where are you taking us?” Eris asks, finally in arm’s reach, close enough for Elain to pull him into another world. She will hold them and Lucien will use the tether and in seconds they will all be safe.

“It’s safer if you don’t know,” Elain says, all confidence.

Except that when she touches Vassa, the queen begins to scream. And though Eris is silent, the set of his jaw betrays the fact that he’s in pain that can hardly be borne.

“Are you sure this will work?” she asks Lucien, but he nods, completes the tether, and so Elain reaches out with her power and concentrates on the passageway, the place between worlds.

The trees around them do not become the carved doors.

Vassa’s screams grow louder.

Behind them, there’s the sound of fire in the trees.

Elain tries again. She thinks about the marketplace, the pastry and all the spices she cannot name, the sound of the lilting unknown language, the desert sand sticking to her skin.

They do not move from this world.

She tries again, frantic now, trying to calm her mind, drown out Vassa’s screams, tries not to think about the fact that they sound so similar to the way she sounded when Koschei held her, took her captive once again. She will save her friend. She will keep the Autumn Court from falling into civil war. She will take them out of this world. She will take them into a world at peace. And Vassa will stop screaming, and maybe there will be time for pastries before they return to Prythian, to the rest of their long and boring and pleasant lives.

There is a voice in her mind.

We’re coming, Feyre says, and Elain cannot make herself understand what it means, that her sister is abandoning the shield against Koschei. She cannot believe that they will not succeed. She had always imagined that, with all she’s learned, she would be able to save Vassa.

But Vassa’s screams have turned into thick sobs, and the human queen pulls against Elain’s grip, away from Lucien’s arm. As if she cannot bear their touch.

Something is badly wrong.

There’s the sound of roaring and Rhys, Feyre, and Tamlin appear in the clearing.

“Take them out of here,” Lucien says, handing Vassa and Eris to Rhys. Their faces visibly relax, and then Rhys reaches for the rest of them, and they disappear into the darkness.

&

&

&

Since Vassa started running into the trees, the world around her has been a dreamlike blur of pain and fear and fury. Her feet began to hurt so quickly, her lungs burning with exertion and ashes, and Vassa knows, even as she follows behind Eris, that she is going to die today.

This thought should make her fall to the ground, wailing. But Vassa was born to rule over Scythia, and the mere thought that she will not have a chance to return to the people she loves absolutely infuriates her, fills her lungs with a rage so potent that it seems to give her wings.

It’s the thought that she will die without seeing Lucien that makes Vassa want to crumple to her knees, and so she forces him out of her mind, trains her eyes on his brother and her mind on fury.

Eventually, Eris runs out of fire, but he barely slows his pace. He does not speak to her, and Vassa wonders if he’s regretting bringing her along.

It’s at this point that the harness of Koschei’s spell begins to pull at her shoulders.

“He knows we’ve run,” Vassa calls out, her hands scrabbling to the places where the spell pulls, even though she knows it isn’t any use.

“He knew from the moment we started running,” Eris says, reaching out his arm and hauling her forward, his strength incredible. She always forgets what faeries are capable of, always assumes she’s just as strong as they are. “You need to stop talking.”

They run in silence for a time that feels long but is probably too short. Eventually even Eris’ strength gives way, his hand falling out of her grip. Her lungs crumple like paper inside her, her feet and shoulders screaming with the effort required to keep running.

There are footsteps behind them. Vassa tries to surge forward.

Then she hears the voices calling her name.

She knows those voices.

Lucien.

Elain.

But Eris keeps running, and doesn’t Koschei have the power to read minds? She does not want to turn around, to look, but her body is tired and rage has turned into a dangerous hope.

Vassa stops her feet. She turns around.

In the clearing behind her is Lucien, golden as a perfect sunset, his face radiant when he sees her.

I never stopped trying to rescue you, he tells her. The words engrave themselves on her mind.

And then he touches her, and the world erupts into flame, burning Vassa’s skin, her throat, scalding her from inside. Still she can feel the pressure of those long fingers on her wrist, the way you hold a person you cannot bear to lose. Exactly the way she will hold him when the fire passes.

So Vassa does not cry out, tries to hold onto her smile, the joy of her rescue, until Elain places her hands on Vassa, and the pain becomes unbearable, worse than any of Koschei’s torment. She feels like she is being split into pieces, and yet Elain’s eyes are so gentle, so concerned, and Vassa reminds herself that in spite of her glittering raiment, this is the girl who spent her days in the gardens of the Spring Court so that no flower would suffer the injustice of an insufficient bloom. She reminds herself that Elain would never harm her. That Lucien would never let her experience pain unless it was absolutely necessary.

Vassa can stop herself from running from them, but she cannot stop her throat from screaming, not when the pain escalates in jagged throbs that split her body like parchment torn roughly from its bindings. On her shoulders, around her heart, Koschei’s spell cleaves her like a sword, bone and sinew coming undone.

She does not know how much longer she can bear this pain.

But then there are other hands on her, a High Fae lord who smells of jasmine but whose name Vassa can no longer summon, and as the world goes black, all Vassa can think is that wherever she is going, at least the pain itself has been scared away.

When she arrives in the Spring Court, she hears the urgent whispers, the politicking and strategizing, but Vassa only looks at the marble under her feet, smells the fragrance on the air. Elain used to talk about the way that a gardener must consider the scent of the garden, in order to give visitors the most pleasant experience. She thinks that if these are her last moments, before Koschei captures her, or she has to run for her life, or that tormenting pain returns, at least there was a moment of beauty. This cool, smooth marble whose texture is so evident even in the dim candlelight, the scent of a garden at night, the flowers distilled by dew.

Lucien steps away from the group. His fingertips are on her shoulder, his arm across her back. Each touch is at once a band of fire and intoxicating, so that Vassa can hardly help herself from pressing her body against his, letting the fire consume her utterly.

Instead she follows where he leads her, up the stairs from the great hall, through the hallways, into the room she occupied when she resided at the Spring Court. She does not move from the circle of his arm, not even when tears fall down her cheeks from the onslaught of pain. Instead, she fits her fingers around the doorknob and lets him lead her inside.

The bed where they slept together is neatly made again, and if Vassa breathes deeply she can almost convince herself that she can detect his scent, the sandalwood and lemon and his sunwarmed skin. In this room, the only ghosts are pleasant ones, all those stolen nighttime hours together.

Lucien leads her slowly to the bed, pulls back the quilts. She falls onto the mattress, her body overwhelmed by its softness and the relief of his no longer touching her.

He dips down as if to kiss her and Vassa braces herself even as she angles her chin towards him to give him better access to her lips.

“It hurts you when we touch, doesn’t it?” His murmur is softer than a whisper.

“Not just you,” Vassa says, unable to say a simple yes. She wishes badly that she had enough strength in her to lie. “When Elain touched me, I felt as if I were being pulled to pieces.”

“I wish you would have told me,” he says, and she thinks that all her life, whether it is hours or decades that remain to her, she will never forget the fact that in this moment he did not blame her, did not complain about her silence, that he even made his eyes gentle so that Vassa would remember that she was finally safe. “I think that Koschei made changes to your binding spell. But I’ve learned about his magic. I swear to you that you will not have to live with this pain.”

Her shoulders ache, but Vassa lifts herself from the bed anyway. She cannot bear Lucien looming over her prone form, as if she is already a corpse.

“I believe you,” she says, and reaches her hand toward him. “Now please kiss me, before we have to speak of all the things that are wrong with this world and--”

His lips on hers, soft and full, her fingers tangling in the length of his hair, make Vassa forget about the pain that rumbles through her. All she can think is finally and Lucien and home.

[mithrilwren]

Shadows and Light

On the evening of the Nein's return to Xhorhas, Essek finds himself wandering past their door again, searching for... well, if he knew the answer to that question, this would all be so much simpler. 

Basically, Essek and the M9 hang out, because this poor boy deserves a break. Also on Ao3.

-----

With all likelihood, they won’t even be there.

The Mighty Nein are just as likely to have returned to the Empire by now as to have stayed the night in Rosohna, Essek reasons, even as the inescapably logical portion of his mind soundly rejects the hypothesis.

(They said they were for us, for the Dynasty, and even if most of them are from the Empire…

And even if…)

It’s just a walk, is his second justification. A chance to clear my mind. He has work to do – reports piling up on his desk, people to message before the day is done – but he can spare fifteen minutes, surely, to breath in the night air and recenter himself. It might make him more productive when he returns to his study, and at the same time he can check for watchers-on in the vicinity of the house, or any sign of illicit activity. While he does not think anyone would openly accost sanctioned guests of the Bright Queen, these are strange times, and it does not hurt to be cautious.

Excuses continue to float through his mind as Essek approaches the halo of luminescent light that radiates from the guardian tree upon the house’s apex. The sound of caterwauling – in every sense of the word - meets his ears.

Home, then, Essek thinks, then corrects himself. Still here. The Mighty Nein have not yet returned to Rexxentrum, and any would-be lurkers have doubtless been chased off by the awful din emanating from the house. No reason to stay any longer.

At his own home, the work is waiting. It is always waiting: an inescapable, immovable mountain of tasks, no matter how much he chips away at the foundation. One night of neglect, and it will all come crashing down on his head – or, at least, it often feels that way.

Five minutes more. He’ll walk past the door, and then return. By this point, the path to the house is practically on the way. A justifiable excuse to continue walking.

Five minutes more.

The cobblestone reflects the faint daylight that drifts from the tree to the street below. It burns faintly against Essek’s skin – not quite strong enough to damage the tissue, but enough to be a constant aggravation. He’d thought at first the magic was a deterrent, meant to keep unwanted drow from snooping about. But now, he suspects the Mighty Nein were simply ignorant of the effect it would have on their neighbours, as they are ignorant of most everything that lives within Xhorhas.

That willful lack of prudence should be frustrating – after all, he is tasked with ensuring the group assimilates, to some degree– but their carelessness seems only to add to his hopeless endearment with each passing day.

And after all, some of the dens in the area could stand to experience a little discomfort now and then.

He’s by the door now, close enough to look through one of the windows if he so chose. Close enough to knock. Which is a foolish idea. An utterly foolish idea.

He has so much work to do.

Almost anything else would be preferable.

His hand finds the doorframe almost of its own will, and he can scarcely believe what he’s done as he draws back, the echo of his rapping knuckles against the wood fading away.

He stares at his traitorous hand. Surely, the sound was drowned out in the rest of the noise, he thinks wildly. The instruments haven’t ceased their wailing, at least. Surely, he still has time to-

Ting-a-ling-a-ling.

The door cracks open, revealing a sliver of green skin near waist level. Yellow eyes blink up at him. He blinks back.

“Guys?” Nott calls over her shoulder, never breaking eye contact. “Essek’s here!”

The music finally stops, and Essek has no rational explanation why his heart feels suddenly too weighty for his ribs to contain.

A flurry of footsteps, and then the door is swinging fully open, and there are four of the Nein staring out at him. Beau, and Fjord, and hovering in the background, Caduceus, with a flute of bone and pearl still dangling in his fingers.

“What’s wrong?” Beau asks, already pressing forward past the others. “Did something happen?”

Right, he thinks. Right, that would be the assumption, as he tries to come up with some excuse, any excuse for his presence that isn’t in the shape of ‘it seemed less agonizing than heading home’.

“My apologies,” he says, bowing his head slightly, “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I was only hoping to borrow Caleb for an hour or so?” Beau’s eyes narrow, and Essek searches for his next words, the right ones to justify himself. To de-escalate the mess he created. “Since your group might not be back in Rosohna for some time, I thought we might take the opportunity to squeeze in one more lesson. Assuming Caleb is interested, of course.”

Good. Plausible. And knowing Caleb, an undeniable lure. The correct thing to say, even if Essek’s heart clenches in his chest all the more to know he’s drawing the man away from his friends for the evening, all to bolster his own pointless deception. He’s seen the bags under Caleb’s eyes. He deserves to relax for a night, as much as any man. And still, Essek is selfish, and he cannot take back the words now he’s said them.

Beau considers for a moment, then glances down at Nott, who looks back at Essek with unveiled suspicion, and he is suddenly and violently reminded that however much he has observed this group, they have been observing him in turn.

The thought is… not pleasant.

“Nah,” says Beau. “Fuck that shit.” Then she grabs Essek by the arm and pulls him through the door. “Caleb’s spent the last two days stuck in the library with me. Your little lesson can wait until the band’s finished, at least.” Fjord jabs her in the ribs as they pass him by, and a smile materializes on Beau’s face, one that more closely resembles a pained grimace. “Oh yeah, come on in, welcome to our home, whatever.” Beau glares at Fjord. “Do I have to do this every time?”

“No formalities are necessary,” Essek assures her, and takes his arm back before she can feel the escalating rate of his pulse through his sleeve. Which is, again, a foolish reaction. He has no reason to feel anxious. The Dynasty granted the Nein this house, it’s as much his right to be there as theirs, but he still isn’t sure how he ended up in this position. How all his individual actions could have led to this moment, to him being pulled into an open space of haphazard pillows and mismatched furniture arranged in a semi-circle around a still-seated Yasha and Jester. Caduceus rejoins the pair, and Beau directs him to the spot on the floor next to where Caleb sits cross-legged with his cat in his lap. He balances a closed book on one knee, like he meant to open it and got distracted somewhere in the effort.

Caleb looks up, taking in Essek’s presence with a little surprised oh that becomes a welcoming nod, and that too is endearing, and Essek should not be here. He is meant to be at home, finishing his work, ensuring all is ready for the days to come.

“I’m sorry,” he begins to say, readying the next excuse on his lips, when Caleb’s hand finds his sleeve and pulls him down to the floor. And, light guide him, he goes.

He allows himself to be manoeuvred onto a cushion, seated with legs bowed slightly to the left as the trio resumes their playing. Nott still shoots him the occasional suspicious look from Caleb’s other side, but the rest of the Nein seem… strangely comfortable with his alien presence in their midst. He is considerably less comfortable to find himself there.

This whole circumstance is beneath him. If someone from the Bright Queen’s council were to see him here, in such an undignified position as this, he’d be laughed out of the throne room. To be taken seriously has been a decades-long endeavour, in light of his age and his as-of-yet unconsecuted status. He knows there are still those who would jump at the chance to embarrass him for less than this, if it meant elevating their own status.

And yet, he accepts a lukewarm cocktail from Beau when offered, and listens all the way to the end of the ‘song’, if it can be called that. Caleb’s presence at his side is an ever-nagging thought, prodding at him from all angles, and that too is an impropriety he should not indulge. Has not indulged. Has been very careful not to indulge, for many, many weeks.

(There are many things he knows, that would be dangerous in the wrong hands. He does not intend to make his own feelings one of them.)

The music ends, and he is immediately smothered in attention. Jester’s voice rings the loudest, pressing over the others with adulation and excitement that makes his (recently, near-constant) headache start to surge.

And it’s Caleb, of all people, who takes his sleeve again and draws him away from the clamour.

“We will be back,” he assures the rest, “but I believe you had something to show me?”

He leads Essek down the stairs, towards the basement library where they’ve spent the majority of their time together. His mouth runs drier with every step.

He made a promise of more, when he arrived, and now he must honour it, but there haven’t been the proper preparations this time. Essek is walking himself out on a narrow limb at an already precarious time, and if he teaches Caleb yet another unapproved spell tonight, he may find himself tipping the balance. The Bright Queen still doesn’t trust the Nein, after all they’ve done.

And he, so, so foolishly, does.

They stop just inside the door. Caleb closes it, and Essek swallows down the tightness in his throat. With his back ramrod straight, he has a good few inches over Caleb, and his posture is always pristine. He still looks the part of the confident tutor, and that is all that matters.

“So,” says Caleb, “what are we going to study tonight?”

The brightness is still there in his expression, the eagerness mixed with no small hint of fear, as Caleb makes himself vulnerable before Essek’s eyes. He makes himself vulnerable, as much as Essek makes himself imposing, and he wonders if Caleb has realized the same thing about him yet – whether only Essek has been watching closely for the tricks of the trade. They understand each other too well. They have known the same sort of training, have lived very different but somehow parallel lives.

They are complicit in their dishonesty, and Essek is abruptly tired of it, so very tired of everything that is involved in this dance of mutual manipulation. He is tired.

“Nothing,” says Essek. “My apologies, yet again. I should not have come.”

Caleb’s hand is on his arm once more, and the touch burns right through his cloak, through his skin, all the more painful for how much he wants to let it linger. It feels different than the tension that courses through his limbs, and he has wanted nothing else, through the last few weeks of escalating demands and endless worry and impossible tasks, to feel different. It’s comforting, and awful, and he doesn’t want to remove the hand, and hates himself for not having the same willpower he did in the forest – the last time Caleb attempted the same.

He wants to think that the touch is genuine, but wanting is not the same as believing. This – this thing between the two of them – is still work, of a sort, and pretending it is anything else would be a betrayal. It would be a betrayal of his queen, of himself, and even of Caleb, who is working as hard as him, though towards an end Essek has never been able to fully pin down.

“Should we sit?” Caleb offers, and Essek finally removes his eyes from the lingering hand, the one he has not yet managed to shrug off. They find Caleb’s, and there’s a different sort of vulnerability living behind them now – uncertainty, yes, but also understanding, and no small measure of determination. “It was too loud up there for my tastes. Thank you, for giving me an excuse to catch my breath.”

Still, Caleb looks at Essek, and squeezes his arm gently as a small, self-deprecating smile ghosts his lips. He saw my discomfort, Essek thinks. He noticed, and offered me an escape.

What does he expect in return?

Essek does his best to mirror Caleb’s expression, to keep the dance going, but can’t quite make the same light appear in his own eyes. There have been too many sleepless nights to fake another expression of certainty he doesn’t feel, and he doesn’t know what Caleb hopes to see anyway, so really, what’s the point, of any of it?

His inner voice is petulant to his own ears, and he chides himself even as he surrenders to it. One does not remain the Shadowhand by dropping their guard at a whim. It’s his duty to maintain his own composure, regardless of any feelings he might hold. It’s his responsibility. It’s-

“-alright,” Caleb is calling up the stairs. “We’ll be up soon, Nott!” He looks back at Essek. “Whenever you’re ready,” he says more quietly. When did Caleb become this confident? When did their roles reverse?

And Essek still can’t spot where the manipulation hides.

It scares him, more than the thought that he might have missed a tell, the notion that this might not be a game after all. That Caleb might be honest – at least here, at least now – in his intentions.

After all, the Mighty Nein – to a fault, admittedly – seem to land within the realm of overbearing honesty. When Jester asked about his mother’s name earlier in the evening, he forgot to be suspicious of her reason for asking. When Beau offered him a glass, he did not think to check for poison lacing the rim. If Caleb touches his arm in a comforting manner, can he believe that too?

If there is a proper manner to forming… honest relationships, he is sorely out of practice. But the alternative is to remain on guard for the rest of eternity, and more and more, he’s beginning to suspect he won’t survive to his first consecution, if he doesn’t find a way to relieve the constant pressure in his chest, the kind that reminds him that every word must be carefully considered. That anything less than perfection could mean the end of his career, his status, the very future of his soul.

(There are times, when he sits at his desk and puts his head in his hands, and tastes the sourness on his own quickening breath, that he wonders if this body is already falling apart from the inside.)

“Thank you,” he says at last, and puts his hand over Caleb’s – not to draw it away, but to press his own fingers down. To squeeze back.

He’s not wearing gloves. It has been an age since he’s felt another’s skin against his own. He’s almost not sure what to make of the sensation, at first. But Essek finds he doesn’t want to let go, and Caleb doesn’t force him to. No expectations. No exchange. Just a small moment of comfort, the first he’s allowed himself in a long while.

Essek almost lets himself believe, as he chances one more glance into Caleb’s eyes before pulling away, that it was a comfort for them both.

They return upstairs, in the end, and Essek stays for another hour of socialization more. He dances around the edge of Jester’s more personal questions, but answers a few of the less intrusive ones. He compliments the unnerving beauty of Yasha’s new harp, and receives a soft smile in return. He finds himself laughing at Fjord’s dry humour, and the sound catches him off-guard, for being the second time he’s heard it leave his mouth today.

He doesn’t remember the last time he laughed – at least, not without flattery as the main objective. Perhaps a little too much honesty has seeped into his blood now, because it feels worryingly natural to be easy in their company.

That’s another thing he’s scarcely remembered – that some things could be easy.

At last, he begs off to return home, and they all bid him farewell at the door. Even Nott gives him a little wave, and he waves back before heading off into the night.

When he opens the door to his home, his servants greet him immediately, take his coat, beckon him towards his study. The world grows narrow again as the new words filter in amidst the resumed rushing in his ears, -needs a response by the morrow- and he agrees without fully hearing the request.

If it must be done by tomorrow, he will get it done. There is no other option. And he does, along with every other task that cannot wait. Then he looks at the stack of scrolls on his desk.

It will continue to grow if he leaves it, and there are still a few hours yet till morning-

Thank you, for giving me an excuse to catch my breath.

Essek shakes his head, and looks again at the stack.

They will still be here tomorrow.

…It can wait.

Though morning still comes too soon, Essek finds it easier to drift off to sleep tonight than usual.

He may be foolish, but he’s not so naïve that he doesn’t realize the reason why.

[soobadnoonecanstopher]

Dressed Up, Part 1 of 2 (An I Give Up Deleted Scene)

Genre: Fluff / Sexually Suggestive Situations(15+)

Characters : You x Baekhyun

Word Count: 7.4k

A/N: Warnings: a pretty woman makeover, nudity, an attempt at seduction via video call, Houston we have a sugar daddy.

[Part 2]

IGU Deleted scenes masterlist

This shop wasn’t your usual style. What was your usual style? The sale rack at that department store in the mall. This place was definitely not your style. The second you walked in you could feel it. There was a mild and pleasant fragrance wafting around your nose as you stepped through the double french doors and from the corner of your eye you saw a woman dressed smartly with a tasteful pencil skirt and heels that were not too high for a full shift of standing on her feet.

If she made any judgements about you upon entering the store, she kept them to herself. The fact that you didn’t quite fit the look of this boutique’s typical clientele wasn't lost on you and you nearly spun on your heels right on out that door before she was able to call out her welcoming greeting.

‘Something nice. This is going to be black-tie so go buy something nice. Ask the shop ladies for suggestions…’

You couldn’t leave. The company party was tonight and you’d be damned if you would be the only one wearing a five year old sale rack little black dress from the back of your closet. You didn’t even want to think about the complaining such a move would produce from Baekhyun. You’d surely never hear the end of it.

The woman in the tasteful heels immediately approached you with a stepford-wife smile on her face. You’d taken seven steps inside and weren’t circling around toward the exit despite glancing at the first tiny price-tag that hung from the sleeve of a plain white designer blouse. It wasn’t even that fancy of a blouse. It just had round pearled buttons going down the front and looked like it might even be a bit see through in the right lighting and -- sweet jesus, it was thousands of dollars. For a white shirt. Your eyes widened on their own and immediately you shook away the queasy feeling in the pit of your stomach.

‘...and please, just don't look at the prices. Please just ignore that...for me, huh? Like the way I ignored the six packages of sausages you accidentally threw away because the lighting was bad and you thought that they were expired when they totally weren’t and I just ignored it and cried silently in the bathroom because of all those delicious sausages that I had just bought and you threw them all — just….’

His heavy breathing echoed into your ear and you could practically feel the heat from his lungs coating your eardrum with his frustrating memory of that single week when you’d been on an obsessive cleaning kick since watching Marie Kondo saving counter space and saving lives in the process.

‘Just ignore the price. Like I ignored the second love of my life being wasted like...like some common garbage. Please...do this for me, as the first love of my life...’

Was this really the right place? You had checked the address for the boutique three times in your phone before you even exited the taxi cab and it all seemed to match. This was the honest to god place, Byun Baekhyun, your foolishly loveable husband, had sent you to buy your evening gown for tonight’s party. You had an appointment at a salon after this and you didn’t quite know how you would get through the evening in one piece after all the strangers and their fussing.

Baekhyun had asked you to come. Baekhyun wanted you there and it was an important evening to him. A social event with the influential, the powerful, the up-and-comings in his industry and with his friends and he wanted you, his (still secret) wife on his arm. You were certain he would be dressed impeccably with a tailored suit, shined shoes, full hair and makeup no doubt. If there was one irrefutable fact about the man, it was that he thrived when he looked good. And he was going to outshine all others. The least you could do was put forth a little effort.

