#it's getting so much louder up there. scraping and thumping and squeaking at all hours. and it's driving me fucking insane

[polygondotcomvideoproducer]

I fear that the squirrel in my attic is going to turn me into a cartoon villain

[friendlylocalwhumper]

“Get on the floor.”

Their knees meet the floor with a soft thump-thump. They are clothed, and their basic needs have been met: they aren’t painfully hungry, aren’t exhausted, don’t need to use the restroom, don’t feel close to passing out. Their latest, more gruesome injuries have been healed with magic, leaving little trace that they were tortured at all.

There is still a tremor to their hands anyway.

A large, calloused hand scrapes against their scalp. His fingers comb through soft, limp hair that no longer holds light curls, but heavy, dull waves.

They see it coming, but Quinn still gasps when the hand balls into a fist to grip their hair tight and force their head back.

The Hunter smiles down on them.

“Talk.”

Quinn blinks. “...Talk?”

“Yes. Talk. Speak on command. Tell me what you’re thinking, handsome.”

The creepy term of endearment, just gendered enough to grate, aches like the fading sting of alcohol dabbed over a scraped knee. “Is there… anything in particular that you want me to talk about?”

Their captor shakes his head. The magic user’s brows furrow slightly.

“Alright. I can talk. You want to know what I’m thinking. I’m thinking that this is odd. Maybe you’ve grown bored of hurting me for now. Maybe you’re going to kill me.”

His expression betrays nothing. They offered the guess in the hope that he would give away whether their death is anywhere on the horizon, but all they see is amusement. It must make him very happy to have them on their knees, looking up at him, nervously watching for any sign of what’s coming.

The grip on their hair tightens, his fist twisting sharply so Quinn yelps.

“Go on.”

“I… and I’m thinking… yes, it’s just boredom. You hurt me because it’s fun for you. The only reason you would stop is if it stopped being fun. I don’t know if that’s permanent, or just how you feel today-”

“Tonight,” He interrupts calmly. “It’s nighttime.”

“Oh,” Mutters Quinn. They couldn’t have known that. It’s still a bit embarrassing anyway, hearing him say it so matter-of-factly.

“Speak, Quinn.”

“Yes. I can - why you want me to speak, I don’t know. Just one of your games. Maybe you-”

Pain erupts in their head with such sudden force that they jerk sharply away, scrambling back and clutching at their skull, a scream dying on their lips. Mind magic, they think, mortified - he was invading their mind, what did he see? Was it only half a second, like it felt, or was he in there for hours? Can they still think? Are they still themself, still sane?

It takes a handful of seconds, but when they manage to focus back on him, they spot the sparks flying off his hand, his self-satisfied grin. Electricity. He just shocked them, that’s all, where his hand was buried in their hair. It wasn’t mind magic. Their mind hasn’t been invaded.

It’s another few seconds before they realize that the short, guttural sounds they hear are coming from themself. They’re panting out frightened sounds like an animal that got its leg caught in a predator’s jaw, then was released to limp away, easy prey.

“Come back here. Kneel like before. Speak.”

They force themself closer, palms pressed to the floor, chest fluttering. He knows how they react to electricity. He knows how difficult this is for them. It’s nothing more than easy entertainment on a boring day for him.

The magic in his hand has faded; he only left it active for long enough that they would see it and understand what he did to them.

“I can - I can speak. I was startled. I can calm down. I un-... I understand the game now. I think. Don’t -” They gasp out the near-plea before they can stop themself as his hand nears. It remains frozen in place, inches away from their cheek, as if he cares what they want.

“Don’t what, Quinn?”

The magic user licks their lips. “Don’t… you’re going to shock me again. I don’t want you to.”

“I am, am I?” His tone is teasing, low with humor. Quinn nearly blushes with embarrassment.

“I thought you were. I think you will.”

“Tell me more about what you think.”

The hand resumes its course until the palm cups over their cheek, fingers arched over their ear and into their hair. Quinn takes shallow, careful breaths, their eyes squeeze shut when he makes contact… but there is no fresh pain. Their eyes flutter open, uncertainty in them.

“I think… you like fear. You like the anticipation just as much as the breaking down afterward. You would have just as much fun teasing me with the threat of pain as going through with it.”

“Mmh,” Hums the Hunter, crouching down. His other hand goes to Quinn’s forearm, sliding down to wrap around the wrist he’s broken and healed. They pale, understanding that he could hurt them in two different spots at once, right now, and they could do nothing to stop it. “But I love your screams. I love making your voice give out. You know I’ve been wanting to spend a day on making you wail for so long that you can’t even beg for it to stop anymore. You know I could place my hand right here…” Fingers trail all the way up from their wrist, across the forearm and the inside of their elbow, their upper arm and shoulder, until they settle comfortably across Quinn’s throat. “And press magic in that would tear up your throat beyond repair. I’d like to hear the little strangled sounds you’d make, unable to scream your heart out like you do now.”

Those shallow, careful breaths are now nearly nonexistent.

“Go on, now, keep talking.”

“Okay,” They answer instantly, eager to prove that they will comply. Their answers always come quicker, more eager, when the threat of electric magic is hanging over their head. “Okay. I wonder - I wonder if you ever get headaches from all the screaming.”

“Mmh, I do.”

“I would too. It’s loud. I get headaches just from doing the screaming. Although the screams are echoing through my head, it might be louder to me. I’m not sure how sound works, all the details and physics of it. I don’t - I’m struggling to think of things to say. But you just want me to keep speaking, anything will-”

Their face twists, body spasming, as electricity jumps into their body and crackles through them. They feel their sense of gravity flip, and don’t fully process that they’ve been shoved, their back pressed to the floor, skull snapping back to connect with the concrete in the process. All they know is agony, and the burn in their throat from screaming.

When they return to their senses, they feel a hand at their throat, another at the side of their ribcage. They see the Hunter’s grinning face swimming above them, blurry and eerie.

“Speak, Quinn.”

