#her work only glows in the dark as to not mess with her image for other photoshoots

[frenchkisstheabyss]

♡ Wondering ♡

♡ Pairings: frat boy!mingi x chubby!fem!librarian!reader

♡ Genre: angst/fluff/smut

♡ Summary: While working your job at the campus library you find that the most popular guy on campus has developed quite the crush on you. Thinking that it's some sort of prank, you dismiss him completely but Mingi has his heart set on making you his and isn't content to give up that easily.

♡ Word Count: 4.5k-ish

♡ Warnings: mingi really develops a thing for chubby girls, reader has body insecurities, body worship, kissing, male masturbation, porn, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, a lil hair pulling, a lil rough sex for a sec, technically cum marking, pet names (baby), but otherwise fluffy

♡ A/N: This is a fic I wrote for a super adorable anon and as always I'm super honored that you even asked me to write this my love. I truly hope that I did your idea some justice and you enjoy it. To all the chubby babes out there who may read this, you're a bad bitch, I swear to you, and if anyone tells you otherwise I'll swing on em. Kay, love you, bye - xoxo

Nothing. Mingi strokes his cock—his palm gliding up and down his length, his thumb circling the rim—and he feels absolutely nothing. Lying in the darkness of his bedroom, the warm glow of light emanating from his phone illuminates the frustration on his face. His gaze lazily dances across the screen where a woman lies naked, a sex toy vibrating between her thighs. She’s in his favorite position, making his favorite noises, but he can’t get off on it.

Giving up, he lets out a groan, throwing his head back on his pillow. It’s been weeks of this. He’s been too horny to function but when the time of action comes he can only get halfway hard and nothing feels the same as it used to. Maybe a different video will help. Bringing his phone in close to his face, he scrolls through the recommended videos. His cock still in his hand, he feels it soften into a sad, floppy thing the further down he scrolls.

Just as he’s about to call it a night, prepared to at last put himself out of his misery, something catches his eye. An image of a naked woman spread across a bed, her plush body fully exposed. She’s bigger than other girls he’s seen naked in porn, even in real life. She’s chubby and soft with shimmering gloss on her lips and stretch marks on her thighs. His breath hitches at the sensation of the blood rushing down his length as he takes her in.

His interest officially piqued, he clicks into the video and watches her in action. He’s hypnotized by the way she bounces and jiggles, every motion of her body too perfect to comprehend. The skin pulls tight around his cock, beads of arousal rolling down the tip as he quickens his movements. His bottom lip catches between his teeth, an attempt at choking back the low groans fighting their way up his throat at the sight of juices moistening the woman’s soft thighs.

Seeing her hits him with a rush of something unfamiliar. Something that has his stomach muscles contracting and his mouth watering. His mind goes wild with thoughts of what it’d be like to touch her, to feel her body trembling against his. What he wouldn’t give right now to grip a belly like that or drag his tongue across the plush of her ass. It’s exhilarating, unlike anything he’s ever felt before. His cock grows so sensitive that he’s twitching with every stroke. 

Any care for if his roommates can hear him flies out of the window as a dizzying heat washes over him, the veins along his length throbbing as a waterfall of white shoots up onto his stomach. His phone drops onto the bed and he lets out a pitiful whimper, his eyes clung shut as he gives in to an orgasm so strong it makes his muscles weak. He’s so high from it that he fears he’ll never come down. Breathless, his skin covered in a thin sheen of sweat, he sits up in bed and flicks the light on to see what a mess he’s made of himself.

His eyes drift back to his phone where a suggestion for a similar video calls him. He takes a deep breath, feeling his cock stiffening again so soon. Mingi picks his phone up, his thumb hovering over the Next button. It’s 3am and in a few hours Yunho will be banging on his door to go to football practice. He should get his shit together, clean himself off, and go to sleep. But that rush was so unexpected, so utterly delicious. He slips back down into bed, hitting the Next button. He needs more.

“Whoa, there’s so many books here” Mingi gasps, staring up at the tall cherry wood shelves of the sprawling library. 

Mingi’s seen this place in pictures before—this marble palace with its sky high shelves and expertly crafted pillars—but in all his years on campus he’s never stepped foot in it. Nothing in this literary maze ever interested him enough to require a visit. His college career has always depended more on athletics and frat politics than it has books.

Most of his professors were more than content to give him a passing grade simply because of who he is. A stroke of luck that ran out the moment a new Women’s Studies professor stepped foot on campus. She’s set out to challenge him, to make him work for his grades if he actually wants them. A true tragedy if he’s ever been faced with one. 

“Duh, it’s full of books. It’s literally a library” Yunho laughs, plopping a small stack of books into Mingi’s arms. “I grabbed everything you need except one. The Vagina Monologues. You’re gonna have to go ask one of the librarians for help.” 

Mingi winces at the thought of the title leaving his lips and falling on a complete stranger’s ears, “Why’d it have to be called that?”

“Oh, stop being a child” Yunho huffs, catching a glimpse of a young woman pushing a cart of books past the aisle. “There! Go ask her!”

Mingi hesitates a moment but Yunho shoves him forward, “Off you go.” 

Stumbling his way down the aisle, Mingi traces the sound of squeaky cart wheels a few rows over, stopping dead in his tracks when his gaze finds the woman pushing it. She wears a flowy, pear colored dress with white lilies printed all over it. It’s long enough not to scandalize the other library staff but short enough to get a glimpse of where her thighs begin to kiss. From behind Mingi can clearly make out her shape in it, the plushness of her figure bringing to mind things he definitely shouldn’t be thinking about in the library. 

Humming along to a song in her head, she turns to place a book on one of the shelves and Mingi’s cheeks begin to burn. She’s the prettiest girl he’s ever seen. He’s said that about a lot of girls and never meant it but with this one it’s different. She has eyes that twinkle like sunshine dancing on the surface of some gorgeous lake. The curve of her nose is nothing short of perfection and her lips look like they taste of the sweetest sugar. 

“Can I help you with something?” you ask. The way he stares at you makes you feel more like an animal in some zoo than the object of his affection.

Mingi shakes himself out of his daze, lowering the stack of books down to cover the slight rise in his jeans. “Uh…I…yeah…um” he stutters. 

“Uh, I, yeah, um?” you tease, grabbing another book and sliding it onto a nearby shelf, “I don’t think we have that one.” 

“Who are you?” he spits out as if that’s a completely normal question to ask someone when you’re the one who approached them. 

“That’s a really weird question to ask someone, Mingi.”

“Wait, you know me?”

You giggle at the absurdity of such a question, “Of course I know you. Everyone knows you.” 

Mingi thinks about it for a second, the reality of his popularity setting back in. “I guess you’re right. I am pretty popular.”

The grin on his face makes you nauseous. Of course you know him. And of course he doesn’t know who you are. Mingi’s from a whole different world and you’re positive girls like you don’t exist where he comes from. Rolling your eyes, you grab back onto the handle of your cart, “If there’s nothing you need…” 

“Vagina!” he says, leaving you both stunned to the core, “I mean, monologues. Vagina Monologues. It’s, like, a book or whatever. Fuck it, are you busy tonight?” 

A whisper of laughter drifts down the aisle, giving away Yunho’s presence. He’s never seen his best friend crash and burn this hard. Keeping a straight face isn’t an option. Yunho’s laughter may not be meant for you but it feels like it is. The first time a guy like Mingi talks to you and of course it had to be a joke. 

“Second floor, in the Plays section, under E for Ensler” you snap, turning your back before you die of embarrassment right before Mingi’s eyes. 

“Wait, can I at least get your name?” Mingi calls out but you’re already pushing your cart down the aisle, disappearing around the next corner without another word. 

Yunho slaps a hand on Mingi’s shoulder, shaking his head in disappointment, “Who’s your new friend?”

Mingi sighs longingly, his gaze still lingering where you once stood, “I don’t know but I plan to find out.” 

Sometimes when you find yourself working nights at the library you feel like Cinderella. A slave to these old dusty books, forced to clean and organize them until your manicure begins to chip while other girls are out at bars or parties. Only there’s no fairy godmother to come wave her magic wand and turn your pumpkin into a carriage. There’s no glass slipper and certainly no Prince Charming to sweep you off your feet.

Still, you need the extra money so there’s nothing to be done about it. Taking a seat at the front desk you check the time, it’s almost time to close up shop and the last few stragglers are packing up their things to head out. Once they’re gone things should be peaceful. No questions, no interruptions, no one getting on your nerves. 

“Have you been avoiding me?” Mingi asks, popping up in front of your desk. 

“Oh my god!” you gasp, clutching your chest, “Are you trying to kill me?”

“Kill you? How could I ever hurt a girl as pretty as you?” he says in that cocky tone you’ve become accustomed to. 

It’s been weeks since your first run in with Mingi and he’s been relentless ever since. He stops by every shift to ask you some silly question that somehow always turns into yet another attempt at flirting with you. You shoot him down every single time but he never seems offended or discouraged. He just keeps coming back all bright eyed and full of energy like a golden retriever. You’ve gone home every night wondering what his motivations are. Why’s he being so persistent? 

Sometimes for the hell of it you let yourself play with the idea that he might actually be attracted to you. Mingi is drop dead gorgeous after all and, even though you refuse to laugh at any of his stupid jokes, you find him pretty charming. For all his cockiness, he’s sweet in a way that makes you wonder what it might be like to be truly adored by a guy like him. This little fantasy of yours is always disrupted by the vision of Yunho laughing at the two of you. It’s a joke, that’s all, a stupid joke that Mingi’s cruel for not knowing when to give up on. 

“Aren’t you sick of coming here?” you ask, pretending to be busy on the laptop, “There must be something else you can entertain yourself with.”

Mingi smiles down at you, fawning over how your skin glows in the shreds of sunset that peek through the windows. “There is actually. I’m having a party tonight and I want you to come.”

Your eyes shoot open, an involuntary burst of joy hitting you. “A party?” you ask, sounding more excited than you intended to. Catching yourself, you reel back the excitement but it’s too late, Mingi’s already caught it. 

“Yeah, a party” he says, reaching behind the desk to grab a pen and a sticky note. He scribbles down the address and sticks it to your laptop screen. “Tell me you’ll come.”

He sounds so genuine when he says that. It’s almost as if he’s truly desperate to have you around. You look up at his face and feel the butterflies in your stomach go into a frenzy. You’ve heard the way other girls talk about him, the way they swoon over him like he’s this magical thing. You don’t want to be one of them, just another girl pining after Song Mingi but here you are. 

You clear your throat, snatching the blue sticky note from your screen, and putting it aside. “I don’t really know if I wanna spend my Friday night with a bunch of wasted pretty boys.”

“Ooh, so you do think I’m pretty” Mingi blushes, batting his eyelashes. 

You pick up a stapler, threatening to throw it at him, “Leave now and maybe, just maybe I’ll consider coming to your little party.”

Mingi throws his hands up, carefully backing away from the desk, “Fair enough. I’m wearing all black by the way. In case you wanted to, ya know, match or something.”

You wind your arm back, placing it in perfect formation to hit him in the head with the stapler. Mingi gets the message and scurries out of the door, leaning his head back in for a split second to whisper, “See you later, beautiful.” He winks at you and you groan but he’s gone now and there’s no one left to take your anger out on.

As the last few visitors trickle out you find yourself sitting in the silence of the library, that blue sticky note calling your name. You pick it up, swearing you’ll toss it in the trash but you only stare at it, reading the address over and over again. Some stupid frat party with a bunch of stupid boys at some frat house on the edge of campus. Why would you ever waste your time going to something like that? And who does he think he is insinuating that you’d even want to match with him? Anyway, you only have one good black dress and you’re sure it doesn’t even fit anymore. It isn’t even worth trying…is it?

“I’m telling you, this girl’s gorgeous and she’s super smart too. She knows everything about books and stuff, like, you can ask her anything and she just knows” Mingi rambles, grabbing another beer from the fridge. 

“Because it’s her job” Yunho teases, leaning against the kitchen counter. 

Mingi pops the beer open, flicking the metal top into a nearby trash can, “And how did she get that job? Because she’s smart.”

“You know, I don’t think I’ve seen him like this over a girl…ever” Jongho says, stealing Mingi’s beer for himself.

“Well I think it’s cute. Mingi’s got a girlfriend” Wooyoung sings, making cute little hearts with his fingers.

“She’d be his girlfriend if she didn’t hate his guts” Yunho mumbles half heartedly. 

Mingi gasps, taking offense to that, “She doesn’t hate me, she just hasn’t fully warmed up to me yet but she will.”

He looks around the kitchen and his friends all eye him skeptically. Mingi didn’t say that with nearly enough confidence for them to believe him and the truth is that he barely believes himself but how does he tell his friends that? He’s the one who girls drool over. He’s never the one doing the drooling. He has a reputation at stake and here he is ruining it for a girl who probably won’t even show up tonight. But he can’t bring himself to give up on you yet. 

That first night after he met you he couldn’t get you out of his head. He kept imagining that face, that body, under him, on top of him, next to him. Just the thought of you made him hard enough that touching himself was mandatory to ease his need for you. And the more he showed up to bug you the more fascinating he came to find you.

Yes, you were snippy but never enough to directly chase him away. You let him stick around long enough for glimmers of your true personality to show. You’d made the terrible mistake of showing him how sweet you could be, how funny of a girl you are, and it only made things worse for both of you. More than having sex with you he wants to kiss you and hold your hand. He wants to tell you how pretty you are and not have you threaten him with a blunt object for it. 

“Not to be that guy but when did you start liking…ya know?” Jongho says, hoping that the others will know what he means without it coming off rude.

“Chubby girls?” Wooyoung asks, making Yunho almost choke on his beer. 

“You can’t just say that” Yunho coughs, grabbing a paper towel to wipe the beer from his lips. 

Mingi’s eyes narrow, the question not quite setting right with him, “What does it matter?” 

“I mean, it…it doesn’t. I swear it doesn’t” Jongho stammers, looking anywhere but at Mingi. 

Wooyoung shrugs, coming to Jongho’s rescue, “In his defense, we’ve never seen you with one. She’s not your usual type.”

“So, what? Just cause she’s not my ‘type’ it has to be weird?” Mingi presses. 

No one says anything, not a solitary word. They only stare at the doorway, their faces drained of any color. In the next room a party rages, in the kitchen an argument is ready to erupt, and there you stand in between the two hearing something you shouldn’t have at a time you shouldn’t have heard it. 

“Hmm, well, thank you for that. I’m so happy everyone knows what I already did” you say, laughing to avoid tears, “Thank you for the invite, Mingi. Really.” 

Something’s said, you’re sure it’s by Mingi, but you can’t hear it. You’ve gone numb to everything. Even the music blaring from the speakers a few feet from you feels like it’s playing from miles away. Desperate to outrun the tears stinging the corners of your eyes, you rush through the crowd of partiers in the living room and make your way outside.

The autumn air blows against your cheeks, cooling your tears as they begin to escape. You wipe them away, doing your best to look normal as you pass people headed into the party, but you can’t seem to stop them from falling. You feel so stupid for ever believing that Mingi’s feelings for you were anything but a joke he could laugh about with his friends. His words ring in your ears as you approach your car, frantically digging through your purse for your keys. Not his type? Well he isn’t yours either. You’ve never been too fond of assholes anyway. 

“Shit” you hiss, the keys in your hand tumbling from your grasp the second you pull them out. You bend down to pick them up but someone snatches them away before you can. You spin around to find Mingi standing there, your keys jingling away as they twirl around his fingers. 

“Give them back” you demand, grabbing for your keys but he holds them up high just out of your reach. 

“You’re crying” he says and you can almost see his heart shatter, “Come back inside.”

“Why? So you and your friends can make fun of me to my face this time?” you ask, still fighting for your keys back but to no avail. 

Mingi frowns, “Make fun of you? We weren’t making fun of you. I’d never let anyone do that to you.” 

“So, what? Just cause she’s not my type it has to be weird?” you mock, feeling childish but justified considering the circumstances. 

“I didn’t mean it like that. I only meant that just because I’ve dated smaller girls that doesn’t mean I can’t like you and I do. I really, really like you” he swears, “I love your body. I think it’s beautiful. Everything about you…I’m just obsessed with and all I wanna do is show you how special you are but you won’t let me and I don’t understand why.”

Folding your arms across your chest, you stand on the sidewalk staring at Mingi like you hate him but it’s not him that you hate. It’s the fact that you believe him. The tears have slowed now but your cheeks are still wet, black streaks of mascara beginning to run down your face. You drop your head, embarrassed by your mini breakdown, and Mingi swoops in, giving you a chest to lay your head on. His long arms wrap around you, locking behind your back to keep you close. It’s your instinct to pull away but his embrace is too comforting and warm to abandon. 

“If you want me to leave you alone forever I promise I will. I’ll let you go and you’ll never have to see me again” he whispers, “But if you stay I promise I’ll be good to you.” 

Your stomach sinks at the thought of never seeing him again. Day after day all you’ve done is tell him to leave you alone but it never occurred to you how much it’d hurt if he actually did. “I don’t want you to leave me alone” you admit, your face emerging from the black abyss of his shirt, “That’s, like, the exact opposite of what I want you to do.”

Mingi cups your face, his thumb stroking the curve of your cheek, “Good because I wasn’t actually gonna leave you alone. How can I when you look like this? You’re even a pretty crier. How’s that possible?”

You’ve always managed not to blush when Mingi’s said things like this—at least not when he’s around—but you don’t stop yourself this time. You don’t even make the tiniest attempt at hiding how utterly giddy you are over his comments. 

“Ooh, is that a smile I see?” he gasps, immediately making you regret it. You motion to hit him in the arm but he grabs you by the wrist, slipping his hand into yours as he leads you back towards the house. “Let’s go upstairs and I’ll clean you up then we can talk more, okay?”

Mingi looks back at you and you could swear that time stands still. This isn’t where you thought you’d be on a Friday night, walking through a frat party hand in hand with one of the most popular guys on campus—with Mingi. He’s guiding you up the stairs, looking at you like you’re the prettiest girl in the world and for the first time, somewhere deep down inside, you’re beginning to feel like it. 

Before you left the house tonight you swore that you wouldn’t become some frat party cliche. Mingi’s hot, there’s no doubt about it, but there was no way you’d wind up bent over some bed with your panties around your ankles.

You were actually right about that. You’re not bent over some bed, you’re laying across it, and your panties aren’t around your ankles, they’re tossed off to the side of the bed, blending in with the pile of black clothing you collectively shed before you found every inch of Mingi’s cock stuffed inside of you. You came up here to talk, that was it, and in your defense you did talk. You were vulnerable with each other, you opened up about your feelings, and the next thing you knew your tongues were so far in each other’s mouths that you could feel it in your throats. 

Mingi’s kiss is sweeter than you imagined. It’s the kind of kiss you could get lost in it. Even now, after he’s been kissing your lips raw for the last half hour, you find yourself wanting more. You’re so wrapped up in him, so completely consumed by the ecstasy of having him inside of you, that you aren’t even focused on the fact that you’re naked. You can’t begin to care if you look good or not when your body’s flush with heat, feeling the best it has in your entire life.

But you do look good. Nothing in Mingi’s wildest dreams could compare to how beautiful your body actually is. His hands explore your curves, discovering those spots he knows will come to be his favorites. That squishy belly of yours that pokes out just a bit more when he massages your sides. Those pillowy thighs that seem even thicker when he presses them to your chest. Those breasts that bounce softly against his face while he’s sucking at your bud.

“You’re so fucking amazing, baby” Mingi whispers, licking his way over the hills of your breasts to bring his lips to yours. “I do have a type. You know it’s you, right?”

“Is that so?” you tease, trembling at every stroke of his cock between the slickness of your walls. You run your fingers through his hair, your back arching against the mattress so much that you’re sure you’d float away if the weight of Mingi’s body weren’t pinning you down.

