#but they do have ceilings built on top of them

[redcali]

SUMMARY: Famous basketball player Caleb headcannons °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

WARNINGS/TAGS: MDNI 18+, explicit content, mentions of p in v sex, you’re his cardio lmao, slight exhibitionism, multiple orgasms and overstim, titsplay, fluff

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Basketballplayer!Caleb who’s proud to show off his amazing, gorgeous girlfriend. He’s just so smitten with you, which is evident in how the paparazzi has zillions of photos of him just looking so in love and gazing at you with adoring eyes whilst holding your hand from across the table in cafes and restaurants.

Basketballplayer!Caleb who uses you for his workouts. He simply loves to show off how strong and capable he is, insisting that he needs to lift you like a dumbbell for his reps, in order to train for his competitions. He loves it when you get on top of him during his push ups. You’re giggling as you lay on him, stomach flat against his strong back, your arms firmly wrapped around his neck as Caleb’s body dips down once more for his nth-consecutive push up.

Caleb’s groaning your name in between push ups, sweat rolling down his face and over the bulging muscles on his arms. You grin, guiding his dog tag up to his lips, and Caleb obediently bites down on it. Ruffling his hair, you whisper teasingly in his ear: “Good boy.” It’s just a joke, but Caleb already has you flipped over, his body hovering right above yours in a “plank position” and face inches away from yours.

“Good boy, huh?” Caleb’s lips brush against your neck, his hands sliding up your shirt to grope at your tits. Arousal pools at the pit of your stomach when his fingers graze over your sensitive buds. “I’ll be good for you all right…”

Basketballplayer!Caleb who makes sure that you’re in every interview of his. Caleb is just so needy his hands need to be on you at all times.

“I just need to say this, but you’re in really good shape!” The reporter gushes, theatrically waving his arms at Caleb’s biceps. His team’s sleeveless jersey really makes his muscles look even more defined than it already is. “Your arms are just so well-built, sir. And your hands! How on earth do you get them like that? For the viewers, of course.”

Caleb laughs good naturedly. He’s just so good and comfortable with the cameras. His arms are wrapped around your shoulders, and he drags you even closer to him. “I have to thank my girl, she helps me with my workouts. And she enjoys my hands too.” He brags, lifting his hands up for all the cameras to see. You nearly choke at his words, ears turning impossibly pink.

Basketballplayer!Caleb who makes sure to get enough “cardio” with you. He has your legs folded, your knees beside the sides of your face as he presses his cock into your tight heat once more.

“Nnngh, Caleb,” you pant, eyes uncontrollably rolling to the back of your head. Your body feels like it’s on fire, with the amount of times Caleb has made you cum on his tongue and cock, you’re incredibly sensitive and overstimulated. Every single time his skin comes into contact with yours it sends a tingling sensation up your spine. “S’ too much.”

“You can take it, pips.” Caleb gently leans forward, pressing soft kisses onto your cheek which is a dramatic contrast as to how hard he is fucking into you right now. “Besides, my competition is in three days. You wouldn’t want me to not get enough cardio, hmm?”

He picks you up off the floor as if you weighed nothing. Holding you up against the ceiling-to-floor window of his apartment, he continues to thrust up into you, his arms wrapped around your knees and keeping them spread for him.

Basketballplayer!Caleb who’s on a winning streak. He’s collecting medals like a squirrel storing nuts for winter, and every single time after a match he comes running off the court to meet you in the stands.The cameras zoom in on you two as he proudly hangs his medal around your neck and takes your face into his hands, kissing you sweetly for all to see. Your legs are wrapped around his torso and when you two finally pull away Caleb lifts you up onto his shoulders. Your friends and his friends are all laughing, shaking their heads at the two lovebirds that you two are.

[e1dritchjackal0pe]

ᴋᴇʏꜱ ᴛᴏ ʟɪᴍʙᴏ

Synopsis: A man arrives at your door in the dead of night asking for a simple favor, but once he's let inside, he begins making offerings too good to be true.

Now you're alone with a stranger that's odd in a way you can't quite place, trapped and isolated within a house that offers no safety . . . and normal men don't drool like that, do they?

Warnings: Fem! reader (in pronouns and body descriptions). 18+ content, MDI. Oral (Fem! receiving). Hints of sub! Remmick, but he's still a manipulative brat. Drool, religious themes, abusive relationships (nothing too graphic), infidelity (but her husband's abusive, so who really cares).

Notes: 28.9k words (This is way too long, I'm sorry). Not yet proofread, so please ignore any errors. I'll fix them later.

You've been staring at it for too long. Possibly only minutes, but truthfully it must be closer to an hour. You've long since fallen into a sort of daze, glazed over and trapped while your mind wanders, but you're still able to notice how the muted sunlight has dulled from the soft way it had streamed in through the window. Faded from the powdered shade of dusk and dimmed into a thick dark that eclipses shadows over everything. 

The only light now comes from the old fixture on the ceiling above, spreading out over the room in a warm, yellowed glow. Somehow, it only seems to make you feel more suffocated. The almost rhythmic drip, drip, drip, of the leaking faucet does little to quell the dread prickling and coiling in your stomach. 

It's haunting somehow, if not a little pathetic. Your hands have gone clammy. Palms turned damp from the thick air, all humid and dark from the night. Not even the setting of the sun has helped to cool the temperamental heat. It makes the atmosphere feel like a physical thing. Weighted; a damp blanket that's been draped over your body and tucked tight around the shapes of you. 

It makes you uncomfortable in your own skin, held in too tight it. The unease skirting across your nerves does little to help your predicament, and the wink of the light reflecting from the glass of the bottle, catching across the clear liquid contained inside seems like a taunt. It makes it tempting to drink from it. To feel the scorch of it run down your throat, fueling the fury in your veins. 

You had intended to simply pour it empty down the sink. To crack the top open and watch the booze spill down the drain. And you were planning to do the exact same to the three other bottles of gin that your husband has hidden beneath the floorboards, but you've found that he's already drank them empty. And somewhere along the way, the liquor has wound up out of your hand and down on the kitchen table. It's been sitting there for roughly around the last forty-five minutes.

Never in your years could you have imagined that a simple bottle would be so intimidating. You've been eyeing it as though it's a snake, all coiled in, ready to strike. But it isn't just a bottle. Not anymore with the dry laws, and if Colin knew what you were planning to do with it then you're certain it would send him into a frenzy. You can already hear the echo of his booming voice in your ears, ringing so loudly that you nearly flinch. 

You draw in a deep breath instead, curling your fingers tight to keep yourself still in your seat. He'd paid a fortune for the liquor; you know that well enough. Paid too much. Dug through the tin box that had once been hidden in the floor - the same space that the liquor now occupies - to remove the bills that had been kept there for safe keeping. Wasted through the little you had for some bathtub liquor. 

He needed to take the edge off, he deserves it after all the work he's been putting in, laboring for hours out of the day, callouses built on his skin and sweat staining his brows. His voice had edged close to that tight drawl, anger biting at his words while he seethed through his teeth while he had kneeled on the floor over the open gap in the planks. All you could look at was the money clutched in his tight first, the fierce, irritated glare of his eyes. 

You knew not to pry then. To agitate him any further. Not when his mind had already been made up. It might as well as been set in stone then. Once he's made a decision, he latches on with all the fury and ardor of a dog. You had swallowed down the angry words that welled up in your mouth, trapping the fire behind your lips to keep all the frustration he's been harboring for the past week from releasing out onto you. 

You can't stand the sight of booze anymore. It only reminds you of loses and arguments over money and his dependency. You've found that the fights are more trouble than it's worth. But the impact of them remains vivid. Stained behind your eyes, and the bottles always seem to be the incarnation of all that strife. 

You should pour all of it down the sink and be done with it. It's not a solution, but you know that it would feel good. A temporary relief but one that you would hold onto for years to come. A small retribution for his wandering eyes . . . and hands. 

It makes you nauseous to know that's where he reasonably is now. Out indulging in another woman. Finding pleasure between her thighs and comfort in her arms. He's turned his back on you long ago. You've known it for longer than you'd like to admit. He should have been home at dusk. You would have heard the thump of his footsteps on the porch, the low metallic whine of the door hinges as he let himself inside, his dirty boots would have thumped a little when he slipped them from his feet. 

And yet, he's still nowhere to be seen, but you can hazard a simple guess. Always bending to his impulses, he's probably already dragged himself up to whatever shady gambling den or dingy back alley that might still be willing to take him. If you're lucky, he might be holed up in the house of one of his friends from work, drinking up their booze and taking up a spot at their dinner table. 

He's built a name up for himself for being a man with a shaky poker face, poor luck, and stupid persistence. In some respects, that's what is more embarrassing, what stings and gnaws at you the most. How people look at you now, passing you fleeting, sympathetic glances as you walk past them. Now you're only the wife to the unfaithful gambler, the man who drinks himself into a stupor. Who finds solace in other women while he lays all of your funds out on a table. 

When they all look at you, all you see reflecting back is pity, oversaturated sympathy. It fills you with loathing, mostly because you can't blame them. If you were in their shoes, what more could you do but watch hopelessly from the side lines? 

They hardly see you as an individual anymore, only a woman who can't keep her man from straying. But that's the thing about some dogs, no matter how much love you give them, you can't always keep them from wandering from home. Sometimes you wish that he would wander so far off that he couldn't find his way back. That would save you from the agony of it all. 

But mostly you just wish that you could leave this place yourself. Countless nights you've sent a prayer out that you'd find the courage to finally save yourself and pick up the pieces you have to search for something better. That nerve hasn't found you yet. 

Now you just sit alone, plopped on a rickety chair in the middle of the kitchen, staring at the bottle as though it's full of kerosene that might light up at any moment. Take you up in a roar of fire. That might be a mercy. 

Your mind wars. It tells you to snatch up the liquor and dump it all, while another, more vindictive, fantastical side demands that you finally face your reality for what it is and leave. Fold and pack your belongings into that special suitcase and take off into the night. 

A wife's job is to endure, the words that your mother had said to have all but been branded across your psyche, burning. Permanent. What would God think? You made a promise, sweetheart - a vow, as the Lord your witness! 

The pain you've almost come to grow used to in a twisted way. Though the debasement is another beast in its own right. It digs deep, burrows down into your marrow and carves you out of your skin until you're nothing but bare. Stripped for the judgment and prying eyes to hail down upon. 

Common sense warns you to take the bottle and put it back in its place. He wouldn't even know that it's been moved. You could still nestle it down under the floor, tuck the wood back over into their places and he'd be none the wiser. And yet, you don't move. Don't so much as twitch in your seat. 

Defiance rages inside of you. Thick, heavy, pinning you down in place and thrumming through your limbs, making your fingers tremble. The hatred smoldering in your chest frightens you sometimes, as hot as it burns. Scalding and boiling just beneath your breasts. Sometimes it makes you feel as though you can't breathe, lungs choked on your own ire. 

You've gotten little victories in this marriage, and it's made you desperate. Foolhardy. Downright stupid from your anger and hopelessness. Often times you find yourself thinking, so what if he gets mad? What could he possibly do that he hasn't already? 

Let him hit, let him swear. Like a vagrant you'd take what you could get, no matter how lowly you'd have to scrounge, or how pathetically you'd strike back, you'd get yours. The urge dawns on you suddenly, a weak, scrambling idea, but you cling to it all the same. Colin can go out all that he likes. He can waste himself away, stick his hands up other women's skirts, and in turn you'll take what you can get. Scavenge and prod for the little triumphs you're afforded. 

You almost feel detached from yourself as your hand slips across the tabletop and reaches for the bottle. The chilled glass somehow seems hot on your skin, but you keep your fingers fixed around the shape of it. You hardly think, hardly resist the urge when you lift it up, listening to the liquid sloshing within the vessel as you press the mouth up to your lips to toss back a swig. 

You wince as soon as it touches your tongue, lukewarm and stinging as it slips down your throat, traced with smoke and earth. You haven't bothered with a sip of liquor in years. It wasn't worth the cash or the trouble, from the law or Colin. The last you drank had to have been back when you were a young girl, and your curiosity had you searching through the cabinets for your father's bourbon. He'd caught you red handed. You had expected a punishment then. For him to order you to scavenge the yard and search for your own switch among the fallen branches and twigs from the black gum and oak trees. You had stood awkwardly while you waited, bottle held in a shaky grip while your heart fluttered wildly. 

But there had been no discipline dealt that day, only a small drink shared on the porch while he made you promise him that you wouldn't do it again. When you had first tasted the unpleasant burn of the booze, it had been easy to agree to that vow. But the odd tenderness that he had regarded you with had alleviated the sting of it. If you concentrate enough, you can feel the balmy glide of the breeze on your skin from that evening, you can hear the soft thrill of the birds that had been chattering nearby, the rustle of the trees. 

That memory seems a lifetime ago, and the next gulp you take of the gin seems to bring you closer and pull you farther away from it all at once. You bring the bottle down on the table with a noisy thump. Your muscles tense while you suck a breath in through your teeth through a revolted grimace. The alcohol tastes as awful as you remember. Harsh, biting, and the hint of juniper, distinct and a touch too bitter, it makes your mouth twist. 

For a moment you consider actually just evicting it down the drain, but your hatred keeps your hold fixed around the bottle, though you don't make any moves to lift it back up to your lips. It sears its way into your stomach, settling there heavy and warm. It doesn't help. It doesn't soothe to ache that's been splitting you apart. It doesn't quell the anger and hurt. Not even while you imagine the indignation Colin will feel when he finally stumbles home and finds the last of his booze gone. The brief show of betrayal that will be in his eyes, the irritation that will show there, will be enough to turn your rage into a smug satisfaction. 

But it's difficult to allow yourself to try and bask in what that might could feel like while you're sitting alone in the kitchen with nothing but the sound of your own quiet breaths and the dull chirp of the crickets outside to occupy the silence. It's times like these where you start to fantasize. It becomes a simple thing, for your mind to drift somewhere safe and better. 

There's a suitcase in the closet inside your bedroom. It's made of dark, chestnut leather and brass buckles. You can't recall where exactly you got it from. It might have been an old purchase that's slipped your memory, or it's possible that you had taken it from parent's home when you had finally left it, when the wedding band around your finger was shiny and new. Despite the kind of enigma around it, you think of it often for an entirely different reason. 

Sometimes, when the house is quiet and vacant like this, you take it out of the closet and open it up on the foot of the bed. You remove your clothes out from the dresser - only after thoroughly evaluating each garment - and choose carefully. The room available in the luggage is sparse, and you'd have to make do for the journey ahead. You pick through all of your clothes, picking meticulously - sometimes for different destinations. You went through all of your thicker clothes for a trip to Missouri; you know the winters there can be brutal. You had selected all of your best dresses for a journey to California, the ones made of lighter materials to keep you cool during the heat, though you're sure that the dry temperatures would be nothing in comparison to the humidity down here. 

You organize all of your things, packing only what you'll need. You fold up your clothes, tuck in a book or two for something to entertain yourself during the monotony of travel, some of your makeup and the little pieces of jewelry you own, and then you shut the suitcase tight. You flick the buckles closed and it's a noise that's final. You still don't think you've ever heard a sound sweeter than the heavy, metallic click that always echoes out against the four walls of the small room. A private, gentle noise. 

It's the sound of being able to go anywhere, and you like to tell yourself that that's true. One day you'll get on a train. You'll head to the depot in town and buy a ticket. You don't care where to - Las Vegas, New York, Boise, Charleston. Anywhere else is better than here. But you think of the Californian coast often, sand under your bare feet and a sweet sunrise blooming over the stretch of glittering water in gold and blush. 

You have a postcard of the ocean. An artist's rendition of the waves, done up in pastels, watercolors, blues and beiges and pinks. A pier stretching out over a large body of water. You imagine often stepping out onto it and walking into the sunset, to be touched by a new light. You've held the postcard so often that the corners have become all bent up, weakened from too much touch, turned soft from your palms. You keep it safe inside the suitcase, but sometimes you can't keep yourself from admiring it, tracing the elegant font that's scrawled across the face of it, dreaming you were there instead of here. 

Deep down in the pit of your soul, you know that you'll never leave. That's what's killing you inside. Twisting you up, chewing you down and grinding you into a pulp. Brutalizing you in a way that not even Colin can. The hatred is like an affliction that's tainted you down the marrow. It's festered. Turned your blood black and eaten you down from the inside out, and now you hardly recognize yourself. When you look in the mirror you hardly see the person you had once been. You aren't the naïve girl who had fallen in love with Colin all those years ago, when he had been alluring one-liners and the protective nature he had shielded you with seemed well intentioned and not stifling and controlling. 

How dumb you had been. All ignorant and blinded by sugared feelings and young love. You'd dug yourself into a hole. Allowed yourself to be pulled in by the charm he'd once had, now curdled and rotten by time, and it's become too late to dig yourself up from the soil. This is where you'll take your final breath, curled up in a quiet house, blood on your busted lips while the cicadas send you off with a warbling cry. 

It makes your heart burn like a coal. It spreads through the sinew inside of you white-hot and coiling. Worse than that is the emptiness. The defeat that hollows you out in a shell. You're a ghost now. Dead and dull. You have no choice but to hate who you used to be, to be jealous of that youthful spark you once had, but it's all but been snuffed out and relit into something hateful. 

You want to scream. No one would here you all the way out here, tucked around the thicket of heavy trees and the swaddle of the night. It would be your secret if you let it all out, pitched your voice up into a wail that you know would pierce your own ears, release the tension that's been trapped in your lungs. And yet, no matter how much you long for it, the cry never rattles past your teeth. It's stays lodged there, like a rock behind your sternum. 

You hardly recognize the desperate reach your hand takes for the bottle again, slipping over the scuffed tabletop to grasp the smooth glass. The feel of it in your palm feels wrong, like it doesn't fit, but you hold onto it all the same. You don't want it, the bite of the liquor on your tongue. Not even the soft warmth that's scattered over your limbs, as balmy and satin as heated water, is tempting enough to want you to keep drinking, but the ire you have for Colin is. 

Your fingers slip up, smoothing up to clasp tight around the neck so that you can lift the bottle up from the table. The glass is cool on your skin, just whispering against your bottom lip when you tilt your head back to take another swig. 

Your grip slackens just a bit, a clumsy error, but that's all it takes for the bottle to slip from your clutch. The bottom of it hits the table with a heavy thud, and you hardly have time to track it as it tilts on its side and careens over the edge. It's a blur of silver as it hurtles towards the floor, and your breath snags harshly when it meets the wood in an eruption of shards. 

Everything in you locks in place. You go completely still as you stare down at the mess, taking in the liquor staining the floor, darkening the worn oak. The sting of the spilt gin pierces the air in a pungent bite that makes you sick to the stomach, blending with the sheer horror wracking your body and for a moment you fear that you might actually be sick. That you might double over and evict your guts all over the wooden planks; the pungent scent of alcohol already permeating across the air, staining the walls. 

You don't give it an ounce of thought when you crumble out of the chair, falling so abruptly the seat's legs scrape in a shrill cry and your knees smart when they strike the floor. You can't pay it any mind though. Not while you're cursing in a frantic stream, reaching down with shaky fingers to pluck up the shards of glass, desperate to pick it all up. 

Suddenly you don't feel invigorated or empowered, but just foolish. A dumb girl who tried to get the upper hand, who tried to feel big and crumpled under her own weight. 

You pick up the shards as quickly as you can, cradling them within a shaky palm one delicate piece at a time. It seems not even the universe is willing to allow you a victory, as miniscule as it may be. 

A cursory glance out through the kitchen window confirms that it is indeed deep into the night. It's so dark out that there's no definition to what lies outside the pane; there's simply just a strip of black velvet. An infinite void that stretches too wide, means to swallow you entirely.  

You aren't certain for how long you've been sitting here, stewing in your own chaos, but if you had to try and guess it must be close to 10 p.m., if not nearing midnight. When Colin vanishes like this, he often isn't back for hours, sometimes not making his way back until the dawn, all but barraging through the door in a noisy shuffle as though he'd been ushered in by the rising sun.  It makes you thankful at least, that you'll have time to clean up properly without him stumbling upon you, a mess in the kitchen with his drink now a collection of glass on the floor. The very thought of it makes your hands shake, fingers trembling. 

A hiss rips from you when a sharp throb pulses through your hand. When you look down again, there's a bit of red beading from a sliver in your skin, long and thin from the serrated edge of jagged glass. It's a clean cut, narrow and not too deep from what you can make of it in the low light and the smear of blood, but it still palpitates white-hot across your flesh. Sliced from the heel of your thumb and easing off just shy of the direct center of your palm. 

"God dammit all," you swear but your frustration is snuffed out by the tone of ragged panic and defeat in the inflections of your voice. You lift yourself up to your feet on wobbling legs, knees turned feeble from the dread weighing you down, but you still manage to cross over to the sink. You toss the glass shards that you picked up and toss them into the basin as though they're hot coals; the clatter of them striking across the cast iron sounds akin to a round of gunfire. 

You snatch the rag draped over the lip of the sink up in a mean jerk to press it against the wound. It burns to hold it to the laceration, but you clench your teeth together to distract yourself from the pain. You're almost entranced in your watch, seeing how the scarlet blossoms across the thick cloth, turning some of the fabric a rich red, distant from yourself as your mind chants to hide the evidence - to hide the remnants of the bottle before it's too late. You got too big, too bold, and now God or fate set out to knock you down a peg. To remind you of who's in control. Humiliation burns at you, unforgiving, fire raging, violent and fueled by hatred.  The smell of the gin is noticeable in the air. Thick, burning in your nostrils. He'll smell it once he gets home. It'll hit him as soon as he steps through the door, distinct, undeniable. Truthfully, if you had drunk it or broken the bottle, the result would still be the same. It would earn nothing but one reaction: anger, the strike of an open fist.  But somehow this seems so much worse. Perhaps it's the lack of control. The fact that it hadn't been a conscious decision, not part of the plan. But it's horrific, leaving you panicked and frantic, mind spinning out in a blind terror.  You'll have to open some of the windows, let the house ventilate and breathe and hope that that'll be enough to get rid of the smell - A repetitive noise sounds out from the front of the house. Steady, polite. Knocking. Someone is knocking on your door. 

If Colin had come home, he wouldn't bother with announcing himself. He'd simply ram in through the front door without a care, probably dragging his feet and slurring his words as he mumbled in a drunken drivel. 

Not many drift this far out, apart from the occasional neighbor you might spy while out pulling weeds in the yard, many driving out in their vehicles or hitching it on foot for a trip into town. You're all fairly quiet. And despite the cordial wave in greeting or a nod of acknowledgement while in passing, you mostly keep to yourself unless something calls for it. The last time you had someone at your doorstep was when Helen Young needed to borrow some flour, and that had been nearly a year ago; you'd kept her for as long as you could, sharing recipes and nuggets of gossip. 

You can't think of a single reason why anyone else would be at your house at such a late hour. You struggle to come up with a logical explanation and it only seems to sweep you up in a bigger whirlwind, one too great for your scattered psyche to handle.  There's another knock tapping on the door, still mild, considerate. Decidedly unlike Colin, but you're still unable to deny that there's a slim possibility that it might be him regardless. That all it takes for your body to go up in an uproar of confusion and dread, but it can't help but to obey the call coming from outside. Not if it's Colin who's out there, waiting and impatient, temper turned hot by alcohol. 

Every facet of you winds tight from the possibility of him actually being home. But the nature of his arrival is abnormal. Though maybe, the prospect of someone having dragged him back here, having become too drunk and incoherent, isn't an absurdity. Just the thought douses you with the sensation of cold water, and you long to move to crawl back over to the splinters of glass on the floor and clean them up, to toss them away in the bin and pretend that your ignorance never got the better of you. 

But that's only a temporary fix from the inevitable. Colin will find out regardless. He'll know what you've done. Look in the hollow under the floorboards and find that it's empty. Smell the fumes in the air. It's pathetic how all of the defiance and rage in you has been snuffed out into a wild disquiet, traded in for fear.  

Despite your panic, your feet don't stop in carrying you towards the door. It goes in a blur how quickly you cross the space from the kitchen to the adjoining living room until you're standing in front of the entrance with your heart thumping wildly inside your chest . The floor creaks under the shuffle of your feet, seeming too loud. The door seems to stand imposing, nothing more than a tall structure of wood, and yet it might as well as be the Grim Reaper standing before you. Ice sinks low in your stomach, becoming weighted as you eye the knob in your cautious approach. 

You wind the cloth around your hand, binding it tight and tucking the loose edge into the wrap of the fabric so that you can hide your hand behind your back, just out of sight without fear of the makeshift bandage falling free and giving evidence to your crime. You have to steel yourself as best as you can, sighing deeply to calm your nerves, but it does little to help as you twist the knob until you hear the telltale click of the latch bolt slipping from its divot. 

It's cold when you finally grip it, a shock to your skin despite the sticky warmth that's swaddled the air. You have to brace yourself, swallowing a shaky breath as you prepare for who's on the other side. But as much as you'd like to cling to the shaky bit of peace that you have, you can't hold onto this moment for long. 

You loathe the low whine of the hinges as you draw the door open, like the hissing of feral cats. It nearly sets your teeth on edge when you press yourself to lean out and peek around through the gap between the threshold and the door, just enough to be able look out onto the porch. 

The dark outside dares to swallow you whole. It's only from the dull light of the oil lamp on the accent table on the far side of the room that offers a wisp of illumination to slip out past the threshold. A muted, buttery hue that struggles against the oppressive shade of the night, but it's enough to highlight the figure that stands at the edge of the porch, just above the first descending step. 

It strikes you immediately that you've never seen this stranger before, and that manages to alleviate you from the fear of facing Colin and distress you all together. Uncertainty seems to press down on your shoulders, nudging at the nape of your neck as you eye the man warily. You can feel your brows pinch close from your confusion as you sweep a glance down at him from down to his shoes and all the way up to the relaxed smile on his lips. 

The expression on his face is polite, friendly, but that doesn't make this situation any less odd. He - whoever he is - doesn't seem to have the same reservations or thoughts as you, not with how relaxed his posture is. Fully comfortable in a space that doesn't belong to him in the late hours. His boots are a little worn, the leather scuffed slightly around the toes from all of the walking he's probably done, and there's a banjo hanging from his back. Not by a proper shoulder strap but by a pale, old rope. 

It isn't entirely unusual to have travelers come walking through here. All in search of different things, individual goals and destinations. Many follow after the train tracks that depart from town, using the rails as a guide to help themselves along to the next town over. What is unusual is to have one standing outside of your house. It sets you on edge, and you're taken away with the worst-case scenarios, the possible horrors that might arise from being alone out here. Horror stories of people attacked and murdered in their own homes. 

It makes your heart thud. 

"May I help you?" you ask, and you hope that he doesn't take notice of the way you scan a vigilant glance around the surrounding land, looking out for possible figures lurking off on the dirt road in the near distance or hiding in the trees. Luckily, you see nothing out of sorts. 