The captive whines, voice cracking just on the sound of complaint. “Speak, I - can barely think - I need a moment, to-” Their mouth stretches, brow crumpling, body arching up and flopping back down a few times as electricity courses through them once again. The sound that comes out of them, the Hunter thinks, is more of a howl than a scream. He keeps the magic flowing this time, pouring it in happily, tilting his head to listen like he’s trying to pick out words coming through the radio from a radio station drowning in static.

Sobs start to get mixed in with the wails of agony, and along with the crying comes garbled pleas. It is only through decades of experience with twisting, breaking bodies that he can make out any of the words they’re trying and failing to choke out.

Maybe forty seconds later, he ends the spell, carding through their hair as they come down from the agony. Quinn, able to speak in coherent sentences only a minute ago, sobs out unintelligible sounds in an attempt to beg for his mercy.

“Shhhh.” He leans down to scoop them up into his arms, sit on the floor himself and pull them into his lap. Their form, lithe and pliable, is perfect for hugging close, holding them tight enough that their ribs creak. “Calm yourself, Quinn, this isn’t like you. Speak for me.”

“I - I - nnhgh - ple-, plea-, -ease…”

It’s so, so sweet that he has to press a kiss to the side of their head. “Oh, you know I can’t resist adorable begging like that.”

Sharp desperate sobs rock through their jolting body, a pitiful, possibly grateful sound squeaking out of them. It’s almost heartbreaking, the Hunter thinks fondly, when he pours more magic into them and feels the violent quaking of their body. Did they really believe he would spare them just because they eked out a few shards of words?

Their screams are wild and inhuman. This new fear that he’s carved into their body, the terror of this kind of pain, is great fun. Still, they can be so loud, and he doesn’t want his own head to start to throb from the volume. Shushing them gently, the Hunter presses one of his hands sprouting sparks against the back of Quinn’s head to tip it against his chest, pressing so that their screams are muffled against his shirt.

“There you go, darling. Let it all out. I’ve got you, there you go.”

[livinghostly]

panic attacks

isaac lahey x reader 

not my gif!

words: 1345

request/summary: "Could you write an Isaac Lahey x reader where he helps the reader with their panic attacks?"

warning: descriptive panic attack

a/n: i didn't want to mirror the stydia kiss too much :)

[...]

you flipped through the test packet three times after you had finished, all the questions answered and your equations displayed on the side for proof of work. but there was something wrong, they could all be wrong.

you became more aware of your heart rate and it's increasing speed. nearly everyone was done, having already turned in their tests and taken a seat, waiting for the bell to ring. the silence was infuriating, it made you uncomfortable in your own skin and drew a wave of heat over your body.

suddenly, you backed out your stool with a harsh scrape against the tile floor and picked up your packet. when you moved your hand around the paper, a light sweat stain followed your fingers. you walked slowly towards the front of the room, imagining the eyes of your classmates staring. their gazes like heat vision, burning holes into your back.

abrupt force barreled into your chest as you set the paper down, mr. harris didn't even glance up at you at first, too busy circling an f on another student's paper. the air was becoming thin. you placed your palms on the wood of his desk and curled your fingers underneath the edge, squeezing.

the teacher flickered his eys to you, for a moment his expression was annoyed. then, he spotted the pain written over your face. "miss y/l/n, are you alright?"

"uh, i need– the bathroom," you whispered, unable to bring your voice any louder.

"the period is almost over–"

your heartbeat was clamoring. you didn't listen to him, and instead bolted out the door. you needed out, now. he called after you, alerting the rest of the class, but didn't bother getting out of his chair.

the hallway wasn't much better, it was still so hot. frantically, you unzipped your jacket and pulled it off your shoulders before letting it fall to the floor with a soft thump. you leaned your forehead against one of the many lockers and one of your hands found the lock.

it was cold, and blue. it was firm and smooth but becoming slick with the sweat from your forehead. the lock had ridges you swiped your thumb over, rotating it. it was red with white ticks for each number to the combination.

you heard the rubber of someone's shoes squeak against the tile as they rounded the corner, and then quicken towards you. you looked to your left, seeing isaac, and brought your eyebrows together in confusion as he stopped himself next to you.

isaac eyed you curiously, leaning closer with concern written over his face. his hand delicately rested against your back, as if he was afraid to touch you. you pulled yourself away, and couldn't meet his eyes.

"y/n, are you okay?"

his voice sounded so far away, only the echo reaching your ears. for a moment, you didn't respond, trying to catch the breath that slipped past your lips. "no. i– i mean, think it's a panic attack," you gasped out, squeezing the plastic lock.

"oh– oh," he fixed his posture, and opened his mouth to say more, but was cut off by the school bell.

immediately, students flooded into the halls. he scanned them, friend groups crowded and bound together by interlocked elbows, making impenetrable walls as they paraded through. chatter was constant, bouncing off the walls and only making your heart rate spike. it was all too much. you felt suffocated, and no matter where you looked, there was someone blocking your way out.

"isaac... can't breathe," you shook your head.

he took your hand and tugged you away from the crowd, hoping you would follow his lead. "let's go this way, okay?"

isaac pulled you into an empty classroom, it being the closest space he could find that was scarce of any students. almost immediately as you stepped in, your knees gave out under you and you curled your knees to your chest as your back pressed against the wall.

"i'm sorry," you whimpered, using the breath you had to mumble. you looked down. your legs, your body, you had to remind yourself. this was you. "i'm sorry, i-"

"you need to breathe, okay?" he spoke slowly, crawling over to you and propping himself up on his knees. he offered his hand for you to take, and you accepted, squeezing it. his skin around your grip turned white. "lift up your head. let me count for you, in for seven, out for five."

you nodded, meeting his gaze. he winced at the tightness of your grip on his hand but you couldn't bring yourself to let go, you needed to feel something real. he counted, demonstrating his breath and you did as you were told. in for seven, out for five.

"it's gonna be okay, y/n. how long has it been?"