Mingi kisses you like a starved man whose hunger can only be satisfied by the taste of you. “Mmm, can’t you tell?” he hums between sloppy kisses, “Can’t you feel it?” 

He snaps his hips into you and you let out a moan that makes you grateful for the loud music blaring downstairs. Keeping his lips locked to yours, one hand gripping your hip and the other cradling your face, he thrusts into you harder. Hard enough to make the bed creak. Hard enough to make your walls clench tighter. Hard enough to have you tugging his hair, moaning between his lips while your decadent juices drip down his length.

Mingi groans, holding you even tighter as the head of his cock rides the ridges of your sweet spot. Your insides are so spongy and wet, clenching around him just right. There’s no way he can go back to masturbating after this. The thought of you won’t be enough. Fantasies are absolutely nothing compared to what it’s like to truly feel you under him and around him. 

“Mingi, mmm, gonna cum” you whimper, your eyes wide and glossy as you look up at him. 

You sound so cute when you say it that he loses his sanity for a second, his hips stuttering before picking up the rhythm again. Mingi slips both hands behind your neck, deepening the kiss as he bottoms out completely. Heat pools behind your belly, spreading through your body until you’re sure flames are dancing at your fingertips. Your body tenses, a weak little moan falling from your lips before your vision goes blurry and your high washes over you. 

“That’s it, good girl” Mingi coos, basking in the warmth enveloping him, “So pretty when you cum all over my cock. Always so pretty.” 

Your walls are pulsing, fluttering wildly around his swollen cock. Your cum just pours down him, making every movement slippery wet. He can’t take it anymore. He couldn’t hold back even if he tried. 

“Aah, fuck” he hisses, pulling out of you just in time to paint your inner thighs in white, leaving ropes of cum dripping dangerously close to your core. 

Completely destroyed by your orgasm, you’re plastered to the bed and can only watch as Mingi catches his breath, immediately going to work planting kisses all over your body. He kisses the places you love and the places you hate. He worships them all with his lips because to him they’re perfect in every way.

You surrender yourself to the reality of that, letting the lingering adoration from each kiss sink into your skin. Mingi’s yours, he has been since he first laid eyes on you in that library, all you ever had to do was let yourself have him. 

[comicaurora]

Hi! I finally got the chance to read Aurora a bit ago. It's a wonderful story--all I was expecting and better! I was particularly amazed and delighted by the artwork and visual mechanics used to tell the story, so I wrote a post to yell about how cool it is and break some of it down. (No criticism, just praise.) I'm mostly a hobbyist, so I'm hoping I've done it justice.

That said: zero pressure to read it or respond to this ask. Normally I wouldn't send it since I tagged, but I know Tumblr's notifs are a mess and things get lost very easily. I've been in both the "one (1) word of praise will feed me for a year" and the "oh gods don't talk about my writing/art because anything that seems Off will break my brain" modes before, and I absolutely don't want to push or make you uncomfortable!

If you are comfortable, however, I wanted to ask about your use of what I'm assuming are Screen and blending modes in sound effect words. (I'm only guessing that's the technique, though, so I could be totally wrong about how it's done! I'm mostly experienced in image manipulation in Photoshop.) Making them semi-transparent over the actions is genius :) What inspired you to do that, and are there specific techniques you use to make it work?

Same questions go for using specific colors to distinguish different characters' words and actions. I really noticed it in the cave sequence with Falst and Dainix, since their colors are so vivid in the dark (ex. Falst's little swats and Dainix's swooping kick at 1.20.9). It lends excellent clarity to busy scenes.

Thanks! Have a lovely day, enjoy your break, and happy holidays <3

You're correct about the technique! "Screen" is the blend mode I use most often for sound effects. I stumbled on it mostly through trial and error - I love how sound effects add depth to a comic panel, but it's very easy for them to obscure the art in a way I find counterproductive, so "Screen" lets me put the sound effect directly over the origin of the sound while still letting it be visible through the word. Early chapters didn't have it as much-

Most of the sound effects in early chapters are just solid colors with reduced opacity if I'm feeling fancy. But I started figuring it out around chapter 8 and 9, because Falst is kind of a sound-effect-heavy guy, especially in his fight scenes.

In order to make sure they don't impede the visibility of the action, I'll often soft-erase the top or bottom half of the SFX to reduce its opacity while still leaving it readable.

I'll usually double that up with an outline on the SFX so it's still readable. This is an especially important consideration if the SFX goes over an area of the background that's very bright or glowing.

Color-coding the speed lines and SFX to the character or force causing them isn't a hard and fast rule, but I like using it (in part because it's a habit from the OSP illustrations, where every character has a single pop of color in their lineart) mostly because it sort of codes every sound to make it clear where it's emanating from, or the general feeling of the sound. Since I normally do character-colors for SFX, something like this stands out more jarringly-

Which it's supposed to, but a big lightning strike doesn't register as anything too worrying because it's just Tess up to her usual shenanigans.

It's also very useful for magic effects, because each form of magic has its own associated palette.

And when I had a very complicated fight scene in a dark environment, I used the texture pattern I'd already made for the monster to color its SFX, so when I Screened them onto the panels they didn't obscure too much while still communicating "this is something else."

Changing the weight, lined-vs-not-lined, and opacity of the SFX words also helps to communicate that not every sound has the same feeling. A strong motion is solid and aggressive, but a crackling, unstable sound is more ephemeral and staticky.

It's definitely been a process of learning as I go - looking back at the earlier chapters I can actually see when I first tried various tricks I now use regularly, like doubling and distorting an SFX to produce the effect of a camera-shaking impact. I haven't really seen any other comics that do it like I do, probably because most other comics follow a more traditional production pipeline where text bubbles and sound effects get locked into the composition early, before the inking stage, because traditional physical comics don't have digital-art layers to play with. Adding sound effects to a page is almost the last thing I do before exporting them, and that only works because digital art and layers allow for a ton of flexibility.

[rampantram]

How did Helob fell in love with Lenn?

Helob smirked; she was back again.

He glanced down at the small silver watch sitting on the crate in front of him, still strung on its original chain and tick, tick, ticking away. The pincers on his chin twitched as the enticing sound of rustling leaves stirred somewhere behind him. It took everything he had to quell the chuckle that rumbled deep in his throat, thoroughly amused by the image of her crouching down in her hiding place, green eyes squinting at him through the foliage.

The spider hummed to himself, carrying on with his to-do list as he sharpened a garish-looking knife on a whetstone that had seen far too much use. Raising the blade, he turned it over for inspection, licking at his fangs as he tapped the tip of his tarsus against its side, admiring the shine it took on in the lantern light. He could taste the subtle scent of fear on his tongue, making him drool.

Suddenly, the sound of something smacking into a tree trunk and falling to the ground caught his attention. Pincers tittering curiously, he could tell it wasn’t living - a rock, probably, based on its impact - and his lips twisted into a smile as he quickly pieced her plan together: she’d meant to distract him, draw him from his post, thus leaving the watch unguarded. He hummed, setting the knife down tenderly in front of him, then made a lackadaisical strut into the dense woods, feigning his eager interest in the source of the “unknown” racket. ______________________________________________________________

It worked, Lenn thought to herself, quick to her feet as she sprang into the clearing, the soft soles of her feet making little noise as she quickly closed the gap to her stolen necklace. She couldn’t believe it; this was the closest she had gotten to getting it back, the relief she felt making her shoulders slump. Carefully, she cradled the heirloom in her hands, feeling her brow furrow as she traced over the engraving of a rabbit sitting on a crescent moon on the watch’s cover. She knew her distraction wouldn’t keep Helob away long, so she quickly stuffed the necklace in her bag and-

The yelp fell from her throat before she even realized she was being pulled up, head quickly swapping places with her feet as she was hung upside-down by the waist, her hands batting at a nearby branch to steady herself with. Vertigo blurred her vision, delaying her reaction to the set of glowing purple eyes staring at her from the dark shroud of leaves she now found herself in. Already panting for breath, she felt her heart thumping against her ribs, throat instantly feeling dry as she tried to gulp.

The grin on Helob’s face as he emerged into the dim lantern light was smug and amused, clearly satisfied with his ruse. Lenn’s mouth would twist into a frown if she weren’t feeling so terrified.

“Sneaky, sneaky bunny, coming into my lair,” he tutted playfully while effortlessly relieving her of her bag, “Stealing my things.”

“It’s not yours!” she shouted shakily, face burning red as the bottom hem of her shirt drooped closer to her neck. Helob looked her up and down with that same grin, brow raised, as she pulled it back down - or up, in this case - to her legs, her other hand still grazing desperately at her branch. “Stop messing with me and give it back!”

The spider tilted his head, clearly having all the fun in this scenario. “But then I won’t sees you anymore if you have your little watch back.”

Now Lenn was frowning, heart pounding in her ears as she seethed. “Wh-why don’t I trade you something for it?”

Helob hummed, swinging the bag on his spindly arm by its sash. “Too boring.”

Lenn’s face scrunched from the intensity of her frown and the deep furrow of her brows. “What about gold? Will you take gold?”

Helob didn’t even respond this time, only watching the bag spin while humming an unfamiliar tune. Lenn squeezed her eyes shut, the headache from all the blood rushing to her head making it feel like her skull was going to pop.

“Okay, okay!” she finally gave, catching Helob’s attention, her green eyes peeking open to send him a pained stare. “I was going to ask the lamb if I could go on missions to get out of the cult grounds every now and then, so…” She bit at her lip, as if subconsciously trying to stop her next words. “So I’ll come see you then! If you give my necklace back!”

Having stopped swinging the bag, Helob stared at her with a surprisingly stone-faced expression. His two face pincers clicked once, then twice, and suddenly Lenn was gently spun right-side-up and lowered to the ground, her feet slowly touching to the grass, toe to heel. She backed up a step as Helob lowered in front of her, still strung by his silk and giving her that same stoney, unreadable expression from before.

“How do I knows you’re not lying?”

The graveness of his voice made her fur stand on end, something he clearly noticed. Taking a quick breath, though, she stood with her shoulders back and head high. Helob shrunk back a little as she put out her hand, pinky extended outwards.

“I promise I’m not.”

Helob eyed her and her extended digit strangely, the look of confusion on his face borderline comical given how intimidating he usually was.

“It’s a pinky promise: you wrap pinkies and swear you’ll do what you promised.”

Helob eyed her a bit blankly as he clicked his two front-most tarsi together. Lenn’s ears drooped in embarrassment.

“But I guess we can’t really do that since…” Just as she began to retract her hand, one of his knife-like arms hooked its end appendage around her pinky, dwarfing her hand by comparison.

“It is a ‘pinky promise’ then.” Helob had returned to his mischievous self, smiling at her with narrowed eyes as he dropped her bag back into her hand. Rising back into the treetops, the spider sent her one last cheeky look. “Do not disappoint me, little bunny…”

Lenn blinked as she watched him disappear into the shadows. 

She couldn’t believe that worked…

Feeling the frigid prison of shock melt away from her body, she hurriedly rushed out of the clearing and back into the thinner woods she’d come from, hastily putting her bag over her shoulder as she jumped over hedges and fallen trees, hardly even thinking about the deal she’d made with Helob, surprised to have gotten out with her necklace and her life. ______________________________________________________________

Settling into the trees, Helob watched as Lenn stared up in shock, obviously not able to see him, but the look on her face still made him chuckle. He smiled to himself as she made a quick exit from his clearing, wondering to himself if she’d uphold her end of their deal - their “pinky promise.”

With a tired hum, Helob rested his chin on his crossed arms, staring down at the spot she’d been standing. Despite the fire still burning strong at the center of his little makeshift camp, it felt chillier now that she was gone, his blood having gone back to cold and tepid rather than the bold, rushing feeling he felt while watching her attempted infiltrations of his space. He came and went from different spots, as he’d always done, but still she always managed to find him. At first he only wanted to test her, to see if she’d match her fiery words with action, then he soon began to look forward to their little “playtimes,” as he’d come to see them.

With a huff, Helob’s eyes fell closed, a strange fluttering feeling in his chest as he pictured all the games of chase they could play, suddenly feeling hopeful that all of that “pinky promise” nonsense she’d brought up wasn’t so nonsensical after all.

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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hey, a writing! 😀✨

I imagine Helob's feelings for Lenn as a "fascination to infatuation" kind of deal, so I hope I captured that here. I also haven't written that much in a while, so I hope this came out decent. 😅

Anyway, thank you for your question, and I hope you all enjoy~! 💕

[rita-repulsa-ke]

The Present

One more Agatha/Rio fanfic, post-finale, angst and tragic romance.

Rio goes to visit Agatha, and brings her a present.

Rio watches Agatha sleep, all of her dignity lost, mouth open, limbs askew. She takes a few steps forward and waits. The year is 1803 and by now, she knows the steps to this dance. Somewhere in this peaceful room, there is a trap.

Agatha Harkness cannot kill Death. But she can wound her, bind her temporarily, inconvenience and humiliate her. She can certainly hurt her feelings and she delights in doing so.

And Rio, when hurt, retaliates. She uses magic, knives, but most of all taunting, callous words. She derives a sense of twisted satisfaction from watching her beloved crumple and beg for something they both know she cannot give.

Sometimes, later, she regrets. Today, she carries a present, folded in her green and black cloak, either a peace offering or a dagger to the heart.

She takes another step, sits on the bed, then stretches to lie next to Agatha, inches away from a few locks of dark hair. She wants to caress them, put them in her mouth, as she once would have done.

Before she can do either, the trap springs. Runes on each wall glow purple, and fine wires of magic snap around her, haul her up by the neck, wrists and ankles, suspended in midair.

“You trapped the bed?” she asks, incredulous, as Agatha jerks awake, sits up rubbing her eyes, wearing only a nightshirt, her hair a tangled mess.

She still takes Rio’s breath away.

“You are so utterly predictable,” Agatha says, smug even though her voice is laced with sleep. She motions to the walls, to the carved runes. “The six bindings runes are done in the Solomonic tradition, but I added an extra layer with the—"

She stops abruptly. Explaining the cleverness of her magic to Rio is an old habit, from better times. “The point being, it should hold for a couple of years, if I’ve done it right, and the doors and windows to this room are bespelled so that once I leave, everyone will forget its here.”

“Clever,” Rio praises and Agatha’s jaw tightens, though the praise is nothing but truthful. She has always been impressed by the sheer skill of Agatha's craft. “But I’ve brought you a gift.”

“Keep it,” Agatha says, packing her things from where they are scattered about the room, fishing out clothes from where they've somehow ended up under the bed. “I think we’re past the courting stage.”

“You’re going to want it. Trust me.” She sees the other woman pause. She can still provoke Agatha’s curiosity, always her strongest emotion.

But Agatha won't ruin her own work. “It can wait a couple of yea—“

Rio tires of this game. She reaches for power, not magic, but the simple truth of what she is. Wisps of black and green smoke escape her, pour from her mouth to settle on Agatha’s runes.

“You can't do that!" Agatha protests, watching with clenched teeth as the magic dies and Rio glides elegantly to the floor.

“You can’t bind Death, Ags.”

Agatha’s face contorts with fury, the realization of how many times Rio has chosen to let her think she had won, to indulge her pride, when she could have freed herself so easily. “I hate you,” she snarls.

Rio pulls out the portrait and offers it to her.

It’s a good one, a little boy with crooked teeth and long hair, as perfect a rendering as she could manage.

Agatha takes it and sinks to sit on the bed, trembling, stares at it, traces the image with a finger and whispers his name.

Rio shrugs, doesn't quite look at the other woman, allowing her a private moment of grief. “So you don’t forget what he looked like.”

After some immeasurable length of time, the longest either of them have gone without violence toward each other in decades, Agatha puts the painting carefully, almost worshipfully, on the table and stands, opens her arms to Rio.

Death steps into the embrace at once, clings tight and is aware that she is shaking as Agatha’s fingers smooth her hair. For one blissful moment, her world is whole.

“Pathetic,” Agatha says and the word is spoken so flatly that it delays the blow, takes Rio a second to even comprehend what was said. “Pitiful, desperate, like a dog with its tail between its legs, rolling over to show your belly for me, as though I will ever, ever care about you ag—"

“Incendem,” Rio says, the word spoken quiet and empty.

Agatha reacts too slowly, lunges as the portrait goes up in flames. She burns her hands, fumbles and drops it, uses a nearby shirt to stamp out the flames.

What is left is a ruined mess of canvas, blackened beyond recognition.

Death laughs and laughs and laughs. “Please,” Agatha whispers, sinking to her knees, clutching the painting as though she could protect it, as though she could protect anything. “Please, please, please.”

Rio crouches next to her, too close, absorbing the heat from her body as a mortal might sit near a fire for comfort. “Pathetic,” she murmurs, almost affectionate. “Pitiful. You can't help yourself, can you? It’s all right, Ags. Cruelty suits you.”

“Give it back,” Agatha whispers, her voice cracking like a skull. “Rio, please, give it back, give it back, give him back to me…”

Rio gathers her beloved in her arms, unprotesting for once, lets her sob like a broken-hearted child and feels a gentle contentment with the situation, murmuring sweet nothings in a handful of dead languages in her ear.

"Rio," Agatha whispers against her neck, and the way her breath brushes over Rio's skin is a reminder of so many better times.

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"Let me drop my barriers for you. Read my thoughts."

Rio hesitates, it must be a trap, but this time it is her curiosity that gets the better of her. Even when there was genuine affection between them, Agatha always guarded her thoughts so closely. She reaches tentatively for the mind she always wished to understand above all others.

Hatred, raw and pure, impales her, a spear shoved through her guts and out the other side, a sucking, fatal wound. She recoils from the agony, a sob building in her throat.

"No," she gasps. "You love me. You love me, you do, you love me, you're hurt, you're angry, I understand, but you do love me, Agatha!”

Agatha's turn to laugh now, her cackling, witchy laugh that Rio has always loved, a hint of insanity wound through it. "See for yourself. Look as deeply as you want, my heart." She presses her lips to Rio's cheek, untwines herself and comes to her feet to look down at Death, sitting on the floor, staring up at her with blank, empty eyes.

Rio looks. She does not wish to, it is an act of self-harm to stare into the abyss of Agatha's relentless hatred, but she lets it cut her, wound and scar her over and over, relentless in her search for any morsel of affection.

There is nothing. Agatha's hatred is an endless fall, a vast, dark pit of torment.

Rio wrenches her mind free and doubles over, a terrible shriek ripped from her, the sound of her heart being torn from her ribcage, her chest flayed open, entrails flopping out.

"There is only one thing I want from you now," Agatha says. "And it is never, ever to see your face again."

Rio winks out of existence.

Agatha sits and stares at the blackened portrait, then carefully releases the spell on her mind that withholds her true feelings, a complicated rush of true hatred, the aching memory of a world-devouring love, a desperate desire not to be abandoned, and the sudden yearning to be back in Rio's arms.

Feel free to comment/reblog if you like this sort of thing. If you want to read something written pre-finale and therefore less angsty, try the talk. The part where Rio says she’ll never leave hits different now.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Assistant 10

Warnings: this fic includes noncon/rape, cheating, creep behaviour.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: As an assistant at the Daily Planet, you’re rarely noticed. Until you are.

Characters: Clark Kent

Note: I had to get this out of my head.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. Thanks to everyone who reads this one and thank you for all your energy.<3

Love you all like Lord Farquaad loves unnecessary vowels. Take care. 💖

🖊🖊🖊

You drop your phone, shaking with panic and horror. It’s not real. It can’t be. Lois isn’t dead, it’s just an argument, just a fight. You don’t know what you saw.

