#salt lamp round shape

[saltbricksandtiles]

Crystal Bowl Himalayan Salt Lamp Round Shape Fire Bowl for Room & Home Decor

[nadiresdiary]

Altar Post 🕯🤍

(Photo description left to right)

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

A vase in the shape of a head, labeled as "Aphrodite Vase". In it, I put plastic flowers for My Lady, that will bloom forever. They were gifted to me by my Lover.

A small, red, heart-shaped candle. There's another one in the middle of the Altar, and there are 2 white ones as well.

A little EMMA figurine I got from a blindbox in London. The roses on her head reminded me of Lady Aphrodite <3.

A big, red, rose-shaped candle I bought in Lady Aphrodites' name. I originally bought it for my prior altar, when I was first interested in worshipping Her. I don't light this candle, because I doubt I'll ever find it again 🥀.

A framed picture of my Lover and I. We took this photo on a trip to London 🤍. I think it's nice to add a picture of him and I onto the Altar, so it might be easier for Lady Aphrodite to feel our bond and our Love, maybe 🦢🤍

A little glass bottle with a heart-shaped lid. In it, are dried pieces of my absolute favorite flowers, Baby's Breath. Those flowers have also been gifted to me by my Love <3.

2 little shell-covered jewelery-cases. The round red one I had since I was about six years old. I got it during my very first vacation to Croatia, with my mother, aunt, and cousin. The second one was a gift. Inside of them are jewelery offerings to My Lady.

A mushroom figurine with two red mushrooms. I like mushrooms, and I have another one of those in my living room, so there's no other reason than me liking them, I suppose :/

A salt-crystal lamp!! The colour and the function remind me of Her 💗.

Another EMMA figurine, this time in pink. I associate Lady Aphrodite with the colours pink, red, white, and blue. And since there are cherry blossoms on the pink EMMA, I liked associating it with Her.

And, last but not least, there are multiple shells strewn around the Altar, which I have picked up from beaches during vacations 🐚!

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

NOT PICTURED: the current candle I use for Her. It was a white candle inside of a pink-stained glass, but the wax has melted down a lot already! I might have to use a new one, until I find a way to make it fire-hazard-free♡

One thing I'd definitely like to add, would be sea-water! But since I live nowhere near the sea, I'll have to wait until my next vacation/trip 🌊🤍

I'd also LOVE to add a statuette of Lady Aphrodite, and maybe books about Her 🕊🤍

Her altar is on top of my desk. I can see it well from every part of my room, except my reading chair!

[league-of-sam]

As Grim as the Reaper | Simon 'GHOST' Riley PREQUEL

Ghost x Reader, Graves x Reader

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

Phillip Graves x AFAB!Reader!OC 18+ MINORS DNI! t.w // angst, mental health, language, violence, death, sexual themes/SMUT, military inaccuracies, language inaccuracies (google translate).

As Grim as the Reaper: Masterlist

Pushing the door open as quietly as you could, you found the house in darkness.

You had to take a deep breath before stepping inside, because this place...it didn't feel like home anymore. You didn't belong here anymore.

All of that just solidified the decision you'd come to over the last week.

The door shut behind you with a soft thud, and you lowered your bag to the floor. With silent steps, you made your way upstairs.

There was a thin layer of dust along the surfaces, evidence that Graves hadn't bothered with any of the housework in the week you'd been away. The bed was unmade, his clothes dropped around the room here and there, but he was nowhere to be found.

Somehow, that didn't make it easier.

It didn't take you long to pack the small amount of your belongings. It was only a small house, after all. Couldn't really justify owning much when the two of you were constantly moving. At least you had that.

You'd insisted on coming alone.

Laswell didn't want that, but she agreed after your stubbornness prevailed, opting to drop you off and pick you up in an hour. That was surely enough time to pack everything away and leave.

Leave the house.

Leave him.

In all honestly, it had barely taken you thirty minutes to pack your things, and so after bringing your bags to the door, you decided to make one more round of your little home...house.

You smiled, tasting the salt of a lone tear as you glanced at the pictures hung on the wall. Pictures from your first date, the weekends spent in his hometown in Texas, multiple snapshots of your time together, right down to the night you got engaged.

Everything in the last three years, just gone.

Trudging downstairs, you moved to turn off the last lamp, wiping a tear from your face until a voice stopped you.

"Goin' somewhere?"

You jumped, squinting into the darkness, where you could make out the shape of Graves, sitting on the armchair, looking at your bags.

Fuck.

"I- uh, I-"

"You were just gonna up and leave, huh? After everything?"