"i don't–" it felt impossible to get a coherent sentence out. your thoughts were scrambled. "eight, i think. minutes. i'm sorry."

it had felt like forever a lifetime of excruciating terror taking over your body, making you paralyzed. this wasn't the first time he'd seen you have a panic attack, but you still felt helpless. deflated, in the corner of an empty classroom while your peers continued their lives on the other side of the door.

"i'm here, and this is gonna pass." isaac was calm, he kept his voice steady and easy to follow. "focus on something, what do you see in here?"

there was a lot, and they all looked the same. cream desks with blue, plastic chairs. the same carpet pattern repeating over and over again. a dirty chalkboard.

you looked to your left, above the door. "a clock." you narrowed your eyes and mustered a deep breath. "it's, uh, it's black. one hand is red, the hour one is black– um, it's clicking." if you were quiet enough, you could hear the methodic ticks for each passing second.

your chest lightened, you could feel a smooth flow of oxygen making its way in. your mouth was dry, like you'd been all day without water.

"i'm sorry," you repeated, still practicing the breathing exercise to regain control. "i'm sorry, isaac."

"you shouldn't be apologizing," he scooted closer to you, "can i touch you?"

you nodded, and a smile ghosted his lips as he brought his free hand to your cheek. you were still sweaty. "you shouldn't be embarrassed, y/n. this doesn't make me think anything less of you, okay?" his thumb stroked across your skin where a stray tear escaped. "i'm so proud of you, angel."

your pulse was still quick, but had begun to slow down as you regained your breath. an after thought crossed your mind, and you pulled your eyebrows together. "how'd you know?"

"sometimes i, uh..." isaac smiled sheepishly and looked at the ground. "when i'm in history, if i focus enough i can hear your heartbeat through the walls. when it sounded like you were having a heart attack, i knew something was wrong."

"it felt like a heart attack..." you mumbled with a lazy grin. he looked up at you again, and you relaxed your posture. "isaac, i love you."

"i love you, too," he sighed, then leaned forward and kissed you. he was soft, as if too much pressure could break you in two. "you want me to talk to harris?"

you pulled your lips into your mouth, thinking. you didn't want to wait around only to listen to harris's complaints about your "erratic behavior". it wouldn't be the first time, and the panic attack had drained you of all your energy and patience to sit around and take the heat.

all you wanted was to go back home and crawl into bed. preferably, with isaac. let yourself recharge.

"can you just take me home?"

he tilted his head, "of course, y/n."

[aryianite]

inflection point (pt 1 of 5)

Hi. So I’ve been reading fic for a long, long, time and I feel too old to be on this site but I discovered @piceuscelus‘s fantastic work while ago and was so inspired by it that I decided to try my hand at writing it for the first time. and immediately dove into writing hard smut so, i might be a clown and this might be terrible but hope you enjoy. i wrote parts 1, 2, and 3 in a one-sitting haze, finished part 4, and have a part 5 planned out but haven’t written it. might post this to AO3 sometime if people like it.

Pairing: geralt x ciri (not underage)

content warnings (part 1): dead dove: do not eat, pseudo-incest, mutual masturbation, voyeurism, exhibitionism, comeplay (minor), squirting (minor), kaer morhen’s fanon hot springs, geralt’s canonically giant cock, not underage

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

Ciri is staring at him.

Geralt can tell because the nervous thump of her rabbit-fast heart is so loud it almost echoes in the near-silence of the hot springs. The only other sound is the gentle lapping of the water against the edge of the stone and the sloshing of waves as he scrubs his arms.

He hums a little, deep in his throat, almost subverbal. It reverberates around the chamber, and the smell of her slick intensifies. Geralt smirks a little. Out of the corner of his eye he can see her hiding behind an outcropping of rock, knees pressed together. He turns slightly in her direction and he hears a small gasp, though he purposefully doesn’t make eye contact.

He reaches behind him and gathers his hair up, tying it into a messy bun. The sound of Ciri’s breathing gets heavier, and he picks up the swish of her legs pressing and rubbing together. The glowing stones on the floor of the hot springs illuminate the turquoise waters, throwing warm flickering light about the chamber. In the dim lighting, Geralt knows Ciri will only be able to see parts of him, with shadows dancing over him. But he’d be able to see all of her in his peripherals, if only she came a little closer.

In the corner of the chamber, at the edge of one of the pools is a flat ledge that juts out, sloping out from the wall. A vent sits just under it, warming it slightly with steam that adds to the swirls rising from the water. It’s a little ways out from where Geralt is now - so he knows that if he moves over there, Ciri will have to leave her position to see him better.

He braces his arms against the edge of the pool he’s in and slowly rises out of the water, climbing panther-smooth and quietly out. He’s unashamed in his nudity, cock hanging heavy and proud from his dripping body as he pads quietly over to the ledge. He hears a small, barely stifled squeak from the corner, but gives no indication that he heard it. The aroma of her slick is so strong in the air now that Geralt can almost taste it, rich and heavy on his tongue. He rumbles again, cock half-hard and heavy on his thigh.

Reaching the ledge, he bends down and smooths his hand over the rock. It’s almost slippery, worn silken by hundreds of witchers before him who’ve found it and used it as a relaxation station. Geralt sits down on it, legs straight out in front of him, back against the wall. The contrast between the cool stone on the hot skin of his back and the warmth of the heated stone is thrilling; his nipples harden and twinge with a jolt of pleasure as he roughs a hand over his chest. He moans a little, lowly, and he hears the sound of feet shuffling closer.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Ciri poorly hidden behind another outcropping of rock a couple of meters away. She’s wearing a thin night shift - she must have climbed out of bed to come find him, with everyone in the keep asleep at this hour. He can see the bottom of the shift stuck to her thighs, whether from slick or steam, and he groans.

He closes his eyes and strokes his hand down his firm stomach and thick thighs. The muscles in his legs jump a little, and his cock throbs as he scrapes his nails gently on his skin. This winter has been a kind one so far, and with it being the last one before Ciri heads out with him on the Path as a full witcher, everyone has been merrier and more affectionate than usual. The savory stew that Vesemir made several hours earlier sits comfortably in his stomach, and Geralt feels rested and at peace. He knows once he and Ciri are out on the Path it’ll be back to lean hunts and cold days, and he savors the serenity and comfort that comes with being at home.