You were so surprised by the call, you can’t possibly have understood what was going on. It was just so sudden. It didn’t happen.

You stand dumbfounded, unsure what to do next. There's a sickening silence filled with the echoes of Lois' struggle and the piercing timbre of Clark's wrath. You shudder and it rolls through the floor. It takes you a moment to realise that the reverberations are really. Your phone vibrates violently between your feet.

Shit! Shit! What do you do? 

You grab it out of instinct but can't bring yourself to answer the call, knowing before you look who it is. You search the room as if you might find an escape. There is none.

You rush to the bed and shut off the lamp, casting yourself in darkness. You don't think, you let your adrenaline guide you. You roll under your blankets and nestle down, clearing your throat as the call times out. Fuck.

It isn't long before the rattle begins again. You wait a few rings and answer, the small frame where you should be filled with shadow. You murmur groggily, not sure how convincing you really are.

"Hmm, what's going on?" You babble as you rustle in the bed. Clark watches you with an addled expression, his brows furrowed, his eyes almost seem to glow.

"I just called," he gristles out ans rubs the apple in his throat, "you picked up…"

"Wha–I've been sleeping," you cough, pressing yourself into the pillow as your ball your other hand. Your heartbeat hammers in your temples, "my phone was in my bed, maybe…"

"Sleeping?" He mutters as a line dips in his forehead.

"I was waiting for your call and must've fallen asleep," you utter.

"Turn your light on," he demands.

You wince, happy he can't see the fear coursing through you. Now is the real test, you have to play this right. You sit up, doing your best to mess up your appearance before you reach to the lamp. 

"I've been sick all day," you lie and lean back against the headboard, "sorry…"

He's quiet. You try not to look at your image in the corner, instead you focus on him. He's trying to figure it all out.

"Baby," you make your voice as soft as you can, "maybe it's going around. Are you feeling alright?"

He seems struck my the question. He swallows and there's a shift as he sits down, letting out a sigh. He flicks a curl away from his forehead.

"Maybe," he relents as his shoulders drop, "you miss me?"

You stare into the deep blue pools of his eyes. You don't know if he believes you. You put your hand below your throat, his gaze follows the gesture. You rub your chest and force another cough.

"Ugh, yeah," you make yourself lie, "I just feel so cruddy."

"Aw, honey, I wish I was there to take care of you. Maybe I can come home early," he offers, "things aren't going so well here. Lois… is off doing her own thing. I may as well have just stayed behind."

"Oh," you try not to react to her name, "I'm sorry–"

"Sorry…" he repeats, quiet but with a hint of resent, "she… you… you're too sweet." He moves his phone as he hangs his head, "you care so much about me, I just wish… wish it didn't have to be this way."

"Just… get some sleep," you coax, "I'm sure we'll both feel better in the morning."

"You're probably right," he croaks and sits up with a deep snort, "hard to sleep without you here."

"Yeah, I know," you eke out.

"Will you… will you stay on until I fall asleep?" He asks, almost pathetic as his tone cracks.

"Sure," you whisper, "I'll stay on."

You fight the swell of fear deep in your stomach and turn onto your side. You watch the screen as he stands and moves around slowly, almost as if he's dazed. You focus on breathing, on counting each inhale and letting it out slow. You try not to think of what he could do to you if he knew what you saw. 

🖊

You don't sleep. Not even after you end the call at Clark's rumbling snores. You just sit there and stare at the shadows cast against your wall.

You can't just wait for him to come back. This might be your only chance. Didn't this all start because you were afraid of just that, missing a once in a lifetime chance.

You get up before the sun. You don't have a plan, just a first step. One you're not even sure is a good idea.

You draft your resignation and schedule it to be sent on Monday. You pack a single bag, not much, just what you need, and leave your apartment with your phone in hand. You won't miss it, he tainted it.

You head down to the street and walk a full block before working up your courage. You don't know if you should even try. He has no obligation to you. You wouldn't blame him for laughing in your face. But… he was nice.

You hit Richard's profile and wait for the dial to pick up. It's late, or early. You lean against a building as you watch the sky change.

"Brant," he answers with his last name, voice sandy and thick.

"Hey," you squeak, second thoughts bubbling up, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't–"

"What's wrong?" He asks, his languid tone rising to urgency, "hey, what's going on?"

"I… I can't…"

You can't tell him. Even with how much you want to. You can't say the words and he wouldn't believe you. Who would? 

"It's… barely three," he yawns, "must be important, so…"

"I…" you sniffle and drag yourself away from the wall, "I need help and you're… the only person I know…"

"You know, I've had a lot of writer's ask me for favours, but they're usually a lot more to the point–"

"I need to hide," you blurt out, "please, before he gets back."

"Who?" He asks.

You're silent. You can't get your thoughts straight. You don't blame him for thinking you're crazy, you must sound it.

"Kent," he says bluntly and you quiver. "What did he do to you?"

You don't answer. He says your name. You can't. You feel like your choking.

"Where are you?" He demands and you can hear him shifting and moving around. 

"I shouldn't have–"

"Tell me," he says as fabric rustles beneath his gravelly voice. 

You whimper and look around. You're by some pawn shop. You give him the name and he sighs.

"Stay there," he orders over the jingle of keys, "please."

🖊

You're numb as you sit in the passenger seat of Richard's car. You remember the last time you were in that very spot. When he dropped you off after dinner and Clark was waiting for you. How long had he truly been waiting to strike? 

How could it have ever got to this?

Richard drives without a word. You barely recall him arriving or getting into the car. Everything around you is blurry. Your own hands feel like weights attached to your arms.

The car slows as you sink back against the seat. His window rolls down with a whir you barely hear. You don't look. He continues on, the motion soothing as you close your eyes and hiccup.

He idles again, motor humming as he daintily touches your arm.

"Got you a tea," he says gently, "hey, take a breath."

Your eyes snap open and you wipe your face, only realising then you're sobbing. You sit forward and sniff, inhaling until it hurts. He lifts a cup from the plastic holder and offers it. You accept it with a murmur and peel back the lid.

"You don't have to go into detail but I'd like to know what is going on," he says as he puts his hand back on the wheel, slowly stepping down on the gas.

You blow out a shuddery heave and gulp. You sip tenuously, wetting your throat as you try to sort through your thoughts. Where do you begin? What do you even say?

"He's scary," your voice creaks, "he's dangerous…" you shake your head and cradle the tea, trying to feel the heat of the cup, trying to cling to it. "He won't leave me alone."

"I kinda figured but Clark's just a bit strange, isn't he?" Richard says, "office flirt."

"It's more than that, he's…insane!"

"He's married, he's not going to do anything more than talk," he scoffs.

Your chest cranks and your stomach lurches. You look at him, sight pinpointing on him, "you…"

"A bit of an overreaction–"

"Why did you come if you don't believe me?"

"Believe what? I have no idea what's gone on. By the sounds of it, he's only having some fun on the side."

"Fun?! He– he is stalking me. He won't go away and now–" you stop short and huff. His chuckle makes you want to scream. He's laughing at you.

"You're laughing at me?" You reach for the door, "stop the car. Now. Let me out."

"It just seems a bit absurd, calling me at the crack of dawn because you have a horndog for a boss–"

"You're not listening to me. It's not just that," you insist, your body buzzing with anger. "Stop the car. Let me out. You–"

"Calm down. Fine, I'm all ears, did he get handsy at the water cooler?"

"Just stop the car."

"Don't be–"

"Stop!" You fling the cup at him and it lands in his lap, exploding and leaking down his pants.

He veers in surprise and the car slides sideways. Suddenly, your seat jolts as something falls onto the roof, crushing it so you're forced down in your seat. You look up and whine, fumbling to undo your seatbelt as a red glare slices through the metal.

Sparks rain down as the laser changes directions, confusion stirring your wits as you watch in dread and sink down onto the floor of the car. Richard grunts beside you and jams his fingers into the buckle of his seatbelt, swearing as it repels.

"What the fuck was that? Fucking–" he gestures to his wet pants in frustration, clueless to what's happening above him.

The metal peels back loudly as you cry out. You shield yourself and holler for Richard to watch out as you see the eerie figure floating above in the half-dim of the early morning. His eyes glow red and his veins are dark beneath his skin. Yet this is not Superman in his rippling cape but a villain in an undone button-up and slacks. It's Clark!

The vaunted caped crusader, the saviour of Metropolis and earth, the elusive good citizen. All along, he's just another twisted monster. He's a nightmare come to life. 

He tosses aside the shorn square of metal as if it's nothing. He grabs Richard and wrenches him off the seat, clutching his jaw and dangling him like a ragdoll. Richard writhes and squirms as Clark's eyes flash. Suddenly a red beam sears into Richard's skull and a rain of bone and tissue tain down around you.

You shriek in terror as blood oozes down onto the interior and Clark drops Richard's corpses into the ruin. His feet plant on the hood and he bends, reaching blindly down to grab you from beneath the dashboard. He hauls you up effortlessly by your arm, lifting you before him as his eyes continue to flare.

You grasp onto his thick forearm as you hang from his unbending grip, "you're supposed to be a hero…" you gasp in disbelief.

"And you're supposed to love me," he snarls.

You close your eyes and raise your arm, waiting for your turn. This is it. The end.

"But I love you," his voice shatters.

He snakes his arm around you and pulls you close. The world bounces and the air tunnels around you. A scream erupts from your lungs as you barrel into the void.

You bury your head in his shoulder, peeking out from the slits of your eyes to see the vast and endless sky all around you. You're flying yet you've never felt so trapped.

[iamnotoriginalphil]

Steam in the Air (Leonora Lesso x f!Reader) - Part 2

Synopsis: Lady Lesso catches you in the bath again, only this time, there's no interruption

Words: 2.5k

Warning: smut, overstimulation, praise kink, thigh riding, mommy kink if you squint

AN: @missvifdor you asked and so you shall receive. For anyone who hasn't read the first part, it can be found here.

Your head tipped back against the edge of the bath, your lips parting in a sigh. The air was sweet, the steam scented like flowers, but there was nothing sweet in your thoughts.

Images were running through your mind. Bright eyes watching you with intensity, pale skin being revealed inch by inch, the sigh as your tongue swept into a hot mouth. The feel of a body under your hands, under your legs, fingers tripping along your spine. The hot water almost burning you as it lapped at your skin, the hotter woman stealing your sanity.

You hand pressed between your thighs, not surprised at the wetness you found there. Slick and inviting, your fingers sought out your bundle of nerves, eyes falling closed as legs parted for you wandering touch. The first touch had you gasping, the second moaning and after that it became a haze of pleasure.

Fingertip circling over your clit, all you could think about was her. It had been excruciating since she’d caught you in that very same bath. Shared looks over tables in the dining room had you shifting in your seat. Her neck arching the way it had when your lips had brushed along her pulse point had you pressing your thighs together. Long fingers playing with the buttons of her coat forcing you to bite your lip to keep from moaning. She was playing with you, and from the way her lips turning up whenever she left you a stuttering mess, she knew it.

Your finger pressed against your bundle of nerves, moan loud in the echoing room. You could imagine it was her, the way she’d murmur filthy things in your ear as she worked your body, teasing you until you couldn’t stand it anymore. The way her lips would feel against your skin. The way her skin had felt against your lips.

Probing further, you pressed your finger to your entrance, panting just from the thought of it. Your hips arched off the bottom of the tub as you slipped it in, stroking against your internal walls. Not content you added a second, wanting to feel as full as you knew she’d make you feel.

Your palm brushed against your clit, ripping a groan from you. You pressed against it harder, fingers beginning to pump and you whimpered, the feeling so good.

“I see you’ve started without me, pet.”

You blinked your eyes open, not bothering to stop. Standing at the end of the bath, eyes trained to the apex of your thighs, Lesso was watching, seemingly displeased. You moaned her name, fingers curling within you. You caught her eye, a whimper falling from your lips as you ground your palm against your clit. You felt your walls flutter at the look she was giving you, so dark, but so inviting.

“Tell me, love,” she said, placing both hands on the edge of the bath and leaning forward, “what are you thinking about when you touch yourself like this?”

“You,” you moaned, “just you.”

“Are you imagining those are my fingers?” she murmured.

“Yes,” you hissed.

She stood straight again, slowly beginning to unbutton her coat. It was like it was plucked straight from your memory. She wasn’t even looking at you as she began to shed her clothes, dropping them at the end of the bath.

You were getting close, your breathing growing erratic. You moaned her name again and her eyes slowly dragged back to you. Sweeping over your body, your legs began to tremble while her pale skin glowed in the candlelight.

“I don’t think so.”

She stepped into the bath, water threatening to overflow. She knelt over you and the first touch of skin had you crying out. You were so on edge, needing her more than you’d ever needed anything else. She grasped your wrist, pulling your hand away from your throbbing core. You whined but the way her eyes flashed made the empty feeling worth it.

“No one gets to touch you like that,” she growled, “not even you.”

You strained towards her, wanting her, needing her. Every cell in your body was crying out for her. She chuckled, low and dangerous, as she settled her weight on your lap. She grabbed your other wrist, tugging you until you were sitting up properly. She placed your hands on her breasts and you groaned at the feeling.

“I believe you were interrupted last time,” she said, “how about you finish what you started?”

You were only too happy to oblige. You lent forward, lips ghosting along her collarbone until you heard her sigh above you. Your thumb brushed against a hardening nipple and she settled more comfortably on your lap. Glancing up you found her eyes closed, head tipping back, lips falling open.

Your tongue tasted her skin, finding something spicy clinging to her. She was like smoke in your senses, and her fingers were curling in your hair, pushing you more insistently against her. Pressing lingering kisses to her skin, you shifted down her body.

Lips wrapped around one hardened nipple, tongue flicking against it. She cursed as you pinched the other, rolling it between thumb and forefinger. You sucked, never wanting to do anything but worship her. Her fingers tightened in your hair, arching her back towards you. You hummed and the noise that fell from her lips was filthy.

“All right, love, no more teasing,” she said, “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since we got interrupted.”

Replacing your lips with your hand you drew back, letting your eyes rove down her body. So much skin on display, all for your taking. You wanted to touch every inch of it.

“You have?” Your voice sounded not like your own, like you were teasing her, like you were amused.

“You know I have,” she growled as your touch turned featherlight.

You let your touch trail down her body then back up. You watched the way she shifted in your lap, eyes darkening as she turned her gaze back on to you. You bit down on your lower lip, tracing a pattern down between her breasts.

She grabbed your wrist, pressing your hand between her legs. She was so warm, so wet. With a single finger, you ran through her folds. Another curse fell from her lips.

“Pet,” she warned.

You found her bundle of nerves, ghosting your touch over it until she pressed your hand more instantly against her. You began to circle her clit, watching the way her chest began to rise and fall rapidly. Pressing down on it, she made a strangled noise, echoing through the room.

You lent forward, catching her nipple again, giving it quite a harsh suck as you found her entrance. Your name was like music on her lips, as she moaned it, fingers finding your spine again. Her nails scraped down your skin and you groaned against her.

Two of your fingers easily slipped into her, palm brushing against her clit again. She hummed, shifting above you, almost grinding against you. You curled your fingers, watching the way her face contorted with pleasure.

“Fucking hell, pet,” she ground out.

She tugged your face up, kissing you, all tongue and teeth and hunger. You whined into her mouth as she practically devoured you. Your fingers were working, pumping in and out of her, curling and twisting, letting your palm graze against her bundle of nerves. The sounds she was making were pure filth and you could listen to them forever.

The scrape of her nails on your back, the way they dug in to your shoulder, had you groaning into her mouth. The throbbing between your legs had never abated but now it was becoming excruciating. You wanted her to touch you, but you never wanted to stop touching her.

“More, love,” she moaned, “I need more.”

You added a third finger, grinding your palm against her. You loved when she cursed in your ear, finding her rough voice one of the hottest thing you’d ever heard.

She began to grind against you, riding your fingers hard and fast. You let your fingers curl watching her use your hand to bring her closer and closer to the edge.

You felt her internal walls clamp around your fingers and her body went taut above you. Her head was thrown back and your name was on her lips. All you could do was watched her, entranced. Her skin was flushed and she was breathing heavily, eyes molten as she watched you while she came down from her high.

“Well, now, that was fun, wasn’t it, pet?” she asked.

She lent forward, giving you a soft kiss, making you tremble underneath her. She took her time with it, until you were a mess underneath her, and she had barely touched you. Sitting back, she let her eyes wander down your body again, stopping when she saw your hands resting on her thighs, holding her with a bruising grip.

You whined when her fingertips ran over the red marks she’d left on your skin. Her lips began to suck at your pulse point, leaving another mark for you to find later in the mirror. Your nails dug in to her skin.

“Poor baby,” she crooned in your ear, “do you want me to return the favour?”

“Please,” you begged.

“Have you been good enough for that?” she asked.

“Yes,” you whined as her hand dipped between your legs.

“But I caught you touching yourself,” she said, “when I’m the only one allowed to do that.”

“I didn’t know,” you said.

Her finger began to lazily circle your clit as she considered you. She took her time until you were breathless, no words left in your brain, but still she didn’t touch you how you wanted. She kissed you again before drawing back.

“Alright,” she said, “I suppose you can.”

She shifted you until she was sitting on the bottom of the bath, you on top of one of her thighs. She grasped your hips, pulling you down until she was pressing against you. You made a small noise at the pressure and her grin stretched over her face.

“Go on then, pet,” she said.

Her lips attached to your throat again as you began to shamelessly grind against her thigh. You threw your head back, moaning at the feeling. Her hands on your hips guided you, lips sucking bruises into your skin, teeth leaving marks. You didn’t care how you were going to cover them up later, desperation filling your veins.

You’d been so close when she’d stopped you. You could see the end, hurtling towards you, her thigh just the right amount of pressure against your bundle of nerves. Her name was like a prayer on your lips.

“Cum for me, baby girl,” she whispered into your ear.

It was as if you’d been waiting for her permission. Wave after wave of pleasure crashed into your body, your fingers on her shoulders holding on. Only she didn’t stop, forcing you to keep grinding against her thigh. You whimpered, the feeling becoming too much without any break. She chuckled into the space between your shoulder and neck before her tongue traced a pattern over your collarbone. You whined as she pressed harder against you.

“This is what you wanted, wasn’t it love?” she asked, strong grip on your hips guiding you to grind against her harder, “so desperate, so needy. You couldn’t even wait for me.”

“Oh god,” you groaned.

“Don’t you want to be a good girl for me?” she asked, “don’t you want to please me?”

“Yes.” You were breathless.

“Come on, then,” she murmured.

The next wave tore through you, making you cry out in the otherwise quiet bathroom. You fell forward, forehead pressing to her shoulder, feeling her laugh. You nuzzled against her, squeezing your eyes closed.

“I think you can manage one more,” she said, “don’t you agree?”

You whimpered, not disagreeing with her. Your hips were still moving, her hands still guiding you, and all you could think about was making her happy with you. Your actions were jerky, not in control but still you were doing as she wanted. Tears sprung into your eyes from the feeling, so intense. She sat you up again, forcing you to look at her as you did as she asked.

Her lips wrapped around your nipple, sucking on it hard. Teeth scraped against it, making your back arch into her mouth, unintelligible noises falling from your lips. You were beyond words, only feelings, sensations. Only able to focus on her.

Another harsh suck, thigh rising to meet your core, hands guiding you to grind against it with as much pressure as possible. Your internal muscles clenched, and the tears ran down your cheeks, her name the only thing on your tongue.

She lent back in the bath, guiding you against her, thigh slipping from you. You shuddered, clutching at her as your tears rolled onto her skin. Her lips were pressing to your hairline, murmuring into it, telling you what a good girl you’d been, how she was so proud of you, how you’d done so well. You pressed against her, skin to skin, never wanting to leave the now cool water if it meant you could stay with her.