When your attention flickers back onto him, something about him seems amused. There's a glimmer in his eyes and the shadows that are being spilt across his face seem to pronounce the lilt at the corners of his mouth. "I'm sorry for disturbing you at such a late time, but I'm on my way through here and I was wondering if you'd be kind enough to spare a sip of water." 

It's a simple request, and good manners encourage that you comply, but common sense presses you to slam the door shut and lock the bolt. The urge to deny his ask rests in your mouth, right there on your tongue, but the refusal never makes it past your lips. It dies out when he dares to creep a little closer, stepping further into the murky fire light, and the weight of his shifting feet, despite their soft shuffle make the boards beneath creak. It could be a trick of the shadows, but you're sure that when he lifts his chin just the slightest, that his nostrils flare likes a dog that's caught onto a scent, and his eyes seem to flicker down to trace down your shoulder, following where you've tucked your wounded hand behind your back. 

Then his eyes are on yours, a movement so quick that you think you might have imagined the entire thing. The dark fashioning illusions, exacerbated on by your frazzled state. 

"I can't let you in," you blurt. It's all rolled out as though it's been struck from your chest, like you were worried he might try to shove past you and allow himself through the threshold. "My husband's asleep - he doesn't like to be disturbed." The lie rolls from your tongue easily enough, but it feels clunky too, unnatural. You find yourself hoping once again that he can't notice your discomfort, that the night will cloak your expression enough to keep your uncertainty hidden, the ceaseless cries of the crickets will hide your tone. 

"I don't need to be brought in," he replies. A reassurance, but you swear that something about its delivery seems . . . entertained. Like you've said something vaguely amusing. "I can stay right here on your doorstep. Take what you're willin' to give me and then I'll be on my way. It'll be like I was never here." 

There's something unsettling about the suave nature of his voice, like velvet wrapped around teeth, honey soft to lure you in and placate you. As tempting as it is, something animal skirts down your spine. Still you stand in the part in between the open door. You don't move. It's as though you've been stuck in place, caught by the societal etiquette that's been engrained in you since birth and something more damning, the weight of his stare. 

It isn't right, you know, to turn down a person in need, but your paranoia demands that there's a menace in the air. That danger might lurk right around the corner. Or that it's already standing directly in front of you, watching with a smile. 

You should step back, bid him to leave before your husband does actually make his way home, slam the door shut and sweep up the glass, tend to your wound. But you don't do any of those things. Instead you move back a hair, sparing the stranger a brief look as you begin to nudge the door closed. "Wait here," you relent. "I'll be back. But once you're done drinking, I expect you to leave." 

You don't wait to hear his response, but you think that you might catch a distant 'Yes, ma'am' passed you way as you head off towards the kitchen. You make quick work, opening the cupboard above the sink and grab the first glass you see to begin filling it from the faucet until it's full, almost trickling over the rim. You try not to glance at the broken shards still dusted over the floor beside the table, glittering and winking under the light, taunting you from the distance. You ignore the heated pulse that thumps and flares across your hand in time with your heartbeat. 

You twist the water off, catching it before it can overflow from the cup, turning the knob with a pronounced, rusted squeak. 

With another deep, steadying inhale, you find yourself opening the front door for a second time tonight. It's all too soon, as though you've blinked and lost time even though you can remember the steps you had taken to get back to this point. Your nerves feel shot, all fired up and confused, and it makes the minutes pool around you in a blur. The faint warmth that you had just begun to feel from the gin has all but left your system; chased out by the anxiety. 

When the door rasps open again, a part of you is disappointed to see that the stranger is still standing on your porch even though you fully expected for him to be there. When your eyes meet it's as though you've entered some sort of stalemate. He creeps closer, but there's a calculated edge to movements, as though he's approaching as one would a startled animal. 

You don't meet him halfway. You can't manage to get yourself to twitch past the threshold. Your hand that holds the cup hovers close to your chest. There's a disconnect somewhere. You tell yourself to extend your arm out to let him take the glass, but it doesn't happen. You remain tucked against the door. There's a safety here. An ability to close the man out if need be and hide yourself within the safety of familiar walls, but your hesitation has pulled a hush over the space. 

There's a clear uncertainty extended from the both of you now, but he doesn't eye you with awkward puzzlement but almost an intrigue. His head tilts a little, a minute movement that makes you feel studied all the same; an insect pinned to a board. That's how both of you remain for the next passing minute, for probably just a blink but a void seems to wrap out around you, turned hauntingly private from the dull hiss of the breeze shifting over the grass and the chirp of noisy nocturnal insects. 

It's another catch of the contained flame flickering within your home, but his eyes seem to reflect the night, the glimmer of distant stars catching in his pupils. You don't know if you've ever been consumed by a stare before; it's definitive that you have now. 

Your hand twitches forward, fingers flexing around the glass as though you might actually stretch your arm out past the doorway for him to take, but it hardly makes it more than a few scant inches. 

You notice the corner of his mouth nudge upward. "Plannin' on letting me keel over from thirst?"

A part of you can't help but hate how playful he sounds, as though you're well acquainted - cordial, familiar - and not outsiders to each other. The other, more buried half, the side that used to know how to smile easily and share harmless gibes in a second nature, rouses under his light ridicule. Maybe you would have insulted him for being the one crawling up as a beggar on a stranger's doorstep, and the desire to do so slips over you like a ghost. But you can't allow yourself the possession of that temptation. 

You force your hand out then, stretching it just enough to offer him the glass. 

The paranoid concern that he might grab you instead rises in your gut, but when his hand reaches, it only takes the cup with a polite, "Thank ya kindly," muttered out to you. There's a purposeful gentleness when he removes it from your own grip, keeping eye contact with you the entire time while he raises it to his lips, lifting his chin to drink it down in heavy gulps. He empties it in drawn out sips, pouring down his throat as though it's the only water he's had for miles. It has something like guilt whispering over you. 

 "What are you doing out here . . . so late?" The enquiry leaves you much more tentatively than you intended, and you reflectively clear your throat as though that might banish the nervousness in your chest. 

He seems delighted by the question. His posture straightens just the slightest, shoulders drawing up, boyish and pleased, as though he thought you'd never ask. "Oh, I'm a musician you see." He reaches behind to pull at the neck of his banjo, rotating it around to brandish it against his hip. "We've got ourselves a gig not too far up the road there." 

He lifts a finger up from the grip he has around the now empty glass and points out to his left in the direction of the path paved by car tires and wagons, cutting up through the earth and trees. The crickets chirping seems to ring out, raising up higher and higher as though they're loudly declaring him a liar. You hardly pay that any mind. 

"We?" Once again, you're scanning the surrounding dark with a worried glance, expecting finally see shadows lurking. Still and quiet, waiting for the perfect moment the lurch forward and take what they want. 

"A couple of my friends," he clarifies. He pulls on the rope around his chest, tugging the instrument back around in its proper place behind his back. He shifts on his feet, slipping about half a step closer, making the floor groan in a faint protest. "They're just up ahead, not too far from here. I thought I'd be able to make it just fine, but I have to admit that this heat is gettin' to me." 

"Yeah . . . It's plenty warm out here." You agree, half-hearted, struggling in your effort to keep him appeased with a geniality that you know must seem forced. 

This is odd. Something about this - him isn't right. It nudges at the back of your head like the weight of a reprimanding hand, pokes and prods at you to cut this interaction short and shoo him away from your doorstep like a stray that's overstayed its welcome. Regardless, you're stuck. All spun up in a glimmer of intrigue that sinks into you with a stubborn influence. All the isolation out here has made you deprived in a way, starved for interaction that doesn't come with the threat of scathing insults or the swat of a hand. 

You'd be fooling yourself if you couldn't admit that your fascination has been piqued. There's a magnetism around him that you can't quite explain. He looks like he could be any other man, not exactly plain faced, but his handsomeness shows in a way that isn't particularly arresting. It's pleasant, strong despite his rounded features and eyes that seem dark, impish. It's how he carries himself you conclude, the puckish lift of his lips and the lively way he expresses himself. 

There's a sort of energy around him that is almost palpable, thrumming and brushing through the light fabric of your dress to run over your skin; charged air in an oncoming storm. Suddenly, you feel a lot like a moth daring too close to an open pyre. You fear you might have already drifted too close to turn back now. Something instinctual and buried begs that you do, but like a bass captivated by the glimmer of a bobbing lure, you don't know if you're able to. 

It's like you can see the traces of his journeys on his body, remnants of the treks he's taken immortalized in the scuffs on the toes of his boots. You had seen that the calfskin face on his banjo has been turned darker in certain areas, made that way from frequent use; the brushes of his hand while he played. It aids you in picturing all the places that he's probably strummed the instrument in, plucking the strings with deft fingers while people dance and laughed, jovial in their celebrations.   

"Oh, it sure is," he answers with an excited grin. He tilts back just enough to place the glass on the railing, freeing his hands before he turns to you. It reminds you of a salesman preparing to make a pitch. "You could join us tonight, you know. It's fixin' to be quite the party, and the more the merrier." 

The invitation takes you aback, knocks you off quilter so that you're staring at him dumbly from within your doorway. "Excuse me? I can't - that's very kind, but I don't know you." You shake your head while it all leaves you in a sort of jumble, turned messy from your bewilderment. 

"C'mon now," he encourages as though he's a longtime friend and not an unknown, a stranger shrouded in mystery. When you lean back a little, tucking one of your shoulders tighter against the threshold, he tracks the movement with a stare that seems too eager, like an animal watching its prey twitch. "Everybody's a stranger to somebody; take a chance and we might just wind up as thick as thieves."  The smile on your face is tight, muscles twitching as you wield your mouth to shape an expression that's hardly convincing, too strained.  "I'm sorry, I have to decline. It's late. My husband is sleeping-"

"Your husband is occupied, all tucked into bed, sound asleep, just as you've said." His brows perk up a little, embellishing the question and he leans in close as though you're both sharing a secret. "So he wouldn't notice then, if you disappeared for an hour or two. He didn't even hear me knocking on your door - dead to the world, huh?" 

The last comment borders on mockery. A sardonic jab that's thinly veiled with an easy smile. It's knowing, as though he's in on something that he shouldn't be and can't help but to be a little smug about it. A distant, but clamorous voice cries from the corners of your mind in a paranoid stream of he knows, he knows you're all alone out here. 

He has an arrogance and condescension that leaves you a little speechless. You've only been in his presence for less than fifteen minutes, but the blurred genial character he has and the thinly veiled snark makes your head spin. You can't tell if he's attempting some strange, boorish flirting tactic, or if he's simply ignorant enough to believe that you would truly feel comfortable enough to allow yourself to be swept away by a complete stranger.  Even worse than all of that though, is that a side of you, dull but persevering, a remnant of your former self turned alone and quiet, is tempted. It's easy to fantasize about being spirited away, about being pulled into a whirlwind of titillation and celebration, flowing drinks and bubbling laughter. 

But those thoughts bring nothing but danger. A sinking in your gut that seems to tug you down to the bottom of a river, dragging you like a rock. 

"I can't." That's all you can manage to say. 

"Well, that is a shame." He concedes a lot easier than you had expected. He doesn't strike you as the type to roll over and except defeat, but he lets out a dispirited sigh. He nods like he understands, a minute gesture while he shifts his focus to his left, looking back off towards the road - a kicked puppy. That's what he looks like. Eyebrows furrowed over the wide shape of his eyes. He's actually pouting.  For a moment, you think that he's relenting. That he's finally picked up all the signs that he's been ignoring (willfully or otherwise) and that he'll turn and leave with a thank you, vanishing in the dark like a phantom that never existed. 

It would be easy then, to believe that you had made him up. A figment of your imagination come to haunt you. 

When his attention shifts back onto you, that glimmer of the faith you had fizzles out like water doused coals. It's involuntary when the hand behind your back flexes, clenching your thumb around the bandage. It licks a painful heat up the wound and you can feel your face wince. His nostrils flare in that peculiar manner, again. An animal scenting a trail. 

"I hate to take advantage of your kindness, but before I go, would you mind if I got another glass?" He lifts the cup up between you both and tilts his head as though he's eager to hear your response, rotating the glass back and forth to hold your attention. "I'm real parched." 

No. It's right there again. At the ready. But once again you can't find it in yourself to speak your mind. The stare he holds you in is testing. Evaluating. As though he's weighing you for your worth, challenging you to see how you might respond. It's become instinctual in you to waver, to shrink yourself down beneath a heavy stare. 

That's all it takes for you to grab it from his hand. You aren't sure if you appreciate the smile he gives you. He's stopping you before you can turn around and fill the glass - or get rid of him. 

"You wouldn't mind if I stepped inside, would you? Only to take some pressure of my feet. And these damn bugs, they're hungry tonight. I must taste good with how they're nippin' at me." 

He grins like he's said the funniest thing. As though you're close friends and he's made an inside joke. You can't manage a laugh though. You feel heavy, turned into stone as you stand in the doorway, tense, wound throbbing, and concern gnawing in your gut. It's kneejerk to want to refuse his request. Common sense nags at you to do just that, but fear keeps the words trapped inside. 

He's acting calm now, friendly, all things considered, but would his mood take a turn if you refused him? Would he lash out? Barge through the door if you slammed it shut or crash his way through one of the windows? 

Another voice entirely chides you for making assumptions. For being so judgmental in the first place. He might be a bit odd, but that doesn't make him a threat. He's a weary traveler looking for a place to rest his feet before he moves on, and you can hear your mother berating you from the grave, scolding you for turning a man in need away from your home. You can hear Pastor Hemley's voice raising high in that unwavering timbre, booming off the old, polished walls that existed long before you; echoes of one of his old sermons as he gripped the edges of the pulpit in an impassioned grip. "Who are we to turn away another man in need? What if it was the Lord himself asking, seeking you out for your aid, testing you of your humanity and goodwill, and you shunned him? Or what about your fellow man? Is it not our sympathy, our empathy - that makes us in His image? It is the meek who shall inherit the earth." 

Now you aren't ignorant enough to believe that Jesus himself has wandered up to your doorstep, but it still feels a sin to deny the stranger now. The prospect of it turns sour, bitter on your tongue, iron turning to rust. 

"You'd have to be quiet. My husband - "

"I'll be quiet as a mouse," he assures quickly. 

"I just don't want any trouble." You draw the door a little tighter, just enough that your shoulders and head can peek through the gap. Your hand tightens over the empty glass making the smooth shape of it dig at your palm. Your right hand squeezes tight too, and involuntary action that makes pain flare. A wince pulls a little at your face, makes your brows twitch. "My husband has early mornings; he needs his rest." 

"I ain't no trouble." It's a promise that brings you little comfort despite the sincerity. "If I so's much as look at you wrong then you can go ahead and throw me right out the door. Knock me out on my ass right on your front porch, if it pleases you." 

A kind of inner voice whispers from somewhere in the hidden fringes of your mind, distant but no less profound. It's like a brush along the nape of your neck, raising the small hairs there and it threatens to make you shiver. It settles in your bones, takes root deeply but as light as a phantom, distorted and chilled. It almost begs you to step out from the threshold and back into the familiarity of your house, and you nearly do. You can feel yourself coiling, the muscles in your leg bunching and it the heel of your foot slipping back just the slightest. Not even an inch but he notices, you can tell by the way that the corner of his mouth perks up. He's not even bothering to try and hide his amusement. 

You have to flex the grip you have clasped around the glass. Gripping it hard enough the rounded shape of the cup bites into your palm and keeps you centered. You really shouldn't let him in. The instincts creeping up your spine urge you don't, and yet you somehow find yourself split. Ensnared in a stubborn limbo that seems to hold you tight. 

The way that he's watching you doesn't help. His head is a little tilted, the smile on his face is still there, and the relaxed nature of his posture is intimidating despite that casual air of it. As though he's made a pocket for himself in your space. As though he's entitled to it. That it's belonged to him this entire time and you simply weren't aware. It irritates you. It intrigues you too. Everything about him seems to have been fashioned to lure you in. The easy confidence he emanates, the roguish glimmer in his eyes. 

He's laidback and odd all at once. The way that he stuns you is a product of pure roguish charm. He moves as though he's someone important, even while there's a soft smear of dirt on the cuff of his shirt, his boots are worn, and the leather has long lost its sheen, and yet you don't think you've ever felt so captivated in your entire life. It's as though you're held hostage. There's a grip that you can't shake, and it has your attention pinned onto him as though there's some sort of magnetic pull stretched between the both of you. You stare all while your mind chants in a repetitive, startled loop: Make him leave, close the door, lock the bolt. 

The crickets sing into the night. There's a caution somewhere in their cries. High pitched. Warbling. Animal. 

You best listen, they seem to say. 

You draw in a deep breath. 

"Alright, you can come in. But only for a moment." You relent so quickly that you hardly register it at all. It's not until you're shifting out of the way, nudging the door open and turning your body to give him a berth that you notice what you've said. Something in the pit of you urges that you slam the door shut before he can act out on your compliance, but like a spirit trapped inside a doll, you sit idle as he steps forward.  

Something seems to break now that he's crossed the threshold. A membrane has broken, been torn through and invaded as he moves across the floor, boots thumping softly in a hushed murmur over the worn wood. Each creak sounds like a scream to you. Ragged, strained, ringing out on a thin breath. The air is tense, strained with an awkwardness that you don't know how to navigate. 

The cup in your hand seems heavy. As weighted as a big stone. You track him from your place at the door as he comes to stand in the middle of the living room, not caring to hide how he sweeps a curious, evaluating look over the space. Eyeing the furniture, the outdated floral wallpaper - turned stained from age - and the family photographs hung on the wall above the sofa with an eager eye. A vulture scavenging. 

He just evaluates them for a moment. Staring as one might a set of paintings in a public museum. It strips you bare. Makes you horrendously vulnerable as he observes the images of your life; the glide of the satin air pouring in from the open doorway seems to perpetuate that vulnerability. Skirting over your flesh in dark, damp brushes. 

He scrutinizes photograph of you and Colin, the one of you tucked into each other's bodies, caught staring in each other's eyes while standing out on the stoop of the church. It was a time when you were still able to smile, when Colin built a warmth and love in you that burned inside, that could keep you safe. 

You had felt so beautiful that day, wearing your mother's own wedding dress, adorned in optimism and fine beading. Now you just feel stupid. 

It makes you sick to look at the picture. To see yourself draped in lace, all dolled up for a wedding that you'd come to regret. It's worse to have someone else staring at it with a kind of strange fascination. As though it's the most interesting thing in the world. 

It's worse still when his eyes drag downward to the frame directly underneath, taken a year apart, but the difference was telling. When you had first slipped the picture into its frame, you had wondered if others would be able to notice the strained nature of your smile or if it was an element that only you could see. If they would be able to notice how the light had dimmed from your eyes, turned dull in a muted reflection of the argument that had taken place only a few hours before. 

You know now that he, at least, is able to tell. 

"Happy couple," he comments, and it seems suspiciously sardonic. The remark could be private, an inside thought that slipped out, but he seems guiltless to have spoken it. 

He looks so normal and yet he's entirely out of place in the middle of your home in a way that you can't quite place. It's unnerving. It makes your skin itch. You can only watch as he steps around the coffee table to admire all of your belongings. The knickknacks and useless tchotchkes in the display cabinet, the bits and pieces of you collected over the stages of your life all held on the end table tucked close to the edge of the sofa. Unabashed that he's in a stranger's house. Stalking along the room with steps that are leisurely, but there's a calculated edge that can't be ignored. The saunter of a predator, careful but confident. 

When his eyes flicker back onto you, they seem to glimmer. Fire reflecting in their centers, gold pooling where the black should be. Abnormal. An animal's eyes peering through the dark. They burn through you, reaching at the edges of your soul. The suddenness of it snaps you from your daze like the pop of a hand. 

A trick, you tell yourself again. An illusion thrown by the light. 

"I'll just . . . go and fill this," you manage stiffly, brandishing the glass. You don't wait for a response, carefully shutting the front door with a heavy click before making off for the kitchen as though fire is licking at your heels. It's déjà vu to be standing back at the sink, tap running, watching the water bubble and churn from the flow from the spicket. 

For the first time in in years, a part of you longs to have your husband home, and that pitiful need disgusts you. You loathe that you crave the volatile comfort that he would provide. There is a familiarity in it. A predictability. But this man - the stranger - is a complete unknown and it's terrible. 

You have to curse yourself for crumbling. For weakly relenting and allowing a potential danger into your house with hardly any fight. It has self-hared, hot and boiling, twisting in your stomach. The disappointment is debilitating, sinking down into your shoulders as piercing as a set of talons. The chaotic panic swirling in your mind does little to help your state, injecting ice into your veins as you ponder the worst. That same worry has your eyes straying from the filling glass, drifting over to a set of drawers. The same one that's full of silverware. You think of the knives tucked into the left side of the top drawer, nestled right by the forks and spoons. 

It'd be easy to turn off the sink, sit down the glass and long enough to grab a knife. You could hide it under your skirt, slip the blade along your thigh and keep it held there by the material of your bloomers. The knife would have some weight to it, but you think that it wouldn't be enough to keep it from staying in place. 

Water pours over you hand in vigorous rivulets, welling out from over the lip of the glass in a heavy current that patters down onto the sink below. You curse under your breath, startling from the chill of it, and jerk from your fantasy. You reach clumsily for the knob, hissing through your teeth as your injured thumb clamps around the steel with too much force, licking lightning up the wound. 

It twists shut with a strained, metallic squeak. Even once its off it drips. A steady tap of water falling near the edge of the drain after a temporary pause. Just that has managed to set your heart fluttering, a simple overflow of water has it thrumming wildly in your chest. Like it's fit to burst out and leave your body behind. 

You draw in a shaky inhale, tainted with the bitter sting of the spilt alcohol that's long since seeped into the floorboards, perfuming the air in an acrid cloud. It has you feeling nauseous. Unwell from the thick of it burying in your nose - a reminder of your previous accident. Your thumb throbs at the reminder, smarting and warm. But you don't want to leave the kitchen either. You'd rather choke on the scent of the gin than have to face the man skulking about your living room.

God, you've just realized that you still don't even know his name. 

It's such a trivial thing, an absurdity, but a laugh almost bubbles up from your lungs. A loose, hysterical noise that lodges in your chest and stays there in an almost painful sigh. 

You don't want to leave, but you have to. You know you do. You can only hold off, resist the inevitable for so long before he becomes curious and comes looking for you, lurking around the corners of your house like a creature scenting prey. 

You hold the glass tighter, ignoring the damp feel of the water on your skin, blocking out the unease prickling over your skin as you turn from the sink. 

Your spirit leaves your body and soars far away from earth. It happens in a blink. You flinch, drawing up tight with a sharp gasp. You think your heart might have burst too, thumping in a craze as electricity scatters through your limbs. It's a scattered blur, your body recognizes that you aren't alone before you do, notices the silhouette standing directly in front of you before you can properly process it. 

You nearly bump into a chest, run right into it. You can't help the yelp you let out, can't even be embarrassed about it because you're so swept up and startled, your body draws up in a primal reflex, tensing like you might have to make a run for it. Muscles and tendons all clenching like they were going to eject your spirit up and out of them, send you flying high over the earth and into the heavens. You're sure your soul would have done just that if not for the pair of hands settling over your arms, gently clasping to keep you in place. 

"Sorry, didn't mean to startle you." His voice is apologetic, but the glimpse of teeth, the mirthful spark in his eyes, reveals just the opposite. 

You feel all shaken up, heart racing too fast in your chest, thumping up against your sternum in a frenzied patter. You can't speak, can't berate him like you truly want to or reassure him like your manners chide you to do. It's all a jumbled-up mess, and the sight of him standing so close, the weight of his fingers on your bare arms, callused from plucking strings and tepid despite the stifling heat, anchors you in a way that you don't quite enjoy. It forces you back into the moment, packs you into your skin with a sharp jerk that commands you to meet his eyes. 

Your tongue feels useless, your voice stalled and broken. For a pause too long, you can only stare. "It's quite alright," you just hardly manage, it's more of a whisper.  It feels as though you're lying through your teeth. You are, in a way. He shouldn't be here. You know that much. It won't stop howling at you, screaming under your flesh in a wild chant that tells you to send him off, to get him gone before the worst can happen. What the 'worst' might be, you aren't sure, but your paranoia and gut assure you that it's just looming over the horizon. 

"Appreciate ya," he thanks as he plucks the glass from your weak grip. You're grateful for that. You would have likely dropped it too, sent it shattering along the floor just like the gin if you held it for any longer. 

You can only nod. He doesn't step back. Doesn't give you room to breathe. He keeps you pinned between his body and the sink, only a sliver of space given between you both, just little more than a foot. It's as though all of the oxygen has been siphoned out of the room, turned viscous and too thick, pooling in your lungs like stove-hot molasses, burned and scorching. 

His eyes seem too dark, a pair of yawning pits held open to see, to taste. It's stripping, tearing you down in some terrible manner. It's as though you've been stripped of all your clothes. As exposed and naïve as the day you were born. You can feel yourself waver, shrinking under his attention as he raises the glass to his lips. But it is worse, so much worse when he rotates his shoulders just enough to comfortably look behind him, and you know instantly that he's taking notice of the broken glass scattered and winking on the floor. 

You're flooded with ice. Frigid, seizing. Even while it's fragmented into shards, it's still clear to see what kind of bottle it had been. The cap is still intact to the neck, severed and jagged from what had been the rest of it. It'd take a complete and utter fool not to realize just what it was, what it had contained. He doesn't seem like the law-abiding type, the sort to go running for the cops as soon as he spots something illicit, but the apprehension springs up on you regardless. 

You struggle for an excuse, anything that sounds remotely convincing, but you know you can't deny it. Not while all the air in here smells of liquor, doused so strongly with it that you could choke on it. 

He must catch your expression - not that you're doing a particularly good job at keeping yourself schooled - because he seems downright amused. All pleased to see you so stressed. 

"Oh, I ain't one to judge someone for lettin' a little loose. I've been at the bottom of a bottle more times than I can count," he consoles while grinning too much. "Nothing wrong with enjoyin' life's simple pleasures. Shame you went and dropped it." It's another comment that you're unable to tell if it's a mean dig or not, but it makes you bristle regardless, and unsaid retort sits heavy on the tip of your tongue. 

You don't like how he seems to effortlessly see right through you, how he toes a line between impish charm and disconcerting arrogance and unpretentious amiability. It makes you unsteady. Lost while standing inside your own home. You've been backed into a corner, herded there willingly, shoved there by a subdued snapping of teeth and eyes that don't seem quite right. 

It's too much, being held under his stare, standing as close to him as you are. You can smell the night on him; subtle and pleasantly honeyed from the pollen of blossoms, earthy with dew and humidity; there's the light tang of salt too, sweat and something you can't quite place, but it's severe like the traces of coins that have been left behind in a tight fist. Like copper or iron. Dust and ancient soil. 

It makes your skin crawl. 

You need a distraction, something to keep your mind from losing sight of itself and giving under the weight of your own discomfort and panic. You need to distract him too, it feels, wave something in his face like distracting a dog from lashing at your jugular in exchange for a fresh bone. 

But in a pattern that is swiftly becoming uncomfortably common, he knocks you off kiter before you get the chance to help yourself. 