"Phillip, please just-"

He stood up, cutting you off, "Where the fuck have you been for the last week?! I've been worried sick!"

What?

That's what he called worried?

You scoffed as he approached you, "Worried? Where was that a month ago? Two months ago? Where the fuck was that when you all but told your fucking team you'd cheat on me?"

Your voice raised with every word, finger poking into his chest.

"I didn't mean it like that, you didn't even give me chance to explain myself!"

"You think you deserved that? I reckon 'never say never, y'all!' is pretty fucking self-explanatory, you fuckin' prick."

Your words were venomous, and they stung him with surprise. Never did he think you'd speak to him like this, where was his sweet girl? His little Reaper?

"The fuck is goin' on with you, huh? We're getting married and here you are sneakin' round the house packin' bags."

You were silent.

Yeah, you'd ignored his every attempt to reach out to you.

But he'd abandoned you in your most vulnerable moments, mocked you to comrades, pulled away when you needed him most.

"Why are you acting like this is out of the blue?" You asked quietly, "Don't you remember that night? I asked you if we'd be okay, and you couldn't give me a real answer."

He pushed a frustrated hand through his hair, because you were right.

"Baby, look, I know I've not been the best boyfriend but we can work this out, right? You can be my perfect girl again, my little Reaper."

He reached for your hand, but you yanked it away.

"That's the thing, you're not listening! I'm not gonna be that person anymore! Not after what happened. I don't want to be! And you can't seem to get that. I can't be with someone who refuses to even try to understand where I'm coming from."

"But you can get back there, right? Therapy is helping, and the sooner we're married and you can leave the force the better."

"Uh, what? Leave the force?"

Graves looked at you, mirroring your confused expression, "Well, yeah. How else are we supposed to build a home and raise a family?"

"Oh my god." You laughed, bitterness dripping from your lips. "You cannot be serious."

He continued to give you that look, the corner of his lips twitching as he took in your body language.

"Jesus fucking Christ...God, you're no fucking different than any other man that's doubted me my whole career. How did I not see it before..."

"What?"

"That's what you thought, really? We'd get married and I'd become a stay-at-home mum, have your dinner waiting for when you got home? Like a good little wife?"

He blinked, stepping to you once more, "W-well, yeah, my ma did it for my old man, that's how I was raised. And you can't fuckin' blame me for wantin' you out after what happened!"

You rolled your eyes, stepping further away, "I don't want to be that person! I don't want to be some perfect little trophy wife."

"I can promise you that life with me would not be like that, baby. We're perfect-"

"You're still not listening to me!" You yelled, pushing hair from your face, "Fuck me, you're insufferable!"

"And you're a fuckin' liability! You got people killed, (Y/N), you can't still think that Special Ops is where you belong."

Tears sprung to your eyes, falling down your cheeks quickly, "How could you say that to me?"

"C'mon, (Y/N)." He sighed, "You know as well as me, Laswell, Shepherd, the rest of the team...you know it was your fault. S'why you're actin' the way you are."

Ouch.

"You...y-you think my grief is an admission of guilt? You think me grieving losing my fucking family is me knowing it was my fault? Don't you think I've blamed myself enough?"

"You can't let go!" He yelled, "It's been almost two months, (Y/N), and you still won't let me close, we've not even had sex-"

"Oh...my god. Oh my god. No. Fucking no. I'm not listening to this." You spat, tears streaming, dripping from your chin to the hardwood floor.

"You fuckin' need me. You're gonna stay and we're gonna work on this shit and we're gonna get back on track and we're gonna get married, baby. It's gonna be fine."

He stepped forward once more, his hands coming to land on your waist, pulling you to him as his head moved to the crook of your neck, placing soft kisses.

"Okay, princess?" He hummed, "It's gonna be alright."

He smirked against your skin as he felt your body involuntarily lean into him, and heard the sigh that left your lips. 

You wanted to give in...fuck, you wanted more than anything to believe him, to believe the words he was spewing to you, believe everything was going to be alright. But it wasn't, there's no way it could be. Not after everything that had happened.

And he couldn't fix that.

No one could.

"N-no."

It came out as an almost-silent whisper as you tried to push him from you.

"Shhh, it's alright. I'll make things better, okay? We're gonna be just fine."

You grimaced as he continued to touch you, and you shoved him away violently, enough to make him stumble backwards.

"No!" You breathed heavily, "No. No! Not doing this, I can't do this anymore."

"You think you can leave me? Absolutely fucking not." He laughed, moving away from you as he ran a hand through his hair.

"You gonna stop me, Commander?" You challenged, taking a step back.

"I don't have to! 'Cause you see that ring on your finger? Means you're fuckin' mine, (Y/N). My fiancée, my wife...you're my girl."