You don’t know how long she let you lie there with her, fingers stroking through your hair, along your back, holding you close to her body. All you knew was you felt tired, boneless, like the greatest thing had happened to you. You weren’t sure you’d ever get up.

“Come on, love,” she eventually murmured, “we need to get you into bed.”

She helped you stand, towelling you off with a gentle touch. She sat you on the bench, drying off herself with much harsher movements. You watched her, already feeling a tingle again. A naked Lesso was never going to grow old.

She left the huge puddles of water on the floor, the debris from your overenthusiastic movements in the bath, and stood you up. Tugging your clothes over your head, she pressed a lingering kiss to your lips. You chased her for another, surprised when she let you, her chuckle reverberating through you.

You were surprised she walked you the entire way back to your room, pulling back the covers for you to crawl into the bed. Your eyelids were heavy and your body tired. She smoothed your hair back from your face, leaving a chaste kiss on your forehead before turning away.

Her parting whisper echoed through your head, louder than the door closing ever could.

“We’ll see how many we can get from you after some practice.”

[illumiera]

a new moon rises

or: there is a loom upon which the fate of every mortal is woven, and she who works it is Azura's blessed and cursed all at once. pre-i fear no fate (for you are my fate), 801 words

Near a small island somewhere off the coast of Akavir, the sea glows as though brimming with a galaxy of drowned stars. Stepping onto its shores feels like stepping beyond time entirely, like yesterday and today have fallen away in favour of a breathless, everlasting tomorrow. It feels like a crossing-over, like a journey from death-touched to deathless, and Ilmarenya—Ilmarenya cannot be certain if the salt-haired woman climbing out of the little boat is still Ilmarenya, but she knows that she must try to be nonetheless.

Nerevar—silent now, but he will come if she calls, whether as sound or as a shadow—has never required it of her. Nor has fate, which cares nothing for the name or face she wears as long as she treads the path it unfurls before her.

But her son and his father can have no other, and so Ilmarenya she must remain.

Azura stands at the base of the island’s single mountain. All the art, the statues, the carvings Ilmarenya’s fingers have traced at every shrine—they depict her as the star-touched night with a string of constellations for her girdle, but the Prince of the In-Between is never quite the same. Sometimes, she comes as midnight given body, or the wine-dark of gloaming, or flame-streaked sundown, or the golden hour moving through the air like a dream. Now, at the end—or the beginning—of all things, she is as beautiful and terrible as the dawn, and her skin is lit from within beneath a gauzy gown dyed the precise pink of early summer roses.

“Are you ready, my Moon-and-Star?” Azura asks, and her voice is uncharacteristically soft.

Ilmarenya draws herself to her full height and meets the unblinking burning dusk-dawn of the goddess’ eyes. What passes between them is nothing short of a challenge: Remember our bargain, my lady. I will give you—give Morrowind—my whole body if I must, but never that which I formed within it, never my son. Only when Ilmarenya is satisfied does she at last permit herself a single nod.

“Then come, Ilmarenya Ara’dayn.”

The goddess’ hands are warm, soft, and yet fetter-firm as they close around her own. When the Daedric Prince of Dusk and Dawn leans in and presses her mouth to hers, so too are her lips.

—past—

—present—

—future—

—past-present-future-past-present-future-past-present-future-past—

It beats in her heart, in her head, in her soul like a doom-drum, Il-ma-ren-ya to the thundering of her pulse, and with the taste of roses and crystal sugar on her tongue, Ilmarenya sees.

Sees the spinning of the Wheel, the never-ending weaving of the loom her own hands must guide. Sees the sevenfold stories carved out by the strides of the Brass Tower, the breaking of the dragon, the wandering of the Soulless One, the making and dying of saints and soldiers alike. Sees the many paths of the world, of the worlds, of Ilmarenyas whose disparate choices tangle like caught threads, of Nerevarines who bear another name and face and fate, and sees—

Lliryn.

The image of her son is a beacon, a lodestar amidst it all. Lliryn growing—and she will not be there—into a lanky-legged young man with her nose and his father’s crow-feather curls. Lliryn the wizard’s apprentice, a scion of House Telvanni through and through, and a ghost to a father who sees only her when he looks into his face. Lliryn leaving to find her, and Lliryn collared and chained and seared from the inside out of everything that was hers, and then the fire and the wrath of their ancestors and the wrath of Nerevar come again, and Lliryn in the heart of the blaze with his chin tilted up to the moons-and-stars in prayer, in thanks, and then—

—and then she sees the First with his crown of storms, or the thrice-blessed Last with a healer’s bloody hands, or perhaps both at once, and either way, she cannot see her son, cannot see past the mess of thread that a Hero leaves in their wake. Dead, alive, a thrall of another kind—she can see everything, but not the most precious thing, not the one thing she needs to see.

Ilmarenya does not break. Boethiah’s children know that they must break the world that seeks to break them, and she—she has always been the rock upon which the waves break. Still, she remains on her hands and knees at the shoreline until any mortal’s bones would ache, and the tears that spill to the starlit sand are a bright, liquid gold.

What rises in the end is the Nerevarine, but Ilmarenya Ara’dayn, but something altogether other. Ilmarenya’s eyes, burning with all sundown’s fire, lift to the summit and the loom that waits atop it, and she begins to ascend.

[dre6ming]

Bubbles & Bubbly

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Pairing: Austin Butler x fem reader

Warning: smut (p&v sex) unprotected sex (always use protection, minors dni 18+, fluff

Plot: both you and Austin had a bad day and when he comes home, he surprises you with a small gift, enjoying a bubble bath with you

Word count: 1500

You're curled up in bed, under the blankets, looking at the glowing numbers on the clock sitting on your nightstand. You blink every time one of the numbers changes, praying with each passing minute that you'll fall asleep. But that doesn't seem to happen, you've had a horrible day if you were being honest. You woke up late for your meeting, then on the way there you tripped and fell into a puddle, wetting your clothes, so not only were you late, but you also looked like a wet muddy mess.

The rest of the day went no better, after you changed your clothes, you were called into your bosses office and she handed to you, two new cases to take care of, which on any other day you'd be happy to take, but you were still struggling with the last cases you had coming up, so the work overload was just another hit. When you got home all you wanted to do was to cuddle up in bed with Austin and maybe cry into his chest, while he rocked you in his arms, but it just seems that you can't have anything these days. Austin was busy with interviews and even now as the clock strikes 1:32 am he's not home.

He texted earlier to say, the traffic was horrible and that he'll be home in 2 hours, so here you are now, wanting to fall asleep, but resisting it because you want to wait for him. The hair on the back of your neck stands up, when you hear the front door open and close, jumping a bit at the loud noise. This makes your heart race, Austin knows it's late, he would never slam the door like that. As a cold sweat covers your body the thought passes your mind that what if that wasn't Austin? You stay unmoved in bed, listening closely and relaxing when you hear the door to the fridge open and close, then the sound of a beer bottle being opened. No thief would sit for a beer first.

Slowly you peel the blankets back, dragging yourself out of bed and into the dark apartment, following the light coming form the kitchen. You peak your head into the kitchen, your heart squeezing in your chest as Austin's image comes into view. Standing at the table, with the beer in his hand, head dropped low and hair messy. As you make your way to him, the floor creeks under you and he lifts his head up to look at you. You have to bite your tongue not to audibly gasp at his bloodshot eyes. "Did I wake you?" He asks concerned, causing the corner of your mouth to twitch upward, appreciating his care for you. "No, baby." You shake your head and keep on walking to him, sliding onto his lap, as he sits back against the chair, to make sure you have enough room to curl up to his chest. Austin's arms automatically reaching for you, sighing at the warmth of your body against his. "I have something for you." He speaks softly with his lips brushing the shell of your ear, making shivers run down your spine.

"You didn't have to get me anything, Aus.." you whisper, playing with the collar of his shirt between your fingers. Looking at him, caressing his face with one hand, you touch his dark circles with your thumb, wishing them away. "Nonsense, I always think of my girl and what would make her happy.." this makes you smile, as he slides a hand into the pocket of his jeans. "The hotel where we did the press today was right across from this small jewelry shop, I passed it briefly when I got there early in the morning, the sun was shining on it and the light reflected into my eyes, attracting my attention." As he speaks he holds up a thin gold chain, with a small cursive letter A hanging form it. "Just like that Taylor song you love so much." He puts the jewelry in the palm of your hand and you look at the dainty gift.

"I want to wear his initial on chain round my neck, not because he owns me, because he really knows me." You recite softly, feeling tears stings your eyes, blinking them away. With a bright smile, already forgetting about the horrible day you've had, you put your lips over his, meeting him in a wet sloppy kiss. "Let's take a bath, but first." You give him the gold chain back, turning around in his lap and lifting your hair out of the way. Austin's cold fingers brush against your flaming skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Before you put your hair down his lips kiss the back of your neck, making you shiver. "Come on, (y/n) I can't wait to feel your skin on mine" Austin whispers in your ear, as your heart speeds up, thudding in your chest.

Giggling you get up from his lap, taking his hand and leading him into the bathroom, where you turn the water on, adding a tone of foaming soap to the bathtub. You watch as Austin slowly peels off every layer of clothing, discarding them into the hamper. You love watching him do every little thing, but tonight everything seems to hurt when he moves and that makes your heart ache. Shaking back into reality, you also take off your pajamas and underwear, coming close to him, hugging him, laying your head in his naked chest. "Bad day?" You ask, as he rubs circles into your back with his thumbs. "Yeah, you?" Promoting your chin up on his chest you look up at him and Austin leans his head down to meet your eyes. "Yeah." You sigh, kissing him, trembling as his hands travel up your body, cupping your face.

"Let's get in, I don't want you to catch a cold." Austin runs his fingers along the back of your arms, looking at you lovingly. You step aside and let him get into the tub first, following soon after, resting with your back against his chest . "Mhm, I love you (y/n)." Austin tells you, his hands coming to your chest, to play with your nipples. You moan into his touch, throwing your head back, feeling desire pool between your legs. "Baby, I need to be inside you, please." Austin begs, your whole body feels like it's on fire and you move on autopilot, turning around, to straddle his hips. You take his hard cock in your hand, pumping him a few times, watching Austin gasp, forcing his hips to stay still. "Please." He says, kneading your breasts, going to kiss your neck. Your belly twists with need and you line him up to your aching pussy, feeling his tip nudge at your entrance. "Aus, baby, I love you so much." You kiss him, as one of his hands travels down your front, reaching for your clit to rub tight circles over it.

You instinctively clench around his cock, that's barely in, which makes him wince. "No teasing, (y/n) not now, I need you!" He speaks against your lips and you sink down onto him, already wet enough to take him comfortably. You both moan into each other's mouths and Austin grips your hips, moving you over him, causing water to splash around. He plants his heels into the bottom of the tub, lifting his hips up to meet yours. Every time he's fully inside you, his tip pushes against that spot that has you seeing stars, making you clench around him. Heavy breathing and water splashing fills the bathroom, your lips staying glued to his the entire time, swallowing each other's cries. "I'm close, please, Aus!" You hold onto his shoulders, digging your nails into his skin, moving one hand to your clit, touching yourself. Austin looks down, looking through the bubbles, at the way your pussy swallows him whole with each thrust. "Fuck, my love, (y/n), I'm going to cum!"

Austin's fingers dig into your sides, his thrusts getting sloppier and you feel that very familiar feeling of being on the edge of ecstasy. "Me too, cum for me Aus.." you whisper in his ear, intentionally squeezing around him, feeling him twitch inside of you. "Mhm, fuck, my good girl, my best girl, I love you (y/n)." Austin grunts, throwing his head back, his muscles tensing as you heel him twitch and then the warmth of his cum takes you over the edge. Your orgasm washes over you, numbing your body, as you hug Austin close, moving your hips over his absentmindedly, riding your orgasms out.

By now the water in the tub is lukewarm and you're both covered in a thin sheet of sweat. Your chest glued to his, heaving in sink, with each passing breath. "I love you!" Austin says, reaching behind you for the sponge and body wash, lathering your skin, not bothering to move you off of his now softening cock. "I love you too!" You kiss his nose, letting him wash you, watching him pay attention to everything patch of skin, memorizing like he's done so many times before. The bad day you both had, going down the drain with the water, once you're both clean and out of the tub.

Tags: @galaxygirl453 @rainydayz101 @samaraannhan20 @marlowmode @myradiaz @areuirish @micaelainthe60s @homebodybirkin2003 @pennyroyalcreep @purejasmine @strokesofstokes @lanasfloridakiloss @denised916 @kibumslatina @macey234 @melodixs-blog @shantellescrivener @chewiethecatus @guacala @fangirl125reader @father-of-2cats @lucid315 @melodixs-blog @ilovehobi101 @richardslady121 @jensmithin @julie181 @chrisevansgirl34 @ranaissingle @onecrazydirectioner @maria-1287 @austinbutlerssimp

[peach-top]

➤ ❝𝙐𝙉𝘿𝙀𝙍 𝙋𝙍𝙀𝙎𝙎𝙐𝙍𝙀❞

➤ CHAPTER II. | GETTING CLOSER.

➤ WARNING: nah...

The next day, [Y] was going to leave for work, but his mother stopped him by holding a pie in hand, “Please hand this to your friend, Sebastian.”

“Ah. Really? You really don't have to, Ma.” [Y] chuckled. Ma smiled gently, “I wouldn't leave him eating nothing but slop. Tell him that I say hi.”

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

Sebastian was facing the wall, knowing that the young scientist would come in to greet him with a bright smile, but something captured his full attention. He smells pie which causes him to turn around and hell there's actually pie.

“What is this scam?” Sebastian glared.

“It's rude to call it a scam.” [Y] sulked. “Ma made this for ya, you know?”

“For me? Heh. As if she would make it for someone like me. You probably told her to bring those pies.” Sebastian huffed, looking away. The young scientist shook his head, “Ma was the one who suggested this. She wanted to make this for you. I sorta told her about you.”

“...What does she think of me, huh? A hideous monster?” Sebastian scowled.

“No. She thinks the same way I think of you. A human being. She's only making you pie to make you feel better.” [Y] said. “She doesn't know what your favorite flavor you like, but she made [flav.] pie.”

“...”

“She also wants to say “hi” to you.” The young scientist smiled, holding the pie out to Sebastian. Sebastian's eyes landed on a bag with a glowing fish in it, “And that…fish?”

“This is for Eyefestation to make friends with. And…” the young scientist then whispers to Sebastian, “I'm planning to set them free into the tank. I know a way.”

“You're insane.” Sebastian deadpanned.

“Insanely smart.” [Y] winked. “So…would you like some pie? If not, then I'll force you. Ma always makes the best food with love and it can't go to waste.”

“...” Sebastian stayed quiet as the young scientist handed him the pie. It had been a while since he ate something good. He remembers his mother baking some pie for him. Even as a monster, why did [Y]’s mother go through all of this just to bake him some pie? Bake a pie for someone she never met. “Why…? Why are you even trying? That won't change my image about you. Stop trying to get on my good side.”

“...I’m just worrying about you, ok? You really think I worked here as a professional scientist?” [Y] furrowed his eyebrows. He then whispers, “I'm only here to collect information on this company. When I found out about the monsters, I thought I could do something to gain their trust to have them trust me in setting them free.”

“My eldest sister is a chief officer while her twin brother is a detective. Once I collect everything I need, I'll finally be able to expose the dark side of this company and free the monsters.”

“You…” Sebastian's eyes widened. “You should realize how risky it is. If they find out about your plan then you'll be as good as dead…”

“Died trying to save you all from this prison. I can't stand seeing you all like this…” [Y] frowned. “Trust me on this and I'll prove that I can save you all even if it's risky.”

“...” The fishman gasped softly. How stupid can this young scientist be to go through this mess? Why does Sebastian care anyway? Not like he is taking interest in the recruiter. “You're really insane.”

“Insanely reckless, they say~” [Y] popped a ‘p’.

“...” Sebastian grabbed a fork and took a bite of the pie. His eyes lit up at the taste of the pie. He hasn't eaten a pie in a long time. Eating this pie reminded him of his mother which caused his eyes to become watery.

[Y] panicked, “A-ah. Is it not your favorite? I'll tell ma to get you anoth—”

“Thank you…” Sebastian muttered. [Y] blinked bewilderingly, “Huh?”

“...Tell your mom that I said thank you. The pie…is amazing…” Sebastian expressed his thoughts while wiping away his tears. [Y] let out a sigh of relief and smiled, “Good…I was worried that you hate the taste. There's no need to cry tho.”

“S…shut up…Blame your ma for making a pie this damn good.” Sebastian sniffled. “It…reminded me of my own mother…”

[Y] was going to reach out to pat Sebastian on the back, but he didn't want to cause any trouble. So…he gave him a hug instead, catching the fishman by surprise. Sebastian does not like physical touch from others besides his family.

“Get off…” Sebastian growled, trying to push the young scientist away, but the [h] haired male tightened his grip on him. “I don't like physical touch!”

[Y] continue to embrace Sebastian. No matter how many scratches Sebastian left on his white coat, he won't let go. Realizing how pointless it is to escape the young scientist’s warm embrace, Sebastian gave in the hug.

“You're so annoying…” Sebastian mumbled.

“Good news~ I was given 30 minutes! So let's talk for a bit.” [Y] beamed.

Sebastian sighed with defeat, “Oh my life…Ugh…Fine…What do you want to talk about?”

“What's your favorite music?” [Y] asked. Sebastian responded, “Heavy metal.”

“Oh? What's your favorite band?”

“Metallica. It actually inspired me to play music. I play an electric guitar.” The fishman explained which perk [Y]’s interest.

“I don't think I've heard of Metallica before. They're really that good tho?” [Y] inquired. Sebastian replied, “They're dope. You should try listening to it. I listen to it in my freetime.”

“Ah…Since you like to listen to music during your free time. How about this?” [Y] grabbed a music player and ear plug from his pocket and handed it to Sebastian. “You can take this to listen to whatever music you like in your freetime.”

“...Did you always come prepared?”  Sebastian raised his eyebrows.

“Ma did say that we should always be prepared.” [Y] smiled.

Sebastian deadpanned, “You're such a Mama's boy…”

You're the one to talk, Sebastian.

“I’m proud of being a Mama's boy.” The young scientist chuckled proudly. Sebastian huffed and took the music player, “...Thanks. I'll try listening to it…”

“Look like you finally say thank you to me~” [Y] joked.

“Shut up or I'll eat you…” Sebastian growled.

“You wouldn't~ You are probably too shy to admit that you like me already~” the young scientist teased.

“God, you're annoying as hell.” The fishman scoffed, but he started to like it with the young scientist being there with him. [Y] was being genuine by trying to make Sebastian feel like he's at home. [Y] grew up in a great family who didn't see Sebastian as a monster. He hates to admit this, but he's glad that he met [Y].

“Hey, what exactly is your favorite music and band?” Sebastian asked.

“Country music and [insert your favorite music].” [Y] answered. “And my favorite band is [insert favorite band].”

“Huh. That doesn't sound too bad. Guess you don't have bad taste.” Sebastian hummed with interest in his voice. “Whenever you're not at work, what do you do while you're not working?”

“Work at the farm and you know, taking turns scooping up the poo. Today's my turn.” [Y] sighed. “Lost in a game of rock, paper, scissors every time. I can never win.”

Sebastian cringed at the poo part, but found it a little funny that the male lost to a game of rock, paper, scissors. It's almost accurate since he's the youngest.

“Hahahaha! You really are the little brother!” Sebastian laughed.

“Hey! Don't blame me! Because I'm the youngest, I'm always being treated like a child. They're overprotective and keep watch of me cleaning up the poo.” [Y] sulked.