"I don't think that old rag is doin' you much of a favor." 

Your brows pinch, your confusion evident as you try to make sense of what he's said. But just as fast you're able to connect the dots, much quicker with the dull, pained throb in your hand that seems to highlight his words in a burning scarlet. 

You can't keep yourself from looking down at your hand, tracing the tight bundle of fabric that coils around your palm and thumb like a worn, fabric serpent with your eyes. It's stained dark. The red dulled into a shade that nearly seems black in the murky, yellowed light. It's already coming loose. The edge that you had used to tuck into the rest of the clothe is beginning to slip, but using the one hand you had to fix it place had made it difficult. A few more minutes and a couple more twitches from your fingers and the poor bandaging you had done would unravel. 

"It's fine," you say instead. But when your hand protectively nudges close to your hip, that's involuntary. 

"Let me tighten it, at least," he offers. "The least I can do, as payment for the water." 

There's a gentleness somewhere in his tone that you don't trust. It doesn't sit right, it lurks and saturates his words, all sickeningly sweet. As tempting as the honeysuckle that used to grow outside your family home, the ones you'd pluck from the vine as a child, taking them as treats while you headed down to play in the creek that flowed in the nearby thicket. 

You've been tricked by pretty things before. Sweet sounding and tempting. Look where it's gotten you. 

"Really, it's alright." 

Surprisingly, he doesn't pry. Still, he doesn't quit staring. His stare seems fastened onto your hand, unwavering and fascinated, bordering on fervency. The glitter of the kitchen light reflects a fire in his eyes, shimmering in the dark pits of them. It's just another thing tonight that has you out of your depths, tugged down and far away from reason. This entire encounter has spread across so many different levels: he seems normal in certain lights. A laid-back traveler, just looking for a place to rest his feet. Relaxed until he's almost blithe. And that's what's so confusing. How heedless he is despite all the charm. 

Your skin crawls, nervousness shuddering in your bones. It's as though your wrist is tugged by a string when you nudge your wounded hand around your hip, hiding it behind your back. All out of the outlandish fear that he might reach for you. He seems akin to a dog tracking a strip of bloodied meat, following your hand until it disappears from his vision. And like a dog salivating, you need to distract it lest it lunge. 

"Have you ever seen the ocean?" you blurt. 

His brows perk at the question, the corner of his mouth curls, but the intensity that had been alight in his eyes seems to shift - redirect. It lets you draw in a breath that you didn't know you needed, just seconds away from becoming lightheaded. 

"There isn't an ocean in this country I ain't seen," he claims. He steps away from you then, backing towards the little dining table across the floor. His focus doesn't waver when his boots crush over the shatter glass, shattering the fragments into shimmering dust with his weight, the brittle pops and crunching peppers softly over the air. To you they sound violent, but he doesn't so much as acknowledge them as he slips the shoulder strap for his banjo over his head, lifting the instrument to lean it against the edge of the table.  He invites himself to sit, just opposite of the chair you had once occupied, like he belongs there.

"The Pacific, the great Atlantic. From sea to shining sea," he finishes in a familiar singsong rhythm, amused with himself and smiling. "I spent weeks harbored up on a ship once. Sometimes, late at night when I'm alone, I can hear the wood shudderin' around me. Groaning and moaning from the waves." 

It's almost conspiratorial, how he talks, though there's an unspoken invitation in his posture, relaxed, welcoming, thighs wide and spine slumped against the backrest of the chair as though he's sat there a thousand times before. It's as though you're the stranger now. Uncertain and delicate in a kitchen that suddenly doesn't belong to you. You're a phantom in a new space, lurking and banished to the outskirts while he observes you with a stare that's too disarming. Too calm, too wild simultaneously. 

"What's it like? Being able to travel like that?" You feel compelled to move closer, but your movements are still tentative as you approach the unoccupied chair. You don't remove your attention from him as you sit, watching him as though he might jerk forward at any moment. 

"There's hardly anything that compares to it. Free to wander wherever the wind takes you, just followin' after your own spirit." He finally sits his cup down on the table, now empty, and it hits the wood with a hollow thump. "And then I remember, that there truly ain't nothing else better than comin' home. That after being gone for so long, just lost and ramblin' through days and years, chasing after little more than a feelin,' the relief of coming back to the ones that love you the most is - well, it's religious. Better than breathin'." 

He speaks with something euphoric and distant. The tenderness and fervor of someone recalling a thing that's become lost but no less cherished. The passion he contains frightens a part of you, that flighty, uncertain part that jumps at shadows. But it's difficult to accuse yourself of being paranoid while he looks at you with the sort of restrained ferocity of a feral creature.  If you were truly a person that you could admire, you would have chased him out with a broom or a blade by now. And maybe you should do just that. The caution to do so has been weighing down heavy on you all night, and still, you can't manage to get yourself to act on that instinct. You can't keep yourself from being the least bit captivated when his eyes glitter with a passion and excitement that you haven't witnessed in ages. 

And you truly are entranced with how he's watching you. Staring as though you're some sort of cipher that must be understood. An artist staring down a slab of marble, mapping out the figure that resides somewhere beneath the stone. You aren't sure if you entirely enjoy it or not. 

"Have you ever felt that way before? Longed for something that's been taken from you? That you used to, but now it's entirely beyond you, jus' out of reach?" he asks. 

The questions suspend between you both. It's punctuated by the quiet. If you listen closely enough, you can catch the chitter of the crickets outside, but they're voices are muffled. Miles away. 

The inquiry is so outlandish that you can't help your laugh, as stilted and unsure as it is. He's still smiling, but he doesn't seem amused, entertained, certainly, just not as smug as he was before. There's a solemnness to it that could almost frighten you, as though the answer to the question is paramount, of the upmost importance.  You're pinned down in your seat. Terrified that you might answer incorrectly, as though this is some sort of test. All the while your mind chants to lie to him. Lie, lie, lie. 

"Of course not." You wrangle it out, muttered through a dry mouth, and now you're the one longing for a glass of water, though you can't seem to gather yourself up to fetch one.  What proceeds is an excruciating stretch of silence. A pause that spans over the kitchen like a chilled blanket, making you shiver despite the heat of the summer.  Once again you get the thought that he knows you aren't telling the truth. He knows, somehow, that you aren't allowing yourself to be honest, that there's a mountain you've erected between the both of you. 

You can't deny that it sounds tempting. You've dreamed of traveling, of packing up all of your clothes into a suitcase and vanishing into the night countless times, letting your mind drift up to the heavens to look down on every place you've ever dreamed of. Sinking your spirit down to cities that you'd never be able to see or touch or experience outside of books and paintings. You can only attempt to imagine what he may have discovered in his lifetime. The people who he's spoken with, the stories they've exchanged, the music they've shared. A hundred lifetimes in a single one.  Your vision drifts down to his left hand, idle on top of the worn tabletop, gold band encircled around his ring finger. It's lost its polish, gone a little dull from what must be years of being worn. He hasn't mentioned a wife once during this interaction, and you can only wonder if his she might be among the pair of friends that he has waiting for him up the road.  It seems typical that a man would neglect to mention that he has a wife at all while asking to enter a woman's home. You can't even manage the desire to scoff. 

"Don't you have family?" You pry, clasping your fingers together in your lap, smoothing your thumb over your nails and running it over the old cloth around your palm. You ignore the subtle sting when the fabric shifts the cut, but you don't think you kept the wince from your face. 

"Yeah, I've got family. If all goes well, I'll be seeing them tonight. It's long overdue" His voice is jovial, a sincere mirth shaping around his teeth in a visible expression of fondness. An excitement bleeding in alongside something that seems vaguely melancholic. Hopeful. Strangers with no clear description dance about in your mind, but if they're family of his, then they must be just as rugged and peculiar. You imagine dust smudged cheeks and fingertips worn from calluses, leathered from plucking and strumming musical strings. "It's been a long while since we've seen each other. Hardly feels real at all."  His expression goes a little soft and earnest, but you aren't able to share in his delight. Your too busy tussling with an envy that you don't recognize. It scatters across your sinew and nerves in a flash, as hot and bright and otherworldly as a lightning strike. You don't appreciate the guilt that comes with it, the confusion or the lick of self-hate. It doesn't belong with you. That jealousy doesn't have a place - it shouldn't. It seems impossible though, not to get all caught up in the brunt of your emotions. It would be easy to believe that this stranger isn't real at all. That you've manifested a vessel for the life you never got to live, the sort of ties and friendships you weren't fortunate enough to make. 

Colin lost his loyalty to you a long time ago. Or maybe he never had it at all. There was something about him that had seemed too good to be true, even way back when. Dahlia, his own cousin had seen it. Saw him for what he was. Warned you against him. Perhaps that's why Colin had shunned her out, nudged her back from the parameters of your marriage until she finally gave up and made a new life for herself up in Pittsburg.

A 'playboy' is what she had called him. All brawn and looks but nothing of substance, like a bit of candy. All sugar. But too much sugar does havoc on the body. It's unfortunate that you had to find that out for yourself. You still had time to set out for yourself back then and have all things your ever wanted. That's all too late now. 

It makes it horrible to have all of your wants echoed back at you. Reflected in a man you might never see again. It's as though the universe has dangled a trinket in front of your face, taunted a key before you to test if you'd reach for it. You clench your fingers tighter, threading them stiff in a lock as though it might keep you contained in your seat. The floor creak and groan beneath your feet. 

"That sounds lovely. Will your wife be there?" you probe. More of a slip of the tongue. You feel as though you've made an admittance that you shouldn't have. Your lips purse, sealing closed. 

His eyes glimmer in that odd way again. Catching light in an animal fashion. That ain't normal. That's not normal, is it? It makes you hate yourself as soon as you realize what you've asked him. You're certain that your mother is scolding you from her grave, cursing you for your poor manners. Humiliation stings at your cheeks, hot and damning, but the damage is already done.  "No, she ain't gonna be there." Is all he says, and the cold implications behind it is enough to make guilt turn to stone in your stomach. You can guess as to why she would be absent. Death or divorce, as rare as the latter is, but quite frankly, the state of his marriage and family affairs truly aren't any of your business.  "I'm apologize, I really shouldn't have ask-"  He leans over the table then, his chair creaking with the minute shift of his body weight as he crosses his arms over the counter. His teeth show in that good-natured smile that seems to be permanently displayed on his face, a flash of pale enamel - too sharp. "Are you lonely?" 

A chill seems to settle in with his words. Unwelcome and latching, gripping for whatever bit of skin isn't shielded by clothing. It stalls you in your seat, keeps you still and silent for a beat too long. You aren't certain how to properly answer. If you should at all. Quite frankly, it isn't any of his business at all. He's only been tentatively welcomed into your home, and he still conducts himself as though he is invited fully in your space, entitled to your honesty and situation. 

The anger in you - your exasperation with him - demands that you ignore him all together. To change the subject, maybe put him on the spot for a change - if that is at all possible. You know deep down though, that getting the upper hand on a man like him is a slim one. Men like him don't allow themselves to be bested. They throw their weight around, makes themselves the biggest thing in the whole room, sucking up all the oxygen until everything and everyone else dims out, starved flames. 

"Sometimes," you admit instead, gasping it out around a choked sound. Forbidden, lodged from somewhere in your throat.  He doesn't speak, but there is an unsaid question on his face, a gentle nudge for you to expand on it. He's leaving you to continue. To decide if this is something that you truly want to say. Somehow the choice of it all seems to make it so much worse. "Colin - my husband - works a lot. Long hours. He's rarely home. And when he is, he's . . . " He's mean, you want to say. As angry as a beaten dog. Lashing out at everything that moves, that looks at him the wrong way. And that thing is so often you. You can't make him happy, not anymore. There was a time that he used to admire you as though you were the prettiest creature he ever witnessed. That's all ash now. "He's usually sleeping. Or he spends his time somewhere else. Out with friends from work mostly." 

You don't know what to think of the stranger's expression. It sympathetic, understanding. There's a calmness in his eyes, though the friendly merriment from before hasn't dimmed, it's simply changed, become honed and tense as he falls silent.  He's steady as he observes you from the other side of the table. Unnervingly still, motionless. You can hear yourself breathing and the sheer realization of it makes you want to flee out of your own skin. You don't think you've ever felt so watched. Studied. Inspected. 

"I don't really mind when he leaves though. " You blurt it out in the beginnings of a nervous ramble. The need to fill the sudden quiet ripples up your spine. Makes you spit out your words in an anxious stream. "It's more . . . quiet. Peaceful. He works a lot. I'm sure you know how working men can be. All particular and all after a day of being on his feet. Can hardly blame him really." You pluck at your fingernails, curling your fingers together while your lips instinctively press up in an expression that you hope is convincingly relaxed.  You aren't sure why you're baring it all to this man. This knock at the door, a figure in the dark, a stranger at your table. Perhaps that's what it is. The comfort in knowing that he'll be gone long before the sun rises. That in a few short moments you'll finally urge him up from his seat and walk him to the front door, guiding him out into the night with a polite smile and a farewell. In due time, he won't be anything but a curious memory. A bizarre recollection that you might recall years down the road, distorted and strange. An odd man in the night, drifting along as bird perched on your windowsill might, spying into your house before fluttering away into the sky. 

There's a safety in that thought. You aren't ignorant to the insinuation hidden in your words. The implications they hold. If you were wiser, you'd might keep your mouth shut, but you can't stop yourself now. All pent up, restrained, left alone apart from the monthly trips you take to the grocery store, reduced to short, good-mannered interactions with the clerks. Brief, temporary, alone.  "What if I could help you?" 

You stare at him. You aren't sure for how long. A few seconds, maybe a minute at most, but the silence is disturbing. It gnaws at the reluctant comfortability that has settled between the both of you, fragile and cold and foreign like a sheet of snow. You aren't sure if you should laugh or scoff or ignore the comment all together. It's absurd that a man who had wandered up to your door, asking for help is now claiming that he would be able to do the same for you. His pants are worn from what's likely years of use, his knuckles are rough and there's uncountable number of miles on his shoes. He probably doesn't have much more than a couple dollars in his both of his pockets, and here he is, offering you salvation. 

He's earnest in his delivery. Unsmiling. Sincere. It's frightening because you don't know what to make of it. This doesn't seem to be some kind of play, and if it is then he's mastered himself fully. There isn't a hint of a smile or deceit. He's firm and committed, resolute in his proposition. It would have been more tolerable if this were a joke. There would be a punchline, a reason to laugh. That safety net isn't here. 

"How could you help me?" You can't cover the judgement in your tone, an inflection that would have gotten you nothing but pain had it been your husband sitting on the other end of that table and not the stranger; another row of bruises on your skin, mottled plum and scarlet and yellow with hurt.

The corner of his mouth quirks. Like he thinks he's caught you, shown you the light to something so much bigger than yourself. 

"How far will you let yourself go?"  

There's a challenge expanding out in front of you. A hurdle raising high that you've never jumped. It's intimidating, it's foreign. Once again, he's extending something out for you to take. For you to reach for. But this is much more pivotal somehow. It has you stuck, ensnared once again. Held captive within your own reservations and trepidation. Suddenly, this seems like some sort of pitch. A snake oil salesman waving a vial full of water and nonsense in front of you with the assurance that it's a cure-all. One sip of it and you'll be a brand-new person with a brand-new life.

Maybe it's the remaining remnants of a buzz that just haven't quite left your system, feeble but clinging, or maybe it's just the intrigue of having someone else to talk to. The relief of having another soul in your kitchen that doesn't belong to your husband, that isn't sneering or pacing about the house as tense and testy and as a pissed off as a junkyard dog. 

But this stranger is interesting in the same way that you can't help but entertain one of those traveling salesmen, but instead of a suitcase in one hand, he's got a banjo instead.

You've only had one drummer in all the years you've lived in this house wander up to your doorstep in the hopes of making a customer and fool out of you, knocking on your door and prattling on about combs and nifty pairs of scissors that would 'cut through fabrics like a dream'. How he had managed to take a look at your ramshackle home with its rickety porch and chipping paint and figured that he'd be able to make a client out of you is beyond your reasoning or imagination. 

You had wondered who he was. What paths in life had led him out in the middle of the sticks during the heat of the day, trying to sell useless wares; pins and lighters and needles. You could picture his life, a young kid that flunked his education or perhaps never had any at all and clung to the best means to make money. And now he's out catching trains and going from door to door in the hopes of squeezing a penny out of poor bastards that hardly have any at all.

That young man had been all nerves, sweating through his button up and stumbling over his pitch - no doubt a practiced one - while he struggled to keep your interest. But this stranger carries himself as though he has all the time in universe, as though you're the one who needs to impress him. You aren't sure how to adjust to it, the weight of his focus on you, heavy and evaluating. 

There's no consolation or support offered by the walls of your house. Not anymore. Perhaps not ever. A familiar feeling but never extended from the presence of a stranger. He's unsettling in a way that you've yet to grasp. A nervous ball has been lodged in the pit of your stomach since he greeted you out of the front porch, and it hasn't waned yet. It's been thrumming and prickling over your nerves, pooling deep, all wild and surging like the feral crack and blaze of lightning across heavy summer clouds.

You should tell him to go. To pick his banjo from where he's leaned it alongside the table and tell him to get lost.

But you know you won't. You would have done that a long time ago if that were the case.

There's an allure to him that can't quite be explained. A magnetism that's haunting. It isn't right, it doesn't feel normal. It's sinking under your skin, pulling on your bones and at your blood. You could blame it on the loneliness, but that doesn't seem right.

All you think of when you look at him is something's not right. He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be in your house.

You tell yourself that he's trying to play you somehow. That he's some dumb hustler that's picked the wrong house. You're just as broke as him, if not more so, with only pennies and scraps left to your name.

Maybe that's what keeps you from dismissing this man all together. The twisted kick you might get out of pulling the rug out from beneath him - the promise of the satisfaction you might get when he realizes that he's spent his time trying to work money or means out of a woman who has neither to spare.

You could smile about it if you had the strength to. Maybe you're just bored, maybe the isolation of being trapped in these four, dying walls has finally caught up with you. Closed around you as tight as a pair of jaws because you get the wicked temptation to play whatever game he's set, to string him along and see where he thinks he might be able to take you.

Maybe that's why you find yourself speaking out, hushed as though it's some kind of reluctant confession, or a joke that you shouldn't be sharing.

"How far will you take me?"

You don't like the quiet that follows. The look of consideration on his face, the satisfaction that glimmers in his eyes. A wolf that's got its prey held between its teeth. You're choked, suffocating while you wait for those fangs to close in and puncture. Stuck on your seat while he watches you carefully from his side of the table, seeming miles away and too close all at once.

You seem to be toeing the line of something dangerous. There's a quality reflected in his eyes, one that you haven't had directed at you in a long while, and you nearly think that you might be imagining it.

It's heated, hungry, and you don't know if a man has ever looked at you in such a way. Not even Colin has, not even in the beginning.

It could be mistaken for raw lust, but there's an aspect about it that almost seems . . . God it almost seems violent. Glossed over but ardent, like a starved animal staring down a bit of meat.

You aren't sure if you should run or stay. More concerning that all of that is that you don't think you can run. Not now. Not with how your feet have seemed to stick to the floor again, gone all heavy limbed and immobile as though his gaze has turned you into stone.

"All you gotta do is trust me." That's his reply, cool and smooth toned. It's terrifying. All too soon you know that you're over your head.

He keeps you pinned down with that stare of his, held in your chair while he raises himself up from his; limbs shifting smoothly, water gliding over rock. And just like that you're watching a snake coil up in its hiding spot, body winding tight and tongue tasting the air while it braces for the strike.

The boards creak with his steps, the weight of his boot's thump lightly and hiss lowly with each drag of his footsteps as he moves around the edge of the table. The glass crunches under his boot and you nearly flinch. His eyes don't leave yours in his approach, tying you together while he consumes the distance between your bodies at a careful pace.

You've gone all breathless once he finally stops in front of you, his legs nearly brushing your knees as he looks down his nose at you. It's nerve-racking, waiting in silence for him to make a move, to say something, and it makes it terrible how you can hear your own heart racing, how you can feel it pitter-pattering in your throat.

For an awful stretch of time he simply stares. Quiet and still. It seems like another strange test; waiting for you to twitch so that he can lunge for you.

You don't. You're as motionless as a statue as you wait for him to do something, anything.

What you aren't expecting for him to do is to lower himself to the floor. The unexpected nature of it has you gasp, thin and surprised as he crouches down at your feet, slipping low until his knees make contact with wood, making it shift and groan from his weight. 

It's gone so quiet that you could hear a mouse rustling through the walls if there was one. Instead, you're doomed to listen to your own breathing, to hear the distant glide of the breeze shifting outside, the steady drip from the sink. But all of that fades out, dies into a useless background chaos when he takes one of your hands in his, the one bound in bloodstained cloth.

Now you truly do jerk, trying to pull yourself free from his grasp, just as an animal might try to rip itself from drooling, violent enamel, but the gentle clasp he has on your wrist turns firm. Long fingers curling tight around your flesh and bone, a vice grip. You're locked in place. "What the hell are you-"

"Easy now, I ain't gonna hurt ya, darlin'."

He smiles at you good-naturedly, as though he's placating you. He watches you as though this is normal - as if anything about this night has been normal.

It's unusual somehow, when his head tilts when he speaks. Something about it isn't right. Isn't human. Lacking fluidity and possesing too much of it. It's uncanny in a way that you can't place; a creature donning human skin with eyes that are too compelling, flat marbles glimmering in fire. Dark, bottomless, drawing you in with all the infinity of the night sky. Just two pools of black that glitter faintly; a pair of lights winking over ink.

Fire, your mind chants. Fire of damnation.

When his eyes flicker over your form, tightly wound in your seat, they leave scalding trails in their wake, burning underneath the shield of your dress.   You notice distantly that no warmth projects from his flesh. Even with the sparse space separating you both, a faint sliver, you can detect the chill that seeps through the fabric of his shirt, as though his vitality had been stolen from his body. Instinct itches at your hindbrain for you to do something. To resist (resist what?), to fight, flash teeth, claw and kick if you must. You do nothing of the sort.  You think somewhat dementedly that it's almost as though a corpse has wandered into your home and gripped you. But his stare is too lively, too impassioned to belong to a dead man.  Your tongue is dry, parched, rendering you voiceless as he smooths his fingers over the flimsy compress dressed around your hand. You can't manage to inspire yourself to speak when he plucks the bandage free and begins to unwind it from around you palm, the rejection dies somewhere in your throat. He does it slowly, tenderly cradling your wrist as though it were a wounded bird while he unwinds the old fabric free with a deft hand.  He doesn't look away from you once, holding your attention with the soft coos that have begun to spill from his mouth. A gentle stream of "Easy, we're almost done," and "Atta girl" that drifts over your mind in placid, hazy brushes. The tone of his voice has dipped all low, a smoky timbre that pours over you in a whiskey hue, buttery and tepid, dipping past your flesh to simmer somewhere past your ribcage.  And it soothes and placates your muscles just as alcohol would. The tension that had drawn you up tight and rigid ebbs away, relaxes as easily as hard wax held over an open fire.  It's intimate.  Undeniably so. The last bit of the makeshift bandage slips away, tugged free from your skin and you wince as loose threads in the fabric cling to the blood that's begun to congeal, tugged free only with a delicate pull from the stranger's hand. He hushes you when you hiss through your teeth, gritting through the sting that spreads across your palm in a smarting web. 

The wound is angry already. Inflamed around the edges of the gash, a deep, ugly red that throbs with a pulse of its own. You can't stop yourself from swearing, huffing it low within the strained base of your breath. You expect him to chide you for it; there's nothing more unbecoming than a lady lacking manners. Colin would have been keen to reprimand you for the slip of your tongue. Your body shudders from the memories of old bruises and welts, the lashings you'd taken on your rump. 

You almost flinch from the echoes of it, bracing to receive an admonishment. It never comes. 

You gaze up from the wound slowly, hesitantly glancing over the shape of the man knelt before you with a reluctance that you loathe to notice within yourself, but you can't manage to shake it. 

You don't meet the harsh stare of a person offended. There's no vehemence in his eyes for your transgression, no annoyance for a woman speaking improperly. His eyes are glazed. Glassy and distant, the sort of expression you see on drunks that are one too many bottles deep; rapturous, numbed to the world. 

He's barely paying you any mind, attention fixated onto your hand with a rapt fascination. Observing the wound, admiring the way that the blood catches that light as though it's the most interesting discovery. But there's a zealousness too. A detail to his stare that goes beyond intrigue and borders on a kind of mania. But that's not exactly right either. 

It takes a moment for it to click into place but once you recognize it, ice douses through your bones and sinew, seizing your body tight. Hunger. That's what it is. He's staring at it as though he's starved and longing to lick it up. 

Something damp drizzles across the heel of your palm, thick and cold. The press of it on your skin startles you out of your panicked daze. A gasp rips out of your lungs, thin and sharp when it snags inside of your chest. 

God - oh, God, he's drooling. 

You hardly believe what you're seeing at first but it quickly becomes undeniable. It's there, as clear as day, drool pouring from the corner of his mouth in heavy rivulets. The sort of slobber a sick dog might make, something rabid. Wet and smearing down the shape of his chin where it dangles precariously before dripping down to patter onto the floor below, and drop, drop, dropping on the palm of your hand. It starts to collect in a pool, blending with the blood that stains along the irate edges of the gash. 

There's no hiding your grimace. No swallowing down the appalled gasp of terror and disgust. It's a raw, animal panic that snatches you, tugging you back like a marionette on strings. You would have toppled yourself right over in your seat but the hold he has on your wrist turns ungiving, anchoring you in place. A rabbit pinned down by a serrated maw. 

The legs of the chair scream as they slip along the floor, stopping in place with a grating hiss when he snags you back down before you could flee. Wings clipped and earthed bound before you could even take off. It rattles you back into place, head snapping on your shoulders when he forces you still in your seat. 

He begins to hush you but it's no longer a comfort. It's patronizing, revolting to the ears and you fight against the grip he has on you, but now a manacle on your arm, it doesn't budge. 

"Shh, shh, shh, darlin,' I ain't gonna hurt you none." 

"Let go of me," you snarl, showing teeth that hardly pose a threat. "You best go and get out of here. Before my husband wakes - " 

"Oh, come now, you and I both know he ain't really here." 

He says it so casually and it's terrifying. Deep down you knew he figured you were bluffing, some unexplainable instinct in you urging that he was a lot more aware than he had let on, and like a fool you'd still ignored common sense when it had screamed at you. When it had knocked and wailed at you to turn him away. 

But to hear him confirm it is a humiliation all on its own. An insult to injury. 

He lifts his head then, an animal that's caught onto a scent and his nostrils flex as he draws in a heavy breath and huffs like one, tasting the fragrances on the air. It's a slap to the face and conformation simultaneously, all of those peculiarities that you've been ignoring, that your mind has been seeming to overlook all crash into you as his eyes burn in a demonic reflection. 