And speaking of Ciri, she’s been acting strange the last few weeks. At night, after Vesemir goes to bed, when the four of them gather to play Gwent by the fire, Ciri often declines and opts to simply sit next to him and watch. Which is strange, because out of the four of them, she’s the one who would play any drunkard out of his cards and steal all his winnings if she could. She’ll lean on his shoulder and hold onto his arm - which isn’t particularly strange in itself, but what it unusual is the arousal he’s been scenting on her when he presses against her. Eskel and Lambert smell it too, and they’re certainly interested, but defer to him on how to approach things. None of them want to pressure her if she’s unsure, but they don’t know how to broach the subject.

Geralt thinks the best way to let everything happen organically is to let Ciri approach him on her own. But it has been weeks of soft touches and Ciri looking away shyly, him looking up and seeing her gaze heavy on him before she startles and glances askance like a little deer. His cock has been almost constantly hard with the scent of her arousal thick in the air all the time, so much so that he has to take himself in hand multiple times a day.

Which led him to wake up in the middle of the night tonight, sweating with his hair plastered to his face and hand shoved down his smalls. Geralt had groaned into his pillow and stomped down to the hot springs in hopes that a bath and a long soak in the pools would relax him enough to go back to sleep - and he was almost calmed down before he realized Ciri had followed him down and was watching him bathe.

Geralt scrapes his hand down his leg again and opens his eyes, watching his full cock jump a little. He takes himself in hand and strokes slowly, but firmly, from root to tip, groaning lowly as he does. A bead of precome wells at the tip and slowly runs down. With his other hand, he pinches and rolls one of his nipples, rumbling again when his nail catches on the bud. He thumbs over the rosy tip of his cock, massaging under the spongy head and gently stroking the thick vein that pulses on the side. He groans a little louder.

To his left, he can hear Ciri rustling a little as she lifts up the edge of her shift. He closes his eyes and imagines her gaze on him. The heat of her eyes, with blush high on her cheeks. How she can’t see all of him, only light and darkness playing over his body, with the glow of the water and stones embedded in the walls illuminating him from the side and below.

He strokes his cock a little faster, and hears the slick sounds of her fingers on her cunt. Geralt growls lowly at this, and hears her answering gasp, quiet and still muffled as if she’s got a hand over her mouth. Fuck.

“Fuck,” he groans aloud, gripping his cock tighter and pinching his nipple roughly. His harsh breaths echo a little in the chamber, and the just-barely there sounds of Ciri matching his strokes has him so hard he’s almost in tears.

The thought of her slim fingers plunging in and out of her pink cunt almost brings him to the edge, but he just barely manages to hold on to a thread of control by grabbing the base of his cock. He’s sliding a little on the rock, sweating from arousal and from the heat of the steamy air around him. He forces his eyes open a little, and catches the profile of Ciri’s hand frantically rubbing her clit. Geralt groans so loudly it reverberates around the entire chamber - he’s so wet from precome that his fist almost feels like a cunt with how tight he’s gripping himself.

Ciri’s slick is leaking onto her upper thighs, and she’s so drenched that he can see it from how the light from the water is reflecting on her, giving her lower half an almost sparkling effect, and he throbs almost painfully thinking about it. The thought of sinking into her and grinding up against the velvet clutch of her - fuck. He’s so, so hard. Geralt is sure he’s never been this hard in his life.

The obscene sound of her cunt suckling at her fingers as she plunges them in and out is so loud that Geralt isn’t sure how she hasn’t realized he can hear her yet - but he’s so close to coming that he doesn’t have much room for anything in his brain at this point. All that is left is Ciri and fuck and the tight, wet clutch of his own hand. Geralt strokes harder, bracing his feet against the stone and fucking up into his hand. He rolls his hips and closes his eyes, scraping his left hand over his chest and neck and ending with holding onto the edge of the stone slab for dear life.

He’s close, and he’s about to switch hands before he hears the splash of slick dripping onto the ground and a muffled fuck, Geralt from Ciri and it’s that whisper that sends him over the edge, coming so hard his vision whites out. Thick ropes of come land on his stomach and legs, and his cock throbs roughly as he jerks with each pulse, groaning like his life depends on it and rolling his hips into the air. Geralt can’t stop the harsh pants and high, almost animalistic whine that comes out of him as he fucks his fist. Grey spots dance at the edge of his vision. He’s never come this fucking hard in his entire life.

He opens his eyes fully and runs a shaky finger through his own mess, bringing it to his mouth and sucking, moaning at the taste. Fuck.

Ciri’s breaths are coming out roughly too as she comes down from her orgasm as well. Geralt decides he’s tired of this impasse and turns his body over towards her.

“Did you enjoy the show, little swallow?”

Ciri squeaks in shock as she jerks her head up, and their eyes meet in the dim light. Her cheeks are still rosy from arousal and her hair is falling out slightly from her bun. Her mouth is agape from his comment, but Geralt can see that she presses her thighs together when he says it.

part 2

[the-original-starfruit-blog]

Lapidot Anniversary Week D3

“Love Thy Neighbor”

The perks of living in a refurbished barn in the middle of nowhere? Lots of serene quiet, an ideal atmosphere for making art, and homophobic neighbors to one-up with your completely, utterly, 100% platonic roommate.

Words: 3,481

Tags: romance/ mutual crushing/ homophobia/ human au/ gay pride/ artist!au/ music!au/ they each have a crush on the other and it's a grand gay old time

(my contribution for day three’s human au prompt !! and yes, this was preexisting cause i was lazy today and didn’t do a painting) @jenhedgehog @lapidot-anniversary-week

Lapis moved the curtain aside to peek out the window. She did a double take, quickly pushing the light fabric all the way aside to get a better view.

    “Oh my god,” she muttered, then louder: “Peridot, come look at this shit.”