“You have a baby face after all.” The fishman snickered, giving the young scientist a small flick on the forehead. “How cute~”

“Oi! Don't call me that!” [Y] rubs his forehead where Sebastian flick him. “It's giving me those memories when ma gave me a costume where I had to dress as a lamb.”

“Oh ho~ I gotta see that~” Sebastian grinned devilishly, hoping to see the costume.

“No can do. It's embarrassing.” [Y] crossed his arms.

“C’mon~ Just a small peek~” Sebastian chuckled, leaning closer to the young scientist. “I'll let you pet my head~”

This captures [Y]’s attention. He narrowed his eyes on Sebastian, hoping he's not lying. The fishman held his hands up in defense, “I'm being serious~ No joke.”

“Hmmmm…” [Y] narrowed his eyes before grabbing his phone from his pocket and strolling through the gallery. “Don't laugh, got it? I was 4 at the time when that happened.”

“I promise~” Sebastian smirked. The young scientist then shows off his video of himself in a lamb costume, dancing. The fishman held back laughter upon watching the video. It's cute, but hilarious.

“There. Happy?” [Y] blushed with embarrassment as he put his phone away. Sebastian burst out laughing, “HAHAHAHAHA! YOU'RE SO CUTE!”

“You promise not to laugh!” [Y] gawked.

“I can't hold it any longer! Hahahaha!!!” Sebastian wheezed, slamming his fist on the nightstand, nearly knocking over Ziya. The young scientist pouted cutely before grabbing Sebastian's tail and nib on it, causing the fishman to yelp. “What the hell are you doing?!”

“You're a liar!” [Y] argued before continuing to nibble on Sebastian's tail. Sebastian yelped, “Oi! Stop that!”

“Apologize!”

“Never!”

“You big, fat—”

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

Sebastian was left with bite marks on his tail because of [Y] while the young scientist received a bump on the head after the fishman bonked him on the head.

“You're crazy for this. You're lucky that I didn't kill you.” Sebastian huffed.

“That's your fault for breaking a promise.” [Y] sulked. “And you still haven't apologized.”

“Tch! Whatever.” Sebastian scoffed, turning his back towards the young scientist. “I'm not gonna apologize.”

[Y] pouted before grabbing his fish and headed towards the door, grabbing Sebastian's attention. Sebastian turned to look over his shoulder, “Hey, where are you going?”

“I'm heading out.” [Y] huffed.

“30 minutes isn't up yet. Why so early?” Sebastian raised his eyebrows.

“You were mocking me…” the young scientist pouted.

“Huh? I wasn't mocking you…I was…” Sebastian stopped himself from talking cause he didn't want to admit it at all.

“Eh? You were what?” [Y] tilted his head.

“...Damnit…I was laughing…because…it's…” The fishman looked away, feeling embarrassed. [Y] leaned closer to hear what he's about to say.

“...cute…” Sebastian muttered the last part.

[Y]’s ear lit up. He leaned closer to Sebastian’s personal space, “Huh? Cute? What's that you say? Say it louder~”

“No way…” Sebastian huffed as he looked away. [Y] beamed then pet Sebastian on the head, “Don't worry, I've heard it all.”

“I hate you so much…” Sebastian growled, but was secretly enjoying the head pat.

“Yes, yes, I know~” the young scientist smiled genuinely. He then checked his watch, “Ah. 30 minutes are up. Time to meet up with Eyefestation.”

“...” Sebastian frowned when the young scientist removed his hand from his head. He didn't want [Y] to leave, he wanted him to stay a little longer.

“Hey, Sebastian.” [Y]’s voice snapped Sebastian out of his thoughts. The young scientist pointed out, “Um…Can you let go?”

Sebastian looks down to realize that he was tugging on [Y]’s lab coat before letting go of him, “Sorry.”

“Ah…don't worry, I'll be back tomorrow with more pie and I can bring something that you might like.” [Y] grinned. “Glad we were able to get close. Not like I have many friends besides the farm animals. Wait, we're…friends, right?”

“...” Sebastian stared for a brief moment before responding, “...If you consider us as friends then that fine…”

[Y]’s eyes lit up with excitement, “Been a while since I've made friends with someone besides the farm animals. Thanks, Sebastian.”

“...Hm.” Sebastian hummed. “T…tell your ma that I say hi back…”

“I will~ See ya tomorrow. Try not to miss me~” [Y] winked. Sebastian scoffed, “In your dream.”

The young scientist chuckled as he exited out of the room, leaving Sebastian alone.

It's quiet…Too quiet. He doesn't like the silence or being alone. It was starting to feel fun when [Y] was around. But there's always a tomorrow. Sebastian grabbed the music player then attracted the earplugs to his ears and listened to some calming music. He was glad he was given a music player. He sure hopes it won't be taken away from him.

Outside the room, before [Y] could leave to see Eyefestation, Dr. ███████ greeted him.

“Pie? You're feeding that thing human food?” The senior scientist questioned. “They're not human anymore, they're nothing but experiments that need to be tested, not treat its like a person.”

“They have pronouns. And they're not just experiments. They're living beings who deserve to be treated equal, Dr. ███████.” [Y] glared. “...I won't be needing you to order me around since I know what I'm doing. Ciao.”

The senior scientist watched the young scientist walk away. Dr. ███████ gritted his teeth and clench his fists, really to beat the shit out of [Y], but unfortunately it's not professional for a scientist. He just needs to wait for his chance.

Meanwhile, [Y] managed to sneak Ziya into the tank with Eyefestation. Eyefestation seems to like her new fish friend and was grateful that she won't be alone underwater. The scientists don't even care to even notice the glowing goldfish.

➤ prev.

➤ next.

[contentloadingandstuff]

At The Dead Of Night - Ganyu x Male!Reader

CW: Modern AU, mentions of self harm, blood, dark themes. Angst with a cute little twist.

Ganyu yawns, covering her mouth with her gloved hand. Her eyes drift over to the hour display in the bottom right corner of her office computer. Half past eleven. She takes a final sip of her latte and throws the empty cup into the bin.

She looks back at the Word document. A spendings report she had been working on for the past three hours. The report she was basing it off of seemed to drag on into infinity, so Ganyu decided to end the shift now. An hour of overtime is still far too much. It wouldn't be if not for you. You always told her that work should be done exclusively in work hours, and she listened. Well, most of the time. 

She logs off and gets up. After packing just a few pieces of cutlery and her tea thermos, she heads out of the building. Cool night air greets her, humid and refreshing. Just what she needs after a ten hour workday. The only thing better than this would be a cup of tea and snuggles with you. 

She clicks the button on her car keys and the lights glow orange. She gets into the driver's seat, placing her purse on the other one. Just as she's about to start the car, her phone buzzes. After a quick excavation she pulls it out. The sudden brightness hurts her eyes. Seven new text messages from you. 

(22:14) Y/N💕: Hi beautiful, how are you doing? 

(22:14) Y/N💕: I'm quite exhausted, tough day at work. You know how it is. 

(22:17) Y/N💕: I know you're busy, but could you come home? I'm not feeling that great, and I would really appreciate it if you could cuddle me a little. 

(22:23) Y/N💕: I'm feeling so lonely. I need you. Please. 

(22:23) Y/N💕: I'm having those thoughts again, and I don't know if I can fight them. 

(22:23) Y/N💕: please

(23:02) Y/N💕: Come home, Ganyu. 

She furrows her brows, and the familiar weight of regret tugs on her heart. If only she checked her phone earlier… She could have left earlier. What if, because of her… You've hurt yourself again? No, no, no… 

Her stomach is turning with worry as she starts the car. Ganyu turns the steering wheel and presses on the accelerator. The streets are empty, luckily for her. She cruises through empty crossing and disables traffic lights, going at the maximum allowed speed of 60. 

Before long, she parks on the gravel parking right in front of your home. She looks out the window at the house. The light is on in the bedroom. Just as she turns, she can see the curtains move slightly. She grabs her bag and leaves the car, locking it with a button press over her shoulder. Ganyu moves as fast as her high heels would allow. She opens the decorative garden gate and runs up to the door. 

Unsurprisingly, it's unlocked. The entrance hallway is dark, so she turns on the light. She leaves her shoes in the corridor and calls out. 

"Y/N? I'm home! What's going on? How are you feeling?" 

No response. Maybe you're just in the toilet. Ganyu goes to the kitchen, turning the lights on there as well. She puts down her bag, and stops. The table is a mess. Flipped over cups, bottles scattered on the ground, shards of broken glass and ceramic on the floor, cupboards thrown open, their contents strewn around in the tiles. The cutlery drawer is completely ravaged - the entire tray has been thrown across the room. 

The mental image in Ganyu's mind makes her heart race. 

"Y/N? Y/N, are you okay? Please, just… t-talk to me!" 

No response, so she runs up the stairs onto the second floor. It's engulfed in darkness, safe for the pale light leaking through the bathroom's closed door. She walks up to it and places several knocks on the wood.

"Are you here? It's me, G-Ganyu! Open… You're scaring me, Y/N…" 

Ganyu hears a rustle to her right. Her head snaps in that direction, but the darkness makes it impossible to see anything. She stretches out her arm and flicks the lights on. All doors except the one to your bedroom are closed. That one is thrown open. Ganyu's beautiful eyes can see that the doorway is damaged. The fragment lined up with the extended lock bolt is completely destroyed, and splinters are scattered on the carpet. She can also spot several small, black holes in the door. 

A breakdown… The worst one so far… She can see it clearly - you're crying, breaking down, hitting everything within reach, trying, desperately trying to not hurt yourself… The damage can be easily fixed, but you… She can't bring you back if you did something stupid… 

She knocks on the door harder, begging for you to respond. Just now, her nostrils pick up the awful coppery smell floating around the hall. Blood. 

No, oh no, no no no no no no no no… 

Ganyu can't wait anymore. She presses the door handle and pushes open the door with tears in her eyes. 

And she sees… 

Nothing. 

The light is on, the smell is strong, the room is a mess, but you are nowhere to be found. Now, instead of worry, something else starts to build inside her chest. She looks into the bathtub, and sees red stains near the drain. Ganyu finds the same thing in the sink. The smell of copper is extremely strong near the trash can. It makes her eyes wet with its sheer intensity. Before she can press the lever with her foot to reveal its contents, she hears a creak behind her. 

Her whole body snaps around to face the darkness of the doorway. Silence. Her eyes are wide and her bottom lip is trembling. Something is stuck in her throat, making it nearly impossible to speak. She speaks out with a shaky voice. 

"Y/N?" 

A cascade of loud noises echo from the ground floor, growing increasingly closer. She panics. Ganyu slams the bathroom door closed and turns the lock. She takes a step back. You bang against the door repeatedly. It jumps back and bends with every powerful strike. It's barely holding. Ganyu runs up to it and presses her back against the wood. Her whole body jerks as you slam your body into the barrier over and over again. The wood creaks, crashes, shakes, but it holds firm. On her back she can feel the metal handle being pressed down rapidly. 

"Y/N STOP! T-THIS IS NOT F-FUNNY!" She's crying, but you don't stop at her pleas. 

Suddenly, everything stops. The bashing, the shaking, the sounds. It's quiet. Ganyu chokes back a sob, and takes a step back. She listens in for a moment. There's no noise, not even a sound of ragged, exhausted breathing that would surely be there after this attack. Ganyu covers her mouth with her hands, trying to silence herself as much as possible. For the following minute or so there's just nothing. She slowly leans in and presses her ear against the wood. 

"Y/N?" 

The door is bashed again. It holds, but the sudden force sends her stumbling back. Her foot slips on the crumpled carpet and she falls, the back of her head striking against the bathtub's edge, thrusting her mind into oblivion. 

—

Her head is pounding. She slowly opens her tear-filled eyes. Black spots and strange shapes crawl around in her field of view. With a moan of pain she pushes herself off the floor with her elbows. Using the bathtub as support, Ganyu raises back to her feet. 

What happened? What time is it? Where is she, even? What's with the smell? Why is the door closed? Her mind trashes around, desperately attempting to understand her predicament, to no avail. She sits down on the toilet, rubbing the back of her head. It's white-hot with pain and wet with blood. Upon seeing the liquid staining her head, she feels her stomach turn. She throws open the toilet and vomits. It takes a while, but she manages to get out a part of the nausea, fear and stress. She wobbles over to the sink and turns on the water. After cleaning out the disgusting taste of bile out if her mouth, she turns to the door again. It's still locked, still firm in place. Once again there is no sound from behind it. 

Ganyu takes a moment to ease her vertigo. The memories of what just occurred slowly creep back to her. She needs a plan. She needs a solution. An explanation. Anything. 

You're clearly not yourself. You're aggressive. Ganyu unplugs the washing machine and pushes it against the door, reinforcing her safe room. She tries to calm her breathing, to no avail. 

There's no window in here. She doesn't have her phone to call for help. Her Vision might be enough to protect her, but not for long. 

She walks back against the wall and slides down. She hides her crying in her hands. 

"Let me in, Ganyu." 

A voice speaks out from the other side of the barricade. She quickly looks up at the door. It sounds off. It's like… somebody recorded your scream and used it as a voice over. It's an awful, crude imitation of your real voice. Just hearing those words, spoken as if you were a child just learning to talk makes her skin crawl. She hears banging against the wood, forcing out more tears. 

"N-no… You're n-not Y/N… W-what did y-you do to him?!" She screams. 

You, no, the thing posing as you laughs. "Oh, silly Ganyu! It's me, can't you hear? You can always open the door and find out for yourself." 

The voice brings more nausea. The thing, the destruction in the house, the ever-present smell of blood… something terrible, terrible happened to you. Whatever is behind that door is not you. Not anymore. 

"Leave me a-alone!" Ganyu tries hard to sound intimidating. Authoritative. In control. All her attempts are drowned by the waterfall of tears. 

"My de-dear, you must be so cold and sad in there. Let me in, and we can cuddle. I'll kiss your tears away, I'll tell you all about how beautiful you are. My little goat."

Just hearing the nickname you gave her coming from the lips of that makes her cry even harder. 

"L-leave me a-alone… P-please…" A whisper is all she can muster. 

"Oh, Ganyu. Why would I do that?", speaks the thing wearing your skin and puppeteering your voice. "I love you so much, after all."

She curls into a ball on the floor. 

"Just let me in, and we can forget about this little misunderstanding, yes?" 

She moves her hand to cover her ears. She presses down hard, but its voice can still reach her. 

"Let me in, and you can eat all the Qingxin flowers in the world… I'll even feed you! You were always so silly about your figure… But for me, the plumper you are, the more of you there is to love!" 

"STOP! STOP! S-SHUT UP!" Ganyu is screaming as loud as her lungs will allow. The thing just laughs at her. Its voice becomes much clearer. 

"Nobody is coming to help you-you-you, Ganyu. Let me in. It's your-your only option." 

It sounds like a stuck recording. A stuck recording of your death throes. She feels sick to her stomach. 

"GO AWAY! I WON'T LET YOU INSIDE!" 

The laughing stops. Ganyu remains on the floor, hot tears dripping down her cheeks. You are gone. You have been murdered. You have been replaced with this. It wears your skin, it has your memories, but it fails to use your voice correctly. It's a mock-up, a parody of you. And it's laughing at her. 

She'll die here. 

Banging returns, but this time it's far stronger. She looks fearfully to the door. The middle part, right above the washing machine, is bending. Hit after hit, it grows more deformed under the strength of the imitation. Cracks begin to form, and with a final blow a hole is punched through the wood. She wails in horror and scurries to the opposite end of the room. 

The lights go out. From beyond the opening Ganyu sees two white dots. A whisper sounds amidst the silence. 

"Nobody is coming for you."

Deformed, stretched out arms shoot towards her. 

—

Ganyu wakes up with a scream. She instantly sits up and looks around. Darkness envelops her, doing nothing to calm her raging heart. She searches around with her hands, but instead of the cold tiles she feels the soft comfort of the bed. She freezes. 

Acting on reflex she turns to her right, only to see your sleeping form right next to her. It takes a moment, but her anxiety calms enough to allow her to move. She drops down on the bed with a sigh of relief. In the darkness she can see your features, and she can't prevent her hand from going to caress them. Your skin is soft, delicate, pleasant to the touch. And real. So beautifully real. 

She admires you for a moment. It's okay. She's okay. But most of all - you're okay. You're still here. Here to love her, here to keep her safe, here to kiss all her tears away. 

She turns her back to you and wiggles right back into your arms. Careful not to wake you, she moves your arms to rest over her tummy. Her eyes drift closed again, breathing now calm and steady again. 

Her eyes snap open. 

She feels no breathing on her exposed neck. 

Before she can scream, a hand covers her mouth. 

"Ba-bad decision, Ganyu." 

Thanks for reading!

[maxparkhurst]

Duplicity

Somewhere in the distance, the clock tolled eight.

A warm, ember glow filtered through the curtains to cast a dappling spotlight upon Max. She hovered outside the window pane, peering into what would otherwise be a dim and dark interior. The alchemical sconces were lit to full this evening as her brother and their assistant - an aspiring arcanist named Colette- guided a fresh face through the labyrinth of books, herbs, and alchemical formulae. The new hire was a stripling of an elf, whose name eluded Max despite being introduced not moments prior. Colette fluttered like a hummingbird around the new hire, chirping in his ear as she fed on the nectar of his attention. She plucked vials haphazardly from their cases and paraded them as if they were her own concoctions. Watching her peacock around, knowing very well Max’s departure would not be for another few days, coated the alchemist’s throat in a caustic venom.

She did not want to hire Colette, much less a second assistant. Not for a lack of finance; between the stipends gifted by several organizations and the building’s rent covered by their absentee benefactor, the Parkhursts were to able accrue both monetary and influential wealth. From connections to the Gilnean Black Market, to the discrete research done for the kingdom’s reconnaissances division, it was safe to say that the Parkhursts possessed hands in several pockets. Except for Dalaran. No one held much claim in Dalaran; not as recently.

The shattering of glass caused Max to retreat into the shadow. Colette stood with upraised palms, she and the new hire blinking at the pool of azure and glass at their feet- utterly dumbfounded. A sour scowl drew across Max’s lips. No, it was not a lack of money that made her loathe someone new or novel.

Max’s attention briefly flicked to her brother. Augustine dispelled their stupor with a gentle smile and a chittering laugh. Both Colette and the elf grinned alongside him as they stepped back from the mess. Her brother’s gentle nature disarmed even the most seasoned veteran. Warm and affable, people often drew to him like moths to the flame. Yet as of the last few months, he began to shift. Slow and subtle. Constant, like a shimmer of sorts, dark like an overcast sky. She first noticed it when she woke in Drustvar after a long slumber. She heard it in his voice. In his choice of words. Not wrong. No. Still undoubtedly her brother. But there was deliberation in his words. Reservation. A guarded nature she did not see in him before. He was different. As if possessed of some new secret. Or, perhaps more adequate, stripped of something integral. Augustine was adept at batting away the topic of Drustvar and its witch. Whatever happened, he would not share with Max. He only continued to be different.

Augustine guided them to a new case of potions, directing their attention away from the deepening shadow sewn to his feet. The dark pool rippled and stirred. Tendrils rose from the depths, wavering in the shop’s glow, before coalescing into themselves. Gradually, the dark took form. A mirror image of her brother separated from his shadow. It was void of color and depth as if it’d been clipped from the daily paper. With an off-handed gesture from Augustine, the shade began cleaning the broken vial.

The mishap remedied and forgotten, the three continued their charades. Colette the bird and Elf the sheep, poking and prodding at Max’s work. Shepherded by Auggie - her dearest brother- who was more vulpine than either of them could ever imagine.

Max watched from the other side of the window. The burden of the sky weighed on her shoulders. The Alliance called for aid in Khaz Algar; if she did not go, then he must. And she would do anything to keep him safe within her shadow of silver-spun sophistry.