This isn't a man at all. This is a creature, a monster masquerading in human hide. You've heard stories before, whispered around the Delta, centuries old information exchanged from mouth the mouth and passed to willing ears, depicting creatures that wail and hunt in the night. It's why some paint the ceilings of their porches blue - a barrier between them and troubling spirits, meant to ward off and protect - folktales and ghost stories, you had called them. 

Well, unfortunately, a ghost story has wandered up to your door, and always the fool, you've let it right in. 

You don't bother battling with reason, there's no place for all of that here. Not now, while this man - this thing looks up at you with eyes that scintillate red, as bright as any fire, as crimson as the blood on your split flesh. 

His smile is one of brogue satisfaction, the pleasure a hunter would feel from having caught an animal in one of their traps. 

"It's just you and me now," he says. It's a punctuation, final. As though he's bent reality to his will, taken your fate in his hands and shaped it to a mold of his approval. And you let him, dumb and tricked, easily led astray by false fronts and pleasing smiles. It's an affront just as much as it is alarming. How you've been tugged adrift so simply, allowed yourself to be played by a simple disguise. 

And now this beast is inside of your house. 

"What are you?" You apply strength to your voice, but it's hollow, fragile around its fringes, ice thawed into mist. 

"You're savior." A response uttered without hesitation. Said as though it's an undeniable truth. 

If it's possible, you think your soul shudders and recoils in your body, shrinking away from his talk - downright blasphemous speech. A conman, a snake oil salesman, that's what he is. Some kind of test sent by God or the Devil himself, you aren't sure. Perhaps he is the Devil, or at the very least some kind of trickster spirit, voice tempting with that strange charm, the kind that sticks to your skin like a sap and drones in your ear in a smooth hum. 

You've heard how they often hide themself behind pretty faces, masquerading behind attractive guises to catch the ignorant unawares, and you've slipped into the razor teeth of his trap with hardly any resistance. 

"You can't save me," you shake your head, trying to slip your arm from his grip one last time but his hold remains persistent. 

"Of course I can. You asked me to show you remember?" His brows perk up, expression open and hopeful - vulnerable despite drooling, jaw damp with it. He's still on his knees before you, an imagine of submission, of seeking consent. You don't like how it makes the wedding band around your finger feel heavy and chilled, an uncomfortable pressure that seems too tight. 

"Just let me show you, like I promised," he offers softly. There's a plea on the fringes of his voice, delicate. His thumb strokes down the column of your wrist, smoothing over the impression of the bone that faintly lurks beneath your flesh, pausing along the thump of your pulse. Your skin prickles, heat sparking where his fingers touch, a sensation that's warm and sweet - sickeningly so. Nauseating in the pit of your stomach, and yet your mouth waters all the same. 

Something akin to anticipation coils inside of your chest, fluttering, alive. It's foreign, strange, and you find it difficult to try and shun it. It's instinctual to try and ignore its simmer, stuffing it beneath the anger and repulsion that turns in your stomach like an illness, but he doesn't allow you to ignore the ache. He holds your hand, locks his stare onto yours and forces you to confront the uncertainty settling across you, as fit as a tailored coat, smooth and fuzzy. Uncomfortably welcoming, molding across your person, inside and out. 

"Let me see where it hurts?" You don't believe you've ever heard a man beg before. Not while at your feet, but he certainly is. You get the terrible impression that you . . . might enjoy it, a perverse kind of satisfaction purring behind your ribs and it makes you shift in your seat as though it will help to shake the feeling off. It doesn't. Of course it doesn't. 

It doesn't make him quit staring up at you as though he's seeking absolution in your being. This isn't right. It must be a corruption against nature for some man - some thing to gaze up at you with the starved patience of a saint desiring solace. 

It's wicked. This is the temptation that you've been taught to resist, the resilience that you mother had done her damnedest to try and build within your marrow. Good women don't feel things like this, not for strangers in the night, not for demons that might possibly be posing as men. Especially not a married woman. 

You wait for a surge of guilt to crash over you, but when it does it's dull. Feeble. A pale sting in the back of your mind that's soothed away by the cool caress of hand along yours. He's hardly done a thing, and yet you can feel your determination wearing thin, the barrier protecting your will getting chiseled away at one breath at a time, turning brittle under the pressure of his stare. 

You have to gulp down an unsteady inhale of air, swallowing down your nerves.  "I shouldn't." 

That's not a no, and it should be. It's an excuse to your own ears, weak willed and flimsy. 

"Why not?" His head tilts on his shoulders while he squints up at you, analyzing the frequent rise and fall of your chest. "Holdin' out for your husband who's probably wet between some other woman's thighs?" 

You almost slap him, but old instincts stop you before your free hand could lift away from your side and strike his cheek. Lashing out's never gotten you anywhere before, still the itch to give into it never truly fades. You know that he can see the hatred burning in your eyes. Unlike your husband, his face doesn't contort from rage, he doesn't raise his voice to spew venomous insults, his patience remains intact, satisfied and deceptively sweet. 

" Don't get angry, get even. I can show you how to live without him." You can't get yourself to protest as he shifts closer still, nudging himself forward until your knees are only able to comply in giving him more space, spreading open to allow him room to wedge his body between your legs. It has the fabric of your skirt pulling taught and lifting up, threatening to give and slip over your knees.

It's purely indecent, revealing more skin that he should be able to witness. You can't keep yourself from reaching down to try and pluck your skirt back at a more respectable length but the way that he has your thighs wedged apart obstructs you from properly doing so, leaving the fabric to remain in place, creased and high around the shape of your knees. 

You can smell him like this, the night still clings to him, humidity and earth. You don't like how it sticks to you now, how he speaks of 'getting even,' of insulting Colin even if he won't be directly aware of the transgression. It's petty, perhaps disgusting how you long to give in. How curiosity sings against logic and urges you to relent, to see where this man with fire in his eyes and temptation pouring from his lips might take you. 

You've been in denial for a long time, you think, walking around with your eyes closed shut, pretending to see that parts of yourself that are ugly and ache and hate. You've always been the woman you were raised to be, holding your longing close, shutting it tight behind your chest, pretending that it isn't there. 

It's gotten you nothing but hurt and man who only touches you when he's raising his hand against you. And now he's probably a few miles away from home, swaying drunkenly on barstool while he drinks himself one bottle closer to an early grave. And this is what's set to be your life, isn't it? 

One day blurring between the other, smearing between weeks left isolated behind old wallpaper and smarting bruises. You know deep down that if you let this strange man win, let him get what he wants, then maybe you won't be surviving the night. You've heard that beings like this usually settle in taking your life in some way, regardless if it's by collecting your soul or sinking their teeth in until all that's left is bloodied remains, is inconsequential. 

You've always known that you were going to die in this house, at least now it'll be done by your terms. You've always been too afraid to take risks, too much of a coward to allow yourself to act, keeping your fantasies of escaping your life firmly trapped within your head. Abandoned and left for you to ruminate on, spinning around inside of your mind like a stunned bird flapping uselessly across the ground, trying desperately to find lift on damaged feathers. 

It's laughable that for the only time in your life, you've been allowed to know what it feels like to have control, though you know in your bones it's only the illusion of it. The stranger crouched between your legs could (will) surely kill you in a blink, snap the wrist he has clutched within his palm with the flick of his hand. It shouldn't thrill you, but it does. 

"Fine then," you relent, strengthening your tone with a confidence that you don't entirely feel. "Show me." 

His guise fully slips then, the both of you seeming to come to an unspoken unanimous agreement to quit with facades. You feel disgusting, allowing yourself to relent, baring the grimy parts of your soul to this demon in human flesh; in turn he grins, victorious. Shows teeth that aren't human, jagged and serrated, designed to cut flesh and tear. 

He drools and his eyes reflect, the gleam of blood-soaked coins. You've known now that he isn't human, but to see your suspicions so clearly confirmed, revealed to you so casually is as terrifying as it is reaffirming. 

"I'll make it all better, don't worry." You feel puffs of air brush over you from his words, drawing over your hand, ghosting along the cut on your palm. The wound throbs and stings from the chill of his voice, aching while he speaks into your blood as though he's making a vow, trying to imprint it into your being. 

Blood and his spit smears on your hand. It seems profane to see the blur of it so close to the ring on your finger. The sight alone has to be a sin, a perversion, but worse than all of that, you find that you don't truly care. The thought doesn't wrack you with guilt, it doesn't char in your gut, it rolls past you, as slick as any oil. Reason and morality begin to abandon you, leaving you behind to be a helpless observer as he lowers his face to your open palm. 

Fear shifts dim in your veins, unimportant, overpowered by the fascination while his lip's part and his tongue slips out to trace over your blood. You can hear the voice of rationality crying distantly, your psyches last resort to try and snap you from the daze of intrigue that clouds over you. But not even the burn of his tongue dragging over the split in your skin is enough to save you now, not even while your hiss through your teeth and twitch from the pain. 

The ruined nerves within the raw slice shriek, boiling hot from the press of his mouth. Your muscles bunch in preparation to tear your arm out from the source of the pain. Just as quickly, the urge nullifies, washes away from the look in his eyes. He watches you, seeming to gauge your reaction while he continues to lap at your blood. But that glazed quality is back in his stare, intoxicated, enraptured, lashes fluttering like he's consuming an ambrosia. 

You don't expect the groan that rumbles from his chest, though you probably should, a guttural, heavy noise that skips through his throat in a snarl - an inhuman noise that causes the small hairs on the nape of your neck to stand on end, goose flesh prickling on your arms and legs. 

"Don't pull away. Lemme see you." A gentle warning if you've ever heard one. Slurred from how he doesn't bother to remove his mouth to speak, smothering his face to your palm. He's hardly lapping at this point, unwilling to sacrifice the sliver of space that would require, instead opting to latch his lips around the laceration to draw in the scraps of blood draining from it, gulping and sucking like he means to drink down your very heartbeat. 

He curls himself closer, torso pressing into your knees so close that his head is practically in your lap, severing the minute scale of space between your bodies while he latches on to you with more conviction, holding onto your wrist with all the fervor of a disciple cradling a sacred object. 

Your jaw parts open, a revelation of your disbelief, a gasp stuttering inside of you while you watch. It's paralyzing, the constant pain and soothe of his mouth, the wet drag of his tongue curling and stroking. You can see his throat flexing; the thin gold chain draped around his neck catching light while he drinks down what must only be thin remnants of your blood. The flow had been previously staved off by the bandage, already congealing and turning thick to heal. 

He's groaning over what could only be compared to crumbs, a dog eating off of the floor, happy to gnaw the old dry bones given. A part of you uselessly attempts to convince yourself that this isn't real, an odd dream, or strange fantasy. That truly, you've swallowed down all of Colin's gin and drunk yourself into a stupor, passed out at the kitchen table and you'll wake soon, safe and sound. Untouched. 

You know that isn't the truth though. This strange man is here, kneeling at your feet, teeth too sharp to be normal scraping over the heel of your palm, breathing heavily through his nose, panting as though he'd die without the taste of you on his tongue. 

It's hypnotic. You've never seen anything like this in all of your days. Your imagination had never been inspired to create an image such as this and seeing it before you with your physical eyes has you breathless. Sparks scatter down your spine, pouring down to settle inside the shape of your hips, molten, honeyed, a shock of heat and stars that simmer between your legs. 

It should be insulting, shameful, the familiar heat coiling deep inside your belly, but the remorse doesn't have time to settle or secure itself, because he parts his mouth from you. A brief lull, a break from the sting and a strange glide of his tongue before he's rotating your hand around with his own. He descends just as quickly as he had separated, slipping your thumb inside his mouth to lave his tongue over the sliver of a cut slicing up the length of it, sucking on you the digit.  

His violent teeth trace over it, and he eyes you when the enamel grazes. You swear an unspoken, I could bite if I wanted to hangs in the humid air. It's twisted tight between you, a tense, quivering thing that hums while he cradles your thumb beneath his tongue. 

It's an indecent show, far beyond what is respectable between a man and a woman - strangers, no less. Then again, there hasn't been a single thing about this night that's been respectable. Your mother would swat you if she could see you now, pull you up by your nape and strike some decency into you. Prompt you to recite prayers until you lost your voice, until the words stung your throat. 

But shame is a faraway concept now. Diluted and vanquished from the fever spreading through your being, the calefaction building inside of you is poisonous, as steady and potent as any disease. 

Your thighs switch, muscles involuntarily squeezing to seek out a friction that isn't there, impeded by the wedge of his shoulders between them. Your cheeks tingle, humiliation waxing across your face when your mind, sluggish and hindered from the syrup that clings to your thoughts like molasses, processes what you've done. When you fully notice how your hips have begun to move on their own, subtly shifting on the seat of your chair, longing to raise and find something to ease the ache that's pooled between your legs. 

You're as rigid as a doll when you freeze, bunching your muscles up to coerce yourself back still on the seat. You can only hope that he hasn't noticed it, but you know that he has. There isn't a chance in hell that he hadn't seen you starting to hump at the air, as flagrant as any dog. 

You almost wish that he'd scold you for it, that he'd call you out for the degenerate that you are. He doesn't. He does look at you though, watching curiously, staring with eyes that see you for what you truly are but don't judge. 

Still, you can't keep yourself from apologizing, a hushed whisper of a thing uttered out on humiliated lips. The need to rectifying the wrong ignores that he's much more debased, polluting you slowly, drinking your blood from an open wound.  "I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me." 

It's only then that he removes his mouth from your thumb, slipping his mouth from it with a damp pop! He shakes his head, not a silent admonishment but a confirmation of sorts - the apology isn't necessary. He licks his lips instead, cleaning up the drool that's sapped around his mouth, as though even the faintest pieces of you, small scraps and thin iotas deserved to be savored. 

He laps at the pad of your thumb one last time, like a parting kiss, before he trails his lips over heel of your palm, just outside the damaged flesh. It's as though he can't bear to part, inhaling deeply to draw in the scent that clings to your skin, the fragrance of blood staining the angry slash. 

You aren't expecting him to say your name (I didn't give him my name, you note distantly, thoughts distorted under fog. Haven't said it once), you aren't anticipating the reverence it's spoken with either, the tenderness, candied between his teeth. It shocks you immobile, confuses you into silence. He regards you - sees you entirely, you know that now. He watches like he's picked you apart, slipped past your flesh and rummaged around in all your parts, traveled from the fringes of your soul and all the way down to the pit of it, and equally delighted and sympathized in what he's seen. 

It has you naked while you sit fully clothed. Vulnerable and exposed within your own home. 

"He don't treat you right, does he." It isn't really a question. It's rhetorical, an observation. For perhaps a moment too long it takes a while for it to click, for you to make sense of what and who he's referring to. But once it all does, weak threads tug together, connecting under the inert pace of your mind, you can only stare at him. Voice stolen, snuffed out. 

It's as though he well and truly knows, as though he's carded through your memories, felt the strikes of an open palm and closed fists himself, tasted the echoes of violence and agony held within your veins. Perhaps he has. You've heard of the power that flows in blood, it's uses in practices. In spells and prayers, blood vows, pacts made and forged by blades to flesh. 

You aren't certain of what he is. Some sort of demon sent to prowl about the earth, a starved spirit that preys on the weak, either of those could be true or false, so it shouldn't surprise you that he was able to peek inside of your soul through the passage of your blood. That he's witnessed the reflections of your life, learned your name all from drinking you down with his tongue, but it does. The possibility of it unsettles you, curdles inside of your marrow, makes your stomach roll with nausea. 

It's wrong - this is wrong. This entire night has turned bad, unnatural, mangled and warped. He isn't meant to be here. He shouldn't be in your home; you never should have invited him inside. And yet your jaw remains a steel trap, containing your fears and opinions inside on a shuddering breath, just as it always does. Rendering you voiceless, compliant, the same as when Colin comes home in a mood, set on seeking out an outlet in your flesh. 

You stopped fighting years ago, the fervor for survival dying inside of you, a forgotten thing. 

You shouldn't enjoy that this unnamed man from the dark, this otherworldly traveler has seen the worst parts of you. The secrets that were supposed to remain hidden, the horrors you've kept close. What happens between a man and his wife isn't meant for the attention or council of others, it's a private affair, and yet he's peeked inside of you. Seen more than Collin ever will, forever set to be ignorant to how much you loathe him, how you wish that God would finally answer your prayers and strike him dead. 

There's been countless nights where you've sat across from your husband at this very table, hardly able to sit from the welts burning your ass, raised and white-hot, hellfire on your flesh. All while he perched directly across from you, unaffected by the sting on his right hand while he ate and partook in the dinner you'd spent hours making for him. 

You would dream that he'd choke on it. That the mouthfuls would catch in his throat and he'd collapse onto the floor in a suffocating heap, looking up to you with a plead for mercy glazing over in his eyes. Asking for the empathy that he's never shown you. 

"Men such as him deserved to be beaten within an inch of their lives."

It snaps you from your reverie, your fantasizing like the crack of dead branch splintering over a knee. 

There's a danger that lurks in his tone, sinister and coarse, the inflections enclosing on the sound of a growl. You swear the noise of it reverberates throughout your skeleton, it thrums up the nape of your neck, itching, clawing, phantom fingertips skirting over your scalp. His eyes are still burning, alight with the depths of hell, scorching, consuming. It'd be easy to believe that his body has been hollowed out, a vacant shell captained only by the flames of damnation, seeking to burn and corrupt. 

Maybe you were just easy kindling. 

"But I'm gonna make it alright," he presses the plush of his mouth to your palm again, a cloying glide of lips. "Let me kiss it better." 

You don't get to object or agree. There's not a second to process the salacious nature of his words because he lies to you. He doesn't kiss - he bites. 

It's a blur. A contorted smudge, grease besmirching a fine painting; he pounces forward, lithe and too quick to be tracked. And then teeth sink in, parting meat between the fine, daggerlike points, puncturing tissue and sweet flesh with a brutal mouth. Liquid fire douses across the heel of your hand, the one already damaged by the slice of glass, previously soothed by the sweep of his tongue. 

You cry out, from shock, from terror and agony. A shrill wail that cuts and chisels at your quivering ribcage when it pours from your throat. You writhe and heave in place, a rabbit caught in snare, struggling to hoist yourself out of your seat. You don't know if it's possible to feel betrayed by a man you don't truly know, but the sting of it blossoms regardless, violent and fatal. 

The chair wobbles beneath you, feet dragging across the floor with a shrill scrape that sounds like the call of a wounded animal. Despite all of your flailing, he doesn't budge. He's latched onto you, hand secured around your wrist in a vice, jaw locked onto you as though his teeth have become one with your being, enamel suturing to the bone beneath the damaged sinew. 

You try to strike him with the arm that's still free, but he takes that one too, clipping it down before it could be brought down upon the crown of his head. Gripping it within the steady clasp of his fingers, monstrous talons raking over you as they curl around the joint of your wrist to render you immobile. 

Tears blur and crystalize along your waterline, unshed but no less distressed. It's difficult to see past the watery film they leave in your vision, silvery wisps and hazy shapes making up what's visible, but you can still understand him through the distress. He's clutched onto you, still kneeling but just as selfish and persistent as any parasite, throat bobbing as he gulps down the blood that flows abundantly from where he's bitten. 

His thumbs caress you, elongated now, spidery and sweeping back and forth in motions that are meant to conciliate, but it only rouses more anger, more dread. You feel tricked even though he's been nothing but honest with his nature, drooling and flashing vicious teeth at all night. You were the one who tricked yourself, allowed yourself to believe that he wouldn't turn them against you. 

This is what happens when you allow strays inside of your home, expecting kindness instead of a snarling maw. 

Maybe a part of your soul recognized the death in his eyes long before the rest of you did. Maybe that's what you truly wanted. The solace of it, the release. 

He drinks and drinks and drinks. Filling his mouth and his belly while your head fills with fog and stuffing saturated with wine, inebriated and weighed down. Your skull lolls on its neck, suddenly heavy, too much to bear and your chin dips down towards your chest, giving you no other option but gaze down at him. An unwilling observer of the saliva and blood that slips past the seam of his lips, threading through your twitching fingers, soiling the gold hue of your wedding ring before it all drips and drops onto the floor in a rusted combination of blush and scarlet. 

It would be easy to assume that you've passed on already with how lethargic his bite has turned you, his gluttonous eating diminishing the blood in your veins gulp by gulp. It guides you into a sensation so dreamy, so airy and delicate that it feels as though you've slipped outside of your body and begun to levitate, but you know that you haven't. 

The view you have of him still kneeling before you, mouth fixed around your hand confirms it. Your limbs belong to a doll, motionless, unable to move, the connection between your brain and body having seemed to be stretched wide apart, too far for thoughts to travel. 

Limbs fill with sand, useless, unable to function from the fatigue that drips through your body and pours down your ligaments in a paralyzing pulse and boneless thrum. Something is taking root, sprouting where his fangs puncture you. Its seeps inside of your bloodstream, tingling, bubbling within vessels, sugar glazing across nerves. Working through your system, intrusive, an alien element that was never meant to join inside of your body. But you can feel it, you know that you can. Spreading, altering, searing and soothing simultaneously, rendering you stationary. 

He's a rattlesnake. Curled up in the grass, visible only until it's too late with fangs that kill. His venom's inside of you now, reaching depths beyond your understanding, altering tissue, destroying you from the inside out. 

He removes his mouth from you with a heavy sigh, one of relief. The kind of noise you let out after a long day of great labor once you're finally able to rest your feet and feed the ache in your belly. 

He bestows another kiss to the gash he's left behind. A gnarled wound, deep rows made from the rip of sawtooth fangs, torn over the cut from the glass. This kiss isn't sugared; it doesn't make that longing side of you swoon beneath his lips. You can't forget your rage, not with his mouth now glistening with the red of your blood, flickers of gold shimmering across the damp, reflecting from the light above. 

"I know you're mad at me," he answers, as though it's enough. A proper excuse and not an insult - a mockery. "I can see your anger, and I don't blame ya for it. But this - " he lifts your wounded hand, still cradled inside his lithe talons - "This is how how we're gonna get you better. How we save you from the man who was meant to keep you safe. You aren't gonna need Colin anymore. Not now, not ever again." 

You don't want to hear it, don't want to listen to the lies he spews, but the sound of his voice spirals and twines inside your ears in a that smoky drawl. Too hypnotic for his perversions. Your body yields all the same. You tell yourself that it's only the venom that no he doubt possesses that has you going lax, turning malleable despite the hatred that still lies in your heart, but you don't know if that's the case anymore. 

The truth seems murky now. An uncertain, undefined thing, and you're not certain if it ever existed in the first place or if it was always just a fairytale you told yourself for comfort. 

It doesn't help that he's staring up at you as though he's seeking your forgiveness, eyes wide, brows furrowed in a guilty pinch. The image of culpability, of remorse seeking forgiveness. It has you so transfixed that you don't feel him place your injured hand down inside of your lap, and you don't entirely register the glide of his palms cupping the outside of your thighs, honed points of his claws trailing over the supple skin, daring to slip just the scantest inch beneath the hem of your skirt. 

A suggestion, a request. 

He only deserves your denial. Your refusal. He's repulsive, a monster performing as a man, lurking around the shadows while you were vulnerable. And now here he is, still at your feet, the implication of obscene desires evident on his face. Behaving as though the proof of his deceit isn't torn into the flesh of your hand, blood trickling to stain the fabric of your dress. 

He's selfish, having injected the venom on his teeth into your veins. You're too dazed to physically reject him, inebriated fumes seeming to warp inside of your skull, fuzz brushes within your fingertips and toes, as though you've been encased within a perfumed mist. Though you still have enough clarity to cling to your animosity and pride, as tattered and useless as it might be, moth eaten paper clutched in a quivering grasp. 

You should cling to your righteous fury, your disdain, and yet it begins to slip. It grows brittle, tainted by the persistent warmth that remains between your thighs. A constant manifestation of your want that hasn't waned, not even when he'd sank his teeth into you. 

He must see the war on your face, the conflict. Because understanding shows on his, patient and lacking negativity. 

"I told you I'd kiss it better, didn't I?" 

"You lied." You don't spare him your indignation, glowering with all the visible loathing you can manage. He doesn't waver beneath it, as resolute as mountain pelted by the ferocity of a summer downpour. 

"I did," he agrees easily.

And you hate how something as simple as his admittance is enough to mollify some of the hurt and outrage storming inside of you. You're just as starved as he is, desperate for an escape, an exit that you'll only have in death. If you had something to live for, perhaps you'd find the will to fight. Maybe you'd generate an impossible strength and turn your teeth on him instead. But you don't have the resistance in you anymore. Sometimes you wonder if you ever did. 

"Let me show you I'm good for my word." His head bows, low enough for him to press the point of his nose to your knee, separated only by the thin cut of your skirt. He observes you from there, shadows spilling over his face, crimson smoldering from where peers he up at you. "Let me ease the ache." 

And you are aching, aren't you? Your body is buzzing, a humming livewire, something ancient and primal creeping up from the base of your spine. A ghost, an apparition, alive and singing with primordial promises and impulses that merge with the venom in your veins. It twists together, a confusing merge until you can't tell which symptom is a product of which, an ouroboros of heat that rides off the back of the haze clouding your head. 

You've never felt like this. So consumed. Turned inside out and left wanting. The loose fit of your dress is too tight, clinging to your hips and breasts in all the wrong ways, uncomfortable in a way that it's never been before. Your nipples brush against the material with each inhale of your lungs, annoying and tantalizing all at once. 

You're outside yourself, unable to recognize who you are as a need that you've never experienced rises up, seeking and frenzied. It's worse still because you aren't entirely sure if you can blame it on his influence, the infection that must be spreading and ravaging your body. It's terrifying to think that venom might have only induced or invigorated the desire that was already there, heating it until it could finally give and bubble up to the surface. 

Something in you breaks, snaps beneath all the conflict and pressure, the ceaseless tug between morality and longing. It could also be that you're tired of resisting, of holding yourself back from the lust coiling inside of you like a serpent. It could be how he continues to look at you, a little pathetic, devout. A worshipper at an altar. 

It's instinct and surrender concurrently. 

You allow yourself to settle against the back rest of the chair, hearing it creak softly from the weight, getting comfortable. Not once do you tear your attention from the man in front of you, not even as you reach down with your uninjured hand, using it to pluck at the length of your skirt, gathering it up to pool it on your lap. 

You don't know where this sudden surge of boldness has come from. Where the confidence that allows you to spread your thighs wide has developed, and why it's chosen now of all times to reveal itself. But it's empowering, stimulating. 

His own focus drops down between your legs, watching while you reach down to hook your fingers beneath your undergarments. You're both silent while you slip them down your thighs, gliding them down the hitch of your knees. You don't have to work them down the rest of the way. He does that for you, cutting them free from your legs with the sharpness of his claws. 

You feel them fall to the floor, useless, tattered. But you can't pay that any mind, not while you spread yourself open for him. You've bared yourself completely, and the caress of the satin air gliding across your cunt makes you crudely aware of the arousal that's smeared down the inner cushion of your thighs. 

You're soaked and aching, splayed open like a whore that's been paid, and he looks everything like a creature that's tore itself from the bowels of hell. Long talons raking across your flesh, elongated, boney fingers trembling with fracturing self-restraint, blood - your blood - blemishing his face in a stain of carnage. 