“Welcome, Miss,” the woman spoke up at last and your smile felt entirely too tense to look natural on your face. “Mr. Byun called ahead. If you would follow me, we have a selection of pieces for you to try.”

Pieces. They called the dresses pieces which meant they surely would carry a price-tag that rivaled some of the art that hung on the wall of that exclusive art gallery you saw next door.

And he called them ahead for you?

Of course he did. That was probably going to be the least surprising thing about this entire evening. That Baekhyun was simply unable to contain his excitement about a fancy schmancy dress up party which the both of you were attending together; of course he couldn't resist getting in on the decision making. You wondered what sorts of dresses he’d instructed them to pick. You wondered if he paid any attention at all to keeping within some sort of a budget. That sort of thing didn’t really seem appropriate in a place like this though.

You found yourself seated in an armchair and beside you sat a crystal glass with cold ice water. You began to reach for it, but quickly pulled your hand back as images of knocking the whole thing over on yourself played through your mind.

There was but a pause to breathe before the parade began. Young women with matching uniforms all carrying evening gowns in different shades and styles all walked before you with their smiles pasted firmly to their faces and their eyes all fallen down just so. You’d been so caught off guard by the fact that not a single one of them would look you in the eyes that you forgot to look at the first five dresses that passed you by.

It wasn’t until the color red popped like a bubble in your field of vision and pulled your focus down to the gown that was making its way directly in front of you and you looked down at it and...and...

Oh.

Oh my, that was…

You sat up straighter -- a gut reaction -- and the woman carrying the red gown stopped her movement the moment you flinched.

“Can I just…” You hated to interrupt their little show, but this one felt different than the others somehow. Despite with the way it hung lifelessly in her arms like a deflated balloon you could see the quality of the sheer fabric that draped over the floral lace bodice below. The neckline below the tulle plunged deep and from the look of it, the skin-tone fabric bodice gave the illusion of showing a lot more skin than it actually did.

You couldn’t possibly pull this dress off, could you?

“Ahh, the Valentino. Excellent choice — bring that one. She will wear the Valentino.” A voice boomed from somewhere behind you and the once quiet sales woman that initially greeted you was clapping her hands as she directed her army of dress-cradling women to leave the room. Only a select few remained for the fitting.

As you threw away your reservations of disrobing in front of a room full of eerily quiet strangers, you placed your first tentative foot inside the open gown and as it was pulled up and closed up around you, one thing about this dress became abundantly clear.

You weren’t just wearing the Valentino.

Oh, no.

The Valentino was wearing you.

Your first spin to face the triple mirrors that lined the wall had you under a spell and the flow of fabric that swayed and followed your spin made you feel powerful. Perhaps it was the very real skin just above your navel that was made visible by the deep plunge of the neckline below the red tulle, or perhaps it was the way the contoured lace fabric hugged your breasts, leaving them covered while giving the illusion of leaving them bare -- and the curve around your hips that cinched around your waist and flattered the shape of you -- but, wow, this dress was incredible. This dress hugged your every curve as if it were created with only you in the designer‘s mind.

This dress was...yours. Marie might even say that it sparked joy in a way that no other garment that had been placed upon your skin in this lifetime had ever done before.

The bright overhead lights brought out a sparkle in your eyes that made you feel like a hundred carat engagement ring sitting inside a locked display case of the finest jewelry store in all of the world and as you ran your fingers down the curve of your hips, finding the spot where the under dress ended up high on your thighs and the sheer red continued as if it’s only job was to tease at the idea of a covering -- you visibly swooned.

“How much is this one?” Your voice sounded dreamy, heavily affected and almost drunk, and you caught a glimpse of humanity as you made a split second of eye contact with one of the women who had helped you into the dress. As quickly as it happened, she looked away from your face and into the face of the shop woman behind you, but her cheeks were pink -- her eyelids fluttered rapidly. It was a hairline crack in her composure. The slip of the woman made your cheeks feel flush and you remembered where you were and who you were and what kinds of questions the patrons of this shop didn’t usually ask outloud. You wondered if in another life, you and this young woman who steadied her gaze away from your prying eyes, might have been friends.

“It’s within the budget, Miss,” the shop woman said.

“There is a budget?” This time your question was genuine curiosity and you lifted your brows and spun to look into her amused face.

“There is a minimum budget, yes.”

Impossible. He was impossible.

“Just tell me how many zeroes.” It felt like bargaining with the enemy at this point and the stitched floral design in the lace bodice had some sparkle to it when you rocked your hips back and forth in this lighting. It was probably hand stitched by an expert seamstress. Someone had loved this fabric with their fingertips and a needle and sterling thread and you hoped their hard work had been handsomely rewarded.

She had gone quiet behind you and you figured her bonus was at stake if she spilled the beans your dear husband had insisted she keep a tight lid on so you lifted your chin and let out a sigh of defeat.

“I’ll pay with my own card.” It looked like defeat to the casual observer. Yes, you were using the card he gave you and yes, it was funded by his money. Yes, he would get a text message that the card was used with the purchase amount and location but the benefit of using your own card meant that you would also get the same text message.

If it was too much you could always just return it then and there, right?

Maybe you could go to the mall and find something there that looked just like this if you squinted and covered one eye as you looked at it.

Your card was already swiped and yet, the dress that had just been charged was nowhere in sight. There was a second where you paused and your eyes wandered over the faces of the shop attendants with just a hint of a question on the tip of your tongue. Your card was quietly returned by the sales woman and her smile preceded her answer to your unspoken question.

“We will have it delivered to your home within the hour.”

Oh, right. Rich people didn’t carry bags. Well, except for the designer ones hung over their limp wrists with the logo facing outward for all to see.

It was for the best anyway, you had two more stops to make before checking in with the dog sitter for the evening. She, a young girl named Sunny, had been highly recommended by one of Baekhyun’s bandmates for her reliability and patience with young puppies. In fact, she was going to be taking care of two poodles that belonged to another member tonight along with your and Baekhyun’s new puppy. You tried not to worry too much for the tiny ball of fluff. After listening in on Baekhyun’s phone call with Sunny, you were certain the poor girl had been given plenty of helicopter-parent instructions from him, she didn’t need your worried phone calls to add to the mix.

You were already on your way through the double french doors of the shoe shop when you felt the vibration of your cell phone through the layers of your leather bag against your hip.

That would be it; the text message alerting the card holder that their credit card had been used to purchase a, most likely, obscenely expensive garment that would be worn exactly one time. Did you dare look? Maybe looking was a bad idea. Maybe when you looked you would lose the nerve to make your way through the double french doors of the designer shoe store that was next on your itinerary.

Your fingers felt itchy. The back of the taxi was quiet enough to hear the sound of your cell phone calling out your name, telling you to check to see what the damage was so you could begin freaking out already.

You were powerless to stop yourself and as you pulled your cell phone out of your bag you felt it vibrating again, this time for a new text messages that had just arrived.

On your screen, just above the notification that read ‘A transaction has been made on your credit card in the amount of…’, sat a new text message notification from ‘Curry & Chocolate’ and you clicked there first. Would Baekhyun have something to say about how much the dress cost? Would he shake his head that you had squandered so much of his hard earned money on something so frivolous and wasteful?

‘Omgomgomgomgomg asdflakdfja;lkjfa … which one did you get?!!!’

This was followed immediately by a message that read ‘WAIT NO DON’T TELL ME!! I want to be surprised,’ that was succeeded by every single heart emoji he could find in his phone’s keyboard.

You hadn’t actually ever done this before. Gone shopping without him, spending vast amounts of money on yourself like this, and you could see the excitement in the messages that came one after another on your phone.

‘Is it too pretty? What if you look too pretty and i faint in public?’

‘It’s not like this is our wedding day -- you can send me a picture as you’re getting ready, so i can prepare myself, right?’

His enthusiasm was adorable and you had to bite down on your lip to keep from giggling all alone in the back seat of this taxi.  

‘No, don't send me a picture. I want to be surprised. I’ll just drop dead, it’s okay. I’ll die happy.’

Knowing Baekhyun as well as you did, you knew that his meandering mind would eventually settle itself on its own and you didn’t have to respond to these messages with anything except for a few heart emojis and a quick reminder that you were still not done shopping for tonight. You replied that you had just arrived at the shoe store and would be quite busy in the salon for hair and makeup shortly after.

You weren’t sure what you had been expecting. The fancy dress store had lead you into a false sense of security that made you forget that designer shoes were just as ridiculously overpriced as designer fashion was and you sighed right out loud as you handed over your card to pay for the strappy heels with the blood red lacquered soles whose designer’s name you couldn't even spell without the assistance of autocorrect and you swallowed down the guilt that you would be wearing something on your feet that, if sold, would feed a family of four for several months.

Your hands were shaking when you signed the receipt and when your phone vibrated again, alerting you of the charge to your card, you cursed at your ability to do mental math as you began to tally up the totals.

Of course he texted you again after the bank did and the diamond and heart emojis that he sent did not help ease any of the guilt, despite the weirdly obvious clues that he was somehow having a fun time watching you spend so much of his money. At this rate, you would be the most expensive thing on his arm tonight — blowing out of the water, the hefty price tags of any of the fancy watches he could choose from to adorn his wrist. Even if he wore them all at once, they would not compare.

Your nails were done; hands and feet to match the red of the Valentino (because everything else should fall in line when this dress was clearly the one in charge) -- your hair was halfway there and the makeup on your face was pristine and set with products that the beautician swore would not budge all night long and all you wanted to do was curl up and take a nap by the time you were done with all the card swiping and receipt signing.

You had a schedule to keep though, and once through the doors of your home you were called back to the ringing doorbell when the deliveries started. First it was the dress, shoes; a new clutch for tonight’s essentials and when the door rang again you glanced around at all of the crisp and expensive packages, taking a quick inventory and coming up with a new question mark. Everything you had purchases today had already been received, yet the young man in the classy suit who stood at your door was holding a package in his hands with the markings from a store you had not visited today.

You were friendly enough although hesitant to receive this latest delivery for fear that it had somehow been sent in error. The man in the suit smiled wider and urged your focus down, pushed the package closer to you and his eyes begged you to just take it already. When he confirmed your name and you admitted that, yes, you were the person he sought out you really had no other move but to finally accept what he was offering.

You felt downright funny about this. The package was small; not another evening gown or pair of shoes. You’d seen enough of high priced boutiques today to recognize that this item was of a similar source. Only as you reached inside and pulled out the heavy black clamshell case, you knew immediately that you were handling expensive jewelry and you definitely had not visited a jewelry store in your shopping today.

Inside, the clamshell was velvet lined and housed a set of jewelry — sparkling diamonds, lots and lots of them. You saw teardrop earrings that matched a diamond necklace and even a delicate bracelet with the sparkling stones going all the way around and you set the whole thing down onto your granite kitchen countertop to get a good look at the way the stones took ahold of the fluorescent lights above your head and shot them back at you from all directions. The sparkles were astounding. The cuts of each stone overwhelmed and you also had to get a good breath of air into your lungs because you honestly had been holding your breath as you stared at the gorgeous jewels before you.

It was too much...but at this point would such a statement even make any difference? It was already here in your hands.

You pulled your phone out and snapped a shot of the jewelry, slightly annoyed that your phone’s camera couldn't capture the full range of sparkle, and you sent the image to your husband.

‘Please tell me this is rented.’

He didn’t respond to your text message and the longer you looked down at the jewelry, the prettier the sparkle of those stones looked once you moved in the recessed lighting of your bedroom.

The more you touched them and handled them and held the necklace up against your neck or the earrings up to your ears, the more beautiful the image of those diamonds adorning your skin made you feel and when you stood in front of floor length mirror in your spacious bathroom you were wearing them all, and you wore absolutely nothing else to compete with the sparks of light shooting off of those precious stones that decorated your body -- and oh, you felt it.

The priceless and perfect, here and now.

You felt like possibly a million bucks even well before you put on the dress and everything else this man had already provided for you.

This was his mark. The strands of diamonds that completely encircled your wrist, throwing fire with each slight movement of your hand over the bare skin as you raked perfectly manicured nails over one bare breast. You watched the light travel over your skin and you felt the traces of him all over you.

The shine of the biggest stone, seated over the hollow of your neck, where his lips and teeth had tasted your skin countless times, that stone there beckoned to you with the sweet softness of his voice - mine, mine, mine, as he often called out in the warm pauses between breaths.

An urge was brewing inside of your chest. Below where the diamond sat, deeper inside where with each of your deepest inhales could not seem to satiate. Your slow exhale only quenched the superficial need for air, but this urge ran deeper.

This was not something you and he did.

You had never allowed it before — extravagant and expensive gifts. Sure he had tried in the past but you had put up enough of a fuss about the price of things he gifted you, and the unfairness of it. That you could never match the price tag with the things you bought him. You’d made it clear that this sort of disparity irked you and he had always followed along, choosing instead gifts with more sentimental value than monetary value and you and him both treasured the meaning behind these gestures above all else.

But this—

What would be his meaning behind the diamonds?

That tonight was such a special occasion and your ensemble required only the absolute finest embellishment. Ornate, gilded, and as beautiful as the love you felt when you looked into his eyes.

Was this how Baekhyun wanted to show off his love for you? Could his intentions be this obvious?

A single faint vibration sounded from the dresser of your bedroom and you pulled your eyes from the mirror for a moment.

‘What are you doing~’

He couldn’t have possibly been bored. He was supposed to be getting ready for tonight, and you knew he had less than an hour before he had to be at the venue and you had been scheduled to arrive within the following hour to keep the photographers, who likely camped outside, in the dark about the true nature of your relationship with your very successful and very important idol.

‘I am trying on the diamonds’

It wasn’t, ‘I am googling the price’ or ‘I am returning them to the store’, instead you were uncharacteristically and alarmingly honest about just how weak this particular set of jewelry had made you. Perhaps it had been the entire day of shopping and your sense of proper wifely behavior had been thrown off, but that urge that sat inside of your chest swelled up again, inflating your lungs and making the lights from the ceiling reflect beautifully off the enormous diamond that hung around your neck.

When you turned your head, the teardrops hanging from your ears swayed with the movement and you tucked an invisible strand of hair behind your ear to watch the delicate way your bracelet slid over your arm with the motion.

‘Oh?’

His response was tentative. It was the tip of a toe dipped into a swimming pool and pulled back out again. Only to check the temperature, of course. He wasn’t about to dive in just yet.

The deliberate silence that followed that single syllable word was an advanced tactic that you had been entirely unprepared for and you held your phone in one hand looking down at the screen, simply unable to believe that he had no follow up inquiry for you.

He wasn’t even typing.

He had gone completely silent after that gentle and soft nudge that had filled you with so much curiosity and tension that it sent your thumbs down hard on the screen of your phone. You hit a few random letters and deleted them, surely giving away your obvious unrest after his ploy.

Didn’t he have anything else to ask you? Didn’t he want to know if you liked them, or maybe give you some details about how he just happened to run across this particular set of jewelry that looked as if it were made specifically with your tastes in mind when you had been given less than three days notice about this entire event and the fact that you would be attending had been well up in the air until this very morning. Did he really have nothing more to say?

You were being baited.  You knew this.

‘They are very, very beautiful, Baek...’

It worked.

You had barely hit send when you saw the graphic on your screen that told you he was typing out a response.

He had been waiting it out.

‘Can I see?’

The air surrounding your bare skin had, prior to his simple question, felt quite warm and comfortable in temperature, yet the second you read his request you felt a chill run along your bare thighs; traveling quickly without a clear destination. It spread over your skin, pulling and puckering up your nipples and leaving the surface of your skin rough with goosebumps that reached well to the back of your neck.

As quick as the chill, came the heat and the surface of your cheeks felt warm to the touch as you typed out a three word response to the man who held more power over you than any other soul to walk this earth.

‘Are you alone?’

Baekhyun’s reply came without delay.

‘Mhmm’

Your fingertip stuttered for only a moment and you toyed with the decision.

You shouldn’t encourage this, the lavish spending you had always denied. You shouldn’t reward it.

And yet, a set of jewelry had never quite made you feel this way before. Sure, the tasteful diamond solitaire ring you wore on your finger was the symbol that brought all the warmth and love to the surface of your mind every time you looked down at it.

But this, it was Byun Baekhyun polished and sparkling bright and lovely around your neck. It was the years you had shared together dripping like liquid from the tips of your ear lobes and it was his long shimmering fingertips clasped around your wrist; holding on tight and promising to never let you go.

The video call was ringing and after a second of darkness the call was connected. You were rewarded with the view of his face; the top of his, already styled, light pink hair and dark eyes lined with the barest of eye makeup, applied by an expert’s hand, and his eyes focused on the view of you in front of him.

His eyes were moving and you knew from the way you held the phone and the image of yourself from the corner of your own screen, exactly what he would see. It would be the image of you, completely naked, except for the earrings, the necklace and the occasional spark of light from around your wrist.

Baekhyun’s eyes widened marginally, only enough to tell you that this was a surprise and you could hear the small puff of air exhaled through his parted lips as his eyes took in the sight of you.

He then closed his eyes and ran a hand with slender fingers over the length of his face, settling that hand over his mouth and his eyes pulled open again much too slowly. He hadn’t yet said a damn thing about what he thought about the diamonds.

Didn’t he think they complimented your skin tone perfectly? Didn’t the way that big stone pulled the delicate chain downward make your neck look pretty?

Did the sparkle of diamonds around your wrist make him want to hold your hand perhaps?

“Do you like them?” He finally spoke when he had removed his hand from over his lips and his voice was soft and low. Once the question was out he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and he bit down. His eyes darted up to touch yours once before they drifted down again and you wondered if he was looking at the diamonds anymore or…

“I love them,” you whispered and lifted a hand to show off the way sparkles caught the light.

Your declaration pulled his eyes back into yours and pulled his lips wide as he flashed the smallest smile of satisfaction. This look on his face was somewhat hard to read. Of course he was quite pleased with himself, but there was something else inside of his eyes as his smile slowly fell and evened out again and his lips parted and a tiny puff of air escaped through his mouth.

“You look so, so beautiful in them,” he inhaled through those parted lips and narrowed his eyes, looking almost intoxicated as he seemed to loosen his focus, “I knew you would, when I saw them...I just— I couldn’t help myself, baby.”

The excuse was the first bit of a clue he had given you of the incredible cost. As you had suspected when you first saw them, they had to cost a lot.

He could not help himself, he said. Their beauty was simply too great to resist when he thought of spoiling you in such a way with this incredible gift. The idea that this man loved you so much, he was powerless against such a temptation...perhaps it was you who was intoxicated.

“Were they very expensive, Baek?” The sound of your voice was soft and heavily affected now and you played with the necklace with your fingertips.

A sound betrayed him. A throaty whine, cut off quickly when he snapped his lips shut and he closed his eyes. He inhaled through his nose before you saw the up and down movement as he nodded his head. Yes. Yes they were.

“Do you always try on jewelry this way?” It came out almost as a complaint and you felt your lips pull into a smile. You enjoyed the thought that you could still have such a powerful effect on him.

“I want to buy you more,” you heard him say under a breath, his words trailing through the effort of their escape, “if this is how—”

“You did say you didn’t want to see the dress yet.” You lifted your shoulders with a little shrug as if you had merely been complying with his own request from earlier and not playing any dirty tricks involving expensive diamonds and gold and nipples and your navel and collar bones and the invitingly suggestive way you now leaned back onto your bed. The same bed that exactly four weeks prior he had pressed your back into as he pushed inside of you.

He had yet to return to you since then and you could feel the longing beginning to turn into desperation.

So that’s what the urge was. It was to be felt and touched and kissed and thoroughly had by your husband.

The same one who was staring now, cheeks flushed, so much more than the makeup he wore. He was positively pink, to match his hair and his lips.

“Do you miss me as much as I miss you?” You asked with the desperation sitting heavy on your tongue. You were certain he could hear it. You would do anything, you’d spend a million dollars just on yourself. You’d accept the luxury car he had been trying to sell you on. You’d even learn how to drive it. You’d do anything if it meant you could have just a little bit more of this man.

You laid a hand, the sparkly one, over your chest, between your bare breasts, where you could feel the steady thump of your heart.  Something had changed on the other side of the screen and you lost Baekhyun's eyes for a split second as he glanced at something behind him. A noise perhaps. Did someone knock?

He returned to you promptly and leaned in too close to the screen for you to make anything of his face.

“Baby, this...this is already too much. How am I supposed to put on my suit if I can’t zip up my pants?”

When he leaned away from the phone enough for you to actually read his expression again you could clearly see the struggle written all over that pretty face. But, God, was he pretty. His hair was styled up, a rare hairstyle for him, and one that always made your knees weak.

There was an alarm ringing somewhere inside his room. You felt downright victorious when you shifted and let your knees fall open slightly, just enough to show off the full body wax you’d subjected yourself to as a part of all inclusive spa treatment paid for by the one and only EXO’s Byun Baekhyun and he covered his lips again with a hand that was much less steady than at the start of the call.

“Oh,” you heard him whisper. “Oh god, I’ve...I have made a terrible mistake.” He said softly to himself and he was looking down from the phone. He was looking behind his shoulder. He was looking down at his lap and then away from the screen again, in the other direction. “I should not have asked to see a damn thing. I should’ve left it the hell alone—why...why did I ask to see?”

He was looking all over, but he was not looking at you.

He was not appreciating the way the line of sparks around your wrist traveled slowly down your stomach, lower and deliberate in direction. The occasional glance of his eyes when he was too weak to resist touched upon your movement and you smiled to yourself.

He had worked so hard. He had spent so much. The least he could do was watch you enjoy them.

“It’s—it’s time for me to go—baby,” he huffed through gritted teeth, “I — do you… do you like them this much? I have to put my suit on and go.”

You nodded your head — mouth agape as your legs parted further and you slipped your hand lower, the tips of your fingers finding the smooth skin between your legs, parted directly in front of your phone now propped on a pillow. You were already so wet, you just needed him.

“F-Fuck—Wh—what the fuck— what are you...doing with your hand?”

He was cursing now. The sound of it fueled your desperation.

“Fuck.fuck.fuck— my manager is texting me. You— fuck— I’m so fucking hard, how dare you. ”

“What are you going to do about it, Baekhyun?” You hadn’t expected your question to come out sounding quite so challenging but with your fingers running lazy circles within your wetness you were already feeling entirely too reckless to control your tone.

“I’ll...there’s no time. I don’t have time. I have to go. He’s already outside knocking and texting me, baby, I have to...do some squats or fuck it, I’ll tuck it in my waistband. I’m usually dressed right but I guess I’m dressed up tonight.”

“Are you really going to go?” The realization that he seemed to be quickly moving around his dressing room and the grunting you heard didn’t sound so much like sexy grunts and more like genuine effort made you sit up and look closely at the screen of your phone. He had sent it down and you could see movement as hasty arms were pulled through crisp white sleeves and his slim fingers fastened buttons and stuffed his stray shirt tails into his slacks.

You saw the evidence. Baekhyun had a full-on, sex-ready erection sending a bulge of black underwear through the open zipper of his pants and your arrousal/irritation that he would deny you so easily was temporarily halted by your genuine curiosity now.

You watched as he grabbed it. Just wrapped his right hand right around and his face twisted into one of pain as he seemed to squeeze down quite hard.

“Baek—don‘t...hurt yourself,” he looked like he was choking the life out of it and your voice took on a tone of genuine concern. You had seen one sex related injury come into your practicals at the hospital just this past week. The last thing this man (you) needed was to pull or strain something and be unable to fuck you later. You hadn’t seen him for a whole month. You did not want to wait even longer because he’d gone and broke his dick just because you had teased him too much.

His face ticked toward the phone and with all the ire and annoyance of a truly sexually denied man his words clipped back at you, “I’ve owned it longer than you have, darling. I know what I’m doing.” You held back the eye roll. You could write novels of all the ways you’d seen people hurt themselves when they had been positive they knew what they were doing.

Seemingly satisfied with his self aggression, Baekhyun pulled the thing up and with his other hand began zipping up slacks and shifting and pulling fabric around the offending appendage.

When he was all done, you had to admit it was hardly even noticeable unless you were you and you knew exactly the shape, length, width, and girth well enough to make out the exact outline of that dick inside of those pants. Of course you would easily find what was yours.

“I can still see it,” you said with a smug smile and his focus shot back at you with an equally smug grin.

“And I can still see what’s mine. All decorated so sparkly and pretty just for me. I might decide to add a pearl necklace too. If you love wearing my diamonds this much, perhaps you’d enjoy walking around with my cum on your tits all night.”