There was a note from the other room, the sullen twang of a B flat, a hollow, vaguely discordant thump that sounded like a guitar being put down not as gently as it should have. Another sound, one of their chairs being scraped back, and Peridot came over.

    “Sorry – was I interrupting?” Lapis asked, and she shook her head grumpily.

Lapis suppressed a shiver as Peridot slipped under her arm to look out the window.

    “It’s fine. I wasn’t getting anything done anyway.”

She could feel the younger girl’s body heat radiating through her light summer clothes, the top of her hijab barely brushing Lapis’s shoulder.

    “So what’s outside besides the usual trees, grass and –“ Peridot stopped, her mouth dropping open. “Jesus Christ.”

    “Yeah, pretty much,” Lapis agreed, dropping her voice to a dramatic whisper. “Although it may not befit you to take the Lord’s name in vain.”

    Peridot snorted, elbowing Lapis in the side. She shook her head slowly as she continued to look outside at the house next door, which had been decorated apparently overnight with no less than seven oversized American flags, a large cross, and a wooden sign that proclaimed God Bless America!

    “I always knew our neighbors were wacked,” Lapis said, stepping away from the window. The butterflies in her stomach subsided, though she told herself it was the absence of Christian patriotism being shoved in her face rather than close proximity to Peridot and her warmth.

    “I mean, we’re two reclusive art students living in a barely remodeled barn, Laz,” Peridot said with a grin. “They probably think the same thing about us.”

    She let the curtain fall back into place and went back into the two mismatched couches they called the sitting area, picking up her guitar and letting a couple notes vibrate through the air. She extended one short leg onto the crate-turned-coffee-table and leaned her head back, emitting a sigh of frustration so heavy it was nearly palpable.

    “You need a break,” Lapis said. “Wanna come to the farmer’s market so we actually have something for dinner tonight?”

    “Why not,” Peridot said after a moment of hesitation, leaning all the way over the back of the couch and smiling upside down. Her glasses nearly fell off as she straightened with nervous energy and hopped off the couch.

    Lapis grabbed her backpack from the table and rummaged around inside, fishing out a few crumpled bills and a handful of change. Peridot came down from the loft a few minutes later with a similar yield.

    “Twelve seventy-eight,” she said. Lapis grinned and held out her hand.

“Twenty-six fifty,” she said triumphantly, and Peridot whooped.

    “Gourmet tonight,” she said, opening the front door and letting Peridot out first, “I’m thinking fresh pesto and –“

    They collided as Peridot stopped abruptly, and Lapis swore as she nearly bowled her over.

    “What –“ she began, and then Peridot bent to pick up a sheet of paper from their front step. Her eyes scanned it quickly and she handed it to Lapis, incredulous.

    “Add to the burn pile, I guess,” she said, eyebrows raised as she headed for the car.

    HAVE YOU BEEN SAVED? the paper bellowed, and Lapis allowed for a hearty eye roll before she continued to read. Most are unaware they are living in sin. However, it is not too late! The New Testament proclaims that everyone can be saved if they confess, repent, and believe – despite falling prey to sins such as thievery, copulation out of wedlock, homosexuality

    Lapis crumpled the paper in her fist, scowling, and threw it vehemently in the direction of the house next door.

    She got into the driver’s seat, slamming the door a bit harder than necessary, her cheeks flushed. Peridot, seatbelt already buckled conscientiously, looked over.

    “Do you mind if we make a stop at the paint store on the way home?” Lapis asked. An idea was starting, familiar inspiration blooming in the forefront of her mind. “I have some stuff I need to get.”

                                                                    *   *   *   *   *

The next morning, Lapis was up at dawn. She dressed quickly and headed outside, her bag of brushes and paint heavy on her arm. She had gotten seven sample-sized colors of housepaint for free, and she knew exactly how she was going to use them.

    She hummed as she pried open the metal lids with a paint-splattered screwdriver. She and Peridot had talked about repainting the barn since they moved in, and Lapis had always hated the drab gray that was peeling off the outside wall like long strips of elephant skin. She had been out with a ladder, an old toilet brush and a hose last night, scrubbing away the dirt and loose old paint to prepare the wall for new.

    By the time Peridot had woken up, gotten ready, realized Lapis was gone, and come outside to look for her, her work was done. With her hands on her hips and her back to their neighbor’s house, she stood and admired the seven stripes of color that radiated off the side of their barn. Peridot joined her, mouth agape.

    “You painted a twelve foot pride flag on the side of our house because our neighbors left a stupid flyer on our stoop?”

    Lapis nodded, unable to contain her grin. She wiped a smear of blue paint from her hand to her leg.

    Peridot’s serious facade broke, and she cackled, holding her sides and wiping at the corner of her eye.

    “They’re going to be so pissed,” she gasped eventually, patting Lapis lightly on the back several times, warm and sweet and congratulatory in the sun.

    “That’s the idea,” Lapis said, something in her chest glowing. “Let’s go have breakfast, I’m starved.”

                                                                    *   *   *   *   *

For two days they waited for a response, peeking out the windows every few hours. Bored, Lapis used the rest of the robin-egg blue housepaint to repaint a wall on her side of the loft, and Peridot whined about the fumes until Lapis mixed a pale purple and drove her outside by deciding to do a wall downstairs as well. She opened all the windows and laughed as she listened to Peridot strum her guitar, alternating between mournful minor chords and an angry blues riff that always ended with the accompanying lyrics fuck you, oh-ohhh Lazuli, fuck yoo-ouu.

    That evening, she went outside with purple paint under her nails and two sandwiches on a tray. She sat next to Peridot on their scratchy little back lawn, admiring how the last of the sunset looked coming through the tall weeping beech that watched over the black-eyed Susans in the corner. Cicadas sang in monotone at the few dozen fireflies beginning to stitch through the dark abovegrass.

    “Oh! Wow, thanks,” Peridot said, picking up her sandwich and humming appreciatively as she bit into it.