And yet you've never wanted a man as much as you do now. Not your own husband, not even when you were young and he was still tender towards you. Your fantasies then had been rose-tinted, spring blossoms and intimate embraces. Nothing as carnal as this. An animal creeps inside, snarling, vile, rippling beneath the cage of your ribs, contained only by bone and lungs. 

He stares between the apex of your legs as though he's been entranced. A hint if drool begins to drain from the corner of his mouth again, teeth flashing as he parts his lips and inhales in a greedy gulp of air. 

He's breathing you in, you realize, scenting your cunt in a disgusting display of hedonism. 

It doesn't repulse you like it should. You think you're too gone for reason to properly reach you now, floating on a high of intemperance and indulgence. Despite the temptation you know that if you go down this road, give him permission again that he'll mark each and every part of you - if he already hasn't. 

You don't know what might become of you, but you can already feel yourself changing. The exhaustion weighing you down grows heavier, dipping you closer towards a dark warmth that mimics the welcome of sleep, but it's too distorted and peculiar to be something so innocent - unusual, cold. Skeleton fingers. You assume, down in the furthest parts of you, the pieces that just know things, animal instincts, that it might be death coming to collect you. 

You aren't sure if there will be another side to great you. If you'll still be entirely you or not once you cross over it, or if you'll be just the same as him. A perversion of nature, of the soul. The venom must have done its work, set in too deep, because you no longer care what lies ahead of you. You can only think of now, of the drooling fiend wedged between your thighs. 

"Go on then," you prompt, reclining further. Draping yourself along the chair, unabashed, spread open. "You said you were going to set it right." 

He grins, wicked and pleased. He remains in place for only a second, just long enough to offer a gratified "Yes, ma'am" before he's leaning over and burying his face directly between your thighs. There's no teasing or playing, no unnecessary intention to draw it out to frustrate you. He gets right to it, dipping his tongue inside the entrance of your cunt, stroking it inside to gulp you down his throat as though it's holy water and he means to cleanse himself from the inside out. 

He eats you like he's still starved. A bottomless pit, cursed with gluttony. You couldn't have anticipated the fervency behind his hunger - not for this, at least. It has your spine bowing already, hips tilting up to catch the friction of his mouth and he groans, contented like he's the one being fucked. As though the pleasure is eating him alive and not you. 

Your jaw drops with a breathless sigh as your head rolls back to thump against the top edge of the backrest, body conflicted between going completely lax and basking in the steady drag of his tongue or allowing yourself to grind and chase after his mouth; greedy, wanton. 

The point of his nose catches on your clit, the rounded shape of it pressing onto it just as he effortlessly finds that spot inside of you - the same one that Colin always struggles to reach, probing at you with inept, impatient fingers. He doesn't struggle at all though, and the dual points of pleasure make you melt, thighs twitching while you roll yourself onto the rhythm of his tongue. 

It's messy. The combination of his saliva and your arousal is wet on your flesh, besmearing down the swell of your ass. You can hear it when his tongue splits you open, rebounding softly across the close walls of the kitchen in a lewd melody. The damp smack of his lips moves up to draw around your clit; a coarse, sloppy noise induced by the steady pulse of his tongue. Electricity skirts down your nerves and ignites inside the foundation of your spine, ravaging you with heat - lightning striking the earth in a thunderstorm. 

You can count on a single hand the number of times your husband has had you like this, an event arising only in a blue moon when you managed the confidence to request it; treating your pleasure with a detach responsibility. There was never any effort put into the curl of his fingers or the glide of his tongue. He approaches it with about as much enthusiasm as a chore, as though it's an obligation that he was unable to escape. 

Always clumsy, incurious. It never failed to make you guilty, weighing down your shoulders with an adamant shame, wracking you with humiliation and remorse, until you simply stopped asking it of him. It's what a good wife would do, after all. 

This though is shared ecstasy. There's no air of burden or indifference surrounding the man currently kneeling at your feet. He does so with passion you've never been subjected to, enthusiastic in a carnal way. Burying his face deeper as though he intends to suffocate himself with you. 

Though you wonder if a creature such as him bothers with an earthly requirement like breathing. 

You should be repulsed with yourself. This entire encounter, as unnatural as it is, goes against everything you've been taught as a self-respecting woman. Your wedding band is still on your finger, chilled and heavy despite the humidity and the balmy temperature of your skin. Another man is gripping onto your hips with claws, mouth on your cunt while he fucks you with his tongue, jagged teeth lightly grazing over tender flesh making your knees shake. 

It's obscene in every sense of the word. There's a high chance you're going to hell. You can practically feel the flames already, licking up your back, burning within your gut like a furnace. And yet you don't care. 

He's seen your thoughts, relived your memories like they were his own, slipped inside of your limbs and felt the scale and variety of your emotions. It's sickening how he's witnessed you in your most vulnerable stages of life, seen the worst of you from the reflections of your blood. There's nothing left to hide, no barrier to protect yourself under. 

It shouldn't excite you, it's horrid, invasive . . .  intimate. But there's something thrilling about a person observing the worst facets of you, the insecurities and the sins, the parts you've tried your best to repress and remaining unaffected, unbothered.

(Probably because he's so much worse.) 

Perhaps it's the blood loss giving you lightheaded delusions, darkening around your vision in a hazy vignette, or the venom infiltrating your body and soul, but you think that you can feel him too now. Twisting and invading through the map of your brain, singing in your blood to spread with the lethality of a disease, embedding down into the center of your bones where its deep and rich with life and marrow. He's in your soul too, he has to be with how something in you cries out, equally in spiritual terror and hedonistic elation. 

A wind that isn't real caresses over you, full of the scent of dew and fruitful earth, damp soil, the distant salt of far-off tumultuous water - waves, cresting and rushing. It's a land you don't recognize, but you know it now. Know it better than you know yourself, even as you see the impressions of it through another's eyes. 

Sights and sounds cocoon around you, vivid, vociferous, phantom touches of experiences you haven't personally endured pour across your body, a surge of mirages - of memories not belonging to you, expanding, stretching out years beyond your comprehension. A lucid, dramatic mosaic. You can taste his years on your tongue, like an aged wine, ancient, enduring. 

Whispers crowd your skull, fluttering about you, ceaseless, persistent, uttering a tongue unheard of to your ears. A throaty, rhythmic cadence; circling and persistent echoes that layer and overlap upon each other. Ghosts caught in different shades of emotions, some humming gentle tunes, some raising in blood curling shrieks, agony, terror; faint curls of laughter rising and falling in their mirth. You smell smoke, taste ash on your tongue, feel a terror and heartache that guts you down the middle. 

Something shifts above the rest, the silver flash of a fish gliding beneath the ripples and dapples of a stream, elusive and quick. Darting away before it can be caught. Scales slipping through an unsteady palm. You try to concentrate on it, try to pull it forward into something tangible but the pleasure distracts you, swelling and subsiding, a constant cycle of and bliss, repeating over and over again, unraveling you at the seams. 

He doesn't stop, doesn't give you time to breathe and process the sensations of it all. He's eating you alive, in each and every sense of the meaning. Taking you in, slipping little pieces of you inside of him, tunneling himself within you in turn, nesting, bridging you together until it all starts to become a little clearer. 

That one word becomes more distinct, shadows slipping back with the illumination of a midnight sun, silver scales brightening in the dark: stars crystalizing to spell names, uncovering false identities; faces he's claimed, lives he's taken, names he's stolen. Whispering them over and over, but one rises above the others, persistent among the mob, demanding, longing to be know. Chanting in the command to be spoken.  

It's right there, dangling on the edge of your consciousness, just out of bounds, suspended there as though to tease. A glimmer of gold peeking through mud and red earth, smudged in centuries, tantalizing. Each letter reverberates through your bones, lighting sparks along your nerves, the memories held with it cauterize, leaving a mark on your spirit that can't be seen with the naked eye. 

Longing undulates, the impact of a cold stone breaking water, an emotion so raw you nearly mistake it for your own, but it's far too ancient. A wound that spans years long before your making, still bleeding, gouged and picked clean, torn wide. A carcass hollowed out of all that it's made of, yearning to be filled, to have the appeasement of warmth and touch. But it's grown teeth, become violent, feral. A hatred, a starvation that's rabid, frothing at the mouth to infect. To tear when the prey isn't willing, forcing the resistant into compliance. 

Forcing just as violent hands willed it into acceptance. A hypocrisy. 

You nearly sob from the brunt of it, crushed under the agony of it, the devastation, the horror. The logic within you - the part of your being that seems to be dying off with the rest of you - attempts to swim and find the surface of reason, but the light never comes. 

His tongue glides over you, the point of it swirling around the shape of your clit in a succession of enticing circles before alternating into steady flicks that turn your thoughts and will into vapor. Dissolving, salt in murky water. His palms smooth down your hips, talons tracing down your flesh like he's tempted to leave marks; the sting blazes down your flesh from the fine points of them, and a twisted sort of pleasure scatters beneath their razor-sharp tips. 

He counters the subtle pain, dropping his mouth open to pulse the muted chill of his mouth around your clit, dousing you in bliss from head to toe. He gets greedy, apparently not close enough despite being shoved face first against your cunt. He grips your thighs, lifting them to hinge your knees over his shoulders, using the angle to shove you closer with a harsh jerk that almost has you slipping out of the chair entirely. 

Your hands fly up on instinct, raising to steady yourself and they find the crown of his head in your blind reach for an anchor, fingers threading through the sweat-damp tresses of his hair in a steel grip. Your injured palm screams from the pain of it, the pressure searing up the wound, but you can't manage to rip your palms from him, and he groans in the response to the tight clasp you have on his scalp. But it's from pleasure, not pain. 

You can feel yourself dying, fading around the edges, energy draining from you in a steady flow. You think your heart is straining inside your chest, pumping in vain on the meager flow that still supplies your system; the pathetic scraps that he didn't drink from you. 

You should tear him away from you, toss him to the floor and demand that he leaves, but you know that that opportunity has come and gone, snuffed out as a flame on a wick, a hot coal dulled to charcoal. You're already dead, you know that now, and when you wake up again, either minutes or hours from now, you wonder what kind of monster you'll make. 

A ruined, damned imitation of your current self. Unfortunately, you've always been tricked by pretty things, by decorated promises and rosewater words. You've cursed yourself once again, once with a ring and vows, and a second time with blood and teeth. 

Your fingers flex in his hair, split with the opposite desires to pull him away and bring him closer. You're between the rift of it, drawn in a limbo while your body squirms beneath his mouth, seeking out a bliss and reprieve from the onslaught of his tongue, but he's relentless. He doesn't let up, doesn't allow you a second to breathe or think, to gather a thought and center yourself. 

It's ceaseless, almost brutal in its ecstasy, tracing over you with a fervor and practice that you've never been pinned under. He's steadfast and calculated in his determination to bring you over that tantalizing edge. You're almost afraid for it to be over, horrified of losing the bliss that pulses over you, as molten as liquid fire. But more potent than anything is the fear of what comes after this ends, the promise of eternity looming over you with disturbing consequences. 

You think you've always longed for death. Yearned for the finality, the release, the embrace of it. And now that it's come to collect, smelt your desire on the air like a scent, infected your bloodstream with its venom, regret wells up inside of you. But it's come too late, you can't escape now - if you ever could. You've made your bed, and now you have to lie in it. 

"Remmick." 

It leaves your lips, thoughtless, odd, tasting ancient. Strained on a thin whisper, a beg for mercy or a request for more, you can't tell anymore. 

He answers you with another groan, not bothering to remove himself from as makes his next plea, purred out between licks on a throaty sigh. His eyes flicker up to look at you from his place between your thighs, two small flames flickering in the dark, drawing you in. "My name sounds pretty comin' from you, darlin'. Say it again for me." 

He seems determined to stir it from you, not waiting for you gather the breath to speak it yourself, he seeks to draw it out of you himself. His hands slip up, roaming over your body in a rapacious sweep, not stopping until he finds the shape of your breasts beneath the material of your dress. He doesn't waste a second to grope and feel, massaging his fingers over the fat. Your spine arches to meet his palms, seeking out more, pressing into the weight of his hands for more. 

You don't entirely register the shrill sound of fabric tearing, a thin hiss across the thick atmosphere. But then you feel it, the tepid skim of air drifting across your chest, pressing down upon your skin in a soft caress. 

You have to force your head to roll on your neck, the weight of it beginning to become too much, exhaustion creeping up on you makes your neck feel as though it's as weak and loose as a string. Your chin tucks against your chest, nudging close to your clavicle while you watch him - Remmick, your brain laggardly recalls - fondle and pluck at your now bare breasts. 

He's torn your dress, split the material right down the middle with his claws as though it was made of paper. An admonishment is right there, scathing and ready to be said, but it gets choked behind a moan. You can feel him grinning, the impression of his smile on your skin, the flash of his teeth grazing over your cunt. His hands are everywhere now, your breasts, tracing your ribs, smoothing over your hips and thighs, clinging over you as though he's memorizing your body, desperate to touch each and every part of you. 

He's inside of you in a way that no other could be, stained across your soul, minds merged together in an inseparable link. You can feel him too, the inside of him. As though you're sitting within his body. It's distant, fuzzy, but the press of the floor against his knees is on your own, textured and hard; you can feel the smooth plains of your body beneath his palms as though his hands are yours, stroking across yourself all while your fingers remain rooted within his hair. 

It's out of body, unnatural, but the doubled sensations is damning. You can feel his pleasure, the taste of yourself on his tongue, earthy and rich, the salt of your skin, subtly sweet in an aftertaste of powdered sugar. It creates an endless loop, an echo that's rapturous. You know that he's hard inside of his drawers, aching and throbbing, pressed up tight against the seam, getting off on your pleasure like it's his own. 

It makes it impossible to escape, overwhelming in the most delightful, terrible way possible. Your breaths come out quick, shuddering from your lungs in a steady rhythm of heavy panting, pitching and keening in the air. He's got you right on the edge, a burning wick, heat sparking and thrumming, smoldering into something dangerous and debilitating. 

You can't keep yourself from chasing after it, hips rolling, grinding yourself across his face and he seems all too eager to let you use him for it. His lashes are fluttering like he's actively resisting the urge to let them slip close, all so that he can watch you hurtle closer to your pleasure. 

It isn't now that you've noticed that you've been chanting his name, repeating it with the fervency of a newly learned prayer. His expression is smug, eyes shifting in the dark, a reflection of contentment and ego. 

You've never heard of a man getting off on someone else's pleasure, feeding from it so explicitly. Not like this. It's like he lives for it, hanging on the twitch of your thighs, the rise and fall of your breasts, the wet smear of your arousal glistening on his lips. And he has you right there, balancing on the precipice. All you need is a small nudge, a light push into the chasm below. 

All you can feel now is him, all you can hear is the both of you, the thrum of his pleased groans humming across your cunt, the messy, lewd sounds slipping from where you both meet; his tongue splitting you open, languid and hungry. His nose nuzzles over you, brushing along the apex of your thigh when he tilts his head to gently draw one of your lips between his teeth, sucking lazily to savor all of you. 

It's the first teasing thing he's done, parting from where you directly need him the most to skim his mouth over you, tracing it along the tender skin of your inner thighs. He nips and sucks where he goes, but he soothes the stinging just as quickly, dragging his tongue over the smarting to ease it with the chilled temperature of his spit. 

"Remmick." It's something akin to a reprimanding hiss and a needy whine. 

You hate how familiar that sensation is. The feeling of having the rug pulled out from beneath your feet, the promise of bliss being snatched out from your hands before you could bask in the brunt of it. You've been here a million times, worked up to ecstasy, tasted it on your tongue only to have it extinguished, lost on talentless fingers - by a husband that doesn't even know how to use his cock properly. Not for you, at least.  

You could sob or curse from the frustration of it. Your fingers flex with the temptation to shove him back right where you want him, but he hushes you again, head shaking just the slightest, holding your vexed stare with his pleased one while he leans down, placing a kiss just above your clit. His hands travel down as a pair, one on either side of you, drifting down to cradle the swell of your ass, holding you in place while he slips his thumbs along your cunt. 

You can't help the way you twist on the seat, instinct and worry spiking in you from the proximity of his talons held so close to the most intimate part of you. He silences your concern with a coo before you can even voice them, that patronizing sound that unfortunately works on you. Your muscles go lax, turning malleable as he spreads you open further with his thumbs, splaying you open in a pornographic display. 

You feel the old bruises there too. Still fading, reminders of Colin's last punishment, only just beginning to fade. It makes you nervous, disgust and hesitation bubbling in your gut, but Remmick doesn't allow you to ruminate on it. That new, strange connection between you hums, coming alive with a delicate caress, and that sliver of trepidation vanishes as though it had never existed at all.

"I got you," he murmurs gently. 

You can feel Remmick's devotion and lust trickle through you as if it were your own, burning and lecherous, gentle and worshipful, smoldering inside of your bones - in his. It's beautiful. It's horrible. 

"Don't worry. If I tease you, it's on purpose." At first you assume it's just arrogance, a man's confidence, but your dying mind gradually connects the dots. The realization that he's seen your memories - lived through them - catches up to you, and you see the comment for what it is. A subtle dig at your husband. A crass insult aimed at Colin's struggles with bringing you to orgasm. 

"You ain't gotta worry about your pleasure with me baby." 

That's all he says - his reassurance - before he starts right back where he left off, mouth fastening over your cunt, tongue licking over you in a persistent pattern that has stars and galaxies diffusing and streaking across your vision. It's as though he's never stopped. You're right back at the point that he had you off in, already burning, body on fire as though you've been doused in syrupy warmth, honey left to heat on a stove. 

He seems to double his efforts, going at it like he has a point to prove, and you're already splitting at the seams. You're wanton, coming undone, nerves lighting up to set you on fire. Pressure builds in your gut and your muscles drawn up tight, body winding up in anticipation while bliss and sugar washes over your palate. It's a euphoria that going to be crippling, winding back a loop, constantly recycled between the connection that's still tethering and strengthening between you and Remmick. 

You can feel him, and he can feel you, and it's overwhelming. An entire ocean dumped upon your head, a current pulling you under to pour inside of your lungs, suffocating you. Choking you on until you taste it. 

Suddenly it's on you. Too quick for you to anticipate. Cresting, churning, building, lightning beneath your skin. 

"Remmick -" You try to warn him, a plead for him not to stop, for him not to ruin the high blazing over you, but all you manage is a pathetic moan, forced out on a gasp. 

He must understand you, must feel your need, hear your thoughts in his head, because he doesn't change his pace, doesn't alter the lap of his tongue or the brush of his lips. He keeps it steady, persistent in the cadence he's built. He guides you through it, holding onto you with his hands beneath your ass, keeping you secure to his mouth, chasing after the desperate roll of your hips as you cling to and seek out the rapture of it all. 

The brunt of it rips through you, tears you open from the inside out. Guts you with pleasure until it's all that remains inside, molten, simmering, consuming you with ecstasy that blurs across your vision and blinds you; darkness and constellations rupturing in a kaleidoscope. 

The only thing to guide you through it is the press of his head beneath your hands, the grip of your fingers on his hair, clinging on to the damp tresses as though the hold might save you; the sound of his panting rising up alongside yours is just as wrecked, just as wild. All of it rings across that strange bond connected between you, singing and echoing between your minds or souls, or both, you aren't sure, but it feels infinite. Webbing, uniting, fusing, over and over and over until it seems eternal. 

He hasn't stopped, you realize. Hasn't let up, hasn't allowed the pleasure to crest over you and ebb. It as though he's determined to remain this way forever, keeping you beneath his mouth, tormented and loved by it. 

You didn't realize that your eyes had closed until you're willing them open. A simple action that takes more effort than it should, but the blood loss and the venom is doing its work, and the warmth soaking in your limbs, settled in by the blaze of your orgasm has all but sapped you of the fumes of energy you had left. Renders you all but limp and useless, unable to do anything else but watch as Remmick continues to subject you to more, gliding his tongue over you, grinding his nose on your clit. 

He looks just as blissed out as you must, eyes glazed over and drunk, hair mussed from your hands. Far too intoxicated for a man who's only been eating you out. But then you notice it, the frantic but subtle jerk of his hips, grinding into a friction that isn't there, riding out a pleasure that he shouldn't feel. It dawns on you suddenly, the severity of the connection between the two of you. 

He must have felt when you had cum. Felt it as his own, scalding and vicious beneath his skin, and his own body had reached its peak that same moment yours did. And now he's greedy, desperate like a mutt. An animal that's been spoiled, fed a proper meal and now it's ravenous. Insatiable and starved. 

He doesn't stop. He keeps his hands on you, secures you underneath his mouth and doesn't cease or pause in feasting. He must realize you're watching, feel you staring down at him through the bond maybe, because his lashes flutter open, vision lazily flickering up to take you in as you stare at him in shock. 

"Can't blame a man for gettin' off when you taste so good." He answers, voice slurred and smoky, drugged on you. "You're just too sweet." 

Everything fringes on too much, but he keeps going, pushing you to your limits. You're left to endure all of the sensations, sight, sound, the feel of him on you, inside of you. It seems impossible to recall how many times he built you back up that debilitating elation, hellfire and indulgence. Bringing the both of you to orgasm over and over again - twice more, three times, four - you aren't certain. 

They all merge into the other, pouring and intersecting, crisscrossing into an infinite torture, consumed constantly, expanding into something that the earthly flesh isn't meant to experience. 

You only know when it finally stops. A reprieve. A gasp for air after being held underwater. The kisses he peppers across your thighs bring you back to reality, escorting you down into your body, slipping you within the place of your weary bones and sweat-slick skin. Your chest heaves, lungs making an effort to cling onto oxygen, thighs quivering with the exhaustion of someone who's ran miles. 

You can feel it, really feel it now, the influence of death slipping over you, a chill on your skin that prevails in the sticky heat clinging to the air. It isn't far off in its lurking anymore, it's imminent. A hitch in your breath, a delay in your lungs. The terror that awakens within you is a primal thing, frenzied, a determination to live, unfortunately that resolve sits host inside a body that's half dead. One foot already out the door, standing on the other side. 

You could sob, cry out from the hopelessness of it, but you can't manage a sound. Not with how weak you've grown, heart overexerted, growing lethargic inside of your chest with only pitiful drops of blood left to pump. You've been bled out, and the one responsible for the bleeding caresses you like you're breakable. 

"Don't fight it now," he soothes or warns. Still knelt between your legs. He cups them both, removing them from their places balanced on his shoulders, settling them down until the soles of your feet settle back on the floor. Moving you tenderly, like one would something cherished. His eyes glitter still, red hued, stunning and hideous in the dark. "You're gonna feel so much better when you wake up. It's all gonna be so much better, you'll see. For all of us." 

He grins up at you, still kneeling, but there isn't an ounce of control in your grasp. The bond you have already sings, twines across your psyche, joins you to him, but you know that it's yet to take full effect. You aren't dead yet, and once you are there will be no escape for you then. You'll be a part of him fully, as attached as any other limb, a unit in separate bodies; sewn to him by fragments of your spirit, threads from your blood. 

Death is inevitable in two ways now: death of the body and of your soul. A wish you've always made, sent out to the universe and now it's answered the call. Delivered a creature to your doorstep and now he waits at your feet, carefully fixing your skirt back down around your knees, as considerate as any lover should be, but his eyes show the truth. A truth that you had been too stupid to see. 

When you slip off into the threads of death, as welcoming and soft as a blanket, you drift off with a life that doesn't belong to you playing across your vision. Facsimiles of a land and a time you've never witnessed before. Faces, voices, horrors and cruelties; old memories, unwelcome and unfamiliar, take root as though they're yours, clicking into place right alongside images of your own life like they'd always existed there. 

A cuckoo's egg in a blue jay's nest. 

And it's with your heartbeat dying in your ears, inspiring a final flicker of consciousness, a weak death rattle of the mind that you think of regret. The regret of opening the door when that knock had sounded from the other side. 

You see his eyes burning in front of you through the film tainting your vision, the same color of the blood on his lips - your blood - perched at your feet, as loyal as a guardian angel; a scavenger waiting for a weakened animal to finally collapse beneath its own weight so that it can feast on the remains. 

It all begins to vignette, shadows elongating, crowding around you, desperate for flesh. 

Those eyes are the final thing you see. Burning, horrid coins, unwavering in their observation of your trip to the other side. Pretty, otherworldly, grotesque. 

You never should have answered the door. 

[bullet-prooflove]

Pop Tarts: Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @flyinglama @yousigned-upforthis @oklahomapeach @queensland-lover93

Companion piece to:

Lipstick (NSFW) - It's love at first blow job for Dr Robby.

Crisis - Robby has a bad day.

ASMR For The Soul - Robby doesn't sleep when you're not around.

Bunny - Robby discovers you've been keeping secrets.

Something To Complain About (NSFW) - You ignite the ire of Robby's neighbour with your bedroom noises.

Noise Cancelling - Robby discovers his neighbour keeps a spreadsheet of your antics.

Poolside - When Robby's had a really shitty day he always ends up whereever you are.

The Betting Pool - Robby discovers that his collegues have been taking bets on his relationship.

Fifty Shades of Robby - Robby's collegues see the truth of his relationship when they find your Instagram.

Dumb Bitch - Robby exhibits his protective side when another man steps on his territory.

Stop Compressions, Start Compressions - Robby loses everything in the aftermath of Pittfest.

24 Hours - Robby refuses to leave your side in the aftermath of the shooting.

Saftey Rail - Abbot gets real with Robby when he finds him on the roof.

Baby, It's Gonna Be Alright - Robby wonders if he's fucked things up with you for good.

Exorcism (NSFW) - Robby and you finally find a way to be honest with one another.

Ready - Robby and you discuss starting a family in the aftermath of Pittfest.

The Rose - You give Robby a special gift for your anniversary.

Heartbeat - Robby finds something to help him sleep.

Jinx - Robby discovers a particular superstition of yours.

The Scary One - Robby and you face concerns during your second pregnancy scan.

You’re putting stars on the ceiling of the nursery when Robby comes home from work. Dozens of tiny glow in the dark ones that will illuminate the sky your baby lies under. It’s a lovely idea, one that pairs well with the constellations theme the two of you have chosen for his bedroom.

You’ve spent the last week painting the place while Robby put on his tool belt and built the furniture. There’s only a couple of finishing touches left and then it’ll be ready for your little bundle of joy.

Right now though Robby has a problem, the problem being you’re standing on top of a ladder in the cutest pair dungarees that Robby has ever seen and it’s giving him heart palpations.

“No.” He says, his hands coming to rest on your waist as he lifts you down. “Absolutely not.”

“Woah…” You say as your feet hit the floor. “I have a whole other pack to do.”

“No you don’t.” Robby informs you, ushering you towards the nursing chair. “You will sit and rest, while I do it.”

You sink into the chair and he picks up the grey blanket off the back of it, tucking it tenderly around your body.

“Now I’m sufficiently comfortable…” You remark as Robby pulls away and begins his ascent up the ladder. “Are we gonna talk about how overly protective you’re being?”