Your hand flew up to cover your mouth and you gasped. You actually scandalized-church-nun gasped right out loud and the action betrayed you entirely against your will.

Perhaps more shocking than the words themselves was the sudden realization that your own arousal seemed to be the one betraying you.

The image he had put into your mind...it sounded so filthy, and so damn tempting. To be marked as his so obviously. This man was so desired by so many, yet there was only one for him.

Only you.

Could this possibly be why you took to the jewels so strongly?

Your response came out sounding more like a dare than a denial.

“You wouldn’t.”

He leveled his eyes and that frustrated look on his face shifted into one of sudden understanding. A single eyebrow bobbed above his eye.

“Ohh,” he whispered inside of a breath and the corners of his lips pulled into a smile, “oh, you do want that, don't you?”

You felt unable to formulate a response. You doubted the question was rhetorical, yet you felt too stunned and too affected to reply.

“You know, it makes me so very excited to give you pretty things. Expensive things. Things that will show off your beauty. Things that show everyone that you are mine.

I would give you anything you wanted, my love. Anything.”

“Any—thing...” your words eked out slowly and softly in response to his, but there was little meaning in them. What you did feel deep inside your chest was a stronger sensation that had began to take root. Perhaps it had already been there; when you looked at him, through their eyes, the fans...when you saw the things they said about him, the yearnings and the longing they all expressed in elaborate and vivid ways.

And the feeling that grew inside of you as you watched them and all of their desperate wanting that was, again and again, denied.

When the cameras turned off and when the concert ended and the curtains closed and the staff went home and the acting ceased, Byun Baekhyun would pick up his phone and he would call you.

You would be at home or at school or in the subway or having lunch and your phone would ring and you would get his tired sighs or the subtle smiles and the pet names and when the stars aligned and his time off would coincide with your time off, your door would open and you would get his face and his lips and his smell and his skin and they...they had no idea.

This part was for you only.

And that feeling would surge again, just as it did when you unwrapped some gift he gave you, or opened your student loan statements to find that he had, again, made the last payment for you because the due date was coming up and you were going to be late due to your work payment schedule not quite aligning with the due date of the loan payment.

That feeling, it wasn’t quite the same as pride. It wasn’t smugness, or boasting that was fueling this, but it was an intense satisfaction that you were the lucky one. The one fortunate enough to receive his love. Baekhyun always found a way to make you feel like the absolute most important human in his world and even sitting here on the phone with him wearing the expensive diamonds he gave you, you could feel the profound gratitude that your life and his life had intertwined at such an important time as it had. That you had been given the chance to be loved and to love such a brilliantly beautiful man.

It made you feel the kind of special that did not happen to many people.

Baekhyun was dressed now. He was straightening a tie in a mirror and giving another rough tug at his waistband and he stood again in front of his phone, bending at the waist to place his pretty face into the frame of your video call.

You had given up on touching yourself by now. What was the point when he wouldn’t watch you do it.

“I’ll see you in an hour. You won't be late will you?” His voice still sounded huskier than usual but he was making the shift into business mode.  You could tell in the way he straightened out his face, blinking his eyes wide before squeezing them tight and shaking his head a little bit to rid himself of whatever leftover effects of you might still remain there.

He was magical sometimes, the strength of character this man had inside of him was astounding.

After a few throat clears he opened his eyes. Baekhyun lightly kissed his fingertips and blew the tiny kiss toward you and responded with a little nose scrunch when you caught the kiss in the air in front of you quickly, before it could vanish, you laid it over your heart, where you liked to keep all of his long distance kisses.

The call went black and he was gone for now and you pushed yourself to your feet to finish getting ready for tonight.

[ part 2]

IGU Deleted scenes masterlist

[tanzen-neko]

Through the Looking Glass (Gavin-MLQC)

Through the Looking Glass (Gavin-MLQC)

Mr. Love Queen’s Choice: Solo!Gavin

Warnings: Accidental (?) Voyeurism, Solo Masturbation

 Gavin hung up his cell phone and let out a sigh. He glanced around the dark street to make sure it was deserted before he pushed himself off and into the air. Savoring the light caress of the wind on his face, he let himself mindlessly drift through the night sky. He had just gotten off of the phone with another “officer” who was following a lead on Black Swan. Gavin was growing frustrated with the dead ends, and his inability to keep MC completely safe. Not for the first time since knowing her, he was caught up in the urge to throw her over his shoulder, carry her to his apartment, and keep her locked up there until he removed every single threat. His hair blew across his eyes as he admitted to himself the main reason he wanted to keep her there. It was getting harder and harder to control his urges around her, and resist reaching out even to touch her hair. Every brush of her arm against him, or every sweet blushing smile sent his way had his ears burning and his mind full of improper thoughts. He was trying his damndest to shove them down knowing she only viewed him as a friend. For Christ sake, it wasn’t that long ago that she was afraid of him. It still stung that she had never read his letter to her, and for years he had made himself content with just watching and protecting her from afar. Now that she was directly in his life again however, it was almost too much for him. So in an effort to distance himself from her, he would avoid returning her messages sometimes or telling her how he really felt. Still, like a moth to a flame he was drawn to her almost against his will. Even now, he realized he had drifted along the wind to her apartment, and as usual she had the blinds wide open. Though she lived on the third floor, Gavin still felt a tinge of worry at her lackadaisical security measures.

“I’ll just shoot a glance in to make sure she’s ok. If she’s still up it may have been a hard day at work for her, “he thought as he drifted closer to her balcony. Not wanting to startle her, he kept out of her gaze as he watched her. Sure enough, she was still surrounded by various papers and folders, a frown marring her brow. He longed to reach out, and soothe it away. Her hair was slung up in a messy bun, and he could see the graceful curve of her neck, the collar of her wrinkled blouse concealing the spot where he often fantasized about placing his teeth. She grabbed a carton of instant noodles, and slurped them down absentmindedly as the light caught the gingko leaf bracelet dangling on her wrist. He felt himself break out in a smile at her terrible dinner, and made a mental note to scold her about a proper meal even though he himself was often guilty of the same. He wasn’t sure how long he floated there, content with watching her work, but it must have been a while, for when she picked up her cell phone to check the time, she had a look of surprise of her face. She stood up quickly, stretching her back before gathering up all the papers. He knew he should leave right then and there, but he couldn’t bring himself to.

“I’ll just make sure she gets in bed, then I’ll leave,” he told himself. Though it wasn’t the full reason, he was genuinely concerned about her lately. She was so worried about impressing her boss that she had been working herself harder than she should. He didn’t like the bags forming under her eyes, or the peaky complexion she was gaining lately. Even from his distance he could tell how tired she was. Which is why he shouldn’t have been so surprised when she started stripping right then and there. And yet when he saw her hands go up to the small pearl like buttons on her blouse, his mind didn’t put two and two together. It wasn’t until she had made it down to her midsection before he realized what was going on.

“Look away! Look away!” he commanded himself, but it was like his body had separated from his mind. He floated, riveted on the spot as she shrugged out of the blouse, and made quick work on her skirt. His mind finally registered the sight in front of him, and he inhaled sharply at the sight. His sweet, innocent girl had on the laciest lingerie set he had ever seen. It was a deep, velvety red ending with scalloped lace that gently cupped the top of her breast. Completely see through, he could make out the dusky outline of her nipples. The matching underwear was slung low across her rounded hips. She turned while pulling her feet out of the skirt, and he felt his pants tighten at the tiny dangling gold charm that was smack center at the top of her underwear’s hemline.

He had time to drink in her form as she let her hair down: the gentle rounding of her stomach, the high arch of her breasts, the way her legs gracefully curved to those trim ankles he would love to press his lips against. As she reached behind her back to the clasp of her bra, he finally came to his senses. He forcefully pushed off into the air to the roof of the complex, his face burning in shame for having stood there and watched her for so long. Luckily for him, the roof complex wasn’t very brightly lit, and as he pressed his burning forehead against the side of the concrete wall enclosing the stairs, he was grateful for the shadows concealing his form. His brain was in a battle between berating him for his peeping tom tendencies and the most erotic sight he could have hoped to ever witness. The red lingerie was wreaking havoc on him, and he palmed himself through his pants. In all his fantasies, she had never worn something so bold, and overtly sexual. She was so innocent with her high collared blouses, and wide eyes. He had imagined her underwear to match the same. Clearly he was wrong, and while the thought that she had found more experience with another man from her past twisted his heart a little, it was overruled by his desire to test just how experienced she was.

Almost subconsciously, his eyes drifted shut as his hand untucked his shirt. Would she know where and how to touch a man? He glided his hand lightly across his chest and raked his nails gently across his abs before starting on his belt buckle. Would she too shy to undress him, or would she meet his gaze with a newfound boldness as she undid the buckle of his belt and his pants? He pictured her small hands combing through his pubic hair, tickling him slightly as she ventured lower. He let out a hiss when he gripped himself, his erection hot and heavy in his palm. As he started slowly pumping himself, he imagined what it would be like to kiss her. Her soft arms thrown around his neck clutching his hair to keep herself grounded as he gripped her tightly by the hips. The little gasp she would let out when he swept his tongue into her mouth, and explored her. Gavin shook his legs to drop his pants lower, his boxers soon following. He swirled the precum leaking from him across the tip of his head, shuddering slightly as he teased himself. He knew his kisses with her would soon turn dominate, and rough. Would she moan her approval, or pull away afraid of his desire for him? In his mind, she would draw him closer, and press her breasts against his chest as he broke the kiss to lick along the tantalizing lines of her neck. He’d bit gently at the beautiful hollow at her throat, swirling his tongue to catch the salty taste of her skin.  He let out a curse as he cupped his balls and kneaded them. God, what he wouldn’t do to replace his calloused palm with hers. His pumping picked up pace, and he added a twist when he got to his tip. Almost of his own accord his hips began moving with his pace. Biting his lip, he pictured himself laying her down on the sofa, scattering all her documents to the floor as he placed himself snugly between her legs. The pink tinging her cheeks would soon cover the rest of her skin in its rosy tint. Skin he could mark and claim for his own. Painting on her the strength of his want and passion for her. When he took off her bra would she grow shy and cross her arms across her chest? Even if she did, he would remove them, kissing the palms of her hands as he pinned them to her side, words of praise coming from his mouth. He would love to kiss and knead her breasts, running his tongue over those enticing nipples he had gotten just a glimmer of.  The kisses he would trail down her body would leave her panting in anticipation, and when he flicked his tongue over the little charm at the top of her underwear before roughly pulling them off, she would timidly spread her legs for his eyes. Her sex would be glistening, pulling him in, and he let out a strangled groan at the thought of delving his head there. He would press his fingers into all that silken heat, marveling at how tight she was. Curling his trigger finger just right to pull a shout from her. When he couldn’t stand it any longer, he would bring his mouth to her. He would stay there, licking her slit in a teasing manner until she gasped out a beg for him to get her where she so desperately needed to be. And he would grant her the wish. Diving his tongue deep inside her, pushing against her clit with his nose, he would feast on her as if he were a starving man, and she was the only thing that could save him. She’d writher and flail under his assault, threading her fingers through his hair. He picked up the pace of his pumps, bracing a hand against the wall. His breaths were coming out quicker now, and he imagined hers would be the same. He would sense that she was close, and break away only to hoist her legs over his shoulder, and bring a hand to rub on her clit. Would she tell him she was coming, or just let it happen? Would she gasp out his name in wonder before her body fell apart? She would call his name in the same strangled tone he said hers, her thighs squeezing tight against his head as her body was wracked with wave after wave of pleasure. He wouldn’t stop there either. He wouldn’t stop until she was sobbing tears of release, her arousal filling his mouth, and coating his face like a badge of honor that he wore with pride. The knot was getting tighter and tighter in his lower belly, but he didn’t want it to end, didn’t want to go back to a reality where he couldn’t make this fantasy come true. He gritted his teeth, as he thought of more. Would she push him away from her when it became too much, or would she enjoy the sweet torture, arms flopping uselessly to her sides? When he finally had mercy on her, and lowered her quaking legs, he imagined she would pull him into a kiss. She would shove her tongue fiercely into his mouth, arms around his neck almost choking him as she tasted herself on his tongue. This image set Gavin over the edge. He came with a shout, coating the wall. His knees almost gave out with the force of his orgasm, and he kept stroking himself seeking every ounce of pleasure he could. It ended all too soon, and he licked the cum off of his fingers before tidying up his pants. He let out a slow exhale, and felt his guilty conscience soar. He wasn’t usually this impulsive, and still felt bad at the length in which he watched her undress. But he would be lying to himself if he said he regretted the experience. To ease his mind, he decided to check on her once last time before heading home. Hands in his pockets, he drifted back along the wind to her window, and noted with satisfaction that the blinds were drawn, and the lights off. He quickly flew back to where he had left his motorcycle.

Tossing his helmet back and forth between his hands, he finally made up his mind. He couldn’t keep going on like this, trying to smother down his feelings and subjecting both of them to his hot and cold attitude. He knew that he was gruff, and not very romantic, but they had been spending so much time together lately, he was hoping that she was beginning to see him in a different light. He wouldn’t know unless he tried, however. So while he knew he wasn’t quite brave enough to sing sonnets to her from the rooftops, he was going to try and do all he could to finally express to her just how much he cared about her. Feeling a weight shift off of his shoulder, Gavin hopped up his motorcycle and sped home, his mind racing with ideas, and his heart full of hope.

[heartslogos]

mafia!verse: hunting season [8]

They removed Tim’s breathing circuit and switched him to a regular nasal mask a few hours ago. The doctors said that he should be out of the realm of respiratory failure, but Tim’s lungs are still weak and they’re observing for signs of infection. The possibility for one of his lungs to rupture a second time once he’s mobile is not out of the realm of imagination.

It feels like Bruce has been here watching Tim for any sign of movement or change for weeks and minutes at the same time. As though he blinked and he was suddenly in this room with Tim lying prone on the hospital bed, looking gray and washed out. And simultaneously — it feels like he’s always been here.

He needs to go back to the manor. He needs to shower, change, talk with Alfred, answer his messages, make arrangements for who will take care of business while Tim is in recovery. He needs to check in on WE and see where projects stand. Bruce needs to check in on his other children to see how they’re handling — not well, most likely.

He closes his eyes and all he can see is a flash of pearls, shadows, red numbers, and the brilliance of several pounds of C4. Bruce closes his eyes and it’s every death at once. He opens them to a possible death in progress and he feels so very, very old. And young. Bruce exists outside of time and is shackled to its steady, indifferent progression. He is a young boy suddenly alone and he is a grown man having people slip through his fingers.

Like blood. Like sand. Like pearls.

But he can’t seem to move. He’s anchored here. Unable to look away, and also somehow, unable to look closer. Bruce doesn’t know if he can handle the details of Tim’s self-destructive nature, but to look away is somehow a disservice. And if he looks away — what if that’s the last he ever sees?

He hears Cassandra lightly rap her knuckles on the door frame.

“Jason and I are heading out,” Cass says. She’s always quiet, but her voice is somehow too loud in this room that’s just Bruce and the machines working at recording Tim’s literal life. “Dick’s on his way. Can he come in?”

Bruce nods. He should say something. He should ask her how she is. He should ask how things are looking outside of the world of Tim’s hospital room. “Take care of each other.”

Cass closes the door with a purposeful click and Bruce closes his eyes.

Pearls. Shadows. Numbers. Heat-light. Now this. The glow of monitors, the light through slatted blinds, the murmur of hospital noise.

So much to be contained in the blink of an eye. So much to be lost.

The sound of the machines changes and his eyes slam open, all of his focus narrowed down to this room, this moment, this.

Tim’s eyes flutter and Bruce is there, standing next to him. His hand hovers over Tim, unsure of where is safe to touch, before uselessly resting on the hospital bed next to Tim’s head.

Blue eyes slide open, hazy and Tim’s arms weakly start to move.

“Tim,” Bruce says, careful, “Tim, you’re in the hospital. Don’t move. Can you understand me?”

Tim’s lips move, sound imperceptible.

His eyes close again, brows twitching downward in frustration.

“Are you in pain?” Bruce asks. Tim turns his head slightly towards Bruce. “I’ll get a nurse.”

Tim’s eyes open and he fixes his gaze on Bruce, hand attempting to raise — uncertain and weak. His fingers curl feebly.

Tim’s mouth opens and closes mutely, trying to speak. His words come out as quiet puffs, mere exhales. Tim frowns in frustration.

Bruce puts a hand as lightly as he can on Tim’s shoulder, the other on the hand raised.

“No,” Tim’s mouth shapes clearly.

“Stay down,” Bruce says as gently as he knows how, “You had three gunshot wounds. One of them broke some ribs.”

Tim’s eyes close, but Bruce can see them flickering behind his pale eyelids. Thinking.

“Stop,” Bruce insists. “You need to rest, recover.”

Tim’s head shakes minutely. Bruce wonders how hard Tim is struggling for coherency right now. How much of all of this Tim’s actually processing.

Tim tries to speak again, but Bruce can’t catch it.

He leans forward, as Time draws in another breath.

“Fabricci, Warren, Sullivan, Carlisle — “

Bruce’s body almost flinches away, shock and despair.

Tim’s first words out of waking up from surgery after nearly being killed after a car chase around North Gotham and a shoot out is to list names.

Bruce closes his eyes. He forces himself to focus.

Pearls. Numbers. Monitors.

He listens. He takes each name that Tim survived to speak of and burns them into his memory.

“Ibanescu, Reds,” Tim’s whisper tapers out. When Bruce turns to look Tim’s fallen unconscious again. He doesn’t know if that’s all the names or if Tim finished.

He looks up as the door opens, light spilling into the room.

Dick stands there, a nurse behind him.

“He was awake,” Bruce says to them both, “But he’s fallen asleep again.”

Dick makes room for the nurse to check Tim’s vitals and Bruce goes to join him in the hallway.

“Did he say anything?” Dick asks.

“Names,” Bruce closes his eyes, and puts a hand over his face. “First thing he says right after waking up is a list of names.”

Dick is quiet for a moment before he says, carefully, “Are you going to share those names with me or should I guess?”

“Most are the same as what Damian already told us,” Bruce replies. “We’ll talk about this later.”

When Bruce opens his eyes to look at his eldest Dick looks distinctly unhappy with his rebuff, but he also looks like he isn’t willing to press it. At least, not here, not now. If it was Jason or Cassandra standing in front of him right now, Bruce is sure that it would be a different story.

“Go home,” Dick says, expression softening. He squeezes Bruce’s shoulder. “You look like a mess. I’m sure it’d knock Tim right out again if he woke up and first thing he saw was you looking like this.”

“He did, technically, see me like this.”

“See you while lucid, B.” Neither of them point out that he was lucid enough to pass on names. It’s the banter, it’s the small talk, it’s the social protocol that’s necessary. Dick sighs. “I’ll be here.”

“You look worse than me,” Bruce points out, gaze pointedly going towards a faint pink smear at the corner of Dick’s cuff. Dick made the effort to wash the blood out, at least. But out of all of them the only one who’s ever really mastered Alfred’s ability to remove stains is — actually. None of them.

“But I’ve got a beautiful face,” Dick replies. “And a generally sunny disposition. If he opens his eyes — lucid this time — and sees you looking like you’re attending a wake he’s going to think he died for real.”

[unpack-my-heart]

I Have Crossed Oceans Of Time To Find You

Fic Tag List: @sunshines-fabulous-legs @perrytheplatypus4president @stellarbisexual @rainbow-reddie @pulitzerandhearst​ @qwertsod​

Perma tag list: @xandertheundead @tinyarmedtrex @constantreaderfool​ @violetreddie @moonlightrichie @appojoos @eds-trashmouth​ @toziesque​

Chapter One [click HERE to read on AO3] : [WC 6794]

The sleepy town of Krov died in 1539, and no one heard its death rattle. Ask a historian, and they’ll tell you that it was the pestilence that finished Krov off, that death had swung his buboed scythe just enough times to ensure that the entire town was swallowed by the gaping maw of the plague pit. Those who could afford to migrate south to Brașov did so, plague snapping at their heels as they ran. Those bound to the town with invisible manacles barricaded themselves in their small houses and prayed feverishly to a deaf God. Now dead, the body of the town sailed straight past rigor mortis and steam rolled into rot and ruin. Buildings crumbled, and wild flowers sprouted, vein-like, in the cracks.

The only building that remained stood proud and untouched by the hand of decay at the top of the tallest hill, a splintered pearl-white rib jutting out of a wound.

The town of Krov heaved its last staccato breath in 1439, and in 1893, Richard Tozier, hands scrabbling against pallid skin, followed suit.

Ever since he was a boy, Richard had been fascinated by maps. When he was an infant, still attached to his mother’s breast, he’d watched as his father, back hunched and eyes squinting, had drawn the swooping, dancing lines of the town.

“Is that our house?” Richard had lisped when he was older, with a tongue that still felt too large in his small mouth.

“Yes,” his father confirmed, “that’s our house, and that’s where the tree is that you fell out of, and that’s where your grandmother lives, and that’s where …”

Richard had watched with fascination, eyes glued to the rustly piece of paper, as his father pointed at each landmark. His father told him that he’s a cartographer, someone standing on the shoulders of the many great men who came before, men who charted the land with careful eyes and dancing lines. With his thumb lodged firmly in his mouth, Richard had confidently announced that he wanted to be a cart-grapher too.

– X –

The tale of the disappearing town had fast become Richard’s favourite bedtime story. When Brașov marched into the mists of winter, the nights drawing in earlier and earlier, young Richard could be found tucked up in bed, head poking out from under the thick, scratchy blanket.

“Tell me the story about the disappearing town again?”

At that, the question that came, like clockwork, at the time of year when the blustery winds hammered on the windowpanes with fleeting fingers, his father rolled his eyes.

“You know this story just about as well as I do, Richie”

And, as he always did, Richard would squeal with faux-frustration until his father, with a tut and a sigh, relented.

“Once upon a time, a long long time ago, in a small town called Krov …”

– X –

True to his six year old self, Richard apprenticed with his father in the art of cartography when he came of age. Like his father, with steady hands, Richard immortalised the boundaries of his home town, the houses, the forest on the eastern most edge of the town, the church with its singing bells. Now fluent in lines of longitude, Richard slowly built up an impressive portfolio, expansive enough to rival even his fathers. Still, when the snow fell from the sky in great woollen clumps, Richard found himself sprawled on the floor in front of the raging fire, gazing up at his father.

“Do tell me the tale of the disappearing town, just one last time”

“That’s what you said last year, and the year before that, and the year before that and –”

“I know! I know. I am a rotten liar, but please, tell me just one last time”

“How about you tell me the story, since I am now a weary old man,” his father scolded, the fire dancing in the watery sheen coating his eyes.

Shifting onto his back, Richard closed his eyes, and began to speak.

“Once upon a time, a long long time ago, in a small town called Krov … wait, father?”

“Yes, child?”

“Why is Krov not on the big map in your study?”

His father rolled his eyes. “Why on earth would a mythological place be on a map?”

“Maybe people just haven’t put enough effort into finding it,” Richard mumbled, as he stared up at the cracks that divided the ceiling into fictional countries.

– X –

Richard’s obsession with the story of the disappearing town only deepened after that conversation. Blindly convinced that the town could never be anything but real, Richard devoted large portions of his time to pouring through printed collections of maps of the region, basing his search off the vague references to an unusually large and dense forest collected at the belly of a mountain range the town was near . Confident that he’d plotted the 100 mile radius that the town must be located in, Richard intensified his search, picking through map after map, going back four centuries, searching for the elusive town.

However, the search proved fruitless. Exhausted and bleary eyed, Richard scooped the pile of crinkly maps up into his arms, intending to throw them onto the fire in a fit of sleep-deprived impulsivity when a fresh, crisp map fluttered to the floor like a leaf carried by a lazy autumn breeze. Dropping the rest of the papers to the floor, Richard stooped and picked up the errant map, and inspected it.

The Northern Transylvanian Region (1530)

The map, though ostensibly entirely unremarkable, felt inexplicably hot in Richard’s hands, as if he’d just wrenched it from a hungry flame. Tracing the roads with a trembling finger, Richard’s eyes fell upon a faint, but very obviously present, line that he’d not noticed in the previous maps.  Dropping to his knees, Richard spread out the other maps of northern Transylvania, eyes searching for, but never finding, the line. Scrabbling once more for the 1530 map, Richard again located the faint line, but this time, looked closer. Bringing the paper but millimetres from his face, he noticed six tiny, blink-and-you’ll-miss-them words, written neatly besides the line.