You scoffed, rolling your eyes, "I'm not property, Phillip! That was always your fucking issue, thinking you own me, I don't belong to you."

"Yet you're still wearing it! Left me high and fuckin' dry for a week and yet you still wear the ring I gave you."

You looked at your hand, the diamond blurring through your tears.

Why were you wearing it?

"Then I guess it'll just have to come off."

He turned to meet your gaze, face paling as your hands moved, "Don't you fucking dare-"

You pulled the ring off your finger, so harshly that it burned, leaving a red ring as it caught your knuckle.

Graves stepped forward from across the room, in an effort to stop you, but he wasn't quick enough, and as he moved toward you, you flung the ring with the same power as you'd throw your knives into an enemy.

The hiss he let out told you that you'd hit your mark.

The ring bounced, clattering into the coffee table behind him, and he looked to the ring, then back at you, a small bead of red liquid coming from the small gash along his cheek.

So, diamonds are sharp enough to cut.

"You...you, fuck! You fuckin' psycho!" he yelled, dropping to his knees to find the ring, holding a tissue to his face, "Why the fuck would you do that?!"

Any ounce of guilt you felt immediately dissipated, and with an angry furrow of your brows, wiping your nose on your sleeve, you picked up your bags, flinging the door open.

"Go fuck yourself, Phillip Graves. I'm done." You spoke lowly, whimpering as the words came from your mouth.

"Baby, no-"

He tried to speak, shooting up from the floor, but you were already gone. Already tossing your bags into Laswell's car by the time he swung open the door, yelling for you.

You ignored him, angrily wiping your face as you opened the car door.

Laswell looked to Graves, eyes widening when she saw the trickle of blood on his cheek, her gaze flicking to you.

"What happened?" She asked you, worry on her face.

"Just get in the car." You mumbled.

Graves started to move down the driveway, prompting her to hastily get into the car and start the engine. His yells were muffled through the glass, and you put a hand over your mouth to stifle your sobs.

Rubber burned as Laswell tore onto the road, leaving Graves standing and watching you leave him in a puff of smoke.

And that was that.

Done.

Over.

Alone.

And the loss of home hung over you like a blanket made from lead.

[the-real-things-tournament]

0.5mm Pencil Lead

2002 Honda Civic

320 Pack Glitter Gel Pens

A Blunt

A Candle That Smells Like Fragrant Evergreens

A Copy of "The Book Thief" (2005) by Markus Zusak

A Daisychain

A DVD Copy of Over the Hedge (2006)

A Train

Ace of Spades Playing Card

Adderall

Adipose Plushie

Adorable Cow Creamer

Airpods

An Innumerable Amount of Lost DS Styli

Animal Shaped Rubber Bands

AP French Exam Packet

Argon (The Element)

Aviator Goggles

Baguette Body Pillow

Battery

Bead Maze

Beaded Curtain

Beanbag Chair

Bed

Beehive

Best Rock

Big Drinking Fountain

Black Out Curtains

Blanket

Blue Jeans

Blåhaj/Ikea Shark

Bread

Bright Orange VHS for the Rugrats Movie

Broken Alarm Clock

Bubble Toy

Bucket

Bur Oak Tree

Buttons (for clothes)

Can of Beans

Cast Iron Pan

Cat Collar With Bell

Chalk Boards

Cheese Grater

Chew Necklace

Chicxulub Impactor

Claw Hairclip

Clip-On Earrings

Clock

Coconut Broom

Colored Fairy Lights

Comically Oversized Lollypop

Construction Cone

Contraception

Crane Machine

Crayons

Dead Baby Possum Killed by Chihuahua (RIP)

Digivice V-pet

Dildo

Dirigible

Dirty Glass Bottle You Find In The Woods

Disinfecting Wipes

Dice

Dragon Ball Z Volume 4 (Manga Paperback)

Drinking Bird Desk Toy

Earth

Egg Slicer

Elementary School Yearbook

Empty Pizza Box

Every Basket

Every Knife

Eye Mug From a School Ceramics Sale

Fake Dictionary Lockbox

Fancy Showerhead

Fantasia 2000 VHS Tape

Fencing Mask

Ferrofluid

Finger Cymbals

Finger Cymbols

Fingerless Gloves (made of wool)