“I’m not being overly protective.” He informs you, picking up a couple of stars and sticking them to the ceiling. “You shouldn’t be on a ladder after 26 weeks.”

“It’s like three steps.” You respond, pointing at the equipment. “And you also wouldn’t let me help with the furniture, you got Jack to come around to do it instead… Is it about the VSD? Should I be more worried?”

“No, no.” He says abruptly, holding his hand up as if to physically stop that train of thought. “You don’t need to be worried about the hole in the baby’s heart, that’s gonna heal itself. It’s just…”

He pauses, his lips pursing together in a grim line as he lingers on the ladder.

“I’m used to being the one who fixes things, things like this and right now I can’t do that and it makes me feel…”

“Helpless.” You submit as he rubs his palm over the nape of his neck.

“Yea.” He says as he steps down the ladder. He kneels down in front of you so that the two of you are on the same level, his palms running over the baby bump, cradling his son. “So just let me be a little over protective ok? It makes me feel like I’m helping him heal somehow.”

“Alright.” You say softly, your fingertips stroking lightly through his hair. “But if you try to stop me taking baths or eating pop tarts there will be trouble.”

“Well…” Robby says, deliberating. “We should probably slow down on the pop tarts due to their high sugar content…”

“Robby, don’t take that joy from me and the baby.” You tell him, your hand soothing over your stomach. “We’ve already given up brie and charcuterie boards. Don’t take away our pop tarts.”

“OK.” Robby concedes, leaning in close to kiss the tip of your nose. “We’ll keep the pop tarts, but you have to promise no more ladders and you have to let me do the heavy lifting.”

“Technically…” You gesture at your stomach.

“Alright you are the one doing the heavy lifting.” He admits. “But you gotta let me help out more too instead of doing all the cool stuff like the shopping and planning when I’m at work. The closer we get to his due date the more exciting it is and I wanna be as involved as I can.”

“I know I’ll try I’m just really excited too.” You say, your fingertips trailing along his jaw. “And you are gonna be a great father, you’re gonna do all the night feeds and change all his diapers…”

“Oh sweetheart you think you’re so funny don’t you?” Robby murmurs, clasping your palm to the side of his face, his lips brushing over the indentation on your wrist. “That you’ve got me completely wrapped around your little finger.”

“Isn’t that why you’re about to head into the kitchen and make the two of us some pop tarts?” You remark. “I swear I heard you say it.”

He laughs then, a deep rumble that emits from his chest as he sits back on his heels before raising to his feet. “I can’t deny you a single thing you know that?”

“I do.” You tell him as he leans over to kiss you. “And I plan on utilising it to my full advantage.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Vil Schoenheit: The Shape of You

Rollo voice) that witch is showing too much bare skin

I noticed that Vil sounds a lot gentler in his Relax in Room vignettes… Maybe he comes across that way when he’s not scolding someone 😭

Rise and Shine!

You stopped in Vil’s doorway, as if bound by a spell, transfixed at the sight of him.

He was a creature of beauty and grace, even in the earliest hours of the morning. Vil knelt upon his mattress, one leg raised behind him, toes pointing to the ceiling. The form reminded you of a gazelle with its sturdy antlers and pointed hooves.

His arms reached behind his head and, elbows bent, he locked his fingers together. A slow exhale as he stretched, releasing the tension that had built up in his body overnight. You saw a swan beating its wings, hear a song blowing free across a flowered clearing.

His arms straightened and swiveled to his front. He shifted to his other leg and foot.

Behind him, sunlight streamed in through a large window. The glass panes bore a lattice of diamonds, painting Vil’s bed with shards of color. His silken top hung loose, the muscles in his chest flexing beneath a layer of milky skin. He was haloed in gold, as if blessed by a godly being of beauty.

You felt like you’ve intruded on something sacred, seen something that you shouldn’t have. Vil’s me time. And more of Vil than you’d ever dreamed you’d be exposed to. Bashful at the thought, you peeled your eyes away.

A question, quiet but hard, rose from Vil.

“Are you certain that you’re fully awake? You still look dazed—like you’ve just woken up.”

“I-I’m awake!” you insisted (unconvincingly, if Vil’s furrowed brows were anything to go by).

Sighing, he drew himself out of bed and strode over. You strained to keep your eyes from trailing to places they didn’t belong. His face—you focused on it. Barren but beautiful, with a delicate pale pink mouth, a straight nose, shapely arches for brows, and long wispy lashes.

You were so lost in him that you almost missed what he was saying.

“Join me for my morning stretches,” Vil advised. “It will do you some good—it gets the blood pumping and helps with circulation. That should help you properly wake up your body.”

“If you think that’ll help… How should I get started, teach?”

“Well,” he replied with a faint laugh, “it seems you’ve still got the energy to be cheeky with me.”

With one hand, Vil gestured for yours. You sheepishly offered it, then the other when he motioned again. The areas where he made contact seemed to tingle and burn, as though his very touch was toxic.

He was, you realized, standing close to you. Maybe too close.

His front flush with your back, you could feel the heat radiating off of him. Just a step, and you'd crash right into him, his heart slamming into your skin and bones. Collison with a wave of poison, dressed up nicely in a shapely perfume bottle.

You swallowed nervously.

“Assuming the correct posture is important. We wouldn’t want to pull or strain a muscle,” Vil explained, guiding you through the motions.

One arm was extended, palm up. The other laid perpendicular on the back of the elbow. Then extended arm closed like the jaws of a beast, and you could feel a pressure building where it clamped down.

“Hold that for fifteen seconds, then switch to the other side and do the same. I will show you the next stretch after that.”

The instructions flitted against your ear, setting your stomach churning. It was like you had swallowed an entire jar of butterflies which swarmed in your gut. You tried to bat them down, tried to ground your thoughts before they floated away again.

“Y-Yes, I understand, thank you.”

“Do you?” Vil smirked. “My, what a fast learner. If only all my students were this obedient, I would have far less grief."

He pressed a quick peck to your temples. You burned, body going slack from the shock. So much for stretching.

Vil only chuckled as he pulled back, brushing slender fingers along your shoulders. "Now then, no time to dawdle. There's another day awaiting us, sweet potato."

[secretlysamcro]

Till It’s Gone ask…

How would have Jax handled a pregnancy scare?

"You good?" he asks, frowning "You're quiet"

"Just tired" you mutter back.

He nods slowly. Walks into the kitchen, opens your cupboard like he owns the place, like he's done a hundred times before. Grabs his Jameson and a glass before sitting down on the edge of the couch near your feet, nudging you lightly with his knee.

"You mad at me or somethin?" he asks, a flicker of something genuine behind it.

You shake your head looking up towards the ceiling, barely paying attention to him

"You ain't even gonna look at me?" he mutters, half offended, spreading his legs wider like he needs the whole damn couch.

"I'm late" the words fall free from your mouth

"Late for what?" he says, confusion slowly taking over his face.

"My period" you finally turn to him now.

The words hit him like a fucking brick and his hand freezes mid air, the whiskey glass hovering inches from his mouth before he lowers it back onto the table. His fingers tightening around it like the glass might shatter if he lets go.

His face drains of colour "No" he says, hoarse as he drags one hand down his face, now standing with the other landing on his hip "Don't say that"

He's pacing now. Your living room suddenly feeling too small for all his panic. He runs a hand through his hair. His jaw locked so tight that it almost looks painful.

"Don't say what Jax?..." you fire back, the bitterness bleeding into your tone before you can stop it "...the consequences of coming inside someone who's not your wife?" It's colder than you meant, but you know now isn't the time to start another fight even though the words are out there now, sharp and unforgiving.

He stops, turning to face you slowly. You can see the rage simmering just beneath the surface, but he doesn't blow over, not yet. Just looks at you, his eyes piercing.

"I'm sorry" you say quickly, softer even "I didn't mean..."

"You take a test?" he cuts in, voice flat and controlled

You shake your head "Not yet, I didn't wanna do it alone"

Without waiting for permission, he follows you down the short hallway towards the bathroom. You grab the brown paper bag from under the sink, pulling out the box with the Clearblue logo. He watches you with something unreadable in his eyes. Maybe its panic, maybe its realisation. Or maybe, its grief. Grief for a version of this situation that could have felt like joy if this whole thing was different. If you weren't just his dirty little secret. If he hadn't already built a life with someone else. Maybe in another life, he'd be excited to see that test turn positive.

But that's not how this shit works.

"You wanna watch me pee on it or what?" you mumble snapping him out of whatever spiral he was sinking into.

He stutters "I...uh, do you want me to?"

"Just turn around" you say, too tired to be sarcastic now.

And so he does, slowly. Standing in the doorway, arms crossed with his back to you staring blankly at the drink he left on your coffee table. His mind racing. What if you are? what does he do? how does he look Tara in the face and tell her the truth?

He already knows what he'd do. He wouldn't run, he wouldn't ask you to fix it or make it go away. He'd do what you wanted to do, and if that meant keeping the baby, then he'd figure out what the fuck to say afterwards.

"You done it ye..." He stops when he hears the sound of you peeing. And despite everything, a tiny breath of laughter slips out through his nose.

You finish up and place the test on the side of the sink. His eyes finally meeting yours, and that's when he sees it. The fear, the same fucking fear he's feeling mirrored in your expression.

"Come here" he says, his arms open wide. You fall into them without hesitation, letting him pull you against his chest, your cheek resting comfortably against the leather of his Kutte as he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

"I'm sorry" he murmurs "For yelling, for acting like I was mad at you, Im not, I'm fuckin' mad at the situation. At myself."

You nod into him, your eyes beginning to sting. His continued apology interrupted by the beep of the test. He lets you go slowly, squeezing your hand once before you turn round to check. Your hands tremble slightly as you pick it up.

You inhale deeply "Negative" you share the news.

You don't know what you expected to feel. But the feeling you have right now, its hollow, the quiet ache of ‘what if’ flowing through your body.

The colour slowly begins to creep back into his cheeks, the ghost of his panic lifting. Because this whole time, all he could think about was how the fuck he was going to tell his wife he got another woman pregnant, but also how part of him had already started accepting it. TILL IT'S GONE SERIES MASTERLIST

[natalievoncatte]

The transfer would have to be quick. They had to move Lena -the other Lena- from the Kryptonian stasis pod to the operating table in the Amazonian lab and they had to hurry.

As she watched six Amazons lift her own limp form onto the platform, Lena could hear the cyborg talking to her Kara.

“These are the worst moments. When there is nothing we can do with all our strength. When we’re just as helpless as any other mortal woman.”

“I know,” her Kara said, very softly. “It’s going to work.”

“I’m afraid,” said the Cyborg. “I’ve been searching so long. Fate has a way of snatching things from us at the last moment. What if she hates me for failing her? What if she can’t stand the sight of me?”

“Lena, focus,” said Alex.

Lena snapped her attention back to the task at hand. Her other self, her doppelgänger, her variant, whatever you want to call it, now lay on the table and Alex was attaching sensors all over her body. Lena joined her.

It was a peculiar sight, one’s own self. The way this Lena looked older, maybe wiser, sent some distant part of Lena’s own mind reeling. If they were simply variations on the same universe, merely quantum discrepancies, why would one version of her be older than she was? How could she be born sooner and still be the same person?

It didn’t matter.

One of the Amazons said, “we must move quickly; we’re already losing her.”

Both Karas sucked in a sharp breath, one of them a harsh mechanical wheeze. Lena and ignored it, and hung the bag of while blood while Alex put the catheter in their patient’s arm.

Her blood. Lena’s. This had to work.

“Back, quickly.”

Lena and Alex stepped back, and the device lowered from the ceiling- like everything here it was a strange blend of classical forms and shapes mixed with high technology. Lena stepped back behind the marked line on the marble floor and waited.

The machine built up with a low thrum, the sound increasing and volume and pitch as it rose until finally a vibrant light burst forth, enveloping the other Lena in a cascade of purple hues, constantly shifting and changing.

The body on the bier was absolutely still; the monitors showed no pulse, no respiration, no brain activity.

Behind her Lena felt as much as heard a strangled, mechanical cry like knives being scraped across a sheet of steel as the cyborg cried out in agony and sank to her knees.

Her Kara said, “Wait! Wait! Look!

Lena watched as her own chest slowly began to rise and fall. The monitors began to pulse with the beat of her heart- slow, at first, weak, but growing stronger with each beat, as her brain activity lit up the screen. It was working. It was working.

“I can hear her,” the cyborg rasped, her voice strangely tinny with elation, “I can hear her heartbeat. I can hear her heartbeat again!”

She lunged forward, but both Kara and two of the Amazons stopped her.

“The process will take hours. Perhaps days. She must not be disturbed.”

A crimson tear welled up in her eye, scratching its way down her cold, pale cheek.

“I can’t leave her.”

Diana stepped forward. “You will not have to. You must simply remain outside the boundary. My warriors will stand vigil with you.”

“I’ll stay too,” said Alex. Nia nodded.

“Lena,” said Diana. “A word.”

Lena swallowed hard and walked beside the enormous warrior woman, the top of her head barely reaching her shoulder. She’d even made Clark look small. They walked outside in the crisp Mediterranean evening air. Even the atmosphere here smelled lovely and clean. There was a full moon rising and in the distance it sparked across the sea.

“There is a problem.”

Lena turned sharply. “What problem?”

“I had my physicians examine the cyborg. We had intended to heal her as well- her Kryptonian physiology should enhance the healing properties of the Purple Ray even further.”

“I sense a ‘but,” said Lena.

Diana nodded, her expression darkening as she looked out over the sprawling city of gold and marble around them.

“The damage is too extensive. Much of her dermal layers are synthetic as well- forgive my bluntness, but there is actually very little left of our friend. Other than her brain and spinal column, very little remains. I’m not sure that she herself is aware of how much has been replaced.”

Lena’s legs weakened and she leaned on the railing in front of her, the stone cold against her palms.

“There has to be a way. Can our Kara help somehow?”

“Not unless she can grow a second heart and liver. Forgive my bluntness, but but I don’t believe that we can help her any further, only try to make her condition more-“

“Highness!” an Amazon shouted as she ran towards them, “Princess! There is a quantum surge nearby. The signature resembles a boom tube!”

Diana turned from Lena as if she wasn’t there. “Sound the alarms, surround the incursion site, and have Supergirl join us- we may need both of them.”

“The cyborg is too damaged to fight,” Lena insisted.

“If this is what I fear, we cannot let any warrior sit idle. Come!”

She turned and ran, and Lena struggled to keep up, her lungs burning even in the pure air of the earthly paradise.

Dozens of Amazons surrounded an empty space in the courtyard, aiming spears and swords at seemingly nothing, an empty space. Kara and her cyborg counterpart rushed to flank Lena.

“What is this?” said Lena. “What is a boom tube?”

In answer, there was a crack of thunder that almost launched her off her feet. Kara instinctively caught her in a smooth motion and lifted Lena into her arms. The sound came with a blinding flash and when Lena opened her eyes, purple spots stained her vision.

A corridor of light unfolded in the air, spending from a central flash, sending waves of air cascading around their feet.

“Ready,” Diana called, cracking her knuckles.

Thwip!

A thin stream of some silvery substance shot out of the aperture or tunnel or portal or whatever it was and hit one of the nearby columns with a loud splat, hanging in the air in thin silvery cord that went taut as something swung out of the portal at impossible speed.

Lena could make out that the arrival was woman, but not much else- she was blinding fast, launching another one of those… webs… from her wrist.

Diana tried to grab her and she twisted out of the way with impossible reflexes, turning in the air, using her swing to build momentum and somersault, finally landing on one of the columns, clinging somehow to the smooth stone.

“Easy, easy, easy!” the intruder shouted, showing her hands as she crouched against the marble. “I come in peace.”

The voice sounded too familiar, almost like-“

“Get down from there!” Diana bellowed. “Stand and show yourself.”

The stranger leapt down from the height with unnatural grace, and Lena heard gasps marching her own as she recognized… herself.

Herself wearing a leather bomber jacket over a black bodysuit emblazoned with the white silhouette of a spider.

“Who are you?” Kara snapped, moving between Lena and the… new Lena.

“I’m Lena 938,” she said, offering a hand to shake, “and I’m her to help.”

“Seize her!” Diana barked.

“Oh come on,” said Lena-938. “Can please not do the ‘heroes have to fight before they become friends’ thing? I’ve had a long day and I want to skip to the part where I give you the exposition.”

“Wait!” said Lena. “Let’s hear what she has to say.”

Her counterpart looked at her. “Oh thank God you’re not one of the crazy variants.”

“Variants?” said Lena. “How many have you met?”

“A lot, and some of us would like to join the party. I’m here to talk about the League of Lenas, and how we’re going to help you.”

She pointed at the cyborg.

“Everyone inside,” Diana snapped. “We will hear your explanation, but no more portals!”

[hometoursandotherstuff]

It's completely painted white in preparation for the new owner, but you have to see this historic octagonal house that was built in 1850 by whaling master Robert Soper, in Provincetown, MA. 6bds, 5ba, $6.1m.

It's been perfectly preserved. Look at that roof-top deck and Belvedere with a view of the Provincetown Harbor.

The property extends across the road, out to the water's edge.

It's like your own beach.

Isn't this a beautiful entrance?

It's got an open floor plan, coffered ceilings, and a light-filled living room with a pretty fireplace.

Dining area next to the fireplace.

Nice open, airy kitchen.

One of 5 baths. I like the tile- it looks like a basket weave.

There are 6 bds., and this looks like the guest suite on the main floor.

Adorable home office or craft space. It would make a wonderful little art studio, too.

Love the stairs with an original newel post and storage underneath.

Such a pretty primary bedroom.

Beautiful shower in the ensuite.

The bedrooms are so cozy. You could do a lot with them since they're blank canvases.

They all get beautiful natural sunlight.

Beadboard bath.

Oh, look at the stairs to the roof- they turn into spiral stairs. I wonder if they were always like that.

Here we are up in the Belvedere.

Isn't this wonderful?

But, that's not all this house has to offer. There's a ground level, too, w/a seating area and kitchenette.

Plus, 2 bds and a bath.

Outdoors there's a private deck.

And, a brick patio.

The home also has a lawn in the front and room for parking in the back on a 5,662 sq ft lot.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/74-Commercial-St-Provincetown-MA-02657/56787757_zpid/?

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Renovations

No warnings. Please comment and reblog!

house husband! Geralt x wife! reader

🏠🏠🏠

The house is quiet as you enter. More than usual. Your husband is a man of solace and silence, but you can often sense him when you get in. He's always around.

You put your bag on the bench, the one he built with the shoe rack below, and slip of your heels. You tuck them beneath and face the desolate house. The top of the stairs is eerie and the hallways leads to the mysterious unknown. You're building fantasies again. He always said you let your mind wander.

You peek into the front room. He's not there. Everything is in its place. The TV is black, the remote exactly as you left it. He doesn't watch it much.

You stop by the dining room next. A fresh bouquet from the garden but nothing out of sorts. Is he not there?

You get to the kitchen and sigh. He's probably gone to grab something he forgot. Oh well. You're patient. That patience needles at him.

You open the fridge and take out a can of sparkling water. You crack the tab and the ceiling groans. You wince before you can take a sip. You tilt your head and listen to the house.

Hm. Maybe it's the tree brushing against the roof. You slurp up the bubbles and hear another groan. This time it's not the house. You look up.

There's a soft tap on the ceiling. A steady knocking. You stare in confusion.

"Hello..." Geralt's deep timbre comes muffled through the plaster.

"Hello," you say back to the ceiling.

"How was your day?" He asks.

You snort, "fine. Are you in the ceiling?"

Silence. Another shift.

"Technically, I'm in the floor. Of the second level."

You set the can down carefully, "should I ask why or how?"

"Don't think it matters," he grunts. "It's itchy."

You could devolve into sheer madness. Your husband is as stober and stoic as a statue, but in that instance, you can't help but picture him squashed between the walls, pillowed by the itchy insulation.

"Do you need help?" You ask.

Another pause.

"Yes."

You smile while you can. You need to get it out while he can't see you. You smother your mouth and rush out of the kitchen. You stop at the bottom of the stairs and let yourself shake in a silent fit of laughter. You exhale and make yourself go up.

"So how..." you slow as you see the floorboards, pried away from the planks. "Ah."

"There was a draught and I thought... well, I think I've fixed the problem, really."

"I know you have. You always do," you assure him. You see his sock as his foot wiggles.

"Are you mocking me?"

You nearly choke, "nope."

"It sounds like you're laughing."

"Not anymore," you assure him. "So... what do I do?"

"Just need a tug," he points his foot. "If you don't mind."

You get down and grip his ankle. You lean back on your knees and grunt. He pushes backwards and slides a few inches. You try again. It's slow work as he wriggles then hisses.

"Are you stuck?" You heave on him as hard as you can.

He huffs and snarl. "I can get out, I'm just... resting."

"Sure," you pat the back of his leg.

"Just--" He grunts and shimmies back a little further. As he does, you pinch his backside. He growls. 

"Can't help myself," you smack him for good measure and grab the crowbar. 

You stand and line it up with another footboard. You pop it loose as Geralt grunts. "What are you doing?"

"Getting you out," you assure him. "As always, saving you hide."

He sighs. You diligently uncover his top half. He pushes himself up and looks at you. "My dear wife, I don't deserve you."

"Uh huh..." you look around. "So, looks like you have something to do tomorrow."

[running-with-kn1ves]

Phrogging. Or... Spider-ing?

A/N: Ignore the dumbass title I couldn't think of anything more captivating; Missed my love for driders-- I wish spiders were real 💔

Synopsis: You move into an old, but enticing fixer-upper of a house. While doing your general, you know, fixing-upping, you come face to face with the cause of the bumps in the night you’ve been plagued by. 

CW: Spiders, attempts at intimidation, fear, GN Reader

You know that skittering you hear while laying in bed sometimes? Little 'tic tic tics' behind your headboard as you try to sleep at night, or muffled bumps under the old hardwood floor creating flurries of dust as the thumping moves to another side of the room. Yeah, not always the most comforting feeling, especially when you're busy plastering white paint on old, cobwebbed walls at eleven at night, in a home built decades before you were born. 

Eggshell-colored sludge covered your elbows and cheeks, small speckles crusted over the dust on your ‘new’ floors and painting sheet. The bumps were a constant source of annoyance, especially tonight while you yourself, were making a bit of a ruckus. You didn't dare move while listening to the sound, a large roller still held rigidly in your dominant hand, dripping white onto the floor. Another thump resounded, creating small tornadoes of dust. And then another. They were farther away this time, to the south of your damp, italianate-style home. Ghosts and goblins weren't your forte-- even with the near century-old two-story you've been blessed to snatch off the market in time, you thought the cobwebs and oddly spacious basement were just remnants of the old owners, creaking with age and dim with use-- not the presence of the otherworldly. 

But these little tip-taps and deep grunts from below were by no means just a product of old wood and concrete-- they were... intentional. The roar of the incinerator was recognizable, separate from the sound of disturbing bangs from below.

The thump moved again, this time your paint roller falling into its wet bucket of a home as your legs shake, falling asleep from use; painting around the baseboards of your new suite (a dream bedroom-- even if it was caked in a layer of mouse droppings) was no easy feat, on you or your joints. 

Underneath a box of old sheets the thump went to disrupt the floor again, the box jumping a quarter inch off the ground. 

Your queasy legs rise to investigate. 

Down the hall and to the ground level, you avoid several caved-in steps as you leave the second floor. The shimmer of dust particles in the air makes you sniffle, rubbing your nose raw as you make it down. The basement door, only a few feet on the wall to your left, sat slightly ajar. 

The door bolt lays unused and slightly clanking against the rotting wood. A foul smell wafts from the open crack, a stench you have yet to get rid of even long after scrubbing the stairs with bleach from top to bottom. Perhaps the wood is starting to mold. 

They're damp when you rest on the first basement step with your socked foot, deadbolt still clinking as you watch the darkness. Nothing stirs, besides dust particles mixed with the smell of petrichor. 

Racing to the bottom of the staircase you rapidly search for the lightswitch, nearly tripping in the oncoming darkness.

Flipping one of them on and off again as the musty odor creeps closer, you can sense the movement of unseen creatures; blindly feeling for the second lightswitch, a dreary yellow from above finally bursts in the cavern of decade-old belongings, along with the sound of a whirring ceiling fan on the brink of falling out of the old cement.

Nothing seemed out of place, old dusted boxes lying against one another with wet stuff seeping from their rotten corners. A quiet ‘drip drip’ came from somewhere. 

A small sigh escaped from your dry mouth, corners of your lips sticking together from lack of use in anything other than swallowing your sandpapering tongue.

You scanned the room, all dawned in yellow except the deep corners of the basement. It read as usual, giving off the same historic, uncomfortably wet aura. But your eyes stopped, either out of a disruption in the moldy pattern, or an instinctual fear that was trying to warn you. 

Slender and black, it looked almost frozen, except for some wrongful twitching at its tip; you might’ve ignored it as a large crack in the wall, or perhaps dripping sewage from the upstairs bathroom if it had stayed still. But it curled, just slightly bent and sticking out like an appendage. It was aggregate with notches like a finger, jointed. It seemed to notice your staring, creating a creaking tap before it disappeared into the darkness of the ceiling beams and rotted corner to your right. 

Horror was slow to dawn on your face, exhaustion making your skin droop where wrinkles would show in only a matter of time. You had seen that, right? It wasn’t just your brain making things up because it was way past your self-mandated bed time?

The panic causing your heart to speed three times faster than the original lethargic beats was real, though. And that was enough for you to believe you were more than hallucinating. Blindly you search your back pockets for your phone, not daring to take your eyes away from the now empty, peeling corner. 

You hadn’t noticed the drumming that harassed you while painting had stopped-- until it started again. This time it came from above, dancing on the ceiling beams where you couldn’t see, sounding as if it was coming directly for you. When you were upstairs it was almost aimless, moving around like a cat with its head stuck in a box.

 You pressed a hand in front of your mouth, trying not to scream; it would do no good to wake the elderly neighbors, who already seemed prepared to destroy an outsider like you through the homeowners association. Well, what good would that be if you were dead!

Whatever the leg belonged to, it must have sensed your urgency as you tried to shuffle back up the stairs, your body pressed against the back wall to keep your eyes on the basement. The unclosable door upstairs had gently gone shut, the door bolt swinging against the splintered wood as if it too didn’t understand what had closed the door so simply. 

It had distracted you from your real fear, the thing you took your eyes away from. 

“Hello, there.” 

Wide-eyed and shaking, you drew yourself to look back at the dark corner, but the voice was far too close to come from so far away. 

“Up here, simpleton.”

Your paint-dried fingernails dug into the split wood from behind, begging for some stability besides the wet stairs beneath your soggy feet. 

Stuttering breaths ran throughout the groaning, mildew beast of the basement. You prepped for the worst, for some kind of phrogger or decaying corpse that found a way to haunt you. Burning tears tugged at the sides of your eyes, falling asbestos egging on your terror.