Some part of her, though, wished to go inside. To banish these newcomers from her burrow…

Somewhere in the distance, the clock tolled nine.

Smoke burned Max’s throat raw. The last of the cigarette sucked down in greedy puffs before being snuffed of its embers. Max tucked the bud in her pocket - after all, she must maintain the image of a consciousness citizen- and pushed off her claimed lamppost. A salt-laced breeze from the harbor rustled her hair, tiptoeing past to the silent gardens of Lion’s Rest. News of Dalaran and the growing onslaught of Nerubians finally reached Stormwind. It suffocated the last inkling of summer idealism, leaving behind a dense shawl of unrest and uncertainty. Many were recruited to the front lines. Most soldiers. Some artisans, scholars, mages, alchemists…

A sigh escaped Max’s chest as she meandered through the stone arches that fed into the harbor. She passed a number of shops on her way, a dozen unlit, a dozen half-lit, and a dozen dying dark. The city was dead as a result of recent events. Which served Max just fine. She needn’t worry about which mask appeared most pleasant. Even if it that dance were almost reflexive at this point. Being clever and pleasant was always exhausting. Better to be seen by no one at all.

She stopped just short of a door nestled where Light, Death, and the Deep meet.

Well- perhaps that was a small lie. There were a few individuals who saw past Max’s facade. And one in particular whose gaze she sought more than anyone’s.

From her satchel, Max fished out a sealed envelope. She ran her thumbs over the corners, ignoring the needle stuck between her ribs. A courtesy, she reminded herself, to a friend. That was the purpose of her letter. Her gaze lifted to the Kraken embossed on the door. A momentary pause as she wrestled with herself, hand poised above the knocker. She sucked the backs of her teeth and withdrew into herself. Standing on the other side of the door, she shifted on cold feet. The burden of her decisions weighed heavily on her shoulders.

Max drew in a quiet breath before placing the envelope in the door’s mail slot. She stepped back into the streets, hands stuffed in her pockets, and took a final cursory glance over the building. All the windows were vacant of light, much like the rest of the city at this hour. She found it rather peculiar and lingered a moment longer. The home’s tenant was gone for the evening. Not a strange occurrence. Yet Max couldn’t seem to shake a distinct feeling of deja vu.

Stuffing tendrils of dread deep into her chest, Max snaked her way through the Cathedral District and towards the Canals.

Some part of her, though, wished to retreat back in time. To a small cottage hidden in the shadows of the Jade Temple…

Somewhere very near, the clock tolled ten.

“He must be worried.”

More statement than question, Max’s voice cut through the Canal’s gentle quiet. She perched on the bridge connecting the Trade District and Old Town. Another sealed envelope sat heavy in her lap. Her myopic gaze lifted from the water and slid to the slip of shadow that lingered a few paces back. At this hour, with the street lamps burning low, the feline appeared paper thin. No more than a piece of shadow-stitched patchwork with eyes that glistened like translucent marbles. No fire burned in its gaze. Those eyes belonged to Calcifer alone.

“Is he still tending to our guests?”

The feline flicked its tail.

Max pursed her lips with a flat-note hum.

“I see.”

She offered the envelope down to the shadow familiar.

It stared back, unblinking.

“Deliver this to Director Hawke for me.” She settled back on her palms when the feline freed her of the missive. Head cocked back and eyes shut, she released a slow breath. “I haven’t the energy to do it myself.”

She was met with silence.

Peeking her eye open, she caught the last glimpse of Calcifer as he stepped out of the lamplight’s halo and dispersed into the evening’s dark.

Alone again.

Some part of her wished that Calcifer had stayed…

____ Mentions: @longveil & @kat-hawke

[kneelbeforeyourdogbabylon]

Sins of Knowledge Chapter 4 is up!

Chaptered fic (4/12?), WIP, posting every other week

More Than an Animal, Less Than a Man

Rated Explicit

CW/TW and tags: sex pollen/dubcon, ethical concerns, coercion, blackmail, human AU, university AU, more tags and notes at AO3, ****Tags have been updated for this chapter, and can also be found in the chapter 4 beginning notes under a spoiler tag -- please read one of those! Link to full work here.

Beta thanks once again to @cheeseplants and @gaiaseyes451! You two are amazing ❤️ also thanks to the @goodomensafterdark community as usual for being a talented, fabulous, and feral place!

Chapter Summary:

Aziraphale and Crowley mess around with a second potion, but the effects are somewhat delayed. Dinner, drinks, and regrets ensue, with a measure of fluff and pound cake (not that kind) to round things off.

Excerpt:

Aziraphale waited impatiently for Crowley to settle up, and as they stepped out into the street his whole face came alight again. “Oh, there’s so much to do in Soho. I live here, you know, and yet it feels like I’ve only been inside a few of these mysterious doorways.”

He stumbled toward one such urine-stained mystery, and Crowley took his arm. Aziraphale immediately leaned into him, oblivious to Crowley’s stiffening. He was so expansive like this! It was like a glimpse into a secret room, one filled with warm light and soft furniture, good smells like tea and bread and greenery. Crowley wanted to sidle inside, stay awhile.

“With Ana and Newt, they’re at a lecture tonight, though. Hopefully it’ll turn onto a date night, or at least Ana hopes so.” Aziraphale led him to a side door alongside a shabby-looking bookshop. “It’s lovely here. So many first editions! Not to mention the erotica in the basement. They let you sit and read all day if you like, and there was a nice large three bedroom flat to let above and we’ve managed to keep it for two years now.”

“Do you need to go up?” Crowley would’ve welcomed the chance to slow things down a bit. Also he may have been a bit stuck on the image of Aziraphale reading from a stack of dusty smutty books. He wouldn’t mind watching that in real time. He wouldn’t mind watching Aziraphale watch paint dry in real time. Ugh. Why. He bit his lower lip.

“Oh, no no! Perfectly fine. I just – ah, wanted to show you.” Aziraphale frowned, and then lit up again. “Let’s go be wild and free in London, shall we? What about karaoke? I’ve never done karaoke.”

Crowley had to straight-up laugh at that. “What, never? That’s actually a beautiful thing, Aziraphale, you want to keep that streak going.” 

“Well then, dancing.”

Oh. Crowley had a brief moment to imagine being in a sticky Soho club with Aziraphale, all dark with a feeble laser show, on a dance floor packed with bumping, writhing bodies, forced closer and closer until they were sweating against each other, that glowing fluff of white hair his only guide in the dark — fuck, his mouth went dry at the image — and then Aziraphale hurried on, completely oblivious, “Oh, no, that won’t do. Ana would never forgive me. She’s made me promise to go dancing with her at the end of term. In celebration, she said.”

Crowley swallowed, but then Aziraphale took a hard left into another tiny doorway, and sighed in happiness. “Ah. Here we are.”

Read the rest at the AO3!

Or start from the beginning here

[authorautumnbanks]

The Christmas Wish (3)

"Sorry, it is a bit of a mess in here," Kagome said, flipping the light switch on. The shed was cramped and filled to the brim with trinkets and cursed objects like severed eyeballs and dragon claws. And yet, despite the monstrosities, the shed smelled like vanilla waffles. "There is this fetus-like thing that feels the same as those fingers. For the life of me, I have no idea where Gramps found it." Kagome shook her head and tried to ignore the tightening of her stomach. Gojo Satoru was really tall and the hint of blue that peeked out every now and then from the dark shades was enough to have her contemplating writing a letter to Santa, too.

"Is your grandfather a serial killer?" Satoru joked, pressing his body against hers as he reached around her to grab the jar in question. Kagome blushed, her cheeks tingled, and were probably bright pink like the suckers Shippo always requested. "This is a womb painting," he said, pulling away.

Kagome sucked in a breath and wiped her hands on the front of her shirt. She needed to pull it together. "That doesn't look like a painting." Someone must have mercy on her because her voice did not shake, though her legs felt like a puddle of goo. "But it's a curse?"

Satoru held the jar up closer to the light and hummed. "It's half curse, half human." The jar glowed green for a moment, or it could have been the way the light reflected on the liquids.

"Oh! InuYasha is half demon. But why would someone keep the remains of a child?" To be fair, Kagome was not sure why her grandfather had picked up this particular item, but perhaps he felt it was cursed as well.

Satoru froze and tilted his head to the side, causing his shades to slide down. "Demons are compatible with humans?" Something in his voice gave her pause, but she was not certain if it was genuine curiosity or something more that led him to ask such a question.

Kagome nodded. "Depends on the size, of course. A dragon that doesn't have a more human-like form wouldn't be able to mate with a human." Kagome motioned with her hands. "The logistics of it wouldn't work out." She grimaced. The image alone gave her a shudder of fright.

Satoru clucked his tongue and leaned in closer to Kagome. She took a step back until her back hit the shelf behind her. "What are you doing?"

"I'm not sure," he admitted. "Did you put a spell on me?" His voice lowered and did something to Kagome's psyche.

This would not do. Satoru was a stranger. A hot, powerful stranger if the energy swelling around him was anything to go off on, but still a stranger.

Kagome huffed. "I'm a priestess, not a witch. The only sorcerer in here is you." Her tongue darted out to wet her suddenly dry lips. She should have put some chapstick on before venturing out into the cold. Satoru placed the jar on the shelf behind her. He was so close, his body heat threatened to become her own. Her heart pounded so hard she could feel it in her throat. "Gojo-san—"

"Satoru."

"Satoru," she corrected herself, pushing against his chest. "Was there something else you needed?" Kagome averted her eyes. His chest was as hard as granite. "There are more items like those fingers if you want to take them."

"Can I take anything in this shed?"

Kagome wrinkled her nose and mulled over his words. There were a lot of items that Gramps did not need to hold on to and with her spending the bulk of her time in the past, she did not have time to seal every item her grandfather brought back. "If that is what you wish."

Her stomach churned with need. She wanted to fan herself, but she resisted and instead gripped his jacket to push him away or to pull him away. She was not sure.

"What if I want you?"

Kagome squeaked like a mouse caught in a mousetrap. She should have seen that coming. How many times had she seen Miroku manipulate someone? "Me? I'm not a cursed object," she said with a nervous laugh. Her hands tightened before she was cognizant of what she was doing. Kagome blinked as her body warmed over. Oh. She should let him go. Her hands dropped to her side, though her palms burned and itched with need.

Satoru took a step back and tugged at his hair. "Sorry, I was..." he trailed off and blew out a breath. "Are you sure about us joining you for dinner?"

The change in subject gave her whiplash, but she was grateful for it all the same. Distance was what they both needed. Or maybe just her. Kagome inhaled, trying to get her heart to beat normally, but the thing kept ticking faster as though every moment away from Satoru was strenuous, which was weird. She had never felt this way about any man, human or demon. Why does it feel as though breathing is suddenly so much harder without his body pressed against hers?

Perhaps he had placed a spell on her then.

Kagome crossed her arms. She did not miss how Satoru's shades slid down once more, nor how his eyes glittered like diamonds. "Are you actually human?"

Satoru frowned. "What makes you think I'm not?"

Kagome shrugged. "You're too attractive." There she said it. He was beautiful, like Sesshomaru. No human was that attractive. Surely there was demon somewhere in his bloodline for him to be so god-like in his appearance. An incubus perhaps? Those eyes of his were bewitching.

Satoru laughed. "I'm definitely human." He stuffed his hands into his pockets and rocked on his heels. "Does the dinner invite extend to the rest of the week?"

Kagome chewed on her bottom lip as she thought about his question. Shippo and Megumi were hitting it off. "Yes." She looked at him then. "Could you tell me what Megumi and Tsumiki like? I would like to get them presents as well." She would like to get him a gift as it was only fair, but her tongue refused to cooperate any further. Christmas Eve was tomorrow and while the stores would be packed, she had hoped she could find something for Megumi and Tsumiki.

Satoru stopped rocking on his heels and turned his head towards the door. He scowled when the door flung open and InuYasha poked his head in. "Perhaps we could look at their letters to Santa," he said, though his attention was on InuYasha. His jaw ticked. And maybe she was imagining it, but she liked to think Satoru was upset that they were interrupted.

But what exactly did InuYasha interrupt? She did not have the answer, nor the emotional capacity to give that question the appropriate resources it required. It would have to wait until later when she was tucked in her bed with Shippo cuddled next to her, and the lingering aroma of hot chocolate and cookies in the air.

"The hell is taking you so long?" InuYasha grumbled, pointing a finger at Satoru, who seemed less than amused by InuYasha.

"We were talking," Kagome sighed, turning her back to them so she could grab the jar, but Satoru's words stopped her.

"Leave it. No reason to haul all that right before the holidays."

"Are you sure?"

Satoru nodded. "The seals here are impressive. I'm not concerned." He held a hand for her to take. "I'll go get Tsumiki. Was there anything we should bring for dinner?"

"Oh hell no!" InuYasha griped. "You can't invite strange men to eat with you."

Kagome rolled her eyes and turned her nose up. "So says the man that tried to kill me the first time we met. Satoru has been a gentleman."

"You what?"

"Oh whatever," InuYasha said, ears twitching. "Wasn't tryin' to kill ya. Just scare ya back then." His gold eyes darkened, and he flashed a fang at Satoru. "I'm staying then. Don't get any wise ideas, buddy."

Satoru scoffed, and then his mood sobered. "Are you with him?"

Kagome shook her head. "InuYasha and I are just friends." She wrung her hands. Why did he ask her that? Was it possible that he was serious about wanting her? Kagome lost herself in her thoughts as they made their way back to the house. When Satoru waved goodbye so he could go pick up Tsumiki, Kagome's heart left with him. She sat down at the kitchen table, across from Megumi and Shippo, while she pondered on this.

Something occurred in the shed, but what? She tapped her nails on the table and sighed. She was working herself up for no reason. It was surely plain old attraction. She'd spent too much time in the past running around solving everyone else's problems that she'd neglected her own needs.

And that was to get laid.

Kagome sighed and rested her head on the table. It was not like she could write that in her Christmas letter.

"Mama? Are you okay?" Shippo asked, pausing long enough from writing to asked her.

"Did he do something to you?" Megumi asked. "I can beat him up."

Kagome raised her head and smiled. "I'm fine, you two. Promise. Satoru has been nothing but nice," she added. Kagome pushed back against the table and walked over to the fridge. She should get something started, so Satoru and his crew are not out super late.

"Kagome," InuYasha called. "Need to talk to ya."

Kagome rolled her eyes skyward and scuffed her feet across the kitchen floor, drawing laughter from the children. She smiled and followed InuYasha out of the kitchen and to the living room, where he paced for several seconds and then finally rounded on her once he gathered his thoughts. Or so she assumed. There was no telling when it came to InuYasha, and she long gave up on trying to decipher his mind.

"Him?"

Kagome pressed her lips together in slight agitation. She had an inkling of who he spoke of, but why did he think he had the right to question her? InuYasha was her best friend, but he was also very hypocritical. "Her?" She shot back.

InuYasha scrunched his nose and hmphed as though that would be enough to have her act. Kagome rolled her eyes, making a big show of doing so, because InuYasha needed to know how done she was.

"Are you staying for dinner or going back to her?"

"There is no her, stupid."

Kagome flexed her fingers and puffed her cheeks. She was missing a stress ball. "You don't have to tell me the truth, but at least be honest with yourself."

InuYasha opened his mouth and after a moment, he closed it. His ears dropped and his shoulders sagged as though he had been carrying yet another boulder on his back. "I don't trust the guy."

"You don't trust any guy," Kagome pointed out. "But that's no longer your priority."

She was no longer his priority hung suspended in the air between them. They had tried to make it work to see if, perhaps, without the threat of Naraku looming over them and Kikyo at peace, that they could be more than friends.

Turned out, they couldn't even be fuck buddies. And thus, awkwardness wrapped itself around them and squeezed and squeezed until there was nothing left. Which left Kagome with a void. No matter how much she tried to fill it with doing errands for the villagers, traveling to other towns, or helping out at home on the shrine, nothing worked.

She was, without a sliver of doubt, frustrated. Surely sex was more than what she and InuYasha had attempted. Sango was pregnant again and too often; Kagome had caught Sango and Miroku fucking by the river for the scenery, as Sango once put it. It appeared that everyone other than her was having an amazing sex life.

Perhaps she should have called Hojo back? Kagome sighed and shook her head, ignoring the looks InuYasha shot her way.

"Kagome."

"Just go, InuYasha. I'm fine. Satoru does not mean me any harm."

"You just met the guy?" The suspicion was thick, and Kagome was at the last end of her patience.

"What's her name?"

InuYasha flushed red. He tucked his hands into the sleeves of his haori and wiggled his nose as though he would somehow scent a way out of the situation. "Hana," he relinquished after two minutes. "Are you sure you'll be safe with him?"

While Kagome did not have the answers, InuYasha sought, she pretended she did, if only to get him out of the house. "Yes, he's only showing up for dinner... for the kids." Kagome gnawed on the inside of her cheek, mindful to keep her tongue from running away and sprouting things she would not be able to take back. "Satoru does not want me. He's here for the kids."

InuYasha nodded and looked behind her. Kagome turned and wished that the floor would open up and take her hostage. For once, a kidnapping would have been appreciated. Satoru stood there with a small girl behind his legs, peering at Kagome in wonder. He had changed his outfit into something far more casual and tucked his shades into the pocket of his black shirt.

His eyes sparked with something Kagome dared not to put a name to. Her knees were as weak as Jaken. It was not until after InuYasha had bounded away, back down the well, and into the arms of the woman he had yet to bring around everyone, that Satoru turned his attention to Kagome fully. She tipped her head back and straightened her shoulders. Tsumiki disappeared down the hall and into the kitchen to join Shippo and Megumi with writing a letter to Santa.

"You think I don't want you?"

Kagome's face warmed, but she prided herself on keeping a steady voice. "I think that you are caught up in the moment and are simply grateful for Megumi's safe return." Too many demons and humans have declared their undying love to her over the years because of a simple, nice deed. Satoru proved to be no different.

Or so she thought.

***

A/N: You don't see this because it's not Saturday. But if you do see this...I started reading Morning Glory Milking Farm which has nothing to do with this update but you should know about this monster romance book lol.

Ages: Megumi is 8. Satoru is 20. Kagome is 21. Shippo is 60+

Fun fact, when I started this story, I wrote it in past tense because I wasn't confident that I would be able to keep the storylines straight. So I wrote it in past tense to force my brain to think about the story differently.

Take care! I hope your Monday is going well and make sure to stay hydrated!...or else lol.

[corsair-princess-nenime]

NENI DM

officially dm'd my first dnd session :) using the final chapter of dragons of stromwreck (set in dragonlance, populated with red dragon enemies). Went well, brought 2/3 (lvl 5) players close to death like twice, brought one of them down, a good nights work for a one shot!

my players awakened (after a night of drinking) on a river boat to discover they had volunteered for a dangerous mission to stop a dark ritual. there was a beach map, then the dragons of stormwreck observatory map, all with around 2 dozen enemies total and the boss

player shenanigans included nuking a lot of enemies with fire spells

of note was the appearance of actual dragonlance NENIME, the character i wanted to make before i realized it would be an all elf-party

the boss was an armored kid WHOS ACTUALLY A RED DRAGON WYRMLING wearing a ruby imbued with change shape. she was gona stay out of the fight to mess with her relic-takhesis-holocron-rubix cube for 3 rounds, unless someone messed with her enough times to piss her off

feeling that my players needed some help, i had minotour guy try to repair a ' damaged' istarian drone - he succeeded. in the fight, the istarian drone would eventually go on to bind our boss, and the elf assassin got two back to back nat 20s on her with frost touch. with the relic finding her unworthy, our boss fled badly injured

here are some of my notes:

Nini sea elf (dimernesti) TALL STANDING AKIMBO bluegreen skin, frekled face w sunburnt cheeks, silver hair / green eyes bonespear - some hatchets , HER ARMOR IS a shirt of clam shells over a kalaman military TUNIC SHE HOLDS UP HER WEBBED HANDS > GREETINGS! Are you ready for the mission? > the highly dangerous mission we volunteered for?