    “You should eat more,” Lapis said without thinking, knowing how easy it was to forget food when immersed in painting or sculpting. She hoped it was the same for Peridot’s music and that the younger girl wasn’t neglecting to eat on purpose.

    Peridot shrugged it off, her mouth full. Then she swallowed like she had forgotten something, her eyes wide.

    “I forgot to tell you! Look what they put up over there, it’s fucking terrifying.”

Lapis stood up and shaded her eyes, looking at the neighbor’s house. Her mouth fell open.

    There was a life-sized scarecrow decorated in painstaking detail to look like Uncle Sam, painted face accurate down to the bushy white eyebrows. It pointed menacingly in their direction, a red-white-and-blue top hat perched on its head. Yet another flag hung from an outstretched arm.

    Peridot was laughing silently when Lapis sat back down, wide-eyed and shaking her head slowly. She opened her mouth, but then just took a bite of sandwich, at a loss for words.

    “You know what this calls for, right?” Peridot asked, her eyes glittering. Lapis looked over and couldn’t help smiling at the four feet eleven inches of energy practically vibrating by her side.

    “Retaliation.”

                                                                  *   *   *   *   *

The next day Lapis woke up to something horrible poking repetitively at her ribs. She shoved the offending sensation away. It persisted, and she groaned, rolling over and cocooning herself in blankets.

    “Lazuli,” a soft whisper, then louder, “Lazuli!”

She sat bolt upright so suddenly that Peridot squeaked in alarm, jerking backwards and blinking innocently behind her round glasses.

    “Iss still dark ou’,” Lapis slurred irritably, glaring through squinted eyes in the lavender-tinted predawn light that crept shyly through the window. Peridot nodded.

    “I know, I have to get outside before the neighbors go to work so that they’re guaranteed to hear me, and I thought I could use a little extra time to ensure the plan goes off flawlessly –“

    Lapis laid a finger imprecisely over her lips in a shushing motion. The blanket slipped down a bit, and Lapis hiked it back up, feeling the cool air prickle her bare skin. Peridot stopped talking abruptly. Lapis couldn’t tell in the barely-there light, but she thought she saw a dark flush of color, flaming cheeks.

    “Get to the point?” Lapis asked, less cuttingly than she wanted, and her heart was racing so damn hard at the feeling of Peridot’s soft and slightly chapped lips on her finger that she was certain she wouldn’t be able to sleep again.

    Peridot grinned and pulled away from Lapis’s hand.

“What are the gayest songs you know?” she asked. Lapis blinked for a moment.

    “Power of Two by Indigo Girls, She by Dodie Clark, Jenny by the Studio Killers,” Lapis rattled off, then smiled a little as Peridot blinked in bemusement. “Why’d you ask me if you thought you wouldn’t get results?”

    Peridot shook her head silently and left. Her head stopped level with the floor as she descended the ladder, and she added a small, “Wow, thanks!” before disappearing below the edge of the loft.

    Lapis sagged back into the nest of her bed. She touched her finger with her other hand, gently rubbing the spot where Peridot’s lips had been – the spot that, for some elusive reason, seemed to burn.

    She knew it would be useless to try and get back to sleep, but she lay in bed for a while longer anyway before Peridot’s soft music drifted through the walls of the barn. She got up, pulled on a shirt, and went outside.

    Peridot was leaning against the wall of the barn underneath the enormous pride flag, strumming her guitar and looking at tablature on her phone. The sun was coming up, painting everything with a strangely delicate new light, rose-toned and downy gold.

    Peridot saw her and stopped humming under her breath.

“Lapis! Here, this is in perfect conjunction with my plan – quick, sit down, he’ll be coming out here any minute –“

    Lapis sat next to Peridot in the dew-sweet grass, shivering as the seat of her boxers soaked up the dampness with brutal efficiency. Peridot glanced up.

    “Cozy up, we have to put on a good show,” she said, and Lapis felt warmth blossom down her whole side as Peridot pressed against her. She sighed in sleepy contentment, her mouth opening in a jaw-cracking yawn.

    “So wha – aaah – what’s this… retaliation of yours?” Lapis asked. Her head drooped, and it seemed too much effort to raise it again. Peridot repositioned her shoulder so she could still play with Lapis’s head cradled by her neck.

    “I sit out here and demonstrate proof of my blatant protest of their homophobia by playing gay songs under our enormous pride flag. The message would have been sufficiently clear with me on my own, hence the plan, but your presence adds yet another layer of sapphic imagery.”

    Lapis smiled a little at the proud explanation. She was always a sucker for sapphic imagery.

    “Well-planned and meaningful composition,” she said through another yawn, “thought that was my job.”

    “You already did your job with the flag, painter,” Peridot said smugly, strumming a few chords, the notes harmonious as dewdrops in the fresh air. “Now sit there and look gay.”

    Lapis snorted. Her eyes slipped closed.

“Can do,” she thought she muttered, but she couldn’t be sure – everything was a bit dreamlike, a faded impressionist landscape of greens and sunrise hues, blurred through the squint of her eyelashes. Almost chalky with pastel strokes and colors. Peridot’s bare shoulder blushed warm under her sleep-soft cheek.

    It could have been hours later when Lapis first started to wake, surfacing from some emerald-weeded and waterlilied pond jeweled by music she couldn’t differentiate from a dream. She was slowly aware of being curled against something warm and small, and of the song filtering down through the sunlit water of her consciousness – a voice that Lapis rarely heard, less nasal than spoken word and much huskier than expected from such a tiny girl.

    She opened her eyes and was confronted by Peridot’s shoulder, the golden-brown expanse of her skin under the slim smile of her tank top strap. The song was barely audible over the sigh of the wind, but some lyrics got through.

    though she came from the sea

    her smile’s not for me

  a moonshell girl, translucent pearl

    my Lapis Lazuli.

Lapis tried to isolate the lurch in her chest but shifted by accident, her face slipping abruptly and her heart beating hummingbird fast.

    The guitar and Peridot’s voice cut off with equal suddenness, and Lapis felt her move. A poorly disguised note of panic, though she kept her voice quiet.