Flower Bush By The Pavement On The Street

Four Seasons Puzzle

Froggy Chair

Furby

Furby

Garden Gloves With Claws

Garlic

Gendang

Generic Paw Of A Monkey

Geode

Glow in the Dark Celing Stars

Glow Stick Liquid

"god i wish that were me" Screenshot

Golden Acorn Statue

Googly Eyes

Guitar

Half An Onion

Halloween Skeleton Decoration

Hand Mixer From The '60s

Haunted Callie Calamari Doll That Drinks All Your Pepsi and Calls You a Bitch

Heart-Shaped Glasses

Holly the Dragon Beanie Boo

Homemade Hand Sanitizer

Hurdy Gurdy

Ice Cube

Ice Maker

Japanese 5 Yen Coin

Kids Watercolor Set

Kitchen Sink

Knockoff Garfield Plush

Knäckebröd

La Croix Sparkling Water Pamplemousse

Late Night Infomercials

Lavender Scented Candle

LEGO Spring 2007 Catalog

Lightning McQueen Crocs

Lindt Gold Bunny

Lint Roller

Lip Smackers Watermelon Chapstick

LNER Peppercorn Class A1 60163 Tornado

Lobster Ornament

Loch and Nessie, the Loch Ness Monster Ladles (one solid, one with strainer holes)

Loofah

Lun-Class Ekranoplan

Mammatus Cloud

Manatea Tea Infuser

Meat Cleaver

Meat Tenderizer

Mechanical Pencil

Microscope

Microwave

Mini Cuban Flag on Plant

Mini Fan

Monopoly Dog Piece

Mop

NA Mazda Miata (Specifically With Googly Eyes)

Native American Fire Opal Blade

Nebula

Nokia Phone 3310 (2000)

Occlupanids

Old Faithful

One Crouton

One Flavor Blasted Cheddar Goldfish

Onion Chopper/Mini Food Processer

Opalized Fossil

Oumuamua

Our Sun

Paint Tube

Palm Leaf Rose

Paper Crown

Paper Leaves

Paracetamol Tablet

Pencil

Pizza

Plastic Lightsaber

Plastic Play Food Set

Polly Pocket Website (circa 2005)

Popstar Microphone

Potato

"Previously on X-Men" (YouTube Video)

Rainbow Desk Lamp Christmas Gifted By Aunt

Rainbow Pride Flag

Red Bouncy Ball

Rice

Rocking Horse

Roller Skates

Rounde (Sheep Plush Adored by Friend Group)

Rubik's Cube

Russian Nesting Doll

Salt and Vinegar Chips

Sand-Filled Frog Toy Named Floppy

School Chair Attached To Desk

Screwdriver

Seattle Space Needle

Seki Edge Nail Clippers

Sewing Pin

Sharpie

Shoe Insoles

Shoelaces (From The President)

Silver Hoop Earrings

Simply Southern T-Shirt

Single Macaroni Noodle

Siren Percussion Instrument

Slap Bracelets

Sliced Bread

Slinky

Slip N' Slide

Slotted Spoon

Snowman Headband

Solar Eclipse Sunglasses

Soviet-Era Apartment Complex

Spamton Plush

Sparkly DND Dice That Look Like They Should Be Edible But Aren't

Spoon

Squirmles

Squishmallows

Squishy Water Tube Toy

Stained Glass

Stand-Up Bass

Starbucks Coffee Cup

Steel/Metal Pipe

Stick (From the Ground)

Stop Sign

Stuffed Animals

Styrofoam

Subway Employee Hat

Swiffer

Tamagotchi

The Bible

The Demon Core

The Entirely Of Wikipedia Printed Out

The Giant Canadian Rubber Duck

The International Space Station

The Internet

The Kaaba

The Milky Way

The Mona Lisa

The Moon

The Spinx

The Statue Of The Shoe That Almost Hit George Bush

The Tiny Jack Hiding In The Wall Of My Trunk For When I Have A Flat Tire

The Transistor

The Voynich Manuscript

The Wheel

The World Trade Center (WTC)

The Zener Diode

Theremin

TI-84 Graphing Calculator

Tofu

Tom Scott's Best Thing Survey

Torn Apart Skunk Dog Toy

Trans Flag

Tumblr Anon Hatemail

Tungsten Cube

Two Paper Cockatiels On A Wire Stand On My Desk

Umbrella Hat

Unicorn Pillow Pet

Vicks Vaprorub

Vincent Van Gogh's Sunflowers Painting

Vintage Railway Poster

Walkable City

Water

Water Bottle

Water Snake Wiggler

White Boards

White Out

Wind Chime

Wings of Fire Slightly Used Coloring Book

Wireless Headphones

Working McDonalds Ice Cream Machine

www.hasthelargehadroncolliderdestroyedtheworldyet.com

Xbox 360

Yoga Ball

Yu-Gi-Oh Cards

Zipper

Ōdachi

[yandere-toons]

Yandere Billy Lenz (Platonic Scenario - "Homme du Grenier")

Warnings: Home Invasion, Stalking, Implied Death, Alcohol Use, Smoking, Toxic Mindsets.