But what you found was a… young man; the kind of man you wouldn’t expect to be living in your basement, nonetheless hanging from the exposed beams of your basement. His eyes glowed with a round, edgeless face, oval and smooth like glass. His features were darkened by the shadows from above, the yellow lightbulb bathing him in a dark black and flaxen.

“What-- who are you,” You swallowed your fear, now that you knew for sure it was just some freak hiding out down here, rather than some supernatural entity. “Why are you in my house?”

Your voice grew stern, angry with the exhaustion this adventure had put you in. 

“Your house?” He scoffed, the thumping following him as a black mass from underneath his face carried him to another beam, this time closer to you and the railing of the stairs. 

You stomped down to the cold last step of the basement stairs, wondering if you should go as far as to find a broom and start pushing him out with it. 

“As far as I was aware, this was free territory, since.. Oh well, I don’t know. But it’s been over a decade since a beast like you had attempted to enter my home.” 

You nearly scoffed back, his home?

But the mockery was taken away from you as the long, slender appendage was made visible again. It slowly lowered itself from between the beams, the man from above moving with it. Another had shown itself, and then another. The man fell to the floor, black limbs and mass breaking his fall. 

The human upper half raised itself far above you, the long, obsidian spindles of his hair a tangled mess as his head nearly touched the beams from above. He barely fit in the ground floor of the basement, the ‘legs’ of his lower half grazing against damp boxes and an old piano shoved at the corner. The softness of his jaw was deceiving; humanly. However the darkness and creasing of his eyes showed his true nature, his antiquity. From the fullness of his flesh to small black freckles and his square nose, he displayed the range of features most humans would have; and yet, he was terrifyingly un-human. 

He towered in a menacing stance, hands to his side and shoulders slightly raised, as if he would come at you with his arms swinging if he sensed threat. 

You looked down to the part that confused your mind, dark legs taping inconsistently, and yet in a calculated pattern as each leg followed one another. Below its torso, where you prayed a pair of cargo pants or torn jeans would be, instead held the teardrop shaped abdomen you would see on one of the many spiders you’ve killed since you’ve been here. The legs were an extension of its beautifully horrific lower-half, black and sheening as a thin layer of shiny, spiked hairs were standing on end. 

You looked back up to see its face, horror engulfing in your own as you waited for the rest of the monster to turn into what it depicted. You almost jumped as the closed black lines you took for wrinkles or dust on its face opened up, a variety of blackened eyes glistening to stare at you. You didn’t have the sense to count, taken aback at what your mind had conjured in front of you. 

“You-- it--” Clutching at your heart you tried to stop the squeezing that held you frozen. “This isn’t real...”

“I suggest if you don’t want a roommate, or rather-- don’t want me to eat you, you abandon this residence, immediately.” 

You sucked in a raspy breath, again pushing yourself against the rotting wall to create distance from the towering, spider-like man.

“It’s my house..” You whispered, waiting for him to open his jaws like a snake and aim for your neck. He looked confused only for a moment, a clear tension of rage bubbling up in his pinched expression. “It’s my house.” You said louder, clearing your throat. 

At this, he just stared. What you took as anger was rather an inability to form a response on his end. 

“And what makes this yours? Your presence, your belongings?”

“My name is on the deed; I forked out thousands, there’s even a loan in my name, if you’d like to see that.” 

“Deed…” He repeated, unsure what to make of it. “I don’t know what the ‘deed’ is that you speak of, or the methods you have taken to try and gain ownership, but I assure you this land is claimed.”

You still clutched at your chest against the stairs, waiting for a move to be made. This was not something you had ever encountered before-- you didn’t even know who to contact, as you were certain the real-estate agent who handed you the keys wouldn’t be of any assistance. Any foreclosed homes’ problems were the new owner’s responsibility to handle, whether it be mold or a seven-foot creature residing in the basement. 

Do you call animal control? That can’t be right, he speaks, he’s even telling you to leave your own home. 

There had to be some kind of compromise to be made. You gather the courage to speak again, taking a deep breath to avoid stuttering.

“Well… no one needs to leave, just yet. Right? We can.. Figure this out somehow. We’re both reasonable here, there can be some arrangement to be made?”

It sounded as if you were asking him for permission, the farthest thing from the truth. All this hard work in renovating and you were going to give it up to some basement-dwelling beast? No way, you’d fight him off if you had to, even if you trembled while doing so. 

The creature was hesitant, bringing a hand up to grab onto the ceiling beam. His eyes cast down in thought, thin eyebrows furrowed in uncertainty. 

“Humans don’t do well for very long here, I assure you.” He gave a grimace, trying to avoid the obviousness of how he stared up, and down at your curled-in form, clearly frightened and trying to keep your distance like a cornered animal. “But I suppose it's the only option, if you don’t intend on leaving.” 

“So…” You swallowed the dryness of your mouth, close to heaving. “You’re not going to try eating me right now, or while I sleep or something?”

He tried to prevent an amused grin from pulling up the right side of his face, but a small dimple couldn’t hide it.

“No. I was bluffing, in the hopes that you’d run away. I’ve never tried human, and don’t plan on it; much too coarse.” He let go of the beam, seeming to shrink down as his attack stance became less of an assurance. “Doesn’t mean I’m unwilling if the opportunity arises, however.” 

“You almost instinctively relaxed as you watched him do so, trying to slow your sporadic heart that was still running at full speed. 

“But, aren’t you-- at least, part-human in some sort?” You wondered if this was the right time to be asking questions seeing as this creature-- who was certainly by no means harmless-- was only a few feet away from you and clearly distrusting.

“Getting into the family history before even knowing my name? That’s not particularly kind of an intruder.” He smiles outwardly this time, a creepy grin showing underneath the heavy hair curtaining around his face; it was starting to appear more gaunt the farther he stepped into the light. “But yes, arachnid’s have some human traits; I just appear less frightening to your eyes than my friends.”

As he speaks he lifts up a thin, lengthy arm, watching as something black crawls from behind him and across his wrist. Squinting your eyes and unconsciously lifting closer you see its a spider, a thick, long-legged creature that looked like the father of all the other spiders you had been killing since you moved in. 

You almost seemed to lower your shoulders at realizing he was part human. That you weren’t witnessing some kind of demon or underworld spawn that could rip you apart with just its mind; he had a fair set of weaknesses, too. 

“Don’t relax just yet, human,” He spat the word like it was derogatory, letting the spider walking across his arm reach the beam to his left as he was growing into something fearful. “Just because I won’t kill you doesn’t mean you are safe.”

Even with the hardened glaze of his eyes, the look of sheer disturbance deadened into his lips and expression-- it was a relief to know you would live to see another day. 

“Why should I be afraid if you’re just going to sit here like an unpaying roommate? I’d rather you not be here, but if you’re going to leave me alive than I can deal with boarding off the basement, Mr. Spider.”

You challenge his shadowed face, watching how he leans back in a reclusive manner and goes still, save for one of his left legs tapping. 

Like clockwork, that creepy, unnervingly toothy smile curls open again as his hands rise forward, claw-like. 

You had gotten the courage to stand straight, ignoring the pounding of your chest as you watched him. But with two steps he was across the stair railing, using his legs to entrap you against the peeling wallpaper. 

His narrow arms shot out to claw against the wall next to your head, digging into it with thick nails as his face got close. 

“It’s Seir; don’t insult me with such an absurd name,” Anger tinged the edge of his tone, looking down at you with the abundance of his eyes; you could see they had a reddish ring around them, a dark crimson you would have never noticed otherwise. “I have seen more history than you have read about in your lifetime, more death and destruction than you will ever witness.” 

He watched your face drain in color, eyes wide at seeing him close; what he saw as fear, was partly fascination that tightened your lips. Not to say you weren’t terrified, of course. 

“I like your fear-- I relish it. It means you aren’t going to be blind and stupid, that you will obey, and be frightened. And for as long as you stay here, you will not know peace.” The wallpaper crumbles as he brings a chalky hand to your jaw, placing a delicate thumb to the curve below your ear. “A night will not go by where I won’t attempt to destroy any sense of safety you have. I will be in every corner, a million eyes watching so that you are never, never left alone.” He grows closer, lowering his elongated neck to see eye to eye with you, close enough to touch your nose with his own if he dared. “Are you prepared for these consequences of staying in my territory, of being utterly feasted on by me in every way besides your vessel?” 

Seir’s finger traces down your jaw to your neck, trying to invoke the fearful goosebumps most humans would have by the touch of a creature by him. Rarely did he take measures to touch a human in order to cause fear, but it was clear you would need more than the occasional hissing and view of his presence to run away and leave him to his solitude.

You look away, almost blinded by the unconventional handsomeness he portrayed if one looked deep enough; with a bath, a sheet above his spidered body, and maybe a haircut-- he would be no different than one of the well-dressed guys in finance who sped-walk past the cafe that you people-watched at, pretending to look for a job on your laptop. Well, the eight eyes decorating his face kind of destroyed the illusion.

The intimidation tactic he carried out was less frightening than when he was standing ominously in the middle of the basement, leaving his attempt almost campy. You huff, a little irritated and tired now that you were no longer in fight or flight mode. 

 “…It was just a nickname, geez. I didn’t know spiders could be so sensitive.” 

[feralrabidcrow]

I remade the silly TF2 base that lives inside my head in The Sims 4 for the 3rd time

And this time I'm actually happy with it!

Behold, the base that I use for a reference for when I write fanfiction! Photo spam incoming under the cut as well as me yapping.......

Some basic exterior shots, in short this is the main home base that the mercenaries all live in when they aren't currently deployed at a battlefield, ex. 2Fort or Badwater. Those battlefields all have much smaller bases attached or nearby for the mercenaries to temporarily reside in while they're in between trying to kill BLU.

This is the floorplan of the basement, with its primary features being the medbay, the workshop, the laundry room, and two sleeping quarters, which belong to Medic and Heavy.

The hallway outside of the medbay has a waiting area set up. There is an elevator that travels between the medbay and the garage for convenience.

It's worth noting that I am working here within the confines of The Sims 4, and can only do so much to achieve my actual visions of this base. Where the skeleton is, would be a scale of the type you would usually see in a doctor's office (Medic prefers to keep his skeletons in the closet, you see.) And the weird set-up of counters in the middle of the room would be a proper operating table, with his Medigun attached to the ceiling above it, among other strange contraptions.

The medbay has this little side room, that Medic mainly uses for storage. Though it works well as a quarantine room, if the need arises.

Closet Skeleton™!!!

Here we have Engie's workshop, which looks as you would probably expect.

Here we have some utility areas in the basement, consisting of the laundry room, a basement-y maintenance furnace type room, and a washroom.

I would rather keep all the mercenaries' bedrooms together, so I'm gonna skip Heavy and Medic's sleeping quarters for now and head up to the next floor!

This is the main floor of the base, where most of the action happens. It features the garage, meeting room, training gym, showers, a large washroom with multiple toilet stalls, a kitchen and dining area, a small living room, and four sleeping quarters, belonging to Demoman, Soldier, Engineer, and Pyro.

The garage is a bit of a mess, and its most noteworthy feature is the armory, where the mercenaries keep most of their gear during time off. Though clearly not all of them care about the danger of tripping hazards.

There's not much to say about the gym and meeting room, at least in this physical version. Once again, I am held back by the game I built this in. In reality, the meeting room would have a large round table, more centered in the room, and the gym would just generally have more going on for it, but I tried my best to capture what purpose they served.

You'll really have to use your imagination on this one and believe those weird pipes are showers, because I don't own any packs with standalone showers. Anyways, these are the communal showers, where you get to experience the joy of pretending you're in prison and staring at your coworker's butts!

I have a feeling Tumblr won't let me share all the bedrooms in this already ridiculously long post, so I'll probably have to attach them in a reblog. If Tumblr doesn't let me do even that, I guess I'll die? I sure hope it does! I do not know how Tumblr works.

But here's a little peek at some of the sleeping quarters......as well as the floorplan for the top floor even though it's basically all personal quarters. Sniper's, Spy's, and Scout's, to be exact.

[chubby-dutch-feedee]

You stand in court as you await your punishment. You have collected about 50 parking tickets and last week you robbed a gas station for money. Your lawyer tries to make excuses for your crimes but its not working. In the end the judge gives you two options for a punishment.

Option 1: go to jail for 1.5 years

Option 2: the recently introduced secret corpulence trial

Huh? The corpulence trial? Geuss ill try that.

A week later you get taken into a facility. White colours cover every hall and rooms. As you walk to your station the officer tells you to take your clothes off. She says you dont need them anymore. Reluctantly you take everything off. In a room to your right you see white clothes being prepared. But something is off… the clothes are absolutely enormous. Built for someone who is six times your size!

You walk into the chamber. Its completely empty accept for a tube hanging from the ceiling.

The officer grabs the tube with the strap and tightens it tightly to your mouth.

A few minutes pass. And finally a noise is heard coming from the top part of the tube.

*GULP* the thick heavy lard reaches your mouth. It flows through you with heavy force like a river. Its unstoppable and relentless.

As you take in more of the goop your belly starts rapidly growing. Inflating like a blimp. All you can hear is your body screaming for a pauze. It fills you out. Heavier and heavier.

Your cheeks are now the size of two lounge chairs. But the filling isn’t done yet. Even more goop starts to fill out your evergrowing belly. The only thing you can do now is sit and wait.

Finally its done.

Heavy noises come from your body. You cant help but think that you should’ve picked jail time…

(Wrote this in a haste sorry 😅)

[melliemell]

AAA OK, requesting Fyodor x his Mexican girlfriend, and how'd he'd spoil her, treating her like a princess. Mixing that with his Russian culture, And sharing cultural traditions/behavior and food,

I hope you like it! this was a wild ride of figuring out fyodor's character better

Fyodor Spoiling his Lover HC

The thing is… Fyodor’s emotions are a heavily guarded thing. He’s very unlikely to let his guard down enough to actually feel romantic emotions, instead opting for control of the situation to the smallest detail.

Man’s obsessed with predictability. Emotions are certainly anything but that.

Having said that, if Fyodor finds you of any convenience for his plans, well, he is completely willing to play the role of a loving partner far beyond your expectations.

Get prepared for chaos unleashed, babe.

Fyodor’s sense of normal human behaviour has long been discarded somewhere in between the centuries of his long life. And he does have a flare for the dramatic at times, so you’ll have to excuse him if he considers buying out an entire restaurant for your night out to be within reasonable etiquette. 

“A quiet, peaceful place to spend time with you is very dear to me, although I do apologize if it’s a bit over the top,” he’d say, smile in place as he regarded you with no true remorse whatsoever. Maybe a bouquet of flowers would win you over; he’d try to be more reasonable with that… this time.

And let’s never forget that statement from Asagiri that Fyodor’s the type to buy an entire country for his sweetheart. He’s generous like that. 

Fyodor’s quite traditional in his courting as well. He’s aware that it’s expected of the man in the relationship to take care of his partner; all the way from providing for them to ensuring protection (and he does have to be mindful of that, knowing how many people want him dead in particular). 

Fyodor’s a man of constant planning and action so staying in one place is rarely ideal. And keeping someone satisfied when you can’t be around them often enough brings about a challenge. So in comes his quite mindful gift-giving.

You see, he’s gotten very good at observing people to the point it’s barely any effort to understand their inner workings and desires. The moment he has you pinned down as an individual–he’d do and say exactly what you want of him just so he can have you wrapped nicely around his finger as you fall harder for him. 

Fyodor’d be perfect… until the moment you’ve run out of use for him. The mask would fall very quickly and with no remorse behind it. 

Unless…

Here’s the deal–Fyodor is a very tough nut to crack. Sorting through all the layers of deception and perfectly built walls of indifference will be one of the hardest things to pull off. 

But the man under all that would be so worth it. The loneliness that’s bound to reside within him would be the saddest thing to finally lay your eyes upon.

It’s likely you’ll barely even notice you’ve managed to get him smitten.

He won’t indicate in any way something has changed at first, being his normal self and keeping up the princess treatment as a safety measure.

But he’ll find himself coming up with more and more plans for getting you to move around with him. There will be notes of a possessive streak there, like trying to keep your favourite toy with you everywhere; that’s definitely what Fyodor’d be telling himself at least.

He’ll be quite unsure why he’d feel the need to call you sweet things in his mother tongue. It is certainly a romantic gesture, yes, but it had never crossed his mind before? But the sound of it now felt pleasant to his ears and seeing your confused but still smiling face every time brought an unexpected warmth to his chest. He’d hold onto it for hours, staring off at the ceiling instead of his computers. Just… thinking. 

Like opening a door to his inner world; the things that brought him some sense of familiar comfort. 

It won’t be long before he has you in the kitchen, trying his best to at least make you remember maybe one of his soup recipes from home. Extremely patient about the whole process, not really caring if it ends up botchered. So long as he keeps getting that same feeling of warmth inside.

Won’t even bat an eye if you tell him you miss home. Would find a way to readjust both of your schedules (you have the exact same one at this point, he’s not even ashamed) so you’d be flying back in no time. Rest is good for the mind after all.

Be warned–this man is not built for warm weather. Fyodor’s one afternoon walk away from a literal heat stroke. Mindfulness is cautioned.

Mexico has not been one of his typical destinations, but he’d be quite appreciative of the openness of the people there. 

Will absolutely not leave you out of his sight though, no matter what. Unfamiliar places are best left explored with caution, even if you reassure him you’d probably not have any problems here. He’d only nod understandingly, completely intending on doing as he planned either way.

Man’s stubborn, can’t change that.

So long as you went unaware of a few things here and there–all was going to be good. He’d sooner blow an entire nation up than let anything happen to you.

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

What a Lovely Mess

Pairing: Billy Washington x f!reader Warnings: Dirty talk, allusions to smut. Word count: ~1k

Summary: Billy's girlfriend encourages him to explore a more confident side of himself while decorating the Christmas tree.

Author's note: Day six of Smuffmas - tinsel and talking dirty. No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

“Let’s get a real tree this year!”

They were words she regretted ever uttering. Getting it strapped to the roof of Billy’s beaten up, old Vauxhall Cavalier and then driving it back had been the easy bit. But then they’d arrived home, and maneuvering the tree up the stairwell of the block of flats had proven rather more difficult.

Why don’t we live on the fucking ground floor, why doesn’t this poxy building have a lift – all were thoughts that passed angrily through her mind as her and Billy struggled to pivot the large Chrisrmas tree between the pair of them around the corners of each floor. The height difference between them made it no easier – he towered over her by at least a foot, meaning they weren’t able to carry the cumbersome load level. Billy had stumbled back at one point, sending pine needles scattering over the stairs as the branches had brushed against the wall.

“Jesus, Billy!” she snapped, struggling to right the giant fir as they’d continued upwards.

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” he huffed back, his brow furrowed and sweaty with exertion.

“Just be careful, okay?” she said moodily, as they’d begun their ascent of the final flight of stairs.

“Do you think I’m going out of my way not to be?” Billy snarked. “Tell you what, let’s just assume that going forward I’m always being careful, unless explicitly told otherwise.”

Moody prick.

She scowled, falling silent as they leaned the tree against the wall so that Billy could fish the keys from his pocket and open the door. The warmth of the central heating that enveloped her as soon as they were inside soured her mood further – she was already clammy from their ordeal on the stairs and was now being smothered by further heat that made her coat stick to her skin with perspiration. She was desperate to peel it off, but they still had to get the tree situated in the living room.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Billy groaned, seeing what it looked like, once they had it positioned in the corner.

It was too tall for the flat – the top of it bent against the ceiling at a right angle.

“Didn’t you measure it?” she asked exasperatedly, struggling out of her coat and letting it drop onto the sofa.

“Did you see me get out a tape measure at the tree yard?” he sniped, brushing the sweat dampened strands of sandy coloured hair from his forehead in an agitated gesture. “I thought all Christmas trees were just house sized.”

She sighed, biting back the urge to tell him what a stupid thing that was to say. “We’ll just have to chop a bit off.”

“Yeah, I think you’re probably right,” he admitted, staring up at it, “if we lop that bit at the top off, it should be fine.”

“You can’t do that!” she protested, “that will ruin the shape of the tree, and then where we will put the star? Take a bit off the trunk at the bottom.”

“I haven’t got anything that could cut through that,” he told her, turning his attention from the tree to her.

“Well, what were you gonna use to cut the top?”

“You know…scissors,” he said, making a snipping motion in the air with his forefingers.

The suggestion and the gesture had caused an involuntary burst of laughter to erupt from her, the sound immediately dissipating the tension that had built between them from the effort of getting the tree into the flat in the first place. He grinned, blue eyes sparkling as he looked at her.

“You know what, let’s leave it as it is,” she said with a smile, “it looks shit, but I don’t think it’d be our tree if it didn’t.

“Merry shitmas then, babe!” he said with a dopey smile. “Drink?”

A few moments later, the two of them sat on the floor of the living room – her with her legs crossed, Billy with his stretched out in front of him – as they pawed through a battered cardboard box of old Christmas decorations. Threadbare tinsel that had seen better days, chipped baubles and string lights that all seemed to have bulbs missing made up the selection of items that they would use to decorate the monstrosity that crowded their living room.

“I’m sorry for getting stroppy with you earlier,” she said softly, before taking a sip of red wine and savouring the subtle burn at the back of her throat.

“Yeah, me too,” he replied, as his thumbs rubbed idly at the condensation on his bottle of Stella. His eyes lifted to meet hers, taking on a playful look as he continued, “you’ll have to watch yourself though, or you’ll end up on the naughty list.”

“Oh yeah?” she giggled. “You gonna spank me?”

Billy’s cheeks flushed pink and he lowered his gaze, taking a sudden keen interest in the label on his beer bottle, but she wasn’t going to let him retreat so easily.

“Oi,” she chided, setting her wine glass and moving to straddle his lap. She draped a length of purple tinsel around the back of his neck, tugging him closer. “Don’t go shy on me.”

“I’m not,” he said, putting his beer bottle down on the carpet and bringing his hands to rest upon her hips, “I just feel stupid talking like that.”

“Why?”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“You don’t need to be embarrassed with me, Billy,” she urged, “talk dirty to me. I want you to, I like it.”

His face twisted with incredulity, his brow furrowing as he scoffed. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“Well,” she began, her voice turning sultry, “you could tell me what you want to do to me, or what you want me to do to you, how I make you feel. There aren’t rules, just say what comes naturally.”

“You go first then,” he insisted, giving her hips a gentle squeeze.

She nodded, biting her lip as she considered what to say. “You make me so wet,” she purred, grinding slightly in his lap to emphasise her point.

Billy’s lips parted, a heavy exhale escaping him. His eyes drifted downwards in momentary hesitation, before lifting back to her face. “I wanna taste it,” he whispered.

“Yeah? You wanna make me feel good with your mouth?” she asked, continuing the lazy roll of her hips against his, using her grip on the tinsel around his neck as leverage. Her core throbbed at the feeling of his growing hardness rubbing against her through the fabric of his jogging bottoms.

“Mmm, yeah,” he breathed, growing more confident, gripping her firmly as he guided her movements. “Wanna tear those knickers off you and have you sit on my face, make you come.”

“Fucking hell, Billy,” she almost moaned, the filthiness of his words taking her by surprise, causing the aching desire within her to grow stronger. “Love how your tongue feels on my clit, you always make me come so hard.”

He groaned, his face pressing into the crook of her neck as he raised a hand to palm roughly at her breast through her t-shirt, making her gasp.

“Tell me what you want me to do to you,” she urged, pulling back slightly, forcing him to look at her once more.

“I…I want you to ride me,” he stuttered breathlessly as his hand snaked from her breast back to her hip, urging her movements against his clothed erection.

“You want to be inside of me?” she smiled coyly, stroking her fingers through his hair.

“Yeah, yeah, I do,” he said, halting his movements.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, cocking her head.

“I’m done dirty talking,” he told her, sliding the tinsel from around his neck and dropping it onto the carpet.

“You are?”

“Yeah,” he replied, sliding his hands to her rear and giving it a firm squeeze. “Bed. Now.”

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More Billy Washington fics

[octuscle]

The ghost of Gamma Omega Lambda Delta

“Are you sure we're standing in front of the right house?” asked Leander. The property was in a miserable state. The porch was half collapsed, the front garden a mixture of jungle and garbage dump. The exposé had shown a reasonably presentable house, which certainly had potential as an investment property in the immediate vicinity of the campus. Leander looked at Jacob a little disparagingly. Jacob was the prototype of a sleazy real estate agent. A little too fat for his not-so-new suit. The heels of his shoes were worn out. And with the help of a little too much pomade, the top of his head painstakingly concealed his incipient baldness. Jacob struck a pose. “You know what my real estate investment is all about: location, location, location! And this is a prime location. Perfect for a boarding house for guest lecturers. Or as a commercial student residence for exchange students. The Germans and Scandinavians will pay almost any price for rent.” Leander sighed. He came from Berlin himself and knew how expensive it was to study in California. But it had paid off. He was in his late 20s, a millionaire several times over after the exit of his start-up and he had no intention of dying a millionaire. His goal was a billion. “All right, then, let's take a look at the wreckage from the inside.”

The first thing they saw was a cat fleeing from them in a panic when Jacob unlocked the door. It looked as if no human had disturbed its peace for a long time. The house reeked of cat pee and mustiness. Jacob searched for a light switch with his flashlight. Leander pulled aside a tattered curtain in disgust and opened a window. It was clear: tear it down and build a new one. There was no alternative. The wooden floor was rotten, the light switches didn't work and the stain on the ceiling suggested a leaking roof. But in his mind's eye, there was a Starbucks branch and a co-working space down here and, if he could bribe the building authorities, one- and one-and-a-half-bedroom apartments on eight, maybe ten floors above. The location was perfect. But he didn't want to let his interest show. Leander was a good poker player. “Give me a flashlight, I'd like to have a look around upstairs,” he said to Jacob. And of course he was prepared and handed his wealthy customer a flashlight. “Do you need gloves too?” he asked. Leander waved them off. He wasn't a wimp, he wasn't afraid of getting dirty.

The stairs creaked unconvincingly as he went upstairs. “What was this before?” asked Leander. “A frat house, as far as I know,” Jacob replied. That at least partially explains the dilapidated condition, Leander thought to himself, pushing a pile of leaves aside with one foot in disgust. It wasn't just leaves. There were also the remains of weathered jockstraps. The upper floor seemed to be in an even worse state than the first floor… But at least there was a light on in one room. Amazing!

Jacob left his client alone. When he sold the property, it would be renovated. The property was huge. There used to be a basketball court and a pool on the dilapidated property. Of course, both were no longer recognizable due to the undergrowth and junk. But a dormitory with 20, maybe 25 units could be built on the site alone. The battery in his flashlight was flat. He needed light… And air, it really stank to high heaven in this ruin. Jacob began to draw curtains and open windows. That made it brighter and airier. But it also made the misery more visible. Dude, this place was really run down. The floor was full of garbage and leaves, the walls were covered in graffiti… Jacob came into a hallway that looked surprisingly tidy. There were stains on the wall from pictures that were no longer hanging. Lots of pictures. All obviously the same size. Only one was still hanging:

Jacob read the writing on the plaque on the frame: "Bruh of the month 09/2024: Chad". What the hell? It was September 2024!