‘the road that leads to Nowhere’

The road, connected to the main street running through the small town of Zhizn, curved in a gradual arc that halted before it even attempted to connect to another road. It stopped, abruptly, in the middle of an empty section of map, jutting out from the rest of the lines awkwardly, like the cartographer had become distracted and forgotten to finish it.

A small part of him, a part of him that had been born the moment he had laid eyes on those six words, knew he’d found it. If Krov was to be anywhere, it was here. This infant part of him screamed with the lungs of a newborn, it’s here it’s here it’s here it’s here, and then, in a voice that wasn’t his own, slick and dripping with rot, it spoke again,

seek Him.

– X –

Richard didn’t recognise the name on the back of the map. He asked his father if he had ever heard of a sixteenth-century cartographer called J Alexe, and his father nodded his head enthusiastically.

“Yes, I worked with him over twenty years ago now. I haven’t spoken to him in years, why do you ask?”

“No significant reason,” Richard had replied, playing at inconspicuous, “I just found an map he drew a few years ago and was curious”

“Oh? I didn’t think he’d published anything for several years after – well. I think I have an old letter of his”

With that, his father stood from his chair, knees creaking, and shuffled into his study. Several minutes later he emerged, waving a crumpled letter victoriously in his hands.

“See, here. He said he was retiring from the craft, but the old devil mustn’t have been able to resist her siren call. Could you show me the map once you’re done with it?”

“Of course”

Taking the letter from his father’s hands, under the pretence of reading the rather dry conversation about cartography tools, Richard internally memorised the return address.

– X –

Dear Mr Alexe,

I do hope you won’t mind me contacting you. I am the son of Wentworth Tozier, I believe you worked together many times. The reason for this letter is that I found a copy of your map of northern Transylvania in the fourteenth-century, and I notice that there is a road marked ‘the road to nowhere’. I was wondering if you would be able to confirm whether this road leads to the city of Krov?

Many thanks,

Richard Wentworth Tozier

Immediately after finishing his letter, Richard folded the paper in half, before carefully sliding it into a cream coloured envelope. Impulsively, with the eagerness of a child, he all but ran to the post office, sending the letter off to, hopefully, reach its desired recipient in full health.

When he arrived home, his father waved a shiny black envelope in his face.

“This arrived for you”

Richard took the envelope from his father, retreated to his bedroom, and ripped it open.

Mr Tozier,

It is wonderful to make your acquaintance. I have admired your father since we met long ago, and it is a long awaited privilege to speak with you. I believe the map you are enquiring about is simply the object of a joke once played on your father, who was once enthralled by the story of Krov.–

A thick blot of black ink strikes through the next line, obscuring it so Richard cannot read it; the word ‘home’ barely visible near the margin.

–I assume by your letter that Wentworth’s indulgence in the story of Krov has not faltered, unless this obsession is hereditary. These are li- (again, the rest of the line has been struck through in thick black ink). I can assure you that the road to Nowhere leads not to nothing, but to something that cannot be explained using ink. It’s true that Krov no longer has a heartbeat, but it still breathes. Listen for it.

And then, right at the bottom of the page, scrawled in a crusted, brown liquid, two words.

seek Him.

– X –

The decision to travel to Krov, following the road that lead to Nowhere, came to Richard as easily as the decision to send the letter to Alexe in the first place. He had spun his father a lie out of golden thread, told him that he was going to travel north, up towards Zhizn (this, of course, only a half lie) with the intention of visiting an old archive kept in the town hall. Such a town hall, and such an archive, didn’t exist, but his father didn’t know that.

Richard left on a frigid Monday, breath visible in the air when he’d bid his father farewell at the station. The train, a rickety thing that jaunted across the Romanian landscape like a drunk staggering home, wound this way and that, until, nearly a full day later, it pulled into the station at Zhizn. Richard wasted no time wandering the windy streets of Zhizn, instead, he walked with purpose into the tavern, door swinging violently behind him. A stunned hush fell over the patrons of the tavern, as they all turned with dinner-plate eyes to stare at the newcomer with wild hair and bottle-top glasses. The young woman stood behind the bar, glass of honey’d liquid frozen in the air comically, stared at him with curious eyes.

“Glass of ale, sir?”

“That would be marvellous,” Richard replied, and the quiet chatter resumed around him.

The tavern was fairly small, with a creaking wooden floor that sung out every time Richard took a step towards the bar.

“New around here, are you?” the barmaid asked, busying herself with pouring Richard’s drink.

“Yes. I’ve come up from Brașov, I’m trying to find a town that’s near here, perhaps you’ve heard of it”

“Aren’t any towns near here, Sir. Not for miles”

“Ah, but there is. It’s on this map, see,” Richard fished in his pocket, looking for J. Alexe’s map that he’d folded into tiny pieces, small enough to fit snugly in the pocket of his jacket.

Locating it, he pulled the map out and unfolded it on the bar. The barmaid, expression a hybrid bemused-annoyed, stared blankly at it. With eager fingers, Richard jabbed at the road to Nowhere.

“Here, I have reason to believe there’s a town at the end of this road, a town called Krov, have you –”

At the mention of the word Krov, the barmaid gagged dramatically, a great retch that sounded like it had been pulled directly from the very pit of her stomach. The noise startled Richard, his sentence extinguished abruptly like a flame.

“Are you alright, can I help? Do you need –”

“Stop,” the barmaid commanded, sticking her hands out in front of her, defensively, “I need nothing from you. I just … that place”

At that, Richard noticed that the quiet chatter had died down once more, and the silence hung itself oppressively around his neck.

“We don’t speak of that town here, lad,” a man called out, obscured by shadow, “not anymore. Not for centuries”

“Why ever not?”

“Brings bad things if you mention it. That word hasn’t been spoken on this here soil for decades and we’ve been just fine”

“See, I was hoping that I’d find someone to take me there, I have no transport”

“There’s no one here that’ll take you. You best go back where you came from, forget you ever came here, forget about that … place. No sane man would take you there” the barmaid insisted.

“How much are you paying?” the man from the shadows interrupted, slamming his glass down on the bar top.

“As much as it’ll take”

“It’s gonna cost you,” the man warned, but Richard shook his head.

“I’ll pay anything”

“It’ll cost you everything”

– X –

The man, William Denbrough, was a drunk. Richard learnt that almost immediately. As William stood up, with every intention of leading Richard and his luggage to his cart, but this plan had been interrupted by his inebriated brains inability to keep himself upright. Richard watched as William staggered, and then fell to his knees as if in prayer, all the while laughing rather manically to himself.

“Er … Do you need help?”

“Naw, leave him be. He’s fine, just a bit giddy. Give him a few minutes and he’ll be right as rain,” The barmaid laughed, scrubbing the inside of a glass with a cloth.

“Is he here a lot?”

She nodded. “Every day like clockwork. He always says to me, ‘Bev, keep me out’, but his habit pays half of my wage, so, I let him in every time”

By that point, William had managed to haul himself to his feet, and was walking towards the door on unsteady feet. Richard said goodbye to the barmaid, and followed William out of the door. With rough, calloused hands, William threw Richard’s luggage unceremoniously onto the back of his cart, before clambering onto it and, barely giving Richard a chance to hop on himself, urged his horse onwards.

The journey took a little over two hours, and, try as he might, Richard could coax very little information out of his chauffer.

“How many times have you been to Krov?”

“I haven’t”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know”

“Do you know if anyone lives there?”

“I don’t know”

“Do you know when the town disappeared off the map?”

“I don’t know”

“Do you know why the town disappeared off the map?”

“I don’t know”

William’s mantra, ‘I don’t know’, echoed in Richard’s mind for the rest of the journey, which they spent in uncomfortable silence. Thirty minutes before they stopped, William’s horse became unsettled, whickering and whinnying loudly. Fifteen minutes before they stopped, the horse began to sweat, despite the aggressive chill that seeped into Richard’s marrow. Five minutes before they stopped, the horse bucked wildly, eyes wide and white.

“He won’t go on, you’ll have to walk from here. I’ll be back for you in five hours, leave your luggage with me” William muttered, climbing off his cart and running a soothing hand down the horses sodden neck.

“I see. Is it far from here?” Richard asked, climbing down.

“No, a ten minute walk or so”

“How will I know if I’m in the right place?”

“You’ll know,” William said, and, with a grimace, continued.

“You’ll smell it”

With that, and without any further explanation, William Denbrough and his petrified horse disappeared back down the track, leaving Richard standing dumbly on the side of the dusty path.

– X –

Cursing William Denbrough and his alcohol-hazed brain, Richard had trudged down the path for nearly thirty minutes before he reached any indication that he was going in the right direction. As he pushed his way through a thicket of thorny bushes that obscured the path, a huge wooden sign loomed ominously overhead.

KROV.

Richard stared at the sign, unblinking, unbreathing. Krov. Seeing the word, written down in letters as large as his arm span, set Richard’s blood on fire. As plain as day and night, as real as the sun and stars, there it was, written in chipped paint on rotting wood. Krov.

Richard scurried past the sign, finally breaching the border of the town. As soon as he set foot past the boundary, however, Richard was hit by an overwhelming stink. The stench of decay hung heavy in the air. It was a cloying smell, a syrupy stench that stoppered his nostrils with the scent of death, of decaying plant matter, of wood left in the rain, mixed with something Richard couldn’t place. The sort of smell that attacked you, violently, unrelentingly, but the sort of smell you’d let assault you. The sort of smell you’d let devour you, consume you, subsume you. It was a smell that, deep in the hollow of his gut, Richard craved. Covering his nose and mouth with his hand, he pushed on.

The town, as Richard has expected, was entirely deserted. The buildings were nothing more than dilapidated old huts dotted slapdash along the main street, with the houses stood in hodgepodge rows like crumbling gravestones in a long-forgotten churchyard. Dead plants wound themselves around the houses, out through the windows, sprouting through cracks in the walls like hairs. As he picked his way down the street, stepping over centuries old detritus, Richard listened to the click-clacking of his shoes, echoing painfully loudly in the otherwise deafening silence that snaked its way through the town. There were no birds singing their evening songs, no insects chirping happily in the undergrowth, no leaves rustling in the autumn breeze. The sky was empty. The plants were dead. The air was still.

Fishing in his pocket for his notebook, Richard began to sketch the lines of the town, using little boxes to indicate where each building was. It had always been his intention to map this town, to discover it, to immortalise it, godlike. However, the further Richard ventured into the town, and the more streets he wandered down, pencil scribbling furiously, the worse his headache became. What had started as a dull echo in his head had swiftly become a cruel bellowing, a great roaring between his ears that caused his eyes to ache and his stomach to churn.  The wind had picked up, nipping furiously at his heels, and the thin overcoat he was wearing provided but little respite. Rubbing his hands together in hopes of generating some friction, Richard began to walk purposefully towards the nearest house, hoping to find shelter from the wind. However, a rogue and rotting tree root ensnared his foot in its grasp, throwing the entirety of his bodyweight against the house. The door gave way, splintering into thousands of tiny shards, and Richard fell to the ground with a loud thump.

“Son of a bitch!”

Richard’s head collided with the tough ground with a dull thwack, and he lay there for several seconds, groaning pitifully to himself. He lay on his back, watching as the dust danced daintily in the air, illuminated in technicolour by the thin strings of light that filtered in from the windows. Richard rolled onto his side, before hauling his protesting bones upwards. Standing on unsteady feet, he surveyed the small lodgings, that seemed to be just big enough for one. The house was cold, colder than it had been outside, and the sickly-sweet smell of decay was much stronger. Rolling his aching shoulders, Richard advanced towards the only identifiable thing in the room – a small wooden pallet bed – before recoiling in horror. On the bed, lying perfectly serene with its head on a straw pillow and its arms crossed over its chest, was a person. Or, more accurately, the remains of what had once been a person. Taking careful steps so as to not to disturb the eternally slumbering corpse, he approached the pallet bed. The bones didn’t move. Upon closer inspection, the rib cage had been caved in, and in the now cavernous and empty space, in the space where previously the heart had thrummed with the energy of life, was a small, brown leather book.

14th May 1539

Three more young men vanished from their beds the night before last. As before, all that remains is a bloody handprint. Mary came to visit, she tells me she is fleeing for Brașov in the morning light. I do not begrudge her this, but oh how I yearn to be taken from this place. I fear I shall die in my bed like a dog.

16th May 1539

They will leave me. I hear them, each day, children screaming, men shouting, women weeping. They will leave me here, to rot with the town. The chanting grows quieter each night. It does not work. For now, silence.

20th May 1539

I heard someone scream three nights ago. I have not heard anything since, not a whisper, not a groan, not a laugh, not a sob.

28th May 1539

I grow wearier and wearier each day. I am tormented by nightmares, of wheezing breaths, of hot saliva on feverish skin, of coal black eyes. It has come for me.

3rd June 1539

It comes each night. Each night, it stands by my bed, and it watches. Never speaks, only breathes. I, the coward, cannot look. I do not look at it, and yet it looks at me. I feel it. Perhaps tomorrow I shall look. Perhaps tomorrow I shall talk to it. Tomorrow, I will open my eyes, and see what looks back.

The leather book fell from Richard’s hands with a clattering thud. On the last page, written in an almost illegible scrawl,

seek Him.

– X –

Richard couldn’t breathe. The combination of the biting cold, the skeleton lying peacefully on the pallet bed with a splintered rib-cage, and the bizarre diary had spliced together, reaching for Richard’s throat with large, meaty arms. He had a job to do. That much, he could do. Chart the town, immortalise it on paper, and then never return. It was enough to know that it was real, to breathe the air, but he didn’t want to be here, in this strange, silent, rotting world, any longer than was absolutely necessary. Richard left the house, relief hot and heavy on his tongue like treacle, but was stopped in his tracks by a monster looming over the town with bright, yellow eyes.

How he hadn’t noticed the large manor house, with its illuminated windows and soaring turrets, when he’d first begun his exploration was a mystery. The mansion, large enough to perhaps be described as a castle, stood erect and proud atop a large cliff that overlooked the rest of Krov.  Something about the house, something about the way it stood against the grey sky, unnaturally, as if, at any moment, it would blink out of existence, tugged at Richard’s gut with slithering, persuading, hands.

Come. Come. Come.

As if on autopilot, with hurried footsteps, Richard began his ascent.

– X –

When Richard was nearly nine years old, his father had taken him on a brisk trek up one of the mountains near their house. His father had told him it wasn’t a mountain, that it had been, in fact, just a medium-sized hill, but Richard had bitterly complained otherwise. To him, and his bean-pole legs, that medium-sized hill was a Promethean effort, a mortal trying to scale the side of mount Olympus. This was nothing like that. This cliffside, at least four times as big as that medium-sized hill, was infinitely, suspiciously, easier. Richard expected his legs to give out at any point, expected his lungs to burn with the flames of exhaustion, but it never came. In fact, the headache that had been pummelling the inside of his skull continually since he began to breathe in the Krov air seemed to dissolve more and more with each step.

Soon enough, much sooner than he could have anticipated, Richard summited the cliff. His headache had entirely gone, and no memory of the debilitating pain remained. Staring at the mansion, the monstrosity that looked over the town with spiteful eyes and perfect stonework, Richard gulped. The windows, illuminated by a dim yellow light, stared back at him. Daring him, willing him, inviting him in with open arms and a hungry belly.

Richard graciously accepted.

– X –

The door opened easily. Stepping into the enormous entrance hall, Richard held his breath, as if the straining in his lungs would mask the clacking of his shoes on the worn marble floor. The air was musty, as if the house had been breathing the same air for centuries, but it was warm, a welcome change from the frigid air of the rest of the town, and it caressed the tundra of Richard’s skin. As he progressed further into the bowels of the mansion, the door swung shut suddenly behind him, lock clicking into place with a loud clack.  Richard stepped forwards with measured footsteps, advancing through the entrance hall quickly, searching for something he couldn’t quite name.

The mansion, he quickly discovered, was a rabbit’s warren of twisting corridors, hallways that lurched this way and that, doors that opened up onto brick walls, stairways that disappeared into thick, deep black voids. In every room, propped up in the corner like an afterthought, was a small brass candelabra. A candelabra that had four lit candles sat in pride of place, flame flickering despite the unmoving air.

He was not alone. That much was certain. It was a certainty that he’d been sure of since the moment he began his ascent, and perhaps, in the deep recesses of his brain, since the moment he set foot onto Krov soil. Even if it weren’t for the flickering yellow in the windows, Richard knew that the mansion, the breathing body amongst the cadaver of the town, held the key to something. The same something that made the stench of the town so appealing, the same something that compelled him to pocket the diary he’d found, and the same something that drew him here, up that cliffside, a magnet, helpless.

A scream, blood-curdling and raw, ripped its way through the silence, and then, abruptly, as if nothing had happened, it stopped. Despite every fibre of his being willing him not to investigate, screaming at him to run, to run far, far away and forget about Krov, he didn’t listen. On shaking, reckless legs, Richard walked towards the room where the scream had come from, opened the door, and came face to face with none other than William Denbrough.

William Denbrough’s corpse was sprawled face up on the floor of the room. His face had been twisted into a mask of not quite terror and not quite peace,  and the bones in his neck stuck out awkwardly, like someone had wrung him like a damp cloth. Blood was oozing in thick streams from two angry, rapidly bruising puncture wounds on his neck.

“He felt no pain”

Richard, who had been crouched on his knees in despair, slowly rose to his feet.

“He felt no pain. I snapped his neck as easily as a child snaps a twig, he felt nothing”

The voice, metallic and shimmery but human, almost human, spoke with quiet grace from the doorway.

“Wh-who are you?” Richard stuttered, voice gravelly and hoarse, a stark contrast to the velvety smoothness of the stranger.

“You know who I am”

seek Him seek Him seek Him seek Him seek Him seek Him

“You’re … You’re – you killed –”

The stranger stepped forwards, and placed a hand on Richard’s shoulder. Even through the layers of his overcoat and shirt, he could feel an icy coldness seeping through the fabric, leaking into his bones.  

“Richard,” the stranger implored, “turn around”

Richard did not turn.

“Turn”

“No. How do you know my name?”

“TURN!”

Richard turned, spinning on his heels like a top, and was confronted with the face of the most beautiful man he had ever seen. The strangers face, though pallid and pointed, looked as if it had been chiselled from the finest of marble with the careful hands of Pygmalion himself. The man was slightly shorter than Richard, but he stood erect, with his chin jutted forwards, a challenge. He wore a long, sweeping coat made of the thickest looking wool, with a black cravat tied in an elaborate knot around his neck. His hand, that still sat on Richard’s shoulder with a firm grip, was slender with a single, gold ring on the index finger.

“Richard,” the stranger began once again, but Richard cut him off impatiently.

“You know my name. You knew I was coming,” he stated dumbly, and the stranger nodded.

“I do, and I did”

“For how long?”

“For longer than you care to imagine”

“I’m rather imaginative, I’m sure I could –”

“For four centuries, I’ve known of this day,” the stranger said, voice ocean calm, “for four centuries, I’ve felt you, anticipated you, I’ve …” the stranger paused, staring into Richard’s eyes steadily, “I’ve smelt you”

Richard snorted. An ugly sort of laugh that escaped his nose without permission.

“Four centuries? Are you insane?”

“Quite the contrary”

“You snapped old Bill’s neck like it was nothing, like you do this sort of thing …” Richard’s voice died in his throat. “what are you?”

“My kind have had many names”

When Richard said nothing, the stranger continued.

“Perhaps you’ll know of us as strigoi, lurid beasts who bite and claw and scratch and gnash their awful teeth, or perhaps your father told you stories about the moroi who visit naughty little children under the cover of darkness and drain their bodies of life, or perhaps,” the stranger stopped, a strange, ugly smirk blooming on his mouth, “perhaps, you’ll know of my kind by a different name”

Richard, growing impatient, wrenched his shoulder away from the strangers hand. “Tell me”

“Vampire”

The last time he’d run for his life, Richard had been seven years old with a pocket full of stolen candy. This time, he wasn’t being chased by the old woman who ran the corner shop. This time, he wasn’t being chased at all. He had taken off at a screeching run when the stranger had muttered that word, that word that set his teeth on edge. Although he had expected the stranger, the vampire, to reach out and grab him, or to charge after him, he could only hear one set of pounding footsteps on the dusty carpet – his own.

Soon, when he’d reached what he thought was the door he’d entered the mansion through, a familiar voice floated into the room, carried on the stale air.

“Do you know how many years I’ve waited? Do you know what it’s like to crave something that doesn’t exist, that will not exist for centuries? Do you know how it feels to smell something so intoxicating, so delicious, so inviting, and have to wait?”

“Fuck off!” Richard shot back, voice shaking wildly, but he was met with the sound of whooping laughter.

“You’ll be back. You’ll come back to me, eventually. You’ll come straight back, and I’ll let you, just this once, Richard, I’ll let you”

– X –

It took three hours of pacing the grounds of the mansion for Richard to decide to venture back inside. For those three hours, Richard stalked the gardens like a stray cat marking its territory, hackles raised and teeth bared. Something in his gut, deep deep down, was pulling him straight back to the mansion, and straight back to the stranger. It wanted him. Richard had experienced his fair share of lust, longing looks at the blacksmith’s apprentice with the strong arms, letting his eyes linger for too long on the chest of the young woman who taught the children on a Wednesday morning. This was different. This wasn’t lust. This was hunger. This was an insatiable, unquenchable hunger that only abated when he was staring into those watery grey eyes, or when he thought about pressing his body, heaving and needy, against the body of the stranger.

Before he could push the door open, he looked up, up to the top window of the tallest turret, and there he was. Standing in the window, looking down at Richard with apathetic eyes but a wide, manic grin, was the vampire. When Richard pushed his way into the mansion, however, the vampire was standing on the balcony that overlooked the entrance hall.

“It took you less time than I had expected”

“What can I say, I’m decisive when I need to be,” Richard tried to joke, but the words fell to the ground, flat, with a squelch.

“You know, when I smelt you in the mansion for the first time, I thought I was hallucinating”

“Pardon?”

“I had waited for this day for so long, I have been so patient, that I did not trust my own nose when you finally arrived”

Unsure of what to say, Richard decided not to say anything at all. This seemed to be the correct answer, as the vampire began to descend the stairs slowly, almost performatively.

“I’ve been so patient,” the stranger repeated, “but you’re here now, and my century-long wait has, I suppose, come to an end”

“Your …” Richard muttered, pausing before he continued, reticent to hear the answer. “Your wait? Wait for what?”

“For you, of course”

“Me?”

“You” the vampire nodded.

By this point, the vampire had reached the bottom of the staircase. Richard steeled himself, but the vampire floated straight past him, but not before sending a, “call me Edward” in his direction.  

– X –

Edward was, by all accounts, a terrible host. He left Richard standing dumbly in the entrance hall, unsure whether to follow Edward or whether to take off screaming. Eventually, predictably, he followed the vampire down the twisting, turning labyrinth of hallways and into a surprisingly cosy room. There were lit torches hung in metal brackets on the wall, the smell of burning wood hanging comfortingly in the air. In the center of the room was a plush looking velvet couch, upon which Edward was reclined, an Adonis in repose, arm slung lazily behind his head.

“Come sit”

Richard hovered in the doorway, causing Edward to roll his eyes.

“Sit with me, I don’t bite,” he said, before chuckling to himself, “although, I would, you know. If you asked me to”

“What, like you bit William Denbrough and snapped the bones in his neck like sticks?”

Edward hissed out a laugh, stretching his arms behind his head luxuriously like a cat until his back cracked loudly.

“That was entirely different. I had no intention of, uh …”

“Of what?”

“Of turning him”

“Turning him?” Richard parroted, feeling faint once more. Edward, noticing this, rose to his feet.

“I really do insist that you sit. I’ll stand by the window, you do not even have to look at me, should you choose not to”

The couch did look inviting, all soft velvet and squashy cushions, so Richard picked his way over, sitting down on the cushions cautiously, like they might jump up and savage him if he moved too quickly.

“Is there anything you would like to know?” Edward asked, voice flippant and breezy, causing Richard to splutter indignantly.

“Anything I’d like to know?!” Richard repeated, “anything I’d like to know about what? Who or what the hell it is you say you are? What I’m doing here? Why it feels like I’m going to vomit out all of my internal organs when I so much as think about leaving this place?”

“Those are all valid questions,” Edward replied lightly.

“Let’s start with the last one, because that’s the only thing keeping me from running away as fast as I can and sending the police in to arrest you for murder”

Something shot across Edward’s face, something that Richard swore looked almost like hurt, but it was gone as soon as it had appeared.