    “I – Lapis! Are you awake?”

Lapis pretended to stretch with a sonorous movement, as if she were escaping the syrup of sleep, and she must have done a moderately convincing job. Peridot relaxed as she hummed a noncommittally drowsy answer, straightening slowly against the wall. She faked a yawn and wiggled her toes in the grass in front of her, finally looking over at Peridot with a simulated tiredness.

    “Aaah shit – how long did I sleep? Did I miss him?” she murmured, pointing her chin at the neighbor’s house.

    Peridot looked relieved.

“Only by about an hour,” she said scornfully. “You’ll be pleased to know he reacted quite well to my ballads – other than his face bearing a striking resemblance to a pitted prune once he figured out my lyrics, there appeared to be no negative changes in his attitude.”

    Lapis snorted.

“No pitchforks, no torches, no village mob screaming to burn us?” she asked, and Peridot shook her head.

    “You can afford to joke, but we’re lucky,” she said darkly.

“Oh, lighten up, Miss Gloom-and-Doom,” Lapis said, resisting the impulse to kiss Peridot’s cheek - where in the blazing hell had that come from? - before she stood up, trying to hide her furious blush. “I can’t wait to see how they’ll top this one.”

                                                               *   *   *   *   *

The revenge was quick to come in the form of an obnoxious sign, proudly pegged into the center of the neighbor’s lawn – God Hates Gays & Liars.

    “Whatever that means,” Peridot had said contemptuously when she saw it. Lapis loathed that sign, and now a hot little worm of anger burned whenever she looked out the window.

    It took her four days to sculpt three detailed statues, each about eight inches high, and each depicting a different pair of women embracing in various positions, their nudity artfully displayed and accentuated with long, flowing lines of languorous motion. Peridot blushed heavily when she saw them.

    “Wow – I mean, those are gorgeous, but, uh, pretty explicit, Laz,” she said when Lapis emerged, smelling baked by the kiln and her fingernails crusted with brown-red clay.

    “I know. This should, ah, grant them a new perspective on what they’re protesting with all their righteous god-squad fuckery,” Lapis said, carefully gathering her sculptures.

    “Wait – what do you mean? These aren’t for around the house, or gallery pieces? You’re not selling them?” Peridot questioned anxiously, following Lapis as she made a beeline for the front door.

    “Oh, no,” Lapis assured her with a manic brightness in her eyes, “these are going straight on our garden wall. Those assholes will get a very personalized gallery viewing.”

    She marched out the door, Peridot spluttering in her wake, and set the statues facing their neighbors on the low stone wall that divided their two properties.

    The next day, the other house planted two beds of bright, unnatural-looking red-white-and-blue flowers around their sign and around their scarecrow. Peridot, her mouth twisted in unspoken distaste, set large pots of tall foxglove and marigold on the wall between the statues, partially blocking the view.

    Nearly a week passed without retaliation, and Lapis had begun to relax until she went out to water Peridot’s flowers one morning. The watering can toppled from her hand.

    One of her statues had been smashed, a thousand shards of clay scattered along the top of the wall. Some larger fragments had fallen to the ground, and Lapis recognized smooth brown limbs she had spent hours creating, a leg here, an arm there. Shaking with anger, she picked up the sign that had replaced the statue.

    Love is Love, But God’s Law is God’s Law. Keep Marriage Sacred.

She clenched her teeth, a sound of furious despair leaking out of her mouth. She threw the sign violently and fell to her knees, head bowed, slowly picking up the pieces.

    Peridot came out of the house, running across the lawn in fright. Lapis didn’t look up.

    “Laz! Lapis! What’s wrong, are you – “ Out of breath, she spotted the ruined statue and the sign. She slowed to a stop, and then hesitantly put her hand on Lapis’s shoulder.

    After a minute, she spoke again, her voice unusually gentle.

“We can file a complaint, maybe call someone? Destruction of private property on private property has got to be – “

    “It’s not about the statue!” Lapis cut her off, feeling hot tears welling behind her eyes. “I guess – it was never about the neighbors. It’s the principle of the matter. That there are still people like this, backwards-thinking stupid damn people who think it’s not okay for us to love each other – or – or that we’re broken or dirty or – wrong,” she finished, feeling Peridot’s hand drop from her shoulder. She felt a brief flare of panic – and then a small hand was in hers, pulling her upright, and then gentle fingers were under her eyes, doing their best to blot the sadness away.

    “Hey, hey. Hey,” Peridot insisted, touching Lapis under the chin to make her look down. “I know. Some people are shitty sometimes, and lots of people are shitty all the time. But,” and Peridot was leaning closer, leaning upwards, and Lapis’s heart was thundering in her ears, her eyes half-closed, lashes wet and still and sooty, “you have to remember that there will always be people like us, too.”

    She closed the distance between them, and Lapis had room for nothing except the music that seemed to soar from around them, rising like a sunburst in the middle of the hot summer morning. There was a chaotic, tumbling happiness too, the world feeling overwhelmingly warm and bright and wonderful. The smell of cut grass and flowers in Peridot’s hair. Lapis thought they could have stayed like that forever if she hadn’t heard the small cough from over the garden wall.

    She pulled back gently and turned her head.

Their neighbor, who Lapis had never seen before now, stood in the middle of his flower bed, a harmless-looking old man in baggy jeans and a red polo shirt. His mouth was open slightly, and an obviously forgotten hose hung from one hand, pouring a stream of clear water into a patch of already saturated grass.

    Lapis found herself smiling sunnily.

She pulled Peridot tight against her, lifting her up and kissing her deeply. She felt a shimmer of pride as the startled sound Peridot made initially turned into a quiet, satisfied hum. Her arms wrapped around Lapis’s shoulders. Lapis closed her eyes, gently stroking Peridot’s back, and let herself be absorbed in bliss until she heard a series of progressively less subtle coughs, then an offended “Hmmph!” and a door slamming in the next house over.

    They broke apart leisurely, Peridot grinning with the self-satisfaction of a cat as she slid back to the ground.