Leander struggled through the garbage towards the lighted room. While all the other doors hung crookedly on their hinges and were covered in graffiti, the open door to the room was almost clean and looked tidy. There was a sign on the door that read “Mitch and Scott's man cave. No entry if sock is on the door handle. Unless you can take two cocks!” The room was messy. The way a dorm room was usually messy. But it looked as if Mitch and Scott had just stepped out for a quick shower after a fierce sword fight. It smelled of musk, sweat and cum. Leander got a hard-on.

Jacob felt uncomfortable. Something's not right here. He also had to pee. No, he had to piss. Fuck, his bladder felt like after two pitchers of beer. He had to burp. And his burp smelled and tasted like beer. There had been toilets around here somewhere. Better to piss in a broken toilet than just in a corner, he thought to himself. Yes, this was where the washrooms were. A frat boy was standing at a urinal and wanking. He looked curiously at Jacob's crotch. Did Jacob have to be uncomfortable now? Never mind, he had to piss. And if a bro was wanking next to him, that was somehow a compliment.

Leander opened one of the cupboards. It smelled like a boys' locker room in high school. T-shirts, football gear, jockstraps, sneakers… Everything was just stuffed into the cupboard. Some of it was clean. Other things were obviously not. Without giving it much thought, Leander undressed and pulled on a jockstrap, a pair of ripped jeans and a shiny college jacket. He found a pair of formerly white socks and sneakers on the floor. Everything fit perfectly. But with his 35 years and beer belly, he looked really ridiculous.

“I'm Dylan, are you new here?” asked the wanking bro next to him as Jacob buttoned his jeans. “Because if you're new, you might as well leave your jeans unbuttoned. I prefer to see the cocks of the new guys who suck me off outside their pants”. Jacob looked at Dylan's hard-on. impressive compared to his own. He went down on his knees. “Wait a minute!” said Dylan. “No one blows me with a stuffy shirt like that.” Leander freed his upper body. And let his tongue play with Dylan's shaft.

Leander lay on Scott's bed. He sucked in Scott's scent. For a sophomore, Scott smelled like a real man. Leander thought about Scott's hairy balls. He liked it that Scott didn't shave. Nothing against a clean-shaven cock and clean-shaven balls. But a man was hairy, he thought as he scratched his chest hair. Out in the hallway, he heard Scott and Mitch coming. They were both praising each other's performance at football practice. The two of them came into their room. Scott grinned and said that his prayers had been answered. He had wished for an awesome cardio workout before the party tonight.

Jacob asked his roommate Dylan why they only ever had sex in the washroom and never in their room. Dylan licked some of his own cum, which was dripping from the corner of Jacob's mouth, off his face. “Because it would be totally homo if we slept in the same bed we were fucking in.” Jacob didn't ask. He was here for his wrestling scholarship, not his intelligence. If Dylan, who had at least once had a B in English and supposedly even in math, said so, it would be true.

Jacob, Dylan, Mitch, Scott, and Leander all arrived at the Gamma Omega Lambda Delta fraternity house party cave at almost the same time. The party was in full swing. Jacob and Leander greeted each other with a chest bump. It was customary among the college wrestlers. And then they started drinking. The others had been at it for an hour. They had some catching up to do.

Shit, it was 05:00. Both of them had already thrown up some of the beer and tequila they had drunk. And poured new beers and tequilas. Leander actually had to rewrite his microeconomics exam today. If he failed again, he would probably have to allow the dean to blow him again. But what was much worse was that they had wrestling practice this afternoon. If Coach found out that they had overdone it again as party animals, they would be in big trouble. Okay, but that could also be settled with a blowjob. Besides, they still had four hours to sleep, no one expected the two stallions to show up on campus before 10:00. Life as a frat boy was just awesome!

[cressidagrey]

The Ties that Bind - Chapter 9

Summary: 

Shadowsingers were made, not born. Made out of trauma and loneliness and desperation.

So when Cilla and Azriel meet and their shadows entwine, they both meet the only other person that could understand these particular childhood scars.

The last thing Azriel had ever expected from his mate, however, was for her to have a surprising connection to his brother.

Warnings: 

I am retconning Merrill into not being a total bully...and Mor is kinda an idiot.

(super pretty dividers by @tsunami-of-tears)

Cilla couldn’t help but stare. Of course, she had seen the House of Wind before. It was difficult not to. But she had never thought that she would get to see the inside. 

Azriel carefully let her down at the top of the house…not wanting to strain her wings with the flight upwards. So instead, he had picked her up, like she weighed nothing, cradled her to his chest and flown her up to the House of Wind. 

Cilla gazed around in wonder, taking in the sight of the massive building rising before her.

“This is the training area,” he explained, following her gaze as she looked around what…she couldn’t even describe it. Chalk Circles were drawn on the floor and she stared at them for a moment longer. 

“Nesta resurrected the Valkyries…a group of female warriors. They train up here every morning. Some of the priestesses take part. Some others just do it for the self-defence but are not interested in becoming warriors,” Azriel explained as he led her into the house. 

Cilla's eyes widened further as Azriel led her into the house, marvelling at the opulence. High ceilings, large windows, and artwork galore. "Whoever built this place must have been really rich," she breathed out, awed by the sheer size and luxury.

Azriel barked out a laugh. "You are correct," he told her. “Rich, and very vain. It was built by a High Lord of The Night Court centuries ago."

Cilla blinked, "A High Lord?" she asked, trying to imagine the kind of person who would build such a lavish house for themselves. “Why would he build a house like this?”

"Why do any of them build anything the way they do?" Azriel replied dryly. “High Fae aren’t known for their humility, I’m afraid.”

Cilla shrugged. True.

Azriel chuckled at her noncommittal response. "Come, let me show you the library. I think you will like it."

They walked down lower, into the bowels of this massive house, carved out of red stone. She needed to tuck her wings tight against herself so that she didn’t knock them into anything. Cilla followed close at Azriel's heels, her wings brushing against the stone walls. Despite having to walk so close, she didn't feel nervous or constricted. 

They came to a stop at an archway, the space beyond too dark for her to see much. "After you," Azriel said, motioning to the library. "Clotho is waiting for us," he explained. "...All the priestesses that work here...they all have their own trauma," he told her softly.

She nodded. She could hear something in his voice…not quite a warning but something that told her to listen. 

She understood why moments later, when she met Clotho. 

A hooded and cloaked figure, the hood crowned with a blue stone…

“Clotho meet Cilla,” Azriel introduced her. “Clotho is the…the one in charge,” he explained to Cilla. 

Clotho said nothing but inclined her head. 

Could she speak? 

She writes, Azriel’s shadows answered quietly. She’s unable to speak. 

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Clotho," Cilla said quietly, keeping her voice soft and polite.

“Cilla loves books, so we thought that maybe work in the library would suit her,” Azriel said quietly. “You mentioned that you could always use more help.”

Clotho's cloaked head turned towards her for a moment, studying her. Cilla felt a shiver run down her spine, feeling as if the cloaked figure was somehow looking into her soul.

Clotho held her gaze for another moment before giving a small nod. It was an agreement.

"Clotho will show you around the library and show you how to sort the books. If you do a good job, she might even let you read some of them,” Azriel said, giving the priestess a knowing grin.

Cilla couldn't help but smile at his words, excitement swirling in her belly. The prospect of spending her days surrounded by stacks of books was like a dream come true for her.

Cilla's eyes flicked to the papers in front of her, and she realized that they were a list of instructions on how to sort the books into their respective sections.

She read the list carefully, sounding out the letters in her head, and absorbing the information. It all seemed fairly straightforward. She lifted her gaze back to Clotho, a smile on her face. "I think I can do that," she said quietly.

Clotho gave another slow nod.

"Excellent," Azriel said, a smile playing on his lips. "I'll leave you to it then..."

He reached out and squeezed Cilla’s hand gently, his touch warm and reassuring. "You'll do great," he said quietly, before quietly slipping out of the library.

Cilla watched him go, already missing his presence, before turning back to Clotho. The cloaked priestess was watching her intently, a silent guardian over the library.

Cilla sucked in a shaky breath and squared her shoulders. She could do this.

"Where do I start?" she asked, looking back at the mountain of books that seemed to fill every shelf in the library. Clotho, still silent, lifted her hand and pointed to the far wall.

Cilla looked where she was pointing, and saw a large stack of unorganized books. "Those?" she asked, not wanting to presume.

Clotho nodded, her hood bobbing slightly. Cilla nodded back, steeling herself. "Okay."

She moved forward, grabbing the topmost book from the pile, and began to sort through them, organizing them by author and subject, just like Clotho's instructions showed her how.

It was quiet in the library...peaceful.

Cilla found that she enjoyed the silence. It allowed her to focus on the task at hand, losing herself in the familiar comfort of the books.

She fell into a rhythm, sorting the books one by one, and finding a strange sense of contentment in it.

It was helped by the fact that her shadows got to help, handing her book after book from the neat stacks she made as she shelved them.

It was a dusty job...but it was...easy in a sense.

The monotony of the task only served to lull Cilla further into the peaceful rhythm of it all. Her shadows proved to be a helpful partner, bringing her the books she needed without even needing to ask. It was almost like they knew what she needed even before she did.

And it was a far cry from the backbreaking work in the tannery, she had carried out before

Cilla couldn't help but let out a soft sigh of relief. She had never realized just how much she dreaded the prospect of working in the hot, stinking tannery, surrounded by the fumes and blood and sinew. In comparison, the library was a heaven-sent gift.

And the books. Cilla's heart was in them. As she carefully slid each volume into its designated slot on the shelf, she couldn't help but skim the words and titles, feeling a small shiver of excitement run through her. She knew that it was only a matter of time before she would take them down from the shelf and devour them.

"Who are you?" came a demanding voice behind her.

Cilla jumped, startled by the unexpected voice. Her shadows swirled around her, alarmed. She whirled around, her heart racing, to find a young priestess standing there, arms crossed and staring at her almost suspiciously.

She was beautiful. There was no way around it. Nearly white hair, light brown skin...the bluest eyes Cilla had ever seen.

Cilla couldn't help but gawk for a moment, taken in by the priestess’ beauty. But the priestess’ expression was anything but open or friendly. She raised an eyebrow, clearly awaiting an answer.

Cilla cleared her throat, feeling small under her gaze. "I...I'm Cilla," she said quietly, trying to keep her voice steady. Cilla couldn't help but gawk for a moment, taken in by the priestess’ beauty. But the priestess’ expression was anything but open or friendly. She raised an eyebrow, clearly awaiting an answer.

The priestess looked her over with those too-blue eyes, like a predator sizing up potential prey. Cilla resisted the urge to shiver.

Finally, the priestess spoke. "And what are you doing in the library?" she asked, her voice as cool as her expression.

"Clotho hired me to help with the books," Cilla explained, trying not to shrink back from the intimidating woman. "Organizing them and whatnot."

The priestess's eyes flicked to the neat stacks of books that Cilla had been working on. For a moment, Cilla thought she saw a flicker of interest in her eyes, but it was quickly smothered by a cool aloofness again.

Her shadows twisted and swirled around her nervously, not liking the sudden scrutiny they were under.

Cilla lifted her chin, trying to match the Priestess's cool gaze with one of her own. "Yes," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "I am."

The priestess nodded, but her eyes didn't leave Cilla's shadows, tracking them as they swirled about her wings.

Then, finally, her gaze slid back to Cilla's face. "Interesting," she said, something like interest in her voice.

Cilla tried to control her reaction. She wasn’t used to people taking any interest in her Shadowsinger abilities. Most of the time they just regarded her with suspicion or even fear. But this woman seemed...intrigued. Curious. It was a strange sensation.

The priestess took a step closer to her, her eyes still fixed on Cilla's shadows. She lifted a hand, as if to touch them, but pulled back at the last moment. Cilla suppressed a shiver, the intensity in those blue eyes almost unnerving."Did you ever wonder where they came from?"

The question took Cilla off guard. She looked at her shadows, fluttering around her, and frowned. She had never really thought about it. To her, they had always just...been there. A part of her.

She looked back at the priestess. "What do you mean?"

"They didn't always exist, you know," the priestess said matter-of-factly, her gaze still on the shadows. "It's said that they only came into being when the first Shadowsinger came into the world."

"How do you know that?" Cilla asked, intrigued.

The priestess turned her attention back to Cilla, a small smirk playing on her lips. "How do you think I know?" she shot back.

Cilla's shadows swirled anxiously around her, not liking the priestess's challenging tone.

"I read about it," she told Cilla.

Cilla felt a bit silly for not having guessed that herself. Of course, the priestess would know. This was a library, after all.

She gave herself a mental shake. "Right," she said, still feeling a bit off-kilter from the conversation. "So...you know a lot about Shadowsingers, then?"

"I am Merrill," she finally introduced herself.

Cilla nodded in acknowledgement. "Merrill," she repeated. "Nice to meet you."

Her shadows seemed to calm down somewhat upon hearing the priestess' name, but they still fluttered about her anxiously.

"And to answer your question," Merrill said. "There isn't much...because there aren't many shadowsingers."

Cilla's eyebrows rose up at that. "Not many?" she repeated. She hadn't really thought much about how common or rare Shadowsingers' abilities actually were. The realization that she was part of a very exclusive and rare group made her feel strangely exposed.

What about other...abilities?" Cilla asked, her head tilting to the side. "There are so many different types of powers among the fae…are some powers more common than others?"

"Ah, an interesting question," Merrill said, her lips curving into a slow smile. "You should come find me in my office sometimes... You may make a proper research assistant."

Cilla's heart skipped a beat at the words...then her wings shifted, as a flutter of excitement ran through her. "You...You mean that?" she asked, unable to keep the eagerness from her voice.

Merrill's eyes glittered, as if she was amused by her excitement. "I do," she said, her voice dry. "It's been a while since I had a decent research assistant. And with your little..." she lifted her hand to gesture at the shadows. "...abilities, you could be useful."

Cilla's heart picked up speed at the idea of being able to work with Merrill, of getting access to the library's knowledge...of being able to learn and understand her shadows and her powers more

"I'll keep that in mind," she said softly.

"See that you do," Merrill said, a hint of a command in her tone. "Now... I believe you have a job to do."

She gave her a brief nod, before turning on her heel and striding out of the library.

Cilla watched her go, still feeling a bit rattled by the exchange. She let out a soft sigh, her shadows swirling around her in agitation.

Interesting was one word for it, she thought.

"By the cauldron, you do look just like him," another female voice breathed and for one moment Cilla wondered how many other people were going to just drop by unannounced.

Blonde hair, brown eyes...a bright red dress. And somehow, she put her right on edge. Cilla wasn't sure what it was, but she reached out inside her for that golden thread that connected her to Azriel, and yanked.

"I am Mor!"

"H...hi," Cilla replied, trying to sound calm and nonchalant, despite the strange feeling in her gut. The shadows kept swirling around her anxiously.

She’s…a friend of Cassian, Azriel’s shadows told her, but something…something was off. 

Cilla could sense their warning, their caution. It made her own body feel uneasy. She'd always trusted her own shadows' instincts when it came to people.

Her own shadows were poised to act as a shield…hissing to her, words that were too quiet to make much sense.

Cilla felt her own instincts starting to kick in, a strange sense of danger raising the hairs on the back of her neck.

Mor took a step closer, her eyes roving over Cilla's form with a critical eye. The shadows around Cilla hissed, almost angrily, and she unconsciously took a cautious step back.

"You look...so much like him," Mor murmured, her voice a mixture of wonder and something like sorrow. She took another step closer, as if unable to help herself, her gaze roaming over Cilla's face.

Cilla's heart pounded in her chest at the intensity of Mor's gaze, feeling exposed and vulnerable under it. Her wings flattened against her back, and she could feel her shadows bristling with alarm.

"Morrigan," Azriel said sharply, suddenly appearing behind her.

Mor gasped, turning around quickly, her expression caught between embarrassment and surprise. She looked at Azriel like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

Azriel's gaze flickered to Cilla, taking in her tense stance and the swirling shadows around her. His eyes narrowed as he looked back at Mor.

"I thought Cassian told you to wait," he said sharply.

Mor's eyes widened, guilt flashing across her face. "I know," she said softly, her voice almost sheepish. "But I couldn't help myself. I had to see..."

She trailed off, her eyes roaming back to Cilla again.

Cilla felt a mixture of relief and discomfort at Azriel's arrival, her shadows settling slightly at his presence. But she couldn't help the shiver that went down her spine as Mor's gaze came back to her, as if the faerie woman was trying to drink her in.

Azriel moved to place himself between Mor and Cilla, his stance protective and challenging. Mor's gaze flicked to him, and something like annoyance flared up in her eyes.

"You're spoiling my fun," she said, her voice laced with petulance.

"SHe's not some kind of pet for you to gawk at," Azriel cut her off sharply.

Mor let out an exasperated huff, crossing her arms over her chest. "I'm not 'gawking' at her," she retorted, her jaw clenching. "I'm just...observing."

"You're scaring her," Azriel said, his voice low. His eyes flicked back to Cilla, making sure she was alright. She gave him a small nod, feeling slightly reassured by his presence.

Mor's expression softened slightly at Azriel's words, but then her eyes flicked back to Cilla again. Cilla could practically feel her gaze tracing her features, like an artist trying to commit them to memory.

Azriel must have noticed it too, as he subtly stepped in front of Cilla again, blocking Mor's view.

"Enough, Mor," he said, his voice firm. "You've seen enough."

Mor let out an annoyed sigh, her eyes narrowing. "But I didn't get the chance to ask her questions," she protested.

"You won't be asking her any questions," Azriel said firmly. His stance was like a solid wall between Cilla and Mor, protective and unyielding. His shadows swirled around him, like sentinels standing guard.

"She's my niece," Mor gave back.

Cilla's heart skipped a beat. Niece...?

"You didn't mention me?!" Mor complained. "Az!"

"It...didn't seem necessary," Azriel said gruffly, his expression almost sheepish.

Cilla tried to process this newly revealed familial relationship. She had...an aunt? Her mind was spinning at this sudden revelation.

"Mor is Rhysand's cousin...and like a sister to Cassian," Azriel explained with a sigh.

Cilla felt her mind trying to comprehend the tangled web of family connections. So Mor was the High Lord's cousin and was close to her own mate?

The shadows around her were strangely silent, almost as if they too were trying to make sense of it all.

But Mor wasn't like a sister to Azriel?

Cilla could sense an undercurrent of complicated history there, as if there were things left unspoken.

The Morrigan…was…a long time ago, Master, harboured some…unreturned feelings for her? Azriel’s shadows answered, sounding nearly sheepish. Nothing ever happened! 

The admission from the shadows made something click in Cilla's mind. All the pieces were beginning to fall into place. Mor...and Azriel...

She glanced at her mate, taking in his uncomfortable expression. Something had definitely happened...or hadn't happened but perhaps should have...Between them.

"It's not what you think, I swear, Cilla," Azriel said quietly, grimacing.

Cilla felt a pang of sympathy for him. She could see the regret in his eyes, and the lingering discomfort he felt whenever Mor was around. But she also felt an unwanted surge of jealousy at the idea of past feelings between him and Mor.

"Oh. OH. No, you don't...You don't need to worry about that!" Mor hurried to add. "I...I always preferred females," she admitted.

Cilla blushed bright red at Mor's admission. She had assumed...well, assumed the obvious. But perhaps her assumption had been too hasty.

Azriel let out a quiet sigh of relief, his shoulders drooping slightly. Cilla glanced at him, feeling a pang of sympathy for her mate. It must still be...unpleasant...to be around the person who you'd had unrequited feelings for.

"Oh, you're adorable," Mor said, a genuine smile brightening her face as she looked at Cilla, taking in her blushing cheeks. Then her attention swiveled to Azriel. "You're a lucky male, Az. She’s very pretty, you know," she teased, a mischievous gleam in her eyes.

Azriel flushed at Mor's words, a rare show of colour on his usually cool features. He averted his gaze, looking both embarrassed and somewhat pleased. "Thank you," he mumbled, his hand moving to rub the back of his neck in a sheepish gesture.

Cilla couldn't help but be endeared by the sight of her mate blushing.

[allywthsr]

DECORATING | (l.norris)

summary: you and Lando decorate your house for Christmas

wordcount: 1.6k words

pairing: landonorris x fem!reader

warnings: none!

notes: tell me your thoughts!!!🥹

advent calendar

”Lando, have you seen the third box of decorations?“

”Yes! It’s in the basement, next to the fourth and fifth box.“

You chuckled. Christmas was your favorite holiday and over the years, you collected a fair amount of ornaments.

”Can you get it?“

You were standing in the living room, surrounded by decoration and two boxes when Lando threw himself on the couch, where fir garland was placed. With an eye roll, he rolled on his belly and sighed, ” Can this woman stop obsessing with Christmas?“

”I heard that!“

He sat up and looked at you.

”Do you need to go all out this year?“

”Yes, Lando! It’s the first time in the new house and I can’t wait to see this place being in the Christmas spirit.“

You both recently moved into a house that you built in England, near his parents. It was a modern but cozy home, with high ceilings and beautiful light wood-colored details. It was your absolute dream house, and you were so thankful for Lando that you were able to live this dream.

But it was December and you needed the Christmas spirit with you. You had bought a lot of stuff for the new house when you went shopping alone, no one was able to stop you and before you knew it, the whole car was filled with Christmas decorations and your bank account was screaming for help, but it was worth it.

”I‘ll only get it when you bake me cookies today.“

With an arched eyebrow, you looked at him.

”What does Jon say about you wanting cookies?“

”Y/N! It’s Christmas, I don’t care what he says, I’ll run an extra mile tomorrow.“

”Fine, you‘ll get your cookies if you bring me the stuff and help me set up the trees?“

”Deal!“

He went and gave you a kiss, and slapped your ass, before he made his way down to the basement, to get the stuff. But yes, multiple trees. You bought three fake trees for the living room to put next to the TV, and you wanted to go all out, now that you had the space. Shortly before Christmas, you wanted to get a real tree and place it in the entrance, to create the atmosphere and get the smell of fresh fir.

While you waited for Lando to return you got a little reindeer out of the box in front of you and looked around the room for a place for it to go. The problem with your shopping is, that you buy and buy, without thinking about a placement for the things, so you struggle every year. The reindeer found a place next to the couch for now and next, you pulled out the Christmas wreath, which you placed over the fireplace.

Lando came back with two boxes stacked on top of each other and with a grunt he placed them on the ground.

”What did you buy? These things are heavy.“

”I bought way too much, I need your opinion on where to put things.“

”Let me get the rest and I‘ll help.“

”You’re amazing.“

”Tell me something I don’t know.“

And with that, he turned around to march down again.

Your normal blanket was swapped for a Christmas blanket on the couch, and in one of the new boxes you found all of your pillows so you replaced them, while you were at it. Now it looked so much cozier.

A few loose baubles were placed randomly on the coffee table, with some Santa and snowman figures. White and black cones, that looked like Christmas trees, were placed in front of the window since they were huge, and a garland made out of snowflakes was placed above them. The big Santa was placed on the shelf behind the couch, and a few other little decorations were placed next to him.

Lando came back with the last box and one of the Christmas trees, he put all the pieces on the ground and turned around to get the other ones.

He was a darling for helping you out that much.

You began with making more space for the trees and quickly vacuumed the space, so it would be clean. You brought the vacuum cleaner with you already, you knew how messy things would get with the fake snow and fake fir lying around everywhere.

The bottom piece was placed close to the fireplace, and you fluffed it out, making it look like a real tree with every layer you added. Eventually, you couldn’t reach the top layer and Lando came back to help you.

”You’re crazy for putting three trees up.“

”Maybe, but come on, we have the space, why not use it?“ He sighed, ”Oh, can you help me? I can’t reach the top.“

He took the piece and placed it on top of the rest, fluffing it out.

”It looks good.“

”Thank you, Lan.“

With a kiss to the side of your head, you continued to put up the other two trees, the fake snow on them, making them look like they were freshly chopped from the forest. Only that there was no snow in England.

”By the way, what are we doing for the outside? I want it to be full of lights and figures in our front yard.“

”We can go to the city later and look for some things if you want. We have nothing for the outside yet.“

You went and hugged Lando tight.

”That would be amazing Lan.“

You kissed his soft lips gently.

”Thank you for supporting my crazy Christmas addiction.“

”I‘ll support you no matter what, you know that baby.“

You snuggled your head in his chest and breathed in his scent. You loved his smell, it smelled like home.

”But let’s continue, angel.“

You nodded and kissed his chest one last time and let go, turning around to look at the mess of boxes and decorations.

”I want to put up the water church.“

The water church. It’s a church where some kind of liquid was inside and when you turned it on, glitter was flying through it, technically like a snow globe, but without the shaking. Ever since you bought it, Lando had been amazed by it and said it was his favorite piece, he loved putting it up and looking at it.

So you gave him the church and he put it next to his podium helmets that found a place on a shelf in the living room.

The dancing Santa was placed on a shelf in the hallway, next to the xxl reindeer and the snowflake that had fairy lights in it. These snowflakes were scattered around the whole house, in your bedroom, the bathrooms, the kitchen, the hallway…

You both placed the last few items wherever you and Lando found some space, you put the fir garland around the railing of the stairs and placed baubles all around. The stockings with your names and the names from both of your families were hung over the fireplace. Christmas Eve was spent at yours, so you didn’t want to leave anyone out. The only thing that was now missing was a mistletoe, somewhere random you always put up a mistletoe and it wouldn’t change in your new home.

”Where do you wanna put the mistletoe?“

”Maybe by the entrance?“

Lando nodded and got a ladder from the basement so he could put it on. Because you were lazy and didn’t want to drill a hole in the ceiling you took some tape to fix it on there. It‘s cheesy to put up a mistletoe, but it was a cute little tradition to put it up and it gave you a moment to kiss Lando whenever you wanted. Sometimes you would stand under it and call for Lando, so you both stood under it and had to kiss. Just as now, when Lando stepped down from the ladder he said: ”It‘s time for a smooch“, and pursed his lips, of course you couldn’t deny the offer and pressed a kiss to his lips.

Lastly Lando and you went shopping for some outside decoration. Lots and lots of fairy lights, a glowing Santa, a reindeer, a snowman, and a sleigh wandered into the cart, just like some candy canes and nutcrackers. Lastly, you bought some fir, for the columns in front of your house, as well as some lanterns and red bows.

When you arrived and everything was put up by Lando and you, after you both had two mental breakdowns and Lando had a rage attack at the fairy lights, it looked just like how you wanted it and you couldn’t be happier. The columns were covered with fir garlands, the red bows were placed on the wall, and the glowing figures stood in the garden, creating a sweet scenery. The candy canes were placed next to the path that led to your entrance door, where two nutcrackers were standing, and the lanterns were placed on the steps of the staircase in front of your entrance.

”Thank you Lando!“, you jumped into his arms, ”I don’t think that I would have the dream house with my dream decoration if it wasn’t for you.“

”Only what you deserve, baby.“

He hugged you tight and kissed your nose softly.

”But if you want, you can thank me in different ways than just a hug.“