“Your body is, um, well. Your body is bound to mine, and always has been. For centuries, we’ve been … linked, I suppose is the best way to describe it. Linked through a metaphysical bond that I cannot even begin to explain so do not ask me to”

“But –”

“I said do not,” Edward warned. “It is far too complicated. Your body is … it knows that mine has … changed”

“Changed?”

“Changed,” Edward confirmed with one short nod. “I suppose we were supposed to be the unlucky ones, the ones destined to be born centuries apart from their partner, but … that changed. I changed”

“Oh, the whole … vampire thing”

Edward flinched. “Yes. Do please be more flippant about it, you know how that thrills me”

“I don’t know anything about you,” Richard replied petulantly, but he sank back into the couch, relishing in the feeling of being surrounded by the soft cushions.

“You will. Know anything about me, I mean. You could know everything about me, but only if you want it. Only if you want … I shan’t keep you here against your will”

“I can’t leave, I tried to, before, but I couldn’t …”

“Eventually, when we have been sharing the same space long enough, the link will allow you to leave without feeling too sick. You’ll know it, though, for the rest of your days, you will never feel pure comfort again, but you will be able to live a normal life away from here. Away from me”

“and what if, hypothetically, I don’t … I don’t leave. What happens then?”

“Ah, that’s something we’ll talk about when you’re ready, when you’ve decided. For now, we drink”

In a flash, Edward had produced two crystal glasses, and a bottle of syrupy looking red liquid. Richard, who had never been much of a fan of alcohol, took the glass from Edward gingerly.

“Is this …”

“It’s wine, Richard. Wine.”

“I knew that, I was just … checking” Richard admitted guiltily, taking a small sip of the burgundy wine. It was sweet, and tasted like blackcurrant with a woody undertone, and Richard gulped it down happily.

“How long have you lived here?” he asked.

“Would you believe me if I told you it was so long that I have forgotten the exact length of time?”

“I suppose so”

“Well good. I do not remember when I arrived, but I remember when everybody else left”

Richard sucked in a breath, remembering the diary sitting hot and heavy in his coat pocket. “You mean the people of Krov?”

“I do. Even I, an undead creature of the night, get lonely. It is a very human emotion, loneliness”

“You’re not human”

“I was,” Edward spat back, venom dripping from the words. “I was, and I remember it so fondly, so vividly. I remember the crushing isolation, the months and months I spent without talking to another living soul that wasn’t my mother. I remember the hours I spent wishing I had a confidant, someone to share my wishes, hopes, sorrows, dreams with. And you, Richard Tozier, are that. You supposed to be that. My ally, my partner, and wish all you want that it was not be true, it will change nothing”

“So I’m your, what, your soulmate?”

Edward scoffed. “I do not believe in souls, but yes, I suppose the theory is the same”

“Only I could end up with a fucking vampire for a soulmate”

Edward hissed again, teeth bared sharp in his mouth. “I may have a heart that no longer beats in my chest but I am not immune to your barbed words, Tozier”

With that, Edward stood from where he was perched on the window sill and stalked out of the room, air buzzing in his wake.

[yodawgiherd]

Drought

Rating : E

>>>Read on AO3<<<

New year new me writing the same old stuff.... I mean, you guys asked for it :)

Enjoy!

Two weeks. Two weeks have passed since that nice night out they had when Eren took her out for dinner and drove her around to find that ice cream she liked. Two weeks since they made sweet love after coming home, slow and unrushed and satisfying in every possible way. Two weeks since Mikasa fell asleep in his arms, wishing for nothing that day. It was perfect.

And then, as usual, reality came. The next days were filled for both, with Mikasa being once again selected as a lead for a new collection by Kiyomi and Eren’s dedication for a better world making him take more overtimes. Between her photoshoots and his shifts, they simply had no time. And the Colosseum tournament in Vegas growing closer and closer every day didn’t help. Levi was adamant that Mikasa increases her training load, wanting her to be in top shape when that thing rolls around. All this translated into them not even seeing each other, often getting home when the other one was sleeping, and overall just missing any sort of interaction. It was mind-boggling really, how they managed to never bump into each other save for a few short moments, passing in the door or Mikasa waking when Eren slid into the bed with her and hugged her.

Knowing that the upcoming weekend they both have free schedules for once made Mikasa wake up with a smile, stretching in the bed. It was Friday, which meant that tomorrow the long drought will finally come to an end, in more ways than one. Mikasa didn’t want that much from life but going two weeks without having her boyfriend touch her even once did make her a bit frustrated. In theory, she could always take care of herself, god knows that they had more than enough toys to help her, but that just didn’t feel right. Tomorrow, she thought to herself, getting out of the bed and making her way downstairs. Tomorrow is the day.

Eren was gone, understandably, his shifts sometimes began in ungodly hours of the morning, but he left breakfast behind much to Mikasa’s delight. As she sat down to eat it, her eyes wandering over the table, she noticed another thing he left behind. An unassuming wooden box with a folded note on top. Curious, she picked the paper up, eyes scanning over the lines of Eren’s handwriting.

“Up for a little challenge?”, it said, the words ending with a winking smiley face.

Confused, she put the paper down, opening the box instead. Eyebrows rising, Mikasa knew that thing inside well, very well one might say, and the meaning of Eren’s message finally hit home. Beads connected by a string and a small bottle of lube weren’t something she expected to see first thing in the morning, but here they were, lying innocently in the box. It wasn’t that hard to understand what Eren wanted from her anymore. The question was, is Mikasa willing to go a full day with beads up her ass? Biting her bottom lip, she picked the toy up, inspecting the already known shape, thoughts racing in her head. As chance would want it, she didn’t have training today, only a photoshoot, but a damn long one. Mikasa knew from experience how it feels to have these inside of her and acting normal would be a challenge. Hard, but not impossible. Damn it, she just couldn’t back down from it, not when she imagined how smug Eren must have been in the morning, preparing this for her, probably thinking that she won’t do it. Well…..

“You’re on.”, Mikasa said albeit the beads seemed indifferent to her internal struggle, lying limply in her hand. She would show Eren just how wild she can get. Determined now, Mikasa grabbed the lube from the box, leaving for the bathroom in order to put those devilish pearls in.

Okay, maybe taking her motorbike as usual instead of a car was a bad choice. Breathing hard, Mikasa was glad that the helmet was hiding her face from public because it must have been completely red by now. Normally, she enjoyed the way her powerful machine purred between her legs, her bike was a new model, sleek and devilishly fast, which meant that it had a strong engine. But now, with that alien thing inside her, the vibrations coming from it were a torture. Mikasa felt it as soon as she kicked it alive, of course, but back then she was sure that it was passable, something she would stop paying attention to. It wasn’t. By the time she reached her parking space at the agency Mikasa was tempted to just head straight to the bathroom and take the beads out, but the thought of Eren’s face if he would find out stopped her. What she really wanted to do was drive into the hospital, find her boyfriend, drag him somewhere no one would see and fuck him senseless. Damn it. Composing herself, Mikasa carefully stopped the bike and climbed off, teeth gritting. And the day was only beginning.

Pixis did look a bit surprised when she asked for another break, having one just about half an hour ago, but he was enough of a gentleman not to pry. Staring at herself in the bathroom mirror, Mikasa couldn’t help but notice the flush in her cheeks, which stood so painfully obvious against her pale skin, no matter how much make-up the artist put on her. It was hard to act normal when every move of her lower body was accompanied by the shifting of those pearls. She kept her mouth firmly shut to prevent herself from moaning, assumed the poses Dot wanted from her with as little leg movement as physically possible, but still. The motorbike ride left her ass tender and now she was paying the price for her foolishness. Mikasa had a hard time not texting Eren, telling him what an ass he was, but she stopped herself before writing anything. He didn’t force her to do this, did he? No, he simply posed a question, a proposition, and she was the one who took him up on it. This was her doing, no one else was to blame. With inhuman effort, Mikasa opened her eyes, nodding at her mirror reflection before pushing herself from the sink and taking a few careful steps towards the bathroom’s exit. She could do this. She could do anything.

It was hell, but Mikasa managed. A few hours that felt like an eternity later, she was once again walking to where she parked her bike, quietly congratulating herself. That was until she reached her means of transportation, realizing that her crusade was not yet over. The ride home wouldn’t be nice to her backside.

One journey to hell and back later, Mikasa pulled up at their house, breathing heavily. This was taxing. As Eren’s car was still missing, she judged that he was at the hospital, pulling long hours as usual. Not that she minded, at least she could take a shower in peace and calm herself down. In the bathroom, she debated whether she should pull the beads out, but in the end decided against it. Instead, Mikasa focused on cleaning herself as much as she could, putting razor to the few hairs on her body that managed to appear since she last shaved. Looking into the mirror, Mikasa took in her naked form, watching the body she knew so well. Her wide shoulders, steel ropes of muscle beneath the pale, once again hairless smooth skin, moving gracefully anytime she did, the small firm mounds on her chest and the valley of abdominals underneath. What she didn’t want to pay much attention to was the lower part, the place between her strong, endless legs that was calling for her attention, yet she kept denying herself. Mikasa was on the brink here, just thinking about all the stuff that was at her disposal. Few minutes alone with the Hitachi wand and she would finally cum and cum hard. Eren would understand….

No. Closing her eyes and focusing on her breathing instead, Mikasa hung her head, her short hair creating a half-curtain to hide as much of her face as it could. She went through a lot for Eren today, so he better take good care of her. Otherwise, she would make him know just how displeasing this whole experience was. Pushing back her inner lust demon, Mikasa left the bathroom in search of some clothes, not even bothering to wrap her body in a towel as she thought that she’s still home alone. Yet she was wrong.

“Hello there kitten.”

A voice to her left made her jump, and Mikasa’s body reacted on its own, taking a defensive stance before she fully realized who spoke.

“Damn, I’ve been home for not even five minutes and already my fiancé feels like beating me up.”, Eren said from his seat on the bed, “Domestic violence is really no joke.”

He still had his shirt on with an undone tie around the neck, meaning that his statement about just coming home was a true one.

“Then again,”, he continued, eyeing her naked form, “maybe we could arrange something if you keep this dress code that is…”

Whatever Eren wanted to say next was left in the air as Mikasa all but pounced on him, sealing her lips on his upturned ones. The sudden motion was a mistake in retrospect, as it made the beads shift significantly and she moaned right into his mouth, a sound that didn’t escape his attention.

“You liked my idea, I take it?”, he asked.

“Hated it.”, Mikasa corrected him, “But did it anyway.”

“Whole day?”

“Whole day.”

“Damn…”, Eren shook his head, “You really are something else babe.”

“It’s been a long time…”

Mikasa let the end of the sentence hang in the air, hoping that Eren will understand what she was implying. She was literally naked, sitting in his lap and desperate not only by the long dry streak but also by having those damn anal beads in her ass the whole day. Two weeks man, come on.

“It was a long time.”, He agreed, hands coming to rest on Mikasa’s hips, “Long time since I’ve seen you like this.”

Mikasa was just about to suggest that they could perhaps start their weekend right and do something about it, but then Eren’s eyes darkened and he leaned in, lips grazing the shell of her ear as he whispered.

“You know what else I missed? I missed seeing you kneel in front of me with that pouty look on your face, I missed tying you up and teasing you until you cry, begging me for release. I missed pushing my cock into your throat and holding it there while you struggle in my grip, desperate for air. I missed flipping you over and spanking your ass while you sob into the sheets. I missed forcing the safeword out of you with the cane, going until your ass is red and sore and then fucking it, so hard that it makes you scream.”

Eyes almost popping out of her skull, Mikasa couldn’t believe what she was hearing. It wasn’t that Eren didn’t do those things to her, he did that and worse, but talking about it so casually wasn’t usual for him. He was silent now, making Mikasa wonder if she should say something too. Did he want to hear how much she enjoyed controlling his release with the cock ring, making him beg for it and denying him over and over again, edging him until he couldn’t speak anymore. Should she tell him that she also missed him underneath her, worshipping her legs. Mikasa would never have guessed that having her boots kissed would turn her on, yet Eren somehow managed to do that anytime he did it. How she missed pegging his pretty ass, how she liked that it always reduced him into a groaning mess, how fucking the lights out of him felt so good. But before she could voice any of these, Eren moved first, snapping his hips up and pushing her down on the bed. He moved fast, stretching her whole body and trapping both of her wrists in one of his hands above her head, pinning Mikasa down.  

“In fact, I’ve been missing it so much that I feel like refreshing my memory tonight.”

Eren’s voice was still just above a whisper, a throaty hum that traveled through Mikasa’s whole body and left her shivering. The hand that wasn’t holding her own arms down also moved, sliding down her body.

“What do you say Miki, wanna be a good girl for me tonight?”

She swallowed hard, hyper-aware of his touch that was now tracing the firm shapes of her abs on its journey to that one place she needed to be touched at the most.

“I’d love to…”

He raised an eyebrow at her.

“I’d love to, sir.”, she quickly corrected herself.

“Would you really?”, Eren pulled out a thinking expression, the traveling hand now resting just above Mikasa’s mound, “Then tell me, what would you have me do to you?”

“What? You want me to…”

“I want you to express your desires kitten.”, his voice was back in the authoritative tone, allowing no discussion, “Speak.”

He wanted her to what, beg him to dominate her? Eren never lacked in imagination, meaning that whatever this was it was most likely just another way of having her submit to him. Eren didn’t want only Mikasa’s body, he wanted her mind too, wanted to know every deep dark fantasy she had locked away. And why should she hold back? She yearned for him, for his touch, today’s events in combination with being naked in the same room as Eren made Mikasa more than desperate. Maybe it was really the time to speak her mind, to ask for all the filth he promised her. Because she loved it so fucking much.

“I want you to tie my hands behind my back,” she began, voice quivering just a tiny little bit, “I want you to force me to kneel and slide that thick cock of yours into my throat as deep as you can go. I want to gag on the length, struggle for breath while you keep me there, not letting go until I’m close to passing out.”

In reaction to her finally speaking out, or maybe to make her continue, Eren’s hand finally moved, fingers moving to touch her where the wetness was concentrated. Still very slow, he caressed the outer part of her sex, waiting for Mikasa to go on. So, she did.

“After you cum in my mouth, I want you to pull me to the bed, tie me to it, so tight that I can’t move an inch. Then you’ll tease me, with your hands, your mouth, the wand or other toys, make me beg and cry and curse you, completely soaked and desperate for you.”

Eren was very much enjoying this, judging from his agitated breathing, and to reward her he finally moved his hand again, spreading her lower lips with a practiced movement and dipping one tip inside to tease that hidden pearl.

“And then?”, he breathed into her ear.

“Then, after you had your fill of edging me, then I want you to fuck me, slow and hard,”, Mikasa’s breath hitched as Eren continued with the expert movements of his hand, rubbing her clit in a memorized pattern he knew she liked, “I want to feel your cock deep inside me, to feel your mouth on my nipples, to have you play with the pearls in my ass. I want to cum from you fucking me and have the beads pulled out mid-orgasm because that feeling is just out of this world.”

“That’s it?”

“Maybe….”, Mikasa looked at Eren, eyes half-lidded, meeting his dark gaze with her own, similarly aroused one, “Or maybe you can fuck my ass too if you feel like it.”

To her great dismay, Eren pulled his fingers out of her, sitting up.

“Well, that’s quite a list. We better get started then.”, eyes moving over her body, he stopped at her throat, frowning, “You seem to be missing something kitten, why don’t you go fetch your collar for me.”

With a nod, Mikasa forced her body to move, but her attempt to stand up was quickly stopped.

“Do move like you are supposed to. You don’t want to make me mad, do you kitten?”

Ah, so he wanted her to crawl. Giving in to Eren’s wish, Mikasa dropped down to her knees, making her way on all fours to where the collar was. At the same time, she could hear Eren moving behind her, walking over to where their toys were stored, making her stomach twist in expectation. She described what she wanted from him rather well, and Eren was never the kind to leave Mikasa wanting. Resisting the urge to look over her shoulder to see what he was picking, she crawled to where her jewelry was, opening the drawer. Having her collar there, among the normal necklaces could be viewed as weird, but then again it was not so different from some of the chokers Mikasa had stashed there. Picking the collar up, she ran her thumb against the silvery letter spelling out her name, set in the soft black leather, sighing. She loved it.

When Mikasa reached the bed again, holding the collar carefully between her teeth, Eren was already back, watching her. Even like this, on all fours, Mikasa didn’t lose the certain predatory grace in her movements, her crawling wasn’t awkward in the least. On the contrary, she moved with the agility of a tiger. Seeing the ropes of muscle move beneath her skin, Eren couldn’t help but think that Mikasa must have been a warrior in her past life, an assassin or ninja, a person who murdered with no remorse. Her body was a weapon, easily capable of killing someone barehanded and the famous icy glares Mikasa could do, the ones that made your knees buckle, made a man realize that. Eren faced her many times in the ring, only sparring that is, but the way she moved there made him regret anyone who fought her in a fully serious mode. Mikasa was scary if she wanted to, as Eren could attest to, being the subject of her wrath a few times. Not many, she was not the kind of person to anger easily, but when she did… Let’s say it was much better to keep Mikasa happy, okay?

And the fact that she willingly gave control over her carefully shaped body to him, let him tie her up in ways that made all her strength useless, being completely at Eren’s mercy, that turned him on like nothing else. Watching her struggle uselessly in his clutches, desperate but unable to help herself, that was simply amazing, and Eren couldn’t wait to do it to her again. He knew that she wanted it.

When his warrior girl crawled close enough, Eren reached down to take the collar from her teeth, smiling inwardly when she stretched her neck immediately, eager to have it on her. Happy to oblige, Eren collared her, closing the leather around her throat. The gentle but firm pressure there always put Mikasa in the right mindset, every breath reminded her that for now, she’s Eren’s kitten. One that he loved to death, no doubt, but he could do some very mean things to her too. Seeing her looking up at him, biting her bottom lip, Eren couldn’t hold back. Hooking a finger through the metal circle in her collar, Eren pulled hard. Mikasa made an adorable sound of surprise in the back of her throat when her mouth collided with his, but she was quick to adapt and relax her jaw, surrendering to the kiss. Prying her mouth open, Eren slid his tongue alongside hers, prodding into her mouth with no resistance from her side. When they separated, a string of saliva connected them, so messy the kiss was, but it did nothing to break the spell.

“Good girl.”

Making Mikasa stand up and turn around after, he pulled her arms behind her back, placing a pair of cuffs on both her wrists and elbows, completely immobilizing her hands. Seeing her from behind, Eren did notice the end of the string coming from her ass, the anal beads still deep inside. A whole day, huh? Eren had some experience with similar stuff, as Mikasa introduced him to his prostate and all the wonderful pleasure it could give him, but this was still a noteworthy feat in his book. With her arms tied, she stood straight as an arrow, eyes forward, waiting for his next order. A properly trained submissive this one.

“Turn around. Kneel.”

Mikasa obeyed immediately, sliding down to the ground in front of Eren.

“Now, take my cock inside your mouth.”

She looked up at his face, then back at his crotch, unsure of what to do. As Eren was still fully dressed, there were certain barriers between her mouth and the desired prize, but it seemed like he was leaving her to fend on her own in this one, unwilling to help. All right then. Leaning forward, Mikasa fished for that metal part that opened the zipper of Eren’s jeans, trying and failing multiple times before she managed to catch with her teeth, dragging it down. After that, she had to use her mouth to drag his underwear down, enough so his length would go free, and while it was not the easiest thing to do she managed. Oh, he shaved down there, she noticed, the pubic hair completely gone. Apparently Eren felt like mirroring her, as she had also removed that stripe of hair she kept above her mound before. There, now Mikasa could do what she craved to for two weeks straight and open her mouth wide, taking Eren’s cock inside. Without her hands it was a bit harder to give him all the pleasure she wanted, but Mikasa did her best, licking and sucking all over his length, worshipping Eren as much as she could. Fisting a hand in her hair, he pushed, insistent that she takes him deeper, greedy. Mikasa didn’t mind, she welcomed the help as she relaxed her throat, letting him slide deep enough to make her gag. Eren gave her a bit of air after, but it wasn’t long before he moved again, pressing her back down. She certainly appreciated that he was completely bare down there now, the whole ordeal made that much easier. Insatiable, he forced himself deep into her throat, again and again, holding her down for a long time, enough to make Mikasa’s hands jerk uselessly at her back where they were bound, unable to help. Gulping in the sweet air when he finally released his grip, Mikasa looked up at Eren with teary eyes, feeling a pang of pride in her chest when she saw just how red his face was. He was certainly enjoying himself.

“Good girl…. So good….”, he praised her, “You ready for more?”

Mikasa nodded and opened her mouth sticking out the tongue, completely giving herself to him. Once again guiding himself inside her, Eren couldn’t help but groan again when he felt how eagerly she began sucking at the tip.

“I’m going to cum inside your mouth.”, he announced.

The playful way her tongue pressed against his oozing slit was more than enough of an answer. Eren came, teeth clenched, the hand fixed in Mikasa’s hair flexing, the orgasm wrecking through his body.

“Fuck kitten.”, he groaned, watching her throat work underneath him, swallowing loudly, “You really are too good at this.”

Mikasa chose not to respond and focus on licking him clean instead. When she did let him go, finally, popping his considerably softer length from her mouth, Eren pulled her up. Sitting down, he made her lie down over his lap, lovingly caressing her beautiful ass. Then he slapped it. Hard.

“Count.”, he ordered, voice rough.

A spanking wouldn’t be much of a reward for such a nice blowjob, normally, but with the anal beads inside her, it was different. Every time Eren hit her, they shifted, making her moan and cry out at the same time, creating rather delicious sounds. Knowing what he was doing, he switched between hitting her left and right ass cheek, making sure the beads moved as much as they could. Sometimes she forgot to count, her voice lost in the sounds Eren kept spanking out of her, and she got an extra spicy hit as a punishment. In shaky words, Mikasa was forced all the way up to fifteen before Eren let her go. When she stood up, there were tears in her eyes of both pain and pleasure, and the fire between her legs was an inferno by now, making her rub her thighs together, hoping for relief.

Eren turned her around and undid the bindings around her arms. She wanted to be tied to the bed, and they had just the thing for that. Mikasa didn’t say a word of protest when he pushed her back down, making her lie down on the mattress, pulling the straps from beneath the bed and securing them around her wrists and ankles. Soft as it was, her spanked ass still protested against the spreadeagle she was forced in. Making sure that he pulled the bindings tight, Eren turned his back to her for a second, sorting his thoughts while making that short walk back towards the adult toy box. He needed a moment to get his piece to work again after she sucked the soul right out of him, but that didn’t mean that Mikasa had to wait empty handed.

“I got you something.”, coming back to the bed, he leaned over his tied victim, holding the toy up, “Remember this?”

He saw the collar bob as she swallowed.

“That’s the…”

“The two in one.”, turning the toy on, Eren watched it vibrate in his hand for a second before turning it off again, “It worked great last time, so I’m sure you’ll be satisfied this time around as well.”

Not really waiting for an answer, he moved between her legs, held helplessly open by the bindings. Mikasa couldn’t deny Eren his fun even if she wanted to. She was wet for sure, but Eren smeared both the toy and her opening with a bit of lube nevertheless, liking the way she moaned and writhed on his fingers alone. She really was craving any touch on her intimate parts. Pushing the toy in, he made sure it’s positioned correctly, pressed against both Mikasa’s weak spot and clit at the same time. Mikasa wanted Eren to edge her, she said so herself, and he was ready to deliver. The toy turned on, quietly buzzing, while she moaned out load, body trashing, pulling at the bindings uselessly.

“I’ve just realized that I’m terribly overdressed for this.”, he said, watching her struggle with a grin. It was always a treat, seeing how Mikasa flexed her muscles involuntarily, how nicely they stood out beneath the skin as she tried to free herself from the cuffs.

“I’m going to take a shower, don’t wander off.”, Eren finished.

In response, Mikasa fixed him with one of her trademark death glares.

“I hate you.”, she hissed, teeth clenched, tears leaking from her almond shaped eyes.

For that, Eren increased the vibrations by a little bit, watching her throw her head back and cry out, legs shaking. And he waited, the bastard, waited until she almost came before lowering it again, denying Mikasa any sort of release. The pure desperation and lust burning in her eyes made him weak, weak enough that he moved back to the bed, claiming her tired mouth in another deep kiss.