(wizard elf tried to seduce her, he had to save it for after the mission, where i would have him do a charisma check w adv - he failed)

/////////////////

the chamber is bathed in a baleful, ruddy light. high in the air, a pyramid of red glass and red gold burns with a furious, suffocating aura beneath it, a pair of draconians flank not a grizzled warlord, but… a little girl, seething at this interruption as only a child can seethe > morons!

Ayveryhys head is a rats nest of black hair - bound behind her back her features are pale, shes unmistakably 9 or 10 years old strangely, her widdle eyes glow with flecks of molten light she even wears armor - exquisietely crafted, wraught in black steel and edged in gold, not unlike the votive images youve seen of Takhesis of course, the armor bears the dragon queen's clawed spiral a glowing ruby is set prominently in place of the claw representing fire dragons > YOU WILL NOT STAND IN MY WAY!

(despite previous hints, they did not see her being a dragon coming)

[ivanaskye]

Stalking and the Glory of God

(this is the prequel story to my Šehhinah trilogy, edited slightly in line with the first book's 2023 edits; if you'd prefer to read this on an ereader go here)

7,419 words

A hot wind rushes through the streets of Ēnnuh; it picks up dust nestled between the pebbles in the streetside succulent beds and blows it right into Tamar’s face.  She closes her eyes, trying to shield herself—and almost immediately bumps into someone walking down the same cobblestone.  Closing her eyes wasn’t the best idea.

Tamar, it turns out, is very good at bad ideas.

Still, there’s too flaming much dust to keep her eyes fully open, so she decides to take the halfway-safe middle ground of just squinting.  That’s enough to just barely make out the shadowy forms of pedestrians, buildings, and a pinyon pine that she’d probably have bumped into already if her eyes were still closed.

“Keep it together, Tamar,” she mutters—right before a motorcycle barrels down the street.  Of course.  Of course.  It’s the one really windy day this week, and the day bringing sunglasses didn’t occur to her.  And her ways of working around that are looking more and more like a way to get herself killed.

Good thing she feels cool air to her right, then.  She turns to check it out: the doors into a store are opening. A good place to get out of the wind and heat, and maybe buy some proper eye protection while she’s at it.

There’s an entrance hall just through the doors, with warm-glowing lights.  Tamar’s always thought these things an odd formality, the space between the two sets of doors not having much use that she can see.  

Today, though, she’s glad for this fancy, carpeted space—because it happens to have a mirror.  And, fire and flames, her hair is a mess.  She sighs, giving her dark hair a quick finger-comb so it’s only sticking out most directions instead of every direction, and then tries to rub the dust from her eyes.  There.  That’s better, ish.

Now that she looks vaguely presentable, Tamar makes her way into the store proper.  She emerges into the shoe section; there are something like ten full rows of shoe displays and stacks to either side of her, selling everything from absurdly fancy sandals to heels that it probably shouldn’t be physically possible to walk in.  No thanks, Tamar thinks, and—glancing at some directions written on signs hanging from the ceiling—takes a left and a right to the accessories section.

Mostly what she sees here are cases of expensive jewelry, and spinning displays of other jewelry that is presumably cheaper, and thus able to be touched by the hands of a mere mortal.  Not that they’d let an angel touch the more expensive jewelry for free either, of course. Plastered onto the front of one of the cases is some kind of promotional image of two people wearing way too many shiny things. One’s even a demon, as though to say, even a demon can’t help but indulge in what this shop’s got to offer.

But Tamar isn’t here for jewelry.  She’d headed to the accessory section to track down some sunglasses.  She surveys the area around her, but all she really notices is the lingerie display on the wall nearest her, the traveling robe display on the next nearest wall, and a sock display a few paces to her front.

Tamar starts walking in a random direction, figuring that if she canvasses the entire store, eventually she’ll find sunglasses.  She walks past a rack displaying chocolates—who knew this place even sold those?—and finds herself in the purse section.  She’s not alone; another woman is browsing in here, picking up a brown purse, examining it, setting it down, turning—

Oh my God, Tamar thinks.  That woman looking at purses—she.  She.  Her mouth.  Her mouth glows with fire; she exhales light.  Bright light.  Like, burned by the fires of God light.  She’s one of the Holy—out shopping.

Tamar wrenches her gaze away, retreats behind the chocolate rack to try to stop herself from staring.  That’s a Holy, a Burned One, someone who has directly experienced God Themself and been forever changed by it.  They’re not so rare, she reminds herself.  Yet, she can’t think of a time she’s ever seen one in person.  She assumes the places a high school student regularly goes wouldn’t be interesting enough to attract one of the Holy.  Except, apparently, this one, who appears to be—Tamar still can’t get over this—out shopping.

She tries to catch her breath and figure this out.  That woman, it was her mouth that was her price for what she did, right?  Thinking this, Tamar can’t help but turn and peek her head out from behind the chocolate display.  The woman’s still there, looking at purses.  Her mouth still glows, the flame she breathes from it somewhere between orange and white.

Tamar ducks back.  Right, yes, it is her mouth.  Okay, Tamar thinks.  What does that mean? If it’s her tongue that’s been burned away, that means this woman has spoken one of God’s names, right?  And having done that, she’d never be able to speak again. 

She closes her eyes and thinks about the color of that fire, the intensity.  She’s never understood before why the Holy pay the price they do.  To touch the glory of God is to be unable to ever touch anything else again: that’s the phrase Tamar’s heard since primary school, describing why the Holy are the way they are.  It makes her think of the feeling of awe.  Or fear.  Or curiosity.  The difference between those emotions seems to blur when one approaches Them, like the air blurs in the fire of this Holy’s breath.

Flame it, Tamar wants another look.

She moves back out from behind the stand, taking a long look as she does so.  The Holy is in profile: her mouth closed, keeping the fire in, only a faint glow around her lips.  Then she starts to turn her head, and Tamar bolts. She tries to do it casually, well what is causal really, is it normal, okay she can just walk normally, wait is normal slow or fast, Tamar isn’t sure, but anyway she’s walking down the faux-marble path through the store, trying so hard not to glance at the Holy, keeping her eyes straight ahead, but God she’s never paid quite this much attention to her peripheral vision before.

Tamar walks right on into a circular rack of shirts and forces herself to start sifting through them like a normal person.  Breathe, Tamar, she thinks.  It’s rude to stare.  But somehow she never knew the Holy were this fascinating before, even though that should have been obvious, of course people who touched God Themself would be interesting. But maybe it’s one of those things where you hear about something a lot, and it’s just a thing, and you don’t care.  Like how she’s never climbed Point Rock, even though she’s lived in this city her whole life—probably because she’s lived in this city her whole life.  It’s just always there in Oldtown, and she’s never bothered to climb it, even though every tourist does in their first week here.  The Holy are like that, Tamar thinks.

She figures enough time has passed to let her see if she can catch another glimpse of the Holy.  But she turns, and the Holy is gone.  

Maybe it’s the angle, Tamar thinks, hoping fervently that she’ll be able to see her again.  With the kind of confidence that comes from desperation, Tamar heads into the purse section.

But the only person here now is a sharply-dressed man who is most certainly not a Holy.  Tamar sighs, and tries to scan the store—maybe the Holy is in a checkout line?  She almost laughs at how funny that is even to think, but then catches herself: the Holy have whole lives outside of turning up in odd locations or having conversations with fascinated journalists, they have jobs, albeit usually weird ones, why wouldn’t they be in checkout lines sometimes? Though even then she has an easier time imagining them shoplifting than shopping. 

She rushes over to the checkout, no longer worried about how casual she seems.  But the Holy is not there.  Maybe, Tamar thinks, if she’d just turned around earlier and looked … but no, regrets won’t get her anywhere.

So Tamar runs through the store, looking at the ceiling signs, trying to get her bearings.   It’s probably pointless—the Holy’s probably already left—but she has to at least try.

But again, when she reaches the checkout on the other side of the store, the Holy is not there.

“Flames,” Tamar curses under her breath, aware of the irony of doing so.  And then she happens to glance to the side, and finds herself looking right at the sunglasses section.  Of course.

* * *

Tamar doesn’t stop thinking about the Holy for the rest of the day.  Even when she kicks off her shoes and eats some of that incredible fruit soup her parents love making, she’s still thinking about her.  About the Holy in general, as a concept.  About seeing one again.  Some thoughts half-resembling a plan start to form, but with them come what probably qualify as some ethical questions.

The types of ethical questions she might get lectured about if she didn’t bring them up first. 

So when dinner is done and Tamar excuses herself from the table, hoping her parents don’t notice anything too suspicious about her, she retreats to her room.  Because in her room, she has a telephone.

It’s nothing too fancy: one of the older models that only connects to the city’s own system, so she can’t call anyone from outside Ēnnuh.  Then again, she’s rarely ever needed to, and when she feels like talking to her aunt off in Havilah, she can just use one of the library’s more modern phones.

Still, even a non-fancy phone in her room is nice.  Even better, her friend Elīya also has a personal phone in her room, meaning privacy on both ends.  And Elīya’s really good at moral quandaries.  Distressingly good, even.

So Tamar quick-selects Elīya’s personal phone from the Ēnnuh city phone registry, and puts the receiver to her ear.

“Hello?” Elīya says on the other end.

“Hello!” Tamar responds.

“There’s no school tomorrow, right?” Elīya asks.  Though she’s great at reasoning her way out of a difficult situation—hence her skill with ethics—Elīya’s memory never ceases to amaze Tamar in its awfulness.

“No, no school tomorrow, tomorrow’s Sixthday…”

“Right.”

“Actually, I kind of called to ask you something,” Tamar says.

“Aw, not even gonna ask me how my day went?”

Tamar has to mentally admit, Elīya does have a point—even though they did just see each other in class no more than six hours ago.  “That… might be the correct thing to do, now that you mention it, yeah.  So, how was it?”

“Fine,” Elīya says.

“Wow, that was a lot of buildup for nothing,” Tamar says.

“You know what they say, always try to instill good habits in your friends.”

“I’m not sure that’s actually what they say,” Tamar says, and can almost hear Elīya shrug across the line.  “But… something interesting happened, on my end, and I’m kind of planning something that I’m pretty sure isn’t technically criminal—”

“Excuse me?” Elīya asks.

“I should probably start from the beginning.”

“Yeah you should.”

“So it was really windy and dust was getting in my eyes and I forgot my sunglasses so I went into a department store to get another pair of sunglasses and to not die—”

“How come everything with you is always either ‘I almost died’ or ‘I figured out how not to die’?” Elīya asks.

“Life is a dangerous place. Besides, I only fell down the stairs twice this month…”

“Good for you,” Elīya says.  “Though what would be even better is not doing that criminal thing you were talking about.”

“Hey, I said it wasn’t criminal.  And I haven’t even told you what it is yet!”

“Then please, go on.”

“So anyway I saw one of the Holy there shopping for a purse,” Tamar says, infusing her words with dramatically-appropriate nonchalance.

“You what now.”

“That’s what I thought, that that made no sense, but… it happened.  She was there.  Her mouth was mostly fire and…” Tamar lets herself trail off, aware she’s not doing a good job at keeping the tremor of intensity out of her voice.

“Someone who was burned by speaking a name of God was shopping for purses,” Elīya says.

“Guess so,” Tamar says.  “But Elīya, it was… she was… I don’t know.  I mean, I’ve seen pictures and all, recordings… but her mouth.  I know I’m not making sense but like, just, you don’t see people whose mouths are still like, glowing… with the burn… I mean, like, she did something sacred, and she’s still burning?  And I knew that, but, I just couldn’t stop looking.”

“Uh-huh?” Elīya says, with that bemused tone that means she’s waiting for Tamar to dig herself out of admitting to staring rudely at someone.

“Well, then she left while I was trying to pretend I wasn’t looking.”

“The only thing stopping me from teasing you about having a crush is my concern for your moral sense,” Elīya says, deadpan.

“Then it’s probably good that your concern for my morals is only going to get worse,” Tamar says.  When Elīya doesn’t respond, she continues.  “So I kind of really want to see one of the Holy again.”

“Uh huh…?”

“And, like.  That’s kind of like stalking, I think, even though it’s not the same person?  Or probably wouldn’t be?  But like.  Also.  If the Holy I saw did like, publicly show up somewhere else, I’d definitely… spend some time looking at her… so like, I think my intent is basically stalking.”

“Aww,” Elīya says, “look at you, coming up with moral concerns all on your own.”

“This is what I get for being friends with you.”

“So, do you have a more specific plan I can pick apart?”

“…No, honestly, I don’t even really know where to find a Holy.”

“Now, I can’t ask you to do research,” Elīya says, “because without a clear moral judgment, that may qualify as purposefully inspiring you to do or at least strongly consider immoral behavior.  On the other hand, I can only judge so far if I don’t know what you’re thinking of doing.”

“Maybe there’s some public event, or something, where one might show up, and I could just…” stare at them, Tamar continues in her head, but that sounds strange to admit aloud.  It seems silly at best to want so much to just look at the price of one of the Holy, and yet, here she is.

“Doesn’t the bookstore have a deba–“ Elīya starts asking, then catches herself.  “Oh flame and fire,” she curses, “I may be providing you impetus for poor action.  Flame it, now I have to think about whether the intent automatically makes whatever you’re going to do bad, because if it is, I might be implicated in all this…”

Tamar still has no idea how Elīya can worry this much about moral matters, in this kind of detail.

“So, essentially, what you want to do is just look at one of the Holy for a good, long while,” Elīya says, halfway between a mutter and real speech.  “Now, this typically might be considered a subcategory of stalking if it were a specific person.  However, if you aren’t following anyone, it certainly isn’t stalking under the law.  Not that the law has absolute moral authority.  Which brings us to the point of where moral authority comes from, which is relevant here, because if it has to do with what each individual wants—consents to, perhaps—then it may be true enough that a Holy, and especially one at a bookstore debate, would want to be seen, thus making it not an immoral type of staring, if you’re just there to stare—”

“Elīya,” Tamar says.

“Just thinking aloud,” Elīya says.  “This is a really interesting moral quandary, and I might have to get back to you on this—that is, if I can trust that you won’t just go ahead and do something anyway in the meanwhile.  Which I really can’t.”

Tamar can’t help but think that Elīya knows her all too well.

“…Well, most people probably would consider it to be less moral overall if you were sexually attracted to Holies, because that tends to make things more personal, especially things like stalking.” Elīya pauses.  “So, are you?”

“Not that I know of?” Tamar says, although she hasn’t been having the easiest of times categorizing what exactly her experience earlier today was, and what her interest is.

“That helps, I think,” Elīya says.  “Also, there is a provision in certain moral codes that acts and decisions before the age of majority count less overall, and as we are sixteen, you could treat this as a learning experience, perhaps.”

And by bringing that up, Tamar thinks, she gets to exonerate herself from the possibility of spurring Tamar to ‘immoral action’.

“If you were to do what you’re thinking of,” Elīya continues, “you would have to report back to me on any feelings of guilt, and your overall moral sense of the experience.  After all, it sounds like you have a little bit of morality these days, from my influence, so you should be able to handle that.”

Tamar raises an eyebrow, though Elīya can’t see it over the phone. “Impressive bending of moral codes.”

“I am just stating the possibilities. And this is morally appropriate enough.”

Then again, Tamar thinks, given the sheer number of moral codes and beliefs out there, one would probably have to bend them around in order to get anything done.  

“Debate, huh?”

“I can’t tell you what day it’s happening,” Elīya says.

“Elīya,” Tamar says, “can you even tell me what day today is?”

“…Well, I think there’s no school tomorrow, so maybe it’s Sixthday?”

And yet Elīya gets high marks in all of her classes, while Tamar so much as passing is something worth celebrating.

“Was there anything else you wanted to talk about?” Elīya presses.

“Not really. See you Firstday, if nothing else?”

“Yup,” Elīya says.

Tamar hangs up, suddenly filled with nervousness. She’s going to go somewhere and stare at a Holy for something like a full hour.

God, what is even wrong with her?

* * *

The stars are fading into the glow of the dying night when Tamar steps out of the house that next morning.  Elīya doesn’t understand it, and neither does her other best friend Yenatru, even though at least he’s more outdoorsy, but Tamar’s always liked this time of day.  She just feels so awake when she’s kind of horribly tired.  And seeing the sunrise somehow gives her energy for the rest of the day.

Of course, now that she’s been thinking about the Holy nonstop for something like sixteen hours, she can’t help but wonder if her love of the sunrise has to do, somehow, with God. 

It could also just be that the city’s gorgeous at dawn: the blue light makes the many patches of planted green in the city seem more vibrant.  Ēnnuh is already a lush place in the desert, a tall and well-sheltered garden of skyscrapers and hanging plants, unlike the more famous city of Eden carved out directly on the sharp, rocky desert plain, which Tamar’s never seen except in photographs and moving pictures—but at dawn, it’s more so.  Shadows aren’t a problem either: most houses are lined with lanterns that somehow complement the stars without competing with them.  And being a little cold is actually nice when Tamar’s hot for most of the day. Not that she usually minds being hot—but the open desert stretching outside the outskirts of Ēnnuh has a better kind of heat to her, which is why she spends as much time exploring on her motorcycle out there as she can.

But she was too distracted yesterday to charge her batteries over the afternoon before the sun set, and now they’re completely dead. At least it’s an easy walk to Hightown. Even if she prefers how, on her motorcycle, she can whisk herself anywhere at a moment’s impulse.

So she turns right, toward the sunrise—and toward the morning star, that not-star that Lucifer made for no clear reason—and begins walking.

“The” bookstore is just one of several in Ēnnuh, but it was clear last night which one Elīya was talking about.  The Ancient Regent stands out above the others both because it’s one of the largest in the city, and because it’s right where Hightown meets Tamar’s own neighborhood, Olive Heights.

It’s convenient that it happens to be to the east, because this way Tamar gets to watch the sky light up more and more on the horizon, the one pitiful cloud in the sky turning a bright pink to signal the coming sun.  The stone buildings common to Ēnnuh block a direct view of the horizon, but the change in colors and the softly blinking stars are still nice companions as Tamar walks to the bookstore.

She spends most of the walk just enjoying the colors of the sky, and the way they play off the cobblestone, the leaves of succulents, the massive stems of cacti, and the occasional pine.  The riverfront buildings past Hightown—the ones in Downtown—reach into the sky, as if they’re trying to make the sunrise better.  And in fact, they do: the Zillah building’s blue-tinted windows reflect the sun in slightly different colors as it begins to come above the horizon, and a bright shine off the radio antenna of Adah tower is visible before the sun itself is.

And then, with the sky fully blue, Tamar is in front of the bookstore.  It’s just opened, but Tamar doesn’t need to go inside to find a flyer for the debate.  There’s one right on the door.

“Flinging Yourself into the Fiery Pit of Heaven: Yay or Nay?” reads the top of the flyer, dramatically.  It’s typical bookstore debate fare, although with three participants instead of the usual two.  The participants were probably hand-curated by the bookstore higher-ups, and probably specifically to compete with the Central Library’s own debate program: the two have been at almost-war for as long as anyone can remember.