    “We should have done that a long time ago,” she said breathlessly, her arms still around Lapis’s waist.

    Lapis nodded and kissed Peridot’s cheek. Finally. It was warm and smooth.

“Can you help me take these statues in?” Lapis asked with a smile, touching the warm blush of freckles on Peridot’s face as she nodded. “I don’t think we need to worry about the neighbors anymore.”

[kingwsly]

“I can’t do that.”

MEME.   ( randomness )      @thebrightestwltch

          had the situation been different, maybe the answer wouldn’t have sent a wave of frustration through ron in that moment. but, considering it was a life or death moment? he thought his frustration at quite possibly the only other person alive was entirely justified. hell, he was scared out of his mind and convinced he was going to be the next human kebab, thrown onto a hook and left for sacrifice to some weird multi armed creature. just the thought left a shiver running down his spine, even despite the muggy heat of the swampland they were currently creeping through. what they’d just witnessed? if he survived this, he would never forget that sickening image. it was probably why hermione was in some sort of shock. hell, he wasn’t entirely sure why he wasn’t in shock. he was no hero. he’d watched people being chopped down with machetes and axes too much over the last few hours. hell, he’d only managed to get one generator going out of god knows how many that were needed to power something. possibly an escape? possibly just for nothing, leaving them illuminated for some sick psychopath’s taking. 

          ❝ you have to. ❞ his voice was a strained whisper, pained and far too desperate. but, giving up wasn’t an option and can’t wasn’t something he had the patience for. that was his excuse for all but shoving hermione into the cramped locker before climbing in himself. he wasn’t that guy who manhandled anyone. that wasn’t his thing, but he wasn’t watching hermione die. not a chance. perhaps it was selfish. she was smart and nimble and had figured out way more than he had and he had a distinct feeling that he wasn’t getting out of here without her help. so, maybe he was smart for making the decision to ensure she survived as well, right? or maybe he didn’t want to die alone. that could have easily been the other option.

          as he closed the creaking metal doors shut, ron felt an instant regret running through him. the sound of their exhausted, adrenalin fuelled breathing was amplified by the metal box. as was the heat, leaving the cold sweat of fear turning into the sweat of running for his life in some disgusting, muggy, too hot land he’d never seen before. while his eyes adjusted to the new level of darkness, ron realised he’d been gripping hermione’s wrist possibly a little too tightly. given the situation, perhaps it was forgivable. he’d either sentenced them both to die in a metal locker sized coffin, or he’d saved them from the looming footsteps. surely that was worth maybe bruising her wrist in the long run, right? even still, he opened his mouth to apologise or even just find something to fill the uncomfortable silence that bred anticipation and fear. yet, just as the first breathy sound left him, the thud of footsteps began to grow louder on the wooden deck just outside the locker. the fear simply left ron seeing his life flash before his eyes combined with the uncomfortable ringing of his own terrified heartbeat thundering in his ears. god, he’d been so naive to think he was going to make it to at least fifty before having to worry about dying. even then, he was somewhat sure his overindulgences were what was going to get him, not some sick murderer wearing a mask and wielding weapons that belonged in super villain lockers.

          then, the scrape of metal on metal happened. for some reason, it prompted ron to slowly raise onto his tiptoes to peer out of the small vent at the top of the lockers. he definitely regretted that instantly. he could see the monster that had been chasing and killing them with far too much detail. the light from the nearby generator was illuminating his skin. what ron had once thought was just some disturbed human, no longer looked human with the way the muscles were so obvious and no skin was covering them. even the laboured breathing seemed non-human. more animalistic in some ravenous way. almost as soon as his eyes caught sight of the monster, ron dropped from his tiptoes. of course, he’d forgotten that he was standing on rusty metal, on a creaky deck, in a very humid swamp - all of which led to a telltale squeak-thump combination, just from the transfer of his weight. it was enough to alert the monster, leaving ron throwing his arm over hermione in some last ditch effort to protect her even as his eyes closed and he swallowed thickly. he was braced for the worst. this sick whatever it was, wasn’t just going to let him die easily. he’d seen what it did: injuring people until they were gasping and sobbing in agony. only then did he hand them over and dispose of them on the weird hooks.

          the creaking of the deck under the weight of the killer left ron’s stomach churning uncomfortably. in his mind, he could only picture the half covered face peering in through the cracks, a sadistic smile landing on its face knowing it had caught someone else. then, a loud bang. one of the generators, signaling that someone was near, accompanied by the bone chilling and deafening screech of the killer’s chainsaw slowly distancing away from the locker. it was only when ron heard the scream of someone else - maybe it was the blonde he’d passed earlier who had found some old tools, or perhaps the short guy who seemed to be running in circles - that he realised he had been holding his breath. it sounded far enough away to give them a chance at escape. although, something in him just wouldn’t let him move just yet. his arm was still pressing hermione back against the locker, eyes slowly opening. it took a few breaths before he was able to at least pretend to compose himself, coupled with an audible swallowing of bitter saliva that had gathered as his stomach turned in the midst of fear.

          ❝ come on. we’re not dying here. ❞ his words, although whispered low enough that they were just audible, sounded far more confident than he felt. hell, he was glad that it was dark inside of the locker because it was hiding the shaking of his hands as he reached to push open the door. just a crack at first, then just enough to let them both out - if he’d learned anything, it was to not put any excess strain on anything around here. the crumbling buildings seemed to scream when climbed or touched when on the run. hell, the ground seemed to be giving them away. and the birds? it was like they were following them, insisting on calling out that they were still around. although self preservation felt like the logical, selfish choice, as he stepped out onto the deck again and held out a hand for hermione, ron felt a sense of guilt. he hoped desperately that, whoever the person was that had backfired the generator? they’d gotten away safely. if not, he owed them. ron wasn’t even sure it was possible to survive being on one of those hooks, but if he came across anyone hanging there, he was going to get them down. a more dignified death with the comfort of another person rather than being sacrificed to god knows what? he’d have preferred that. 

          ❝ let’s go. ❞