“Love you too.”, he gruffly whispered against her lips after, slipping into the bathroom before he completely loses control over himself.

In short, naked, tied up and sweaty Mikasa was fucking hot, and the urge to give in and fuck her was strong. Luckily, Eren was stronger, and the cold shower helped. He still heard her, all the sounds that the toy kept forcing her to make, heard the bindings groan as she pulled at them with all her inhuman strength. But they held and so did Eren, standing under the water and drawing the delicious torment out for Mikasa, knowing that while now she hated him for it, secretly she loved it. After all, Mikasa was the one who suggested that Eren edges her this evening, it wasn’t even his idea now, was it. Meaning if she wanted to find someone to blame for her good fortune or misfortune, she didn’t have to look very far. For now, Eren was content to just enjoy the water beating into his back, already planning what he will do to his kitten once he gets back to her.

In the other room, Mikasa regretted ever letting the word “edge” leave her lips. She blamed Eren, his dexterous fingers playing with her while she spoke, literally rubbing the words out of her mouth. Now she had sore mouth and throat, her ass was on fire but none of that mattered compared to what was happening between her legs, the toy wreaking havoc on her weakest parts while not fulfilling any of the needs it kept creating. Mikasa was burning, the fire too much to handle, writhing around on the bed, or rather trying to writhe and being kept in place by the tightly pulled bindings. Helpless as a kitten, Mikasa couldn’t even curse anymore, her breathing too agitated for that and it surely didn’t help when she heard Eren whistle in the shower, just a few metes away. He was a devil, no doubt, no man could be this evil.

Mikasa didn’t even notice when he came back, eyes closed and teeth clenched while the shocks ran through her body, making it move in small involuntary shrugs. Nearing the place of her torment, or as others call it: the bed, Eren cleared his throat, startling her. Her eyes snapped open, immediately focusing on his face while her lips curled into a snarl, and Eren was sure that she was about to give him a few choice words. But they never came.

This was not fair, Mikasa thought, eyes darting over her captor. How was she supposed to be mad at him when he was this fucking hot? She just couldn’t. Tan skinned, tall, taller than her, broad shouldered, planes of hard muscle with defined edges, Eren had a better body than most of the male models she worked with at the agency, and that was not all. His face, clean shaven to show the sharp line of his jaw, damp long hair falling freely on his shoulders, and the eyes, the damn eyes. So green and sharp that Mikasa could stare into their fire for hours without getting bored. Naked to match her, finally, she could also clearly see that Eren was more than ready for round two, the thick length between his legs fully erect. He looked like a statue of an ancient god of love, coming to grace her with his presence.

“Like what you see?”, he asked, teasingly, easily following her gaze with his own.

Mikasa nodded eagerly, thirsty as she was for him, craving to get fucked after all this foreplay.

“Please sir, I’ve been good….”

I deepthroated your cock and got spanked for it, was the other part she was not saying. Clicking his tongue, Eren reached a decision, climbing into the bed and moving to hover over her shaking bound form, facing Mikasa’s flushed cheeks and teary eyes. Dipping down, he kissed her again, hard, sucking at her bottom lip with force. He ravaged her mouth, taking it for his own, swallowing all her needy moans as the toy was still going strong inside her until Mikasa had to break away to breathe, chest heaving.

“Beg for it then.”, he growled, teeth sinking into that upper part of her neck left uncovered by the leather of the collar. The two weeks long dry spell left Mikasa’s neck free of love bites, but Eren was about to fix that.

“You want me to fuck you? Then beg for my cock.”

Breathing shakily beneath him, Mikasa did her best to organize her thoughts. It was fairly difficult, thanks to the number of stimulations she was receiving, from Eren’s teeth sinking into her skin to that tireless vibrator inside her, one that kept affecting the beads in her ass, making them move too. She fucking needed this.

“Sir, please, I need you…your co-cock inside me, please.”

Eren snorted where he was marking her pale neck, clearly unimpressed. Mikasa had to try harder.

“I’m just a needy s-slut for you sir, I beg you to spread my legs open and fuck my dripping pu-pussy. I’m your wh… whore sir, I haven’t touched myself for two weeks, and I’m desperate to finally have you inside me, to feel your massive cock hitting deep and hard into all the right places.”

Eren’s mouth stopped as he listened intently, Mikasa’s dirty mouth getting his full attention. That the usually timid girl was speaking like this was a proof of how desperate she really was.

“I’ve been dreaming about this, being tied up and helpless underneath you, fully in your power, it always makes me so wet.”

She would show him, if she could, press her hips upwards and rub her needy dripping pussy against him, hump Eren’s leg like a sex-starved maniac. But she couldn’t, held down by the bindings, so all Mikasa could do was talk.

“So please, sir, make use of me, my body, ravage me as you see fit. I would be deeply honored if you chose to use this slut’s cunt to provide pleasure for you.”

Eren was staring at her now, face unreadable, until he shook his head.

“Jesus, Miki, you really are expressive if you want to.”

With a quick dedicated move, Eren pulled the toy out of her, forcing Mikasa to whimper and clench around the sudden emptiness. After that, he untied her legs, but if she thought that he’s going to let her be free Mikasa was horribly mistaken. Folding her, Eren moved her all the way up, tying each of her ankles to its respective wrist, left to left and right to right. This position was rather taxing, and Mikasa was very glad for how flexible she was, allowing Eren to do that to her without her body protesting. Much. Like this, she was completely spread open, even more exposed than she was, her most delicate parts fully on display. But there was a time and place to be bashful, and now certainly wasn’t now. With his kitten suspended exactly as he wanted her to, Eren climbed in between her legs, eyeing his glistening prize.

“You’ve convinced me.”, he said, “I’m definitely going to fuck you now.”

“Thank you, sir.”, the end of Mikasa’s response was drawn out into a moan, as he chose just that moment to finally push inside her. With her legs obscenely spread as they were, it was way too easy to find his way into her wet tight heat, going on until he bottomed out, pressed right against her.

“You like that?”, he breathed into her ear, snapping his hips up, “You like it when I fuck you?”

“I lo-love it sir. Please…”

Whatever Mikasa wanted to ask for was left ambiguous because Eren gave in to the temptation and moved. Leaning forward, he supported his weight on the headboard above Mikasa’s head, using his left hand to take hold of her face, forcing her to look at him. Mikasa’s eyes were wide, mouth dropping open as he fucked her in deep unrushed movements. Taking advantage of her slack jaw, Eren pushed his thumb into her mouth, loving how she automatically sucked it, primal instincts taking over her. Mikasa was losing herself rather quickly as Eren was giving her exactly what she craved, fulfilling her needs the way she enjoyed the most. Letting go of the headboard, Eren gave up his support in order to press two fingers against her clit, rubbing the tiny circles. He would make her cum, and make her cum hard, a reward for all Mikasa’s good behavior. And when she started clenching, when her eyes rolled back, he pulled the thumb out of her mouth, reaching underneath the place where they were joined and finding that end of the string. Tugging at it, he began pulling the anal beads out of her, very slowly, drawing it out for her. The first pearl made her moan. The second made her scream. And the third finally made Mikasa cum, keeling her over.

Her orgasm came crashing down, making her body writhe as much as it could in its current position, the finish drawn out by Eren’s efforts. He kept rubbing her clit, moving inside her, tugging the beads out, and before she realized what was happening Mikasa’s orgasm bridged into another one, her screams rising in pitch and intensity both. She didn’t even hear when Eren cursed, his own finish claiming him at the same time when the last of the beads came free, and Mikasa’s ass was finally free of that toy.

When she came to, Eren was leaning over her, breathing heavily.

“You okay?”, he asked, a bit of concern in his voice.

“Mhmm. Just sore as hell.”, she nodded towards the places where her ankles were bound, “Maybe you could untie me?”

He returned her grin.

“Maybe I could.”

Undoing the cuffs, Eren freed her from the bindings, pulling her boneless weight onto his chest after.

“Wanna take a bath after you calm down?”

Mikasa hummed in agreement, pressing a loving smooch to the underside of Eren’s smooth jaw.

“But don’t get too comfortable.”, he continued, “I still have to take your ass, right? I mean, you asked for it.”

Seeing her shocked expression, Eren couldn’t help but laugh. Not that Mikasa was opposed to anal sex, but right now she was completely spent and wanted nothing more than to just relax.

“Don’t worry, it can wait.”,

Eren’s dexterous fingers moved again, rubbing soothing circles into her neck, using that small space left uncovered by the collar. The one that he still didn’t allow her to take off, she realized. Arms wrapped around Eren’s torso, she left that thought drift aimlessly, deciding not to pursue it. Instead, she focused on that unnatural warmth he radiated, seeping into her muscles and making her melt from the inside. So comfy, getting even better when Eren pressed a kiss to Mikasa’s temple, whispering after.

“After all, we have the whole weekend just for us.”

[themattress]

Pokemon Franchise Narrative Comparison

To this day, there have been only three other mediums that have run for as long as the core Pokemon game series has: the anime series, the Pokemon Adventures manga series, and the Trading Card Game. With the obvious exception of the TCG, these have all had narrative arcs within each passing generation, and I want to use this post to compare their quality.

GEN I Games: Red/Blue/Green/Yellow Anime: Original Series: Indigo League + Orange Islands (The Beginning) Manga: Red/Blue/Green Chapter, Yellow Chapter  

1st Place - Manga. The original R/B/G Chapter brings the world of the Game Boy games to life in stunning accuracy, while also its own spin on certain things and crafting a simple yet sophisticated coming-of-age narrative, with the Yellow Chapter being its Actionized Sequel that raises the stakes even higher and deepens everything within this manga series. Add to this clear influence from the anime and the fact that it’s the only Gen I product to feature the character of Green in it, and we have the definitive story for the franchise’s first generation.

2nd Place - Anime. While increasingly less faithful to the details of the games, the anime remained very faithful to the spirit of them while telling its own coming-of-age tale for Ash Ketchum in the Indigo League series, plus a “postgame scenario” equivalent with the Orange Islands series. The highlight of this story is definitely how it fleshes out the games’ main antagonists: Gary Oak, Team Rocket and Mewtwo, into interesting, memorable characters.

3rd Place - Games. The 8-bit adventure that started it all is incredibly bare-bones and basic: take the Pokemon League challenge, thwart the evil Team Rocket along the way, and if possible fill up that Pokedex with all 151 Pokemon (”Gotta Catch ‘Em All!”). As a story, it’s not very interesting, but as an excuse for gameplay it works marvelously and established a winning formula for the series, and to this day it’s still charming in its wholesome simplicity.

GEN II Games: Gold/Silver/Crystal Anime: Original Series: GS (Gold and Silver) Manga: Gold/Silver/Crystal Chapter

1st Place - Manga. It’s funny - in the first volume of the G/S/C Chapter, things seemed to be a definite downgrade from the Kanto-based arcs that came before in terms of artwork, characterization and narrative. But then the mysterious masked antagonist appears at the end, and from then on out things just keep escalating to such epic heights that it becomes the best Johto story in the franchise and arguably the best arc in the whole manga series! Practically everyone and everything from the previous two arcs end up joining up with the new elements and the series up to this point is brought to a satisfying, conclusive note. 

2nd Place - Games. While the League challenge and Pokedex narrative threads are basically the same as before, and the Team Rocket thread is actually weaker, this story also features a stronger regional setting, a stronger rival, and stronger characterization for side characters both old and new, especially in the special edition, Crystal, making it a welcome step-up.  

3rd Place - Anime. An attempt at a new narrative was notoriously abandoned early on, with Takeshi Shudo leaving the head writer position and the whole show devolving into formulaic Filler Hell. While the Johto League tournament that concluded the whole thing was good, there was barely a story to support getting there, and the main characters had all become Flanderized versions of their former selves by the end. Without question, the anime had jumped the shark. But Shudo did give us the best movie and an OVA that properly concluded Indigo League’s Mewtwo arc before he was through, so let’s not say it was a total waste.

GEN III Games: Ruby/Sapphire/Emerald, FireRed/LeafGreen Anime: Advanced Generation (Ruby and Sapphire) Manga: Ruby/Sapphire Chapter, FireRed/LeafGreen Chapter, Emerald Chapter

1st Place - Games. The first time that the games get first place, but only on the technicality that the other contenders are worse, since this really isn’t that big an improvement over the previous two generations’ game narratives. The biggest difference is that your character is the child of one of the Gym Leaders, and the evil team narrative thread (Team Aqua and/or Team Magma this time) builds to an epic high-stakes event that involves the Legendary Pokemon mascot of the game which will become a mainstay of the formula from now on. There is also the remakes of the original Gen I games, and aside from some small tweaks of improvement and a postgame scenario in an island archipelago (anime-inspired, perhaps?), the narrative is basically the same as it was before. Nothing outstanding, but serviceable. 

2nd Place - Manga. Talk about a mixed bag...the R/S Chapter started out with promise but ended up going to shit in its second half, the FR/LG Chapter was fantastic only to conclude with a bullshit last-minute cliffhanger, and the Emerald Chapter that connects the two arcs is just stereotypical, badly-written shonen crap with only a few good elements in it (plus some ironic enjoyment to be had in its batshit insane climax). On the whole, this was the weakest period that the manga series has ever had, despite Kusaka and Yamamoto’s best efforts.  

3rd Place - Anime. Beyond May and her character arc which, by some lucky fluke, came together wonderfully, the anime hadn’t improved that much from the Johto days. Hoenn was not done any justice (even the manga did a better job with it!), and the FRLG/Emerald composite for the filler arc afterward was just weird in spite of how entertaining half of it was. All in all, the anime hadn’t gotten a real narrative back. It was just going through the motions.

GEN IV Games: Diamond/Pearl/Platinum, HeartGold/SoulSilver Anime: Diamond & Pearl Manga: Diamond/Pearl Chapter, Platinum Chapter, HeartGold/SoulSilver Chapter

1st Place - Manga. Pokemon Adventures retakes its crown in this generation, with a phenomental two arcs in the Sinnoh region that are so linked that they essentially make up one whole story, and a brief, adequate arc in Johto that properly bridges the gap between those Sinnoh arcs and the Emerald arc before them. Whenever I think of Sinnoh, it’s the region portrayed in this manga that comes to mind, which is a testament to its high quality.

2nd Place - Games. One word can describe the narratives of these games: overcooked. There are a lot of good ingredients here that elevate the series’ storytelling to a new level, but way too many cooks who don’t have a unified idea of how to properly mix them together means that it becomes a muddled mess of mythology, philosophy and vague character motivations. This particularly pisses me off when it effects the otherwise solid Gen II remakes. However, the good elements are still good regardless, and as showcased by the following generation this was a necessary learning curve to get through, so it deserves some respect.

3rd Place - Anime. Ugh. Newly appointed head writer Atsuhiro Tomioka tries to have his cake and eat it too here, maintaining the anime’s banal filler formula while also attempting to tell a legitimate narrative, but he as just one man somehow manages to clutter up that narrative more than the several writers did for the games in this generation! It is an increasingly insufferable roller coaster of plot threads and supposed character arcs that are drawn out to the point of disinterest across four years, with you really feeling the disastrous pace when it takes a years’ worth of time between Ash winning his 7th badge and him winning his 8th. Combine this with the source material of the games being disrespected or cast aside perhaps worse than ever, and you get what I will always believe is the lowest point for the anime.  

GEN V Games: Black/White, Black 2/White 2 Anime: Best Wishes + Best Wishes Season 2 (Black and White) Manga: Black/White Chapter, Black 2/White 2 Chapter

1st Place - Games. With this generation, particularly with its first set of games, the learning curve undergone in Gen IV paid off. This is quite possibly the richest narrative in the whole game series in terms of plot, characterization and themes, and the peak of the traditional formula. Combined with stellar gameplay, it creates a high point that has yet to be matched.

2nd Place - Manga. The Black/White Chapter had a rough start, just copying the games’ plot almost to the letter but with the characterizations for the main characters truly being less than ideal (see what I did there?) However, once Black and White go their own separate ways the arc starts rapidly improving until it ends on a phenomenal high note that segues perfectly in the Black 2/White 2 arc that, like the Yellow arc, is an Actionized Sequel and, like the Platinum arc, is essentially the continuation and conclusion of the same story as in the previous arc. The only real mark against it is that it can be too fast-paced which only adds to the frustrating irony of the absolutely Hellish schedule slip it underwent (8 fucking years for an arc of just 24 chapters / 3 volumes to be completed! It’s never going to live that fact down!)

3rd Place - Anime. Kind of the reverse of the manga: had a great start being the best that the anime has been in a long time, only to get progressively weaker, with the third and final year being a trainwreck of checking off plot points in a mad rush to promote the upcoming Gen VI and pander to the whiny fanboys who’d been complaining about the loss of the formula and D/P-style story writing (yes, they actually liked those) plus the “soft reboot” aspect going on, particularly with Ash. However, much like the Gen IV games, the Gen V anime proved to be a necessary learning curve for the future and is a highly impactful series in that regard, so it deserves respect for that (although I hate that both a natural disaster and the B2/W2 games screwed up the originally planned Team Plasma arc! It’s never going to live that fact down!) 

GEN VI Games: X/Y, Omega Ruby/Alpha Sapphire Anime: XY + XY&Z Manga: X/Y Chapter, Omega Ruby/Alpha Sapphire Chapter

1st Place - Manga. I thoroughly dislike the story of the X/Y games and the Delta Episode of OR/AS, so imagine my surprise when Pokemon Adventures actually makes something good out of them (or, in the Delta Episode’s case, something tolerable at best). The X/Y Chapter is a delightful deconstruction of a lot of what’s in the games, turning what was light and fluffy and hollow into something dark and suspenseful and meaningful. And the OR/AS Chapter gets points for being the best that Ruby and Sapphire have ever been characterized, to the point where they’ve been officially Rescued from my Scrappy Heap (Emerald’s still lame tho).

2nd Place - Games. Like I said, I dislike the X/Y games’ narrative and the Delta Episode of OR/AS; I think they are the worst writing the game series has ever seen to date. But the main narrative of OR/AS - the actual remake of the Gen III games which features a lot of new and necessary improvements - is solid, and that’s enough to put the games at second place here.

3rd Place - Anime. Similarly, the one thing the anime series does really well - the Myth Arc, which includes the Team Flare storyline - is not enough to elevate it beyond third place, because the rest of the series’ narrative is just as lame as the X/Y games’, there’s not much benefit from OR/AS elements, and everything that it positions in its shameful fan-pandering utterly fails to deliver or add up to anything meaningful in the end. The Mega Evolution specials pretty clearly demonstrate that this should have been Alain’s show, not Ash’s.

GEN VII Games: Sun/Moon/Ultra Sun/Ultra Moon Anime: Sun & Moon Manga: Sun/Moon/Ultra Sun/Ultra Moon Chapter

1st Place - Games. The Gen V games have serious competition story-wise with the Gen VII games. Both S/M and US/UM are excellent, with things not done so well in one being done better in the other and vice-versa to the point where they compliment each other beautifully.

2nd Place - Anime. Miracle of miracles! For the first time since Gen I, the anime series gets its narrative in second place, with Daiki Tomiyasu and Aya Matsui completely reinventing it in a refreshingly fun and vibrant way. There are some missed opportunities here and there, but overall it’s a perfect adaptation of the Alola region and everything that makes it so great.

3rd Place - Manga. While this is still an arc of good quality that I like, it’s also perhaps the most disappointing since Ruby/Sapphire back in Gen III. After doing so well with Sinnoh, Unova and Kalos, one senses that Kusaka and Yamamoto struggled to adapt Alola to that same standard, and while the decision to keep US/UM as part of the same arc rather than be a separate one was wise, it’s during the US/UM half of the arc that things really start falling apart and the wasted potential of stuff that got set up earlier becomes overbearing. It doesn’t help that the leads are an unlikable hero with an interesting, relatable goal and a likable heroine with an uninteresting, unrelatable goal respectively. Let’s hope that the patchwork done in the volume releases fixes some of the problems so that I can like this arc even more.

GEN VIII Games: Sword/Shield Anime: New Series (Journeys) Manga: Sword/Shield Chapter

1st Place - Manga. As I recently stated, Kusaka and Yamamoto are back at their A-Game with this arc, taking advantage of all that was lacking in the games’ story and utilizing them in an interesting narrative that I can’t wait to further experience alongside our surrogate, Marvin.

2nd Place - Games. If the Gen IV games’ narrative was overcooked, then the narrative of the games four generations later is most definitely undercooked. It’s not the worst story - that’s still Gen VI - but it’s possibly the most disappointing since it’s so easy to see how it could have been better and you are left baffled as to why the writers didn’t go in that direction.

3rd Place - Anime. This series is highly enjoyable thanks to the continued leadership of Daiki Tomiyasu, but not only is there not as much of a narrative as there’s been in earlier shows, it isn’t even uniquely Gen VIII-based: taking place across all regions in the Pokemon World and taking influence from mobile games like Go (released in Gen VI) and Masters (released in Gen VII).  Add to that the unfortunate hiatus it’s now on and it can’t help but be placed last.

[d-noona]

MAKE OVER

Chapter 3: Date Night 

Jung Hoseok x Reader

Reader as Kang Hyeonji

 SUMMARY: When Kang Hyeonji transformed herself into a striking redhead, the entire male population of Seoul stood up and took notice. But her make over was for Jung Hoseok’s benefit alone. He began to show interest in the new look but not in the way she wanted. Suddenly he was over-protective, perhaps a little jealous. It seemed that the idea of having a relationship with her couldn’t be further from his mind. The girl however wants more. So it was time for an ultimatum. If Hoseok didn’t want Hyeonji to lose her virginity to another admirer, he had no option but to make love to her himself.

"Is that you dear?" her mother called out as she pushed the door. "Yes Ma," the smell of roast dinner teased Hyeonji's nostrils as she made her way along the hall and into the kitchen. Not a pork smell. Chicken. Naturally, came the rueful thought. Chicken carried the least fat and calorie count, provided the skin was removed. Which it would certainly be. She almost sighed when she also spied her mother wrapping the hope-for crispy potatoes in foil. Zil glanced up and smiled at her daughter "Have a good day dear?"

"Pretty good, Choon hee, Han Byeol, Namjoon and the others bought me some cake, and you'll never guess who dropped in to see me this morning," she said brightly. Her mother answered her "I can't think. Who?"

"Hoseok"

"Hoseok? You mean Jung Hoseok?" asks her mother peculiarly. "The one and only." Hyeonji declined telling her mother about the fiasco of his new car. "He was up this way today and asked me out tonight for my birthday."

"But I'm cooking a special dinner for you tonight," she announced with a hint of displeasure in her tone. "I'll be here tonight for dinner Mum, Hobi isn't picking me up till around eight." Her mother gave Hyeonji a sharp look "You do realize he has a girl friend? A very beautiful one too, if I recall rightly" Hyeonji controlled her growing irritation with difficulty. "I'm well aware of that Mum, but were only going somewhere for coffee. Don't forget Hobi and I were friends before Tinashe came along." Her mother began to frown "I still don't know about this. I have an awful feeling this is not a good idea." Hyeonji came forward to give her mother a hug. "Ma, stop worrying. I'm a big girl now and quite capable of looking after myself.

At five to eight, Hyeonji was standing in her bedroom window, watching for Hobi's car. She doubted he would be late. Surprisingly, punctuality was now one of his virtues. He hadn't always been like that. When Hyeonji had first met Hoseok, and he'd been a computer-mad adolescent seventeen, she could not count the number of times he'd been late for things. Time had a little meaning for him once his concentration was focused on his latest games or graphic design.

Hyeonji was about to turn away from the window when Hoseok's bright red car came up the hill and turned into their driveway. Right on time. She shook her head in acceptance that Hoseok had changed in many ways. He was no longer the forgetful boy next door. He was an exceptionally sharp businessman. Ambitious. Brilliant. Successful.

Way out of Hyeonji's league. Sighing, she bent to switch her bedside lamp, and was about to leave the room when she hesitated, walking back to where she could watch Hoseok, unobserved from now the darkened window. He sat there for several seconds, combing his hair, though not with undue vanity. He didn't even glance into the rear-vision or side-mirror, just swept the comb quickly through both sides and down the back before slipping it back into his jacket pocket.

At least in that Hoseok hadn't changed. He'd never been vain about his looks, and still wasn't. There was nothing of the peacock in him. Yet after all that he looked good. A quiver rippled down Hyeonji's spine as she watched the object of her secret obsession unfold his elegant frame from behind the wheel. He was dressed in the same blue jeans, navy top and a cream linen jacket. He stretched as he stood up, and another deeper quiver reverberated all through her.