Farther down, the flyer lists the names of the participants: “Safirah Mahalalel, Holy • they/them • recent author of ‘An Uncommon Proposal: the Superfluousness of Heaven’; Evon Lilim • he/him • recent author of “The Complexity of Life, The Complexity of Heaven’; Israfil • he/him or they/them • author of several major landscapes of Šehhinah”

Most people are probably here because they’re excited to see Israfil, Tamar thinks.  And sure, she’s heard angels also tend to be filled with God’s fire—but it’s not the same as the Holy.  They’re not burned.

It’s really quite interesting, how obsessed she seems to be.

Then she sees the bottom of the flyer, which has the date.  Oh.  It’s today’s date.  At six in the evening, apparently.

She grins, already looking towards the desert beyond the city. She’ll hit up Yenatru to see if he wants to go exploring with her. And she’ll be back here later.

* * *

The time is now.  The sun’s setting and Tamar’s at the bookstore again.  Where, in the first of its five floors, in the debate atrium, there will be a Holy.  Tamar finds her heart beating against her chest; tells herself to calm down and just enter the building.  It would be no use if she was late.

So, with a deep breath, she enters.

The central checkout area is as big as she remembers, with a number of bestsellers before  the significant large print section.  

But beyond that is the debate atrium.  And it looks like Tamar isn’t the only one heading there.

So she joins with the crowd and goes through the atrium double-doors.

Oh.  It’s big in here.

The atrium’s two stories tall and faintly gilded, with sparkling gold accents to the curved white walls. The lights on the ceiling, while a warm and soothing color, are diffused enough to prevent any shadow.  It all makes for the strange feeling that the atrium is from some other world.

Tamar finds a seat in the fourth row among the droves of mostly middle-aged philosophy and theology hobbyists; she’s one of the younger people here, although some of the few others she sees are whispering excitedly about Israfil.  She wonders if Elīya actually goes to some of these, given her interests, and decides to ask her later.

And then the three debaters walk on stage.

Tamar happens to be looking to the left, where Evon arrives, yellow eyes and horns like all demons. Yes, that’s a pretty striking look—but that’s not what she’s here to see.

So she looks to the center—and flame it, that’s just the angel.  Israfil.  Their hair is made of feathers, their suit of mirrors reflects the fire that seems to emanate from their six wings—but that’s not what she wants to look at either.

So she takes a deep breath and looks to the right side of the room, where Safirah enters.  They wear a deep orange dress slitted slightly up each side, and let their dark curls hang as they will around their face.

And their left arm is blackened.

Well, it’s more like a reddish-brown, with a slight, flickering glow under the skin.  But it’s burned, burned horribly—the skin twists and turns, and it’s easy to see how it wouldn’t be usable at all.  Adding to that impression is the fact that Safirah doesn’t move it, not even for balance: it really was their price, then.

Her breath catches.  It’s beautiful.

Actually, as Tamar continues to look at it—she’s allowed to, she reminds herself, no one will even care or notice—she realizes that the twists on the skin are actually moving.  There are patterns there, patterns of flames and not of flames at all; Tamar squints at it.  She continues to watch Safirah’s arm as the debaters take their seats, trying to follow the patterns there.  She’s becoming half-convinced that they mean something—

The announcer is loud enough to snap her out of her stare and actually look at Safirah, Evon, and Israfil’s faces.

“Welcome to tonight’s debate.  Tonight’s opponents are Safirah Mahalalel, they/them…”

Oh, Tamar thinks, he’s just repeating the information on the flyer.  So instead she focuses on Safirah’s face, trying to discern if there’s anything in the way they smile that hints at the power underneath them. The power that has burned them, changed them.  She looks long and hard, finding her eyes drawn to Safirah’s.  They seem hard, somehow.  Like diamonds.

Then Safirah begins their opening speech, apparently having been spurred to do so by the announcer: “This will come as no surprise to those of you who have read my writings, but my answer to the question posited by this debate is no.  Not for myself. Yes, as you can see, I have experienced the glory of God firsthand, here, in this life”—they use their right arm to lift their left, for emphasis—“and that’s not the only thing I intend to experience.  I’m one for variety, and if there’s one thing we know about the world after the Resurrection, it’s that it’ll have a lot of that.

“Our lives argue for us—they argue for what we want to happen after the Resurrection, what kind of new world, or worlds, I suspect, God will create then.  And I want to experience that—I want to experience it all.  Heaven is already right here in my arm; in my other arm, maybe there can be something else.” Safirah smiles, sharp.  “But I’ll have more to say once I have something to respond to, so move this onto the next speaker, if you will?”

“Then, Evon Lilim,” the announcer says.  “Your opening words.”  It seems like he’s really going to make this audience wait for Israfil—probably a good move, for the suspense.

But what Tamar really cares about is that flame under Safirah’s arm…

“Unlike my debate partner here,” Evon begins, his voice smooth if fairly high, “I say for myself ‘yay’. This is not because I disagree with any of their points—at least so far—but that I feel some of the most interesting variety that can be found is here on Šehhinah, right now.

“The world as is, the first world, the first draft if you will—that contrasts more than I imagine anything else will with God’s Heaven.  And it is also for that reason that I have no wish to be Holy—I will save that experience, make my life after Resurrection as different as it can be from my life now. That is what I believe will give me the most joy.”

“Now, Israfil, your opening?” the announcer says.

Israfil shifts then, moving two of their wings around their torso, the fire in them catching the mirrors on their suit—and seeming to fill the room with light.

Clearly, this is a practiced maneuver.  Tamar finds it impressive, even if it isn’t as breath-stoppingly amazing as Safirah’s burned arm…

“People have argued about Heaven since the Covenant,” they start. “And by people, I mean not just humans, but angels and the Fallen as well—all of us will have much to choose, in the days to come.

“As for me… well, I’ve said it before, but not in a book, and maybe not this century, so I wouldn’t be shocked if none of you knew this: that for me, I do not know what I will wish to do after the Resurrection.

“I came to existence this way, God’s fire in my veins—and I have loved it, have loved most of all my role in helping make the world, in adding what is of me to what exists physically. Truly, God would not have been able to make any of this without Their angels—and I say that not just to toot my own horn, but because it is true. Their soul is many things, but ground, water, air… are not among them. So of course They could not have manifested those into existence, not without more varied souls.

“And as I said, I have loved it.  I have never wanted this way of being to change, never wanted to fall—

“But roles, too, will change after the Resurrection, I imagine. And so I cannot say if I will want to be similar to how I am now, then, or if I will want to undergo some great change.  And as for what that might be… well, I’m still thinking.”

A tilt of their head suggests that their introduction is over—and so Tamar looks back to Safirah’s arm.  The burns, the swirling burns, seeming to draw her in with their suggestiveness, their hints of what has happened to them… she is so curious….

“Does anyone have a response to anyone else?” The announcer asks.

Safirah raises their arm—the non-burned one, of course.

“I have a response to Evon,” they start.  “You speak of contrast, of this world being maximally different from Heaven—but the point I would like to raise is that one of those differences is length.  Your life here is only likely to last what, ninety years? And Heaven could be eternity. It seems that those two timespans could never hope to balance each other out, or be two sides of one coin, as your book suggests. Not that I suspect you are foolish enough to have not thought of that, but…”

They totally suspect he’s foolish enough.  Tamar’s seen that look on Elīya’s face more than enough times to know.

“…But anyway, that is my objection.  If not for that detail, I would have a very similar opinion of the world’s variety.”

“Evon, your response?” the announcer asks.  “Or Israfil, do you want to get involved here?”

Neither of those possible directions the debate can take seem as interesting as Safirah’s arm, so Tamar zones out.  That’s one of her skills—being able to not bother hearing or paying attention to things, to anything but the one thing she cares about at the moment.

She’s here for Holy-staring, after all.

God, the patterns of the burn really do seem to be moving—and wait, the glow… oh.  The glow beneath their skin moves too, in a different way from the marks on the skin itself.  In the glow also, Tamar swears she can see patterns, if only it would stop moving for a second.  She wonders if they’re the same patterns as the ones on the skin.  Do they complement each other?  Do they mean something different?

God doesn’t communicate in words, Tamar knows, so they’re unlikely to be letters—but then, what? Images, maybe, feelings, sensations, textures? Or, since that glow in Safirah’s arm is of God—no, is God, Themself, Safirah chose to have part of their body be burned into by that strange other person—perhaps it’s not something consistent at all.  Maybe it reflects whatever God’s thinking about, right now, at this moment, or what if it’s even what God and Safirah are thinking, saying in reaction to each other…?

Tamar puts a hand to her mouth in amazement.

“While it is true that the patterns of fire and feathers and spinning wheels in Heaven will be infinite, and therefore infinitely varied,” Israfil’s saying, “it is true that some types of sensory experiences will not be common.”

“That is why I intend to get my fill of those here,” Evon responds.

“But again, how does a lifetime compare to eternity?” Safirah asks.

So they’re ganging up on Evon, then. Elīya would probably have an opinion about that. But Tamar’s not really sure which side she takes—other than curiosity about infinite patterns of fire.

“I would say that its brevity, its very finitude, gives it value, such value as to make it meaningful, and so to try to extend these experiences beyond life would make them less important,” Evon responds.

“And yet,” Israfil begins—

—and Tamar goes ahead and zones out again.

She has prayed to God before, of course.  Out of curiosity, mostly when she was younger—but though she felt the vague turnings of wheels, the sense of God having a whole bunch of eyes, it all felt distant.

Like, sure, praying leads to a feeling of a flurry of flames of flapping wings that responds to your thoughts, but it always seemed just… that? A flame like the sun being there suddenly… but yet no closer than the sun.

But having seen a Holy’s mouth, wreathed in flame… a Holy’s arm, burned to a crisp and still swirling…

Tamar grins, watching those patterns, watching them…

“Surely God could create ground, if the ground was feathers, or perhaps eyeballs,” Safirah’s saying.

Yeah, Tamar has no idea what that’s in response to.  She’s been missing a lot of this conversation.

But the experience of God still swirls in Safirah’s limp arm, the pulses of flame under it seeming almost bright enough as to sear into Tamar’s eyes…

And then people start moving out of the atrium, because the debate is apparently over.  Wow.  Okay.  Apparently staring at one of the Holy can do things to you and your sense of time, or at least can do things to Tamar, whose engagement with time is already conditional at best.  Still.

Tamar forces herself to stand, one of the last ten people to do so.  The paths between seats in the atrium are already fairly clear as she begins walking out of the atrium, preparing to go home, thinking she ought to wonder what she’s going to say to Elīya in her moral report, but not really wondering that, because she’s still more than a little distracted by the things she never quite saw in Safirah’s burns.

And then she just happens to catch Safirah walking through not some back door behind the stage, but just the other, usual, door on the other side of the atrium.  One that if Tamar turned around, she could easily go through herself.

Think about this, Tamar, she tries to tell herself, but she’s already walking that way—not for any reason, she half-attempts to convince herself, oh no, certainly no reason at all.  

She walks at a quick pace that’s just slow enough to not seem out of place with the setting.  This, Tamar thinks, should probably be disconcerting: it’s one thing to stalk someone, and a whole other thing to be good at it.

But she makes it to the door and casually opens it.  She sees the turn of Safirah’s dress among the many bookshelves.  And she turns to follow.

What in God’s names are you doing, Tamar? she asks herself as she strides along the slate floor.  But all she can answer herself with is that this is her only chance to—to do what, even she doesn’t know.  To commit a crime, probably. 

Tamar catches Safirah exiting through one of the side doors, and half a minute later makes it through that door herself.  It opens into a small street that might be called an alley, although Tamar’s never been that sure about what the exact distinction between an alley and a not-alley is.  The sun’s already down, so here in this maybe-alley Tamar finds darkness that was conspicuously missing from the atrium—and Safirah walking forward, arm seeming brighter out here in the night, going God knows where. Literally.  

Tamar—again, stupidly, foolishly, criminally— follows, trying to keep her footsteps a little quiet on the not-quite-clean cobblestone, on this thin path between backs of buildings.

She’s only made it past two of those buildings when Safirah suddenly turns.

They run at her, and Tamar barely has time to register the hard lines of Safirah’s face before she finds herself pinned to the back of the nearest building, Safirah’s right arm pressing Tamar’s shoulder into the wall with surprising strength.  Tamar shouldn’t be surprised that instead of looking at the face of the person pressing her against a wall, nor even at the arm that’s doing the pressing, her eyes end up drawn to that burned left arm, so close now, still swirling.

“Who are you,” Safirah says, quietly yet firmly, “and why are you following me?”

Tamar runs through what feels like dozens of thoughts: how much can a Holy hurt her? Can they set fire to her? Would they give a fuck about the ethics of beating her up here? Can they really take her in a fight one-handed? Can she lie?  What can she say other than that she was, essentially, stalking them?  Her eyes twitch around as she considers this, but her gaze always returns to the same place.

So she just lifts her chin, her gaze fixed on that swirling, glowing arm.

Safirah sighs, long and rough.  They raise their left leg and press Tamar’s chest to the wall with their knee.  That done, they remove their right arm, the one that originally did the pressing, from Tamar’s shoulder.

Tamar considers getting away, wondering if maybe a knee-press is less strong than an arm-press; but then she notices that Safirah’s using their now-free right arm to grab their left, lift it up—

—touch Tamar’s head with the limp, burning fingers—

And it feels warm, it feels burning where it touches her skin, but also cool, like mint, the cool strong enough to itself burn, and she isn’t sure how, but she feels it go beneath her skin, the cool somehow sticking even to her thoughts, even while her skin remains hot, too hot—

A sound.

The hot and cold fade, Safirah no longer touching Tamar.

Tamar’s mind slowly processes what she is seeing.

Safirah now stands a foot away, no longer holding Tamar to that wall.  Their right hand is raised to their mouth, and their back is curved, and that sound—that sound is laughter.

Tamar blinks a few times.

Safirah’s laughter fades into quiet giggles, and they look at Tamar and say, “Oh, kid, you were afraid you were stalking?”

Tamar isn’t sure if she should answer that question, but she nods slightly anyway.

“Not to say”— another giggle interrupts Safirah’s speech—“that you entirely weren’t stalking. Oh but you were so curious! That’s really sweet, especially when I was half-expecting an actual attack.”

Tamar finally makes it to the point where she manages out one word: “What?” Ēnnuh’s nowhere near that dangerous.

“Depending on what you’re asking, for starters, I did read your mind, if that answers your question.”

Tamar had figured out that much.

“Or—well, the other obvious question I can answer is, yes, an attack.  Nothing to do with the city itself, but as I’ve directly argued that little to nothing would be lost if the option for Heaven were removed—not that I expect or want such to happen—I’ve been a target for a decent share of nasty letters lately. Now, usually those types don’t actually follow up on their threats, but when I heard suspicious and yet poorly concealed footsteps behind me in an alleyway… I admit I may have jumped to conclusions. As I think I am generally skilled at not doing in the context of writing, debates, and so on, this one included.”

Tamar might agree with them—if she’d been paying attention to anything they actually said during the debate.

“I can’t say I’m sorry about the stalking,” she ends up saying bluntly. Flame her.  

But Safirah looks impressed if anything, like their respect for this stupid kid in front of them has somehow increased.

“It happens,” Safirah says.  Then they seem to think about that a little, rubbing their chin with their right hand.  “Or, I don’t know if it happens frequently, but I guess I am a public figure now, which does increase the chances.  Anyway, it’s better than an attacker.  Although perhaps I should repay you for treating you like one…?” 

Tamar spends a moment thinking about this, and then her mouth opens and she says words she hadn’t known she’d even formulated in her head: “Are you hungry?  I know a good sandwich place…”

Then, of course, Tamar mentally kicks herself repeatedly for having somehow asked someone she just got into an altercation with in an alley out to, what, dinner?

But Safirah just gives a bemused smile.  “As a matter of fact, I would love to know what a local Ēnnuhian considers to be a good sandwich place in this city.”

Tamar tries—tries—to keep her eyes from overtly lighting up.

“Who knows,” Safirah says, “maybe I’ll be able to provide information to help you make that decision on whether to eventually try and become one of the Holy yourself.”

Was she considering that? Tamar wondered.  Was that why she was so fascinated with them, these past two days?

“Well,” Safirah says, inclining their head, “we’ll either talk about that or we won’t.  But first, you’re the one who knows where this place is, so lead the way.”

And so Tamar manages to get herself walking forward, in the direction of Plateau Eatery, with one of the Holy—no, Safirah, a person who seems to have rather more qualities than just being a Holy—following her.

She has never been quite this uncertain where her life is going to go, nor quite this certain that it will go somewhere.

[autisticwriterblog]

Fandom 50 Post 16

My fourteenth piece of Alan Wake 2 meta. This one is about Initiation 7.

Initiation 7: Masks

What happened in this chapter?

After being shot, Alan reappears in the Writer’s Room unharmed. He assumes the man who shot him was Scratch, to stop Alan from finishing his edits to the manuscript. Alan worries about Scratch using the manuscript to make terrible things happen, including going after Alice. He needs a way to get ahead of Scratch.

Alan thinks about how Zane said they worked on Return together, but that must be a lie, because Scratch was the one who wrote it, not Alan. He decides to visit Zane again in the hope that Zane can guide him to a new murder site.

After seeing many flashes of images, including scenes of himself writing, a glowing spot on his forehead, and Scratch’s face, Alan wakes up backstage at the talk show studio. Unlike every other time he has been here, the studio is dark and deserted. The only person here is Mr. Door, who approaches Alan.

What follows is an incredibly tense conversation between Alan and Door, who says that his show was there to indulge Alan, but they don’t need to do that anymore. Door tells Alan that he makes things difficult for himself by creating rules that overcomplicate things. He also calls Alan lucky because he has so many people looking out for him, including Door himself and Alice.

Alan says he needs to reach Alice because she’s in danger, and Door agrees—but says that the danger is Alan’s fault. He also says that someone else has been pulled into this mess, someone important to him. Door says Alan’s habit of opening doors without thinking has led Alan to cross paths with him. As Alan says he needs to leave, Door wonders if Alan will succeed this time, and tells Alan that things will be different when they next meet.

The lights go out and Door vanishes, leaving Alan alone in the studio. He makes his way through the building, eventually reaching the cafeteria, where Ahti calls Alan toward him. During their conversation, filled with Ahti’s idioms, Ahti suggests that Alan put Door in one of his (“Tom’s”) films. To Alan’s confusion, Ahti rattles off a series of Thomas Zane’s films as though Alan made them. Ahti tells Alan that he’s been looking after some photos for him in the basement, so Alan heads downstairs to find them.

In the basement, Alan finds two photos in the shoebox: a picture of the Clicker, and one of a bullet made of light. He then proceeds to a room with a single TV with static on the screen and a flickering bulb. And when Alan uses his lamp to change his surroundings, the chapter ends.

My Thoughts

This chapter gives us a lot of insight into Mr. Door’s character. I love how tense his conversation with Alan is now he’s dropped the façade of a silly talk show host.  I wonder if there’s any significance to how he takes off his glasses for their serious conversation. Does he consider the glasses part of his ‘role’ as the talk show host, so removes them when he stops playing with Alan?

He keeps it vague on purpose, but it feels like Door must be talking about Saga when he mentions the important person Alan has dragged into this. Not only because Saga was written into this whole thing by Alan adding her to the manuscript, but because of the very heavy hints that Door is Saga’s father. Of course, this might turn out to be a red herring, but I really think it’s true. And if it is (which I’m 99% sure of), I like that the game doesn’t spell out Door and Saga’s relationship explicitly and instead leaves it for us to piece together.

I love anything with Ahti, so of course I adore his scene. I especially like what he calls photos—light pictures—when he can’t remember the name in English, because it sounds really natural for a bilingual person to do (although take my monolingual opinion with a grain of salt) and it’s also a very nice way to refer to photographs. Ahti’s suggestion to put Mr. Door in a film made me laugh, because given how he enjoyed the musical so much, Door would probably like it.