For the first time it struck Hyeonji just how intensely sexual her love for Hoseok had become with the passing of the years. Her more innocent school girl crush had long since graduated to a full-on physical passion filled with needs and yearnings which would not be denied. More and more she dreamt of making love with Hoseok, rather than just loving him. She would lie in bed at night and think about what it would like to kiss him and touch him; how he would look, naked and erect; how he would feel, deep inside her. She blushed in the darkness, her blood pounding through her body, her head whirling with a wild mixture of shame and excitement. Was she wicked to think about such things?

She didn't feel wicked. She felt driven and compelled, oblivious to everything but wanting Hoseok with a want that had no conscience, only the most merciless and agonizing frustration. How she wished she were dazzlingly beautiful, with the sort of body no man could resist. A bitter longing flooded Hyeonji as she watched Hoseok confidently stride towards her front door, his dark hair shining like the stars in the dark night. Her grip on the curtains tightened and inevitably her thoughts turned to the dreaded Tinashe.

How often did he sleep with her?

She wondered enviously. Hyeonji knew he didn't live with her, but that didn't mean they didn't share most of their nights either at his or her place.

Was she great in bed? What was it she did to him that kept Hobi interested in her for six whole months?

Another awful possibility snuck into Hyeonji's mind. Twisting her heart and stomach. The front door rang, the sound jarring Hyeonji's suddenly stretched nerves she resisted rushing down stairs and her thoughts still simmering with resentment at the situation. She should have not agreed to go out with Hoseok tonight, not even for coffee. She was only torturing herself.

She heard her mother slide the door back from the family room then walk with small steps along the plastic strip which protected the hallway carpet. The front door creaked slightly on opening. "Hello Hobi"." Zil said with stiff politeness. "Hello, Mrs. Kang, You're looking well."

Hyeonji listened to their small chat for a minute or two before gathering herself and coming down stairs glad now that she hadn't made a super human effort with her appearance. Even so, her mother looked up and down at her as though searching for some hit of secret decadence. Hyeonji doubted if even the most devious mind could find anything to criticize her in her knee-length black skirt and simple white knitted top, even if the latter did have a lacey design and pretty pearl buttons down the front. Her choice of jewelry could hardly give rise to speculation. The rest of her was equally sedate. Skin colored pantyhose, medium length black pumps, hair up in its usual knot and no make-up on except coral lipstick. Even her underwear was sedate. But only Superman with his X-ray vision could see that. Not that the sight of her modest white crossover bra and cotton briefs could would send any man's heart aflutter.

Hyeonji was at a loss to understand then why Hoseok himself frowned up at her as she came down the stairs. She had no illusions that he was struck by some previously untapped appreciation of her beauty. So why was he giving her the once-over with slightly surprised look in his eyes? Her curiosity was not satisfied till they were alone and walking along the curving front path towards the parked car.

"You know, Hyeonji," he said, "You've lost quite a bit of weight lately have you?"

Hyeonji clenched her teeth down hard in her jaw. She'd been losing weight steadily for two years and had been this size for more than three months. Hadn't he noticed before this moment? No of course not. For the last six months his eyes had all been for Tinashe.

"Not lately I haven't," she replied coolly. "I've been this weight for quite a while."

"Oh? I didn't notice" says Hoseok whilst scratching his nape.

Tell me something new....

Hyeonji thought tartly. She felt piqued that there wasn't the smallest change in him that she didn't notice. She knew whenever he had his hair cut; when he bought a new jacket; when he changed women. "Are you sure Tinashe won't mind you're taking me out tonight?" she was driven to ask, barely controlling the lemony flavor in her voice. "Tinashe and I are having a trial separation," he bit out. "Oh?" Hyeonji battled to look perfectly normal. Difficult when your stomach had just done a back-flip. "You guys fought or something?"

"Or something" he muttered.

"You don't want to tell me about it?" she asked. His smile was wry as he wrenched open the passenger door. "Not tonight Hyeonji. I don't want to spoil my mood by thinking about women."

"But I'm a woman, Hoseok!" she pointed archly. "Yeah, but you're different. I don't really think of you like that. You're my friend. Come on. Get in. I'm going to drive us out, it's a lovely night for a walk along the beach."

Which it was. Clear and warm, with stars sparkling in the night sky. A night for lovers. Hyeonji tried not to think about that. Masochism was not one of her vices. Or maybe it was?

"But I'm not dressed for the beach," she protested when Hoseok climbed in the wheel. "I have heels and stockings on for one thing."

Hoseok in turn laughed "You can take them off in the car," he said without turning a hair. Is indifference to her undressing in front of him was depressing in the extreme. She could just imagine what would happen if Tinashe stated stripping in the passenger seat, wriggling her pouty bottom while she unpeeled her stockings down those long, tanned legs of hers. Hoseok wouldn't concentrate on his driving for long. Hyeonji had an awful feeling that she could sit stark naked in front of Hoseok and all he would do was ask her if she was cold.

"I hope you don't think you're going to worm your way out of buying me coffee!" she told him while he reversed out of the driveway. "I was going to order a big rich slice of cake with it. You've no idea, Hobi, what food Mom has been feeding me ever since Dad died. She's become a "fat-free forever" nutcase!" as Hyeonji evades thoughts of Tinashe.

"No worse than having a mother who wants to feed you up," he countered dryly. "Every time I come home, Mother says I'm getting too thin, then come out the pastries and chips and God knows what else."

"You're not too thin," Hyeonji said, "You're just right."

He smiled over at her and her heart lurched. He was heart-stoppingly handsome when he smiled. Just as bright as the sun. "You know you're good for me Hyeonji. You always say the right thing. And you always do the right thing" he added meaningfully "You put me to shame today. I never remember your birthday and you always remember mine. So if you open the glove box in front of you there's a little something there which I hope will make up for all those other forgotten occasions."

Before Hyeonji could even start to protest she was cut off by Hoseok "And don't tell me I shouldn't have, "He went on "And don't tell me it's too expensive. I can afford it. Fact is, I can afford pretty well whatever I want these days. That computer game I told you about some time back has just gone on the worldwide market and it's going to make me a multimillionaire."

"Oh Hoseok! That's wonderful." Hyeonji exclaimed in excitement for her friend. "Maybe," he said dryly. "I'm beginning to find out being rich and successful isn't all it's cracked up to be. Except when it comes to buying my best friend something really nice," he added with a warm smile "Now, come on, go on, rip the paper off and open it up. I'm dying to see what you think."

Hyeonji then just did that, and gasped "Hoseok! You shouldn't have!"

"I thought I told you not to say that," he said ruefully. "I was in the jewelry store for hours this afternoon trying to decide. In the end I settled for something simple, but solid. Like you"

Hyeonji tried to take his words as a compliment, but somehow some of the pleasure of his gift dissolved at that point. She lifted the heavy gold chain necklace from its green velvet bed, laying across one palm while she slowly traced the heavy oval links with the index finger of her right hand.

Simple and solid. Like me...

"You don't like it?" Hoseok asked alarmed. Hyeonji heard the disappointment in his voice and forced herself to throw him a bright smile. "Don't be silly, I love it."

Chapter 04

Masterlist

[spartanguard]

savage garden, 7/8

Summary: Killian Jones was, by far, the worst, weakest, most ineffectual Dark One ever. (According to the Darkness, at least.) And he was fine with that. He was just a slave, a deckhand—what use did he have of dark magic? And even less want. But the Darkness has vowed to firmly get him under its grasp, one of these days. He finds respite in a beautiful secluded garden—and the amazing woman he eventually meets there. The question remains, though: is it—is she—enough to keep him out of the dark completely? One can only hope…

6k | rated T | AO3 | part 1 | part 2 (art) | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6

A/N: Here it is! The last full chapter! Ngl, I got very close to tears a few times...my apologies if the same happens to you! (well, maybe not ;P ) Title comes from “Tears of Pearls” by Savage Garden. Enjoy!

chapter 7: love will be the death...the death of you

Two weeks had passed since Killian sent Emma away—or at least, he thought it was that long; it was hard to judge the passage of time when the shade of light outside the window stayed the same, a never-ceasing storm raging outside his cottage. It was fitting, really, because it matched the emotional one going on inside. No matter what he did, the Darkness refused to be sated.

The sea no longer calmed his racing heart; instead, it elicited an almost agoraphobic reaction to the wide expanse, and the waves too easily mimicked the constant whispers of his predecessors.

He managed to fix the bookcase manually, but every time he sat down to read a novel, the paper ignited in his hand from the constant sparking of magic in his palm; words of romance and fantasy burned away in his grasp.

At the slightest provocation—as simple as stubbing a toe, as terrible as setting fire to one of his favorite books—the magic spiraled out from him, breaking whatever fragile thing was in the vicinity, be it a window or a mirror, or the one time his wooden chair had fractured underneath him. But each time, he immediately mended it via magic; it was effortless at this point.

And he was tired—so, so tired—of fending off the incessant mental abuse.

You’re fighting a losing battle and you know it, dearie. Why are you still trying?

“Because I’ll be damned if I give in,” he replied listlessly, staring at the ceiling from his little-used bed. He’d hoped the sound of the endless rain on the roof might be provide some relief, but it hadn’t yet.

Yes, indeed you will; Hades has been waiting for you for a very long time, I daresay.

“But you won’t let me go that easily, will you?”

Heavens no! We’re just getting started!

He scoffed, but it was half-hearted, and then closed his eyes and tried to focus on the pattering rain on the roof and not the infinite list of tortures and maladies the Darkness couldn’t wait to execute.

Murder is always a good place to start; maybe a spot of famine too? We could start collecting hearts again, definitely...and oh, it’s been so long since we had a genocide...

The impending sense of doom hanging over him didn’t help his growing frustrations or unstable emotions; he felt like he was just awaiting his execution. Would that be what it was like? Would Killian Jones cease to exist, only the Dark One remaining? Or would it be like what happened due his last visit to the garden—would he be an unwilling passenger while the Darkness made a vehicle of his body?

The sooner you give up, the sooner you’ll find out!

His resolve hadn’t waned—but his endurance was flagging.

Blessedly, Emma hadn’t tried to come to him, to change his mind. He knew this was the only way. Part of him wished she had but he knew that, in the long run, she was better off without him. He could only pray the Darkness spared her when he was no longer in control.

Are you kidding? Her? Oh, we have plans for her.

He sat bolt upright, suddenly panicked. “Like what?”

Oh, there’s so many options! It’d be rather silly of us to let the one person who can destroy us run free.

The first image that flashed across his mind’s eye was Emma, begging for mercy.

Then Emma, covered in blood, his dagger dripping at his side.

Then her staring at him, wide-eyed, while a bright red heart glowed in his hand—until it was crushed and she was gone.

Over and over, it played all the ways it could think of to hurt her, each one ending in her death—and nothing he tried would stop the visions from coming. He screamed and yelled at it to end, but no respite came, even when he was sobbing and the storm outside was at its fiercest.

What, you don’t want us to do that? it finally taunted.

“No, please—not her, don’t…” he whimpered.

The Darkness sighed. In all his years, he’d never heard it do that. Well, fine; I suppose you have a point—think of what we could do with power like hers!

The illusion changed; now it was Emma standing over him with a blood-soaked blade, the inky tendrils claiming her for its own and washing away her light, leaving hard darkness in its place. Gone was the glow of her hair and the brightness of her eyes, only ice in its place, and the ruins of the garden behind her.

“You...you wouldn’t.”

Oh, yes we would. Better to control it than to let it control us.

Control...could she do that?

Only if she had the blade...but you’re not that dumb, are you?

He didn’t respond; he just stood and made a beeline for the main room.

We know what you’re thinking.

He pulled the new rug from the floor, tossing it aside with strength he didn’t know he had.

It’s not going to be that easy.

A crash of thunder boomed outside and made him jump; a bit of dark magic flew off of him and shattered the mirror.

Do you really want to see what will happen? Visions of a world cast into darkness, people screaming and crying, the memory of Milah’s death started playing in his head again, bringing him to his knees. Because we’re quite fine with that—and we know you’re not.

“It won’t—she can fix this.”

Why? Because she’s the Savior? Bollocks. Nothing can stop us. The only way to stop is to be stopped.

It felt like the weight of the entire world was bearing down on him. The gruesome images of the Darkness’s dreams wouldn’t leave him be, intermingled with its constant repetition of Emma’s name and his mother’s last words. “Keep your good heart.” It had once been a mantra; now it was just a reminder of all the ways he’d failed.

He was sure he’d crush under the pressure—was sure he could feel his bones impossibly breaking—until he mustered up his last fragment of strength and, with a primal yell, pushed it all away.

The energy of the effort blasted out from him and took the windows with it, letting in the storm. The wind and rain whipped around the room, adding to the frenzied air and pulling at his hair and tunic.

Looking back on the next moment, he must have been using magic unconsciously; how else could he have punched through the solid wood floor in one shot? Anyone else would have incurred serious injury in the attempt but he just pulled his bloodied hand back and tore at the splinters, vaguely aware of the continued cuts and gashes on his hand and forearm as he worked to clear a gap.

At least this time when he pulled out the dagger box, he already had his blackened blood to offer; he wasted no time in tracing the letter on the surface.

But it didn’t open. He tried again, and again, but nothing happened.

You lovesick idiot. Did you forget Milah that easily?

In his rush, he’d been writing E on the box. A rare correct moment for the Darkness. Quickly, he shook his head, drew an M, and pulled the lid off as soon as it released.

The dagger somehow seemed darker when he held it—he swore he could see it’s black veins pulsing in time with his heart, the voices of Dark Ones past whispering even louder. The magic within him sang in its presence.

Now what are you gonna do?

Well, he should probably find Emma. He’d no sooner thought it than he found himself in the garden, the familiar smoke dissipating around him.

“Killian?”

He whipped around at Emma’s voice, and the Darkness began to spark inside as soon as it registered her presence. She was on the other side of the garden but he could still sharply read the expression on her face: confusion, concern, and more than a little fear.

“Emma, please, you have to help me,” he urged, running toward her. She took a step back when he did; he probably looked like a crazed man, but he was desperate. He held out the blade to her when he drew close. “Please—take it away from me. You’re the only one I trust.”

“Take it?” Her eyes darted warily between the dagger and his eyes. “Killian, what are you asking me?”

“Whoever holds the dagger can control the Dark One. Please, love; it’s yours.”

She swallowed as she stared up at him, eyes wide. “I—I can’t do that; I won’t take away your agency like that.”

Ugh, she’s so self-righteous. She’s clearly never held a heart in her hands...but we can change that.

“It’s not taking if it’s being given up,” he explained, then reached for her with his hook. He brought her forearm level with his chest and placed the handle of the dagger in her hand, wrapping her fingers around it. “Please, Emma; for me?”

To his horror, she tossed it aside. “Killian—you don’t need me to; you can do this!” She was holding his hand and hook and trying to meet his gaze, but it hadn’t left the dagger, staring at where it lay cast aside in the grass.

And he was fairly sure his stomach was on the ground next to the blade.  

Would you look at that? She just threw you away.

“Killian, do you hear me? You’re stronger than this!”

Just like your father did...and your brother...and all those captains…

“Whatever it’s telling you isn’t true!”

Isn’t it, though?

He finally broke out of his trance to glare at her. “How could you?” he screamed. “I ask your help and get tossed aside?” Dark rage was starting to build.

“What? No, Killian—that’s not—”

“I thought you’d be the one who could do this! I’m trusting you!”

“And I’m so glad you do,” she said, giving him a teary smile as she cupped his cheek. “But Killian—you don’t need me for that!”

Some Savior she is.

“Well some Savior you are!” he echoed; the glass in the lanterns shattered as his magic began to reach out in response to his frustration. “No wonder you couldn’t break your parents’ curse!”

She stepped away, visibly shocked. Deep down, he knew it was a low blow, but he was on his last tether and it was rapidly fraying.

Emma took a deep breath. “You’re better than this.”

No you’re not.

“Am I? Really?” He took an intrusive step into her personal space; the thump of her pounding heart registered in his mind. “Does this look like it?!”

Show her...show her what she’s doing!

A strong breeze swept through the garden; he was fairly certain he summoned it, and the trees creaked in response.

But then he scrunched his eyes shut as he winced in pain; no—she wasn’t doing this to him—it was—it was—it was giving him a headache, splitting him down the middle.

“Killian, come on; fight this!” She was gripping his biceps and there was a cool, soothing sensation emanating from her. He wanted to lean into it, but her magic couldn’t quite permeate the Darkness, which was screaming in his head.

She’s not going to help you! Just take her out and forget her; why bother with people who’ll leave you behind? We haven’t…we’ve been here with you all these years!

The Darkness hadn’t left; it was sad, but true.

“I’m here—we’re both here, you and me—you can do this!”

Until she tosses you away again. She left her family, her kingdom—what makes you think she won’t do the same to you?

She had, hadn’t she? But she’d also pulled him back from the edge—unless he remembered wrong? God, everything was so fuzzy and foggy…the wind picked up and static energy filled the air as light and dark magic collided.

“Listen to your heart; you’re a good man, Killian Jones…”

No, listen to her heart! The Darkness was drowning her out. It’s the only thing standing between you and the peace and freedom you deserve. Her steady heartbeat pounded even louder in his head, shaking him to his skeleton; it was all he could hear.

Take it; take it; take it; take it… The whispered command came from all around, echoing in his head and reverberating off the garden walls. She’s just gonna hurt you; take it…

His cheeks were wet with tears and his voice was raw from yelling. It felt like every bone in his body was trying to flee the one next to it. And he could only see one way out of this agony.

He thrust his hand forward, into Emma’s chest; a shower of sparks fell at the intrusion. She gasped as his grip found purchase on the organ, and gave a small cry as he yanked it out.

Everything quieted then, as if the whole world was shocked: Emma’s heart, glowing a beautiful, pure red, was sitting in his hand; his fingers, with their blackened veins, curled around it.

The stunned silence that followed suggested that no one had thought he was capable of it, least of all him; he and Emma wore similar open-mouthed expressions as they stared at it.

What the bloody hell was he doing?

What you have to do.

“You don’t have to do this, Killian.” Her voice was strained.

Yes, you do.

He...he did, didn’t he?

“This isn’t who you want to be.”

What other choice did he have anymore, though?

None whatsoever.

Do it, do it, do it, do it… the voices were chanting.

Crush it, crush it, crush it, crush it…

He started to squeeze. Emma crumpled to the ground almost immediately.

Yesss, that’s it...oh, it’s been so long!

He squeezed a bit harder, watching as the glow of the heart pulsed faster. Something was definitely changing in him—there was a cold feeling spreading from his spine, not at all refreshing, but not wholly unpleasant either.

Just a bit more and you’ll be free!

Free...he couldn’t even remember what that felt like. He tightened his fist around the heart even more and Emma began to whimper and gasp. From her prone form on the grass, she flipped her head up to look at him, eyes rimmed and red with tears.

We’ll have everything we ever wanted!! Killian was vaguely aware of the scaly texture taking over his skin, but his focus remained on Emma and her heart.

“Please,” she choked out. “Don’t give…” Her eyes were fluttering, about to close for good. He could feel the corner of his mouth pull up in a sinister grin.

Almost there...

She took an arduous, strained breath, and uttered what would likely be her last words. “I can’t lose another person that I love.”

That stopped him. Love? She was on the verge of death... but was worried about his fate?

Don’t listen to her—she’d say anything to get you to stop!

Anyone else would...but not her. He knelt next to her as she lay panting, finally able to catch her breath now that he’d relaxed his grip on her heart.

Finish it! Finish her! the Darkness was demanding.

But he couldn’t hear it anymore when Emma reached up to caress his face. He could feel the roughness of his skin as she brushed her thumb across his cheek and found himself leaning into her warmth.

And he suddenly knew what he really had to do. It had taken seeing Emma in pain to make him realize it, and he knew he’d likely be hurting her further, but it was the only way—the only right way.

What are you waiting for?

“This,” he answered, no longer caring if Emma saw him talking to no one. As swiftly as he’d pulled it out, he shoved Emma’s heart back in her chest.

She gasped and coughed, but then looked up at him, concern furrowing her brow. “Killian?”

What do you think you're doing?

“The courageous thing, for once.”

He took a deep breath to steel himself, then reached inside his own chest, pulling out his own heart this time. He saw Emma reach for him, but she froze before she touched him—a good thing, too, because the jolt from their feuding magic likely would have made him crush it. Surprisingly, it didn’t hurt all that much—just a slight tug, and then there it was in his palm. It was encased in a hard black shell, but he could still see a bit of red glow inside; he wasn’t at all shocked it was so dark.

You can’t stop this. Whatever you think your plan is, it won’t work.

“If that means ridding the realm of you, then I have to try.”

And what if you fail?

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.” But he was sure. He had no reason to be, especially with the frightened stare Emma wore, but he just...knew.

Carefully, he set his heart in the grass, which turned black and died on contact.

Then he reached over for the discarded dagger.

No! “No!” For the first time, the Darkness and Emma were in agreement.

Emma reached for his shoulder and squeezed. “Killian, you can't do this.” Tears were slipping down her cheeks now.

And he could feel his own brimming. “We both know there's no other way, love.”

You idiot! You absolute imbecile! After all we’ve done for you—keeping your sorry arse alive all these years? This is how you repay us?

“I can’t let you do this; I—I need you, Killian. I—“

“Your family needs you, love. I’m the only one who can do this, so please—let me die a hero. That's the man I want you to remember.”

“Oh, Killian,” she sobbed, cupping his face again. “You already are.”

“I love you, Emma.” It was probably fitting how much this scene reminded him of Milah’s death.

“I love you too.” Without warning, she fisted her free hand in his tunic and pressed her lips against his, firm and soft at the same time. He kissed her back as fervently as he could manage, though it was far less than anything she deserved.

When she broke away for air, he could only pause a second longer in the brief afterglow of the moment.

Stop! You have no idea what you’re doing—you won’t accomplish anything? Do you want to waste your life? Do you want to make her watch you die? We could do so much together!

Gently, he pushed Emma away from him. She was still crying, but gave him an encouraging smile nonetheless. He redirected his attention to he heart and adjusted his grip on the dagger.

You idiot...you lonely, miserable fool. You’re going to die as you lived: a one-handed coward.

The last insult was the final straw. He reared back and drove the point of the blade into his heart, splitting it in two.

Pain greater than anything he’d ever known—worse than any strike or lash, worse even than losing his hand—started burning a hole in him, starting from his chest and quickly bleeding out. Oddly, he wasn’t losing any blood, but those same inky black tendrils that had consumed him all those years ago were leaking out of him at a furious pace.

He wasn’t quite sure when or how he ended up on his back, but at some point, he realized he was staring up at the Darkness set loose as it escaped from its binding and left him behind, no more than a used, broken vessel.

And yet—he’d never felt more free or at peace in his life, because it had been his decision and no one else’s. He knew what would happen and he’d still done it.

The last of the Darkness broke away from him and he dropped back from whatever contortion he’d been in, feeling so much lighter than he could ever recall. Everything was growing dark and his vision narrowed; he must be approaching the end.

And all he could do was smile.

He turned his head to find Emma; she was kneeling in the grass next to his body, his broken heart held in her hands and tears streaming down her face. Amazingly, there was no black on his heart anymore—just that same pure red glow Emma had. He wanted to ponder its meaning, but more so wished he could comfort her—but there was time for neither, and he knew that eventually, she’d be fine without him.

The last thing he saw before falling into oblivion was the bright green of Emma’s eyes, and then everything, including his heart, faded to emptiness.

Oh, sweet rapture! The Darkness was finally free—free of that bumbling burden it had carried for far too many decades; truly free for the first time in its centuries of existence. No silly human emotions to weigh it down anymore; it could do as it pleased!

It had no idea what to do with such a lack of restraint now that it was out of its cage. It wanted to touch everything and everyone, leaving chaos and destruction in its wake. But where to start?

The garden would make a perfect first victim, it supposed—what a better place to sew despair than in what was once a symbol of hope? Unbound, it flew around the space, its tentacles of darkness killing all it touched: vines shriveled, trees shed their leaves and turned black, and one by one, flowers turned gray and their petals fell to ash in the wind.

Imagine what it could do beyond that? The world would fall to darkness, unable to stop it.

Though, one disadvantage to being uncorporeal was quickly revealed when it attempted—and failed—to pick up the now-nameless dagger: there was some perk to having fingers.

The girl...oh, yes, Princess Emma—how could they forget? Such raw, untapped power! It had noticed her own rage and anger...if it could sway her to see things a little differently...oh, there was much fun to be had!

It concentrated its efforts on surrounding her; in her unsteady emotional state, she’d be especially vulnerable—and desperate souls were its favorite.

She flinched when it began to circle her. There, there, dearie; no need to cry over spilled blood.

Her eyes grew wide at its voice and she stood, her stare darting around at the cyclone of malevolence that was closing in on her.

We can dry those tears, if you’d like. And make sure you never shed another.

“Seriously? You expect me to believe that?”

Whyever not? You hardly know me, love.

She breathed in deep at the use of the deckhand’s endearment; just as planned. “Leave me alone; I don’t need you.”

That’s not what you said a few minutes ago. The Darkness echoed her voice from earlier, when she’d told Killian as much; her face crumpled at the sound, to its glee. And you’d be no closer to breaking your parents curse without those books...but maybe we could help make sure you do.

“Never!” she screamed defiantly. “I won’t resort to dark magic to save them; they wouldn’t want me to.”

Even after what they did to the dragon’s child? (Even the Darkness knew to stay away when children were involved; it had some standards, after all.)

She clenched her jaw and glared, having no response.

To think: what happened to that poor thing would all be in vain, because you couldn’t manage to live up to your destiny.

Truthfully, the Darkness was bluffing a bit at this point. As much as Jones had gone mad in its company, it was mostly because the Darkness was equally listless and cut off from the world. It used to be at the forefront of all magical goings-on, so whatever this prophecy was surrounding the girl, it had no idea. But that didn’t mean it couldn’t try to use it to its advantage.

Although...the look of recognition on her face did lead it to worry—she looked like she’d just gotten an idea, and not one that the Darkness would be fond of.

“No, I think that’s exactly what I’m gonna do,” she spat. “I was given all this light magic for a reason; and if I can’t use it to save them, or Killian, then I can at least use it to destroy you.”

I’d like to see you try.

A look of grim, fierce determination took over her face as she closed her eyes and concentrated, holding her arms in front of her, palms up. Oh, she looked like such an amateur.

White sparks began to jump from her palms and the air began to shift a bit. And when the sparks hit the Darkness’s oozing spirals, something strange happened: it hurt.

What—what is this? What are you doing?

It certainly wasn’t the first time the Darkness had squared off against a light magic user, but it was only the vessel that got hurt, not the entity itself. This was new. And not enjoyable in the slightest.

It spun closer to Emma, seeking to drown out her powers, but it was no use: white lightning began to fly from her hands unrestrained, slicing through the column of the Darkness that surrounded her.

Well that wasn’t exactly the way it expected this to play out. All attempts to double down on the girl were failures as it was cut apart by her pure magic, until the pain became too much, like fire consuming its many limbs all at once.

Quickly, the darkest magic ever known to man was crumbling into absolutely nothing, its charred remains disintegrating where they landed and leaving behind no trace of one of the strongest forces on earth.

It managed to scream one last thing before evaporating into the ether.

No more Darkness...

Holy shit. Holy SHIT. She just...she just destroyed the Darkness, didn’t she?

Holy shit.

Somewhere, her mother was tutting at her repeated cursing, but Emma didn’t have the wherewithal to come up with anything more refined or creative. In the span of minutes, she just watched the man she loved die to avoid being consumed by the darkest thing ever, and then she obliterated said thing.

Yeah, she’d been prophesied to do that, and she’d worried it would come to something like this as soon as she met Killian. That was why she tried to keep him at bay at first, not trusting him—and even less trusting of her initial attraction. So much for that.

But that didn’t take away from the adrenaline coursing through her veins next to the surge of magic that wouldn’t abate. She let out a long exhale and tried to shake the sparks out, but they just dripped from her fingers and onto the charred grass below her. The garden was mostly destroyed from all that had happened, but it was a small price to pay for what she’d just accomplished.

No, there was a different price that had been too large—that shouldn’t have been part of the exchange. She knelt back down—well, more like collapsed—next to Killian’s cooling body.

It was odd, seeing him like this. Gone was the shimmery pallor of his skin; she assumed this was how he looked before he acquired the curse: tanned by the sun from long days at sea. But stranger still was that he looked so peaceful—she’d never seen him so relaxed, without the constant weight of his burdens and self-doubt resting on his lean frame. And she hated that it was death that had finally given him that respite.

A drop of water fell onto his linen shirt and was quickly absorbed by the fabric. Then another. After a few, she realized they were her tears, coming back in full force. She’d lost so much in such a short time; why did he have to be part of that?

For a long, long moment, she just let herself cry—for him, for her parents, for her kingdom—as she lay across his chest, holding him close like she only got to once in life.

But then something in the grass caught her eye—something glowing. Killian’s heart. What?

She immediately sat back up and grabbed the broken halves of his heart. As soon as he stabbed it, the hard black shell had immediately dissolved, leaving behind his pure, bright red organ—and she could have sworn she saw the light fade from it completely. But no, there it was: faint, deep in the center of each half, but there was still a flickering, pulsing sign of life.

Another tear fell from her cheek onto the dull surface of his heart from where she’d set them in the grass when the Darkness started encircling her, which seemed to absorb it—and the light got a little brighter. Her heart leapt for a moment, and a spark of her magic burst free from her palm, landing on the other half—which had the same effect. She gasped; did that mean...could she…?

Focusing everything on Killian and not on her own misery, she called on that extra magic running through her, bringing it into her hands with the two halves of his heart. Her tears were still falling on it, creating a sort of magical glue, she figured, as she pressed them back together and used her magic to seal it. The bright light from her palms blinded her for a second, but when it faded, his whole, healed heart was in her grasp, glowing a bright, bold red, and the extra pressure from her excess magic was gone.

She wasted no time in pressing the organ back into his chest, trying to make sure she did it the same way he’d removed his (and, well, hers, but she wasn’t dwelling on that—it wasn’t him who had done that). And then she waited.

And waited.

And waited, staring at his chest, watching for the rise and fall of his breath that should have accompanied the return of his heart. But there was nothing.

She pressed fingers to his neck, right over the little line of freckles she’d just noticed. There was a pulse, but he still wasn’t breathing. Why wasn’t it working?

Immaturely, she shook him, though mostly out of frustration. “Killian, please—can you hear me? Are you there?” His head lolled to the side, but there was no other reaction. “Son of a bitch,” she cursed.

There was only one other thing she could try. She didn’t have much success with it, and it was probably a longshot—but given what their goodbye consisted of, she had to give it a go.

“Killian, I love you,” she whispered, hovering over his face. “Come back to me.” And then she pressed her lips to his, praying that her love was enough to wake him.

Killian wasn’t sure how long he spent there in the comfortable nothingness. There was no light, no sound, no feeling—it was as if he was laying on the bottom of a deep, dark pit, while at the same time floating in a void. Was this the afterlife, he wondered, or merely where the souls of Dark Ones past ended up? Perhaps he’d landed in some sort of purgatory. But he was nothing if not patient, and could wait to find out.

He briefly pondered the fates of those who’d passed before him—his mother, his brother, Milah. Had they traveled through this space, too, or did they head straight for greener pastures?

Wherever they, or he, went, one thing was for certain: Emma wasn’t yet there. He’d so loathed to leave her behind, but she was strong, possibly the strongest person he’d ever known; she’d move on past his sorry self, regardless of the fact that she loved him. At least he’d had that before leaving the mortal plane.

Slowly, a warm feeling took over him, like being washed in sunlight—though it was still dark. He took a deep breath, unnecessary as it was, as he readied for whatever came next. Oddly enough, he thought he felt his heart beating again; perhaps that was just a trick of the afterlife?

For a few long moments, it was just he and the gentle thump-thump in his chest there in the abyss. But then he saw a light, quickly getting brighter until it was nearly blinding.

And he could have swore he heard Emma’s voice.

Suddenly, pain crashed back into him—like lightning striking through his limbs and pressing down on his body, violently reigniting a fire that had burned out. He was gasping for breath, sputtering and coughing—until he felt a familiar gentle touch, and it was all immediately soothed.

“Killian?”

He blinked a few times before his eyes truly adjusted to the light—not as glaring as whatever he just experienced, but still more than the previous emptiness. And the first thing he saw was Emma, hovering over him, a smile taking over her face.

“Emma?” His voice was unsteady.

“It worked,” she whispered. “Holy shit, it worked!”

“What...what happened?” He was dead, right? Did that mean she was...oh, no… “Emma, are you—”

“I’m right here,” she said, grabbing his hand and squeezing it. She felt warm enough, but a tear was falling down her cheek. Beyond her, he saw the garden—but it wasn’t at all how he remembered; it looked much like it did after his very first visit: dead, dried up, dark.

“Where are we?” he asked shakily, not sure he wanted to know the answer.

“We’re still in the garden,” she explained calmly, albeit a bit watery. “You...you were gone and then the Darkness was free, but I—I beat it, or destroyed it, or something, and then—your heart! Oh, your heart—I fixed it, and, and then…” She was rambling and crying and grinning and he only caught half of what she was partially explaining, but the last part sounded loud and clear: “True Love’s Kiss,” she said, reverently.

He was aware of his mouth hanging agape as he stared up at his angel, his actual savior. “I...I’m alive?”

“Yeah,” she nodded.

“And we’re…” He hardly dared to put it into words.

“Mhmm.”

He exhaled and stared up at the sky, where the sun was beginning its descent and leaving a deep blue behind. So he hadn’t seen his last sunset yet, or the stars, or the sea; he had a second chance. It was almost impossible to believe, but as he took another deep breath, and another, it sunk in.

The Darkness hadn’t won. Emma had. Love had.

“Nothing else to say?” Emma quipped nervously, then sniffled. Oh, gods, he’d been silent ever since the revelation—what poor form!

Quickly, he sat up—but immediately swayed in his spot at the rush of blood; he’d have to get used to that, and so many other mortal complaints, again. Emma gripped his shoulders and anchored him as he waited for the sensation to abate, too slowly, in his opinion.

But once the light-headedness passed, he gripped her hand and met her tear-filled eyes. “I...I have no idea what to say to that, love,” he stammered. “It’s nothing I ever imagined hearing, and more than I ever dared to consider or hope for. I’m...I’m speechless.”

“In a good way, right?”

He chuckled, but it came out almost like a sob. “In the best way anyone can imagine. It—you—is more than I could possibly deserve.”

“Hey—enough of that,” Emma said softly, cupping his cheek with her free hand; it felt so, so warm, and he realized all he’d been missing out on. “For starters, that was never true, and it’s even less true now. You deserve peace and happiness, Killian; you always have. And this?” She continued, placing her other hand over his heart, “is the brightest red I’ve ever seen. Not that I have many hearts to compare it to, but just so you know. I love you—I did then and I do now; so much now. So please stop beating yourself up, because today? You were the strongest person I’ve ever seen.”

Tears were free-falling down his cheeks now. “I love you, too, darling. More than I thought I could. Thank you for saving this sorry lost soul.”

Before they could continue down a spiral of platitudes, Emma pulled him close to kiss him, this time in celebration. It wasn’t a particularly long or deep kiss—his return to mortality did inhibit that a bit—but it was sweet and gentle and carried the promise of so much more.

thank you so much for reading! epilogue to come!

tags: @kat2609 @optomisticgirl @thesschesthair @fergus80 @xpumpkindumplingx @shipsxahoy @selfie-wench @mryddinwilt @cocohook38 @annytecture @wingedlioness @word-bug @bleebug @its-imperator-furiosa @queen-mabs-revenge @killianmesmalls @distant-rose @sherlockianwhovian @effulgentcolors @laschatzi @welllpthisishappening @let-it-raines @nfbagelperson @the-captains-ayebrows @stubble-sandwich​ @killian-whump​ @lenfaz @phiralovesloki @athenascarlet @kmomof4 @ilovemesomekillianjones @whimsicallyenchantedrose @snowbellewells @idristardis @wyntereyez @lfh1962 @bmbbcs4evr @therooksshiningknight @facesiousbutton82

[slasherkisss]

CABIN FEVER - JASON VOORHEES X READER [CHAPTER 3]

Summary In an effort to remove yourself from your previous life in the big city, you move to Crystal Lake. The cabin you had inherited from your father makes the perfect place for a fresh start, however, there is a secret in these woods (and within yourself) that you must come to accept…and to love.

A/N Thank you for all of the support on this series so far, everyone! I’m amazed so many people enjoy it. The chapter after this one will contain some NSFW and sexual themes, this one is just...setting up the mood so to speak. I hope you enjoy it either way <3

The days after meeting Jason felt more like a dream than the actual encounter. No matter how many times you had attempted to convince your mind that your encounter was merely a vibrant, dream hallucination, you simply could not bring yourself to admit the blatant lie you were attempting in the back of your mind. It wasn’t a dream, your more vibrant half barked out with teeth bared, because you had seen the pairs of footprints when you had went outside to check the next day. You had looked for the missing lilac scarf you had offered the man in place of his cold nothingness and he had accepted. The sight of Crystal Lake, frozen perfectly in the moment you had met, etched itself into your mind like an acrylic painting.

It would be less frustrating if you had some sort of closure. A signal to remind yourself that he was real. That this whole thing was true to your memory, which had already faltered you so many times in the past that you would not give it the satisfaction of doing so again. Yet, in the days that ticked by with each second feeling like hours in the forefront of your disinterested cranium, there was nothing but frustration. You began counting each hour of the day, muttering the numbers to yourself out loud as you washed dishes or cast a glance at the clock on the wall that you were, honestly, still not sure if it told the right time. Two days, fourteen hours, forty seven minutes, fifteen seconds….Two days, fourteen hours, forty seven minutes, twenty seconds….

Then you found the first gift.

The term was used loosely, of course, because many people could consider it a threat over a gift. You had opened up the door to your home, intent on shoveling some snow out of the way of your continuously icy porch, but, were stopped by the sight before you. It was the skull of a small animal, unidentifiable without its fur but omnivorous according to the teeth that shone pearlescent in the light. Its hollowed eye sockets stared into you, startling you at its appearance. It was arranged in such a way on your front porch mat that you could not think it a mistake. For there was no other part of the animal. There was no other sign something had moved it there aside from footsteps in the fresh snow that looked all too big to be yours.

You leaned downwards, picking up the fragile bone with the most delicate grip you could manage. Resting the skull in your palm, you rotated your hand so that you could observe the item from all angles. It looked...natural. A skull dug up from the resting place of something long passed away. It had decayed years ago, leaving only its bones in its wake. It looked small...but the teeth were fierce, pointed canines curved sharply with molars resting the back. Your lip twitched slightly. Did this remind him of you, you wondered? Or perhaps you were reading too much into it. Perhaps he did mean it as a threat...Perhaps he wanted you gone?

No, you reasoned. He knew where you lived. If you had been a threat, you would have died days ago.

Instead of wondering further, you simply took the skull inside. You located a spot on the windowsill that faced the front of your house, dusting off the perch lightly before placing the skull down on it, adjusting it in just the perfect position so that it was displayed proudly before the glass. You gave the bone snout a gentle stroke, another smile growing on your lips as you looked out the window, tilting your head as you tried to imagine him sliding into your porch, setting down the bone and leaving without even waking you up. It was...flattering is the word you chose to think, though most would not be too sure you should.

You felt a need to rebuttal.

Running up the stairs to your home, you entered your bedroom. A box lay next to your bookshelf, unattended to and not yet unpacked as you had been saving it until the last minute like any true house mover. There was always those final boxes that never seemed to make it out of the packed state, stuck forever in the way that they were. You fixed that with this one, freeing the contents as you pulled the tape along the edges off and flipped the closing sides open with a flourished heave.

It didn’t have too much in it, the simple decorations you had wanted to organize against your bookshelf where you did not have enough books to quite fill in specific gaps. Fingers grazed at the items within it as you tilted your head, biting your lip as you made an effort to locate the perfect item in which to return your current suitor’s communication. That’s what this was, right? Suitor in the sense of the old fashioned way of wooing women. Of leaving them gifts and courting them in a series of content and proper rituals. That sort of thing. You weren’t really sure, but, this felt right, and you had been known by more than one person to go with what you simply felt, not what your mind completely dictated was reason to you.

Your hand caught on a jewelry box, its sides chipped and paint faded. It had been your grandmother’s when she was a little girl and, to be honest, you weren’t quite sure why you had kept it in here. You were not close with your grandmother, with her living halfway across the country with no real interest in visiting you or your mother. You didn’t even wear jewelry, save for the occasional black choker to go with a stylish outfit when an outing demanded more than one simple accessory. You had worn earrings once or twice, but, found them annoying to take in and out, ending up with the same sapphire studs in your holes for longer than you probably should have before eventually allowing them to close up. Regardless of its origins, you dug through it, searching for something that might have been fitting or, at the very least, could be used for some sort of decoration.

You fished out a pearl necklace from it, the natural forming calcium carbonate weighing heavy in your hands. You tilted your head to the side as you considered the option of it, lip finding its way into your mouth and between your teeth as you thought. He wouldn’t have much of a use for it, that’s certain...Then again, there were rumors of him still loving his mother as well, as she was the one who had killed for him in the first place. Would homage to her be too forward? Or would he feel as though you didn’t care about him if you did this? It was always good to talk with parents, of course. Maybe she would like you? You ignored the fact that she had died in your mind, momentarily forgetful of the fact in favor of choosing the pearl necklace and walking gingerly down your staircase instead. While passing in the living room, your fingers ghosted across the items you had within it, settling on your bookshelf as you peered through the options.

Your hand happened upon an older copy of a childhood classic. A leather bound, shapely copy of Grimm’s Fairy Tales. You pulled it from its spot against your shelf, fondling it idly with a smile. These fairytales had always been your favorite, the grotesque endings so refreshing from whatever modern adaptations there seemed to be out there. The twisted way Cinderella’s stepsisters paid for their transgressions with the loss of their sight made you smug with a sense of justice. Yet, you also pitied the wolf in Red Riding Hood. A creature that was simply looking for its next meal, unsure of where it would be….When a human wanders into the forest, you thought, it is the forest who controls them now. What happens to them is of its own design, as the realm is not of their own. One had to respect where they were, because nature was always ready in one form or another to take what it deserves.

You put the pearls on top of the book and carried them out to your front porch, gazing around at the wintered wasteland for a few moments before gently placing them at the very edge of the porch steps. Snow sunk into the leather but did not wet it. The droplets that fell from the sky merely accentuated the pearls beauty. You bit your lip, suddenly unsure if this was the right thing to do. Would he accept the gifts? Would he find them offensive, maybe? Perhaps he wouldn’t realize they were for him and you should leave a note.

These thoughts bit at the back of your brain as you left the items where they were, closing your door and standing in the center of your living room, looking around almost aimlessly as you gathered yourself up. He would know, you determined with a final affirmation within yourself, and there would be no need to worry about it. The communication of gift giving was a carefully planned one, and no one would engage in it should they not know what they were getting themselves into.

You hoped. You really hoped anyways.

The day came and went and, as if you were a child on Christmas morning once again, you felt yourself giddily rushing down the stairs and out into the porch. Your feet were bitten by the icy snow underneath them as you forgot in your rush to put on proper footwear for the weather, but, you barely registered the bitter pain against the tips of your toes. For the book and necklace you had put down were gone. Like alchemy in their place was yet another skull. This time it was of a bird, an owl you assumed due to the wide nature of its eye sockets and the minatureness of its beak.

It joined the first skull on your windowsill, displaying itself proudly as you ran back into your home to locate another gift, now fully invested in the pattern you were about to encourage between you and the mysterious killer of Crystal Lake.

The pattern repeated itself for several more days until it became somewhat of a daily routine for the both of you. You would wake up to a new present each morning, usually a skull but sometimes it had evolved into winter flowers and rocks from the edge of the frozen lake, smoothed by years of erosion against the shore, and you would in turn leave the present of jewelry or a book or whatever else you had in your home you felt you could part with. Once you had dared to leave a note with your items, it was simply a piece of paper with a heart drawn on it. When it was taken with the gifts you had left, you felt pride swell in the pit of your stomach with the hope that he knew just what you were insinuating with the single shape. When you receive the present of what looked to be human teeth resting in a neat pile, a heart drawn next to it crudely in the snow, you knew that your affections were returned.

This lead to, more often than not, the daydreams of Jason filling your already chilled mind. You imagined what he would be like in your home, his hulking form sitting on your couch as you leaned against him and read a book. You pictured him leaning down and allowing you to press a kiss into your cheek. Your mind then wandered to the thought of more than kisses, picturing the torso hidden under his tattered clothes and, without a doubt, the cock that would match the proportions of the massive man, and you had to bury your face in the pillow you were hugging to push it away properly.

The knock on the door shortly after the imagery was startling. It sounded heavy set, the solid thuds of a fist that made the wood of your fragile home groan in protest. Your heart skipped a beat, daring to hope of just who it was. Standing up, you put the pillow you had been holding down against the couch and hurried out to the door. When your hands rested on the cool metal knob, you felt...somewhat hesitation. An inkling of unsureness creeping up your spine like a parasite until it wrapped your brainstem, your mind growing fuzzy as you thought of the consequences this could possibly lead.

Consequences? Your mind scoffed at your thoughts, for if he wanted your death he would have dealt with it. If there were consequences, you thought snarkily to yourself, he wouldn’t give you such gifts. He wouldn’t pull a human’s teeth out for you. Give him a chance, you silly girl. Give it to him.

With that you opened the door.

Jason stood there, lilac scarf wrapped around his neck. The sight made your heart leap with appreciation, knowing he kept the fabric with him. His breath came out in puffs through the holes of his hockey mask. Bits of frost still clung to the yellowed mask, making him look almost like a statue in the light of the slowly setting winter sun. It was endearing, you realized with a blush warming your cheeks. It was handsome. He tilted his head at you and you grinned back.

“Hello, Jason. It’s good to see you.”

He didn’t respond and it was only then you chose to look down. He was holding things, you realized, and had extended his hands to you in order to get you to see them. One hand held the tomb of fairytales you had given him in your first tentative gift exchange, its leather cover now dusted with frost and wetness.

The other hand held a severed human arm.

There was a moment that your stomach lurched at the sight of it. It was your turn to tilt your head as you stared at the limb with borderline fascination in your eyes. It looked like it was fresh, but, just old enough so that it didn’t drip any crimson blood down in the snow and on your flooring, which you were thankful for. You didn’t think you had any books that stated how to get blood out of hardwood.

“Is that another gift for me?” You dare to question.

When you’re met with a nod of confirmation, the smile leaks onto your lips without you having to force it. Hands extended, you wait patiently for him to place the item in them. He understands after a moment of staring, reaching out and placing the arm between your fingers. It’s bare, the skin pale and slowly greying with the frost and rigor mortis setting in. It’s colder than you would have thought, and you could see the splintering of the bone inside of the severed area as parts of the ripped flesh dangled slightly, blowing in the wind that echoed through your door. The person had freckles, you noticed. You brought the object close to your eyes to observe if, the scent of rot vaguely registering itself in your nose as you ran your fingers over the palm and bent each of its digits testily. They gave friction against your actions and you found it...amusing in a way. You tried to imagine it as your high school bully’s arm and it gave you a twisted sense of solace.

“Thank you,” You hummed with a grin, “I like it a lot. I don’t know where I’ll keep it, though...It might smell if it’s inside. Maybe I can have it in the back shed…”

As you mulled, Jason proceeded to dare to reach out, tapping your shoulder in such a gentle way that you startled out of your thought process. He held up the book to you, staring at you with silent intent. Your eyes searched his, flowing from his face down to the book in hand and you tilted your head. A sense of understanding...and then guilt...flooded your system.

“Oh,” You mumbled, “You don’t know how to read?”

He shook his head no.

You dared to take this as an opportunity. Lowering the limb to your side, you reached out your free hand and offered it to him. The air was tense now as you felt yourself say the words most would have been terrified to even consider, yet, they flowed like melted butter from between your lips.

“Would you like to come inside? I could show you the stories in them, if you’d like.”

You expected him to back away and disagree as he did the first time you met. You expected him to take offense in one way or another and decide it was time to murder you. You expected anything else but the sight of him hesitant at first, but, slowly reaching out his hand and placing it in yours. His fingertips were cold from the frost of the outside. One digit was easily two of yours, maybe three. His palm completely consumed your own and your skins finally touching sent a tingle of delight down your spine. You didn’t believe in soulmates or love at first touch, certainly, but...the feeling you had upon gaining his grip was nothing short of electrifying.

With a shy smile, you lead him inside of your home. He followed.