A.N. – This takes place before the events of the film.

“Hey, they need you down at 6 Belmont Street. A sorority said they're having some kind of trouble with the phone lines.” The hurried voice of a distracted boss rang in your ear, and the call went dead seconds later.

Listening to the droning dial tone was unnecessary, for the dark and windy street of which he spoke laid before you. While returning the telephone to its cradle was a simple task, taking the first step into the snowy outdoors required a hard day's worth of courage.

Most of the flora had become laden with ice and withered into a sickly brown for the winter. What survived was a measly combination of elderberries clinging to sagging branches and Black Gums struggling not to shed their final leaves.

The few conifers that bordered the snowy hills were narrow and appeared as though they would blow over in a strong wind.

Every visitor to the salted streets was bundled in a thick, fur-lined coat and hat.

The large tree in the centre of the park had branches like fingers, with curly sprouts of wood winding into the sky and then spreading apart from each other.

A Tudor-style house stood at the end of Belmont Street, surrounded by dead trees and tall bushes strewn with colourful lights. On one of the side windows on the bottom level was a blue wreath in the shape of a star, and the yellow curtains behind it were thin enough to allow you a glimpse of a fireplace.

Dangling in the middle of the front door was a round wreath aglow with red lights. It was tied to a red ribbon and sat on a hook just below the small, five-piece window on the top of the door.

A wooden fence surrounded the entire property, its pointed top reaching the stomachs of the average passers-by. The gate was hanging open and obscured beneath the scraggly branches of trees stripped of leaves by the cold of winter.

Weeds and brambles had overgrown the edges of the fence and had begun to climb it.

The sidewalk was buried so deep in snow that it was hardly distinguishable from the yard of the sorority house, with the fence acting as the sole divider. The snow ate up your winter boots like quicksand, and you raised them to shake off the white pellets after every other step.

The walkway to the house was a straight shot from the road and was paved with cobblestone. It took roughly ten seconds to walk at a leisurely pace and was bordered by two half walls of stone, both bearing a globular lamp.

Multiple pairs of footprints had disturbed the snow before yours did. Most of them were either approaching the doorway or leaving it, but there was one pair that meandered towards the east-facing wall of the house.

The wall was swamped with vines that winded like snakes, so much so that the plaster and wood underneath it would have been invisible if not for the bright lights of red and green. The impressive length of these scrawny vines led your eye to the dark window of an attic.

Perhaps the most surprising thing about it was that a part of you expected to see someone looking back; however, the shadows were too dense to give this thought any satisfaction.

A sorority girl met you at the entrance within a minute of your rat-a-tat at the front door. She introduced herself as Jess and grappled with the doorknob before jimmying it open, a grunt of frustration slipping past her lips.

“Thank goodness you're here. Barb was getting anxious about her mother calling.” The words tumbled out of her with a certain urgency that had you walking into the house as soon as she stepped back.

You gazed at the living room, noting the pattern of red and black roses in the curtains that overlooked the front of the house.

Potted plants decorated the space around each window, and their lush leaves grew tall enough to block some of the glass.

A second woman peeked over the back of a couch with a trail of smoke floating around her mouth. Barb was her name, and she had propped her boots on a coffee table littered with beer bottles of varying fullness. Upon lowering her cigarette, she snagged one of the bottles and rose from the cushion.

There was a rogue amusement in her smile as she looked you up and down. “You do a good job, and I'll let you have some of this.” Barb pointed a finger at you and nodded, extending the bottle in your direction before pulling it back.

Turning away, she inclined her head and took a swig of the beer. Her footsteps sauntered to the kitchen, and the staircase she passed on the way drew your eye to what little of the upper floor you could see.

The stairs disregarded the wood and tile of the first floor in favour of a carpet, which continued to the second floor. It had a rough texture to it and was reddish-orange like pumpkins and candy corn.

All the visible curtains on the second floor had been drawn, and their floral print contrasted with the dark brown panels jutting out of the walls and the milky white wallpaper.

“We were thinking of having the phone around here,” interjected Jess. She motioned to a pair of armchairs and the end table between them. “Would that work?” Waiting for your answer, she tilted her head and adjusted her black sweater.

You scanned the room and began knocking on the nearby walls, listening for a hollow spot behind the drywall. A subsequent knock resounded through the house every time your knuckles hit the wall.

Just as you were starting to have doubts, a deep echo sounded from the wall that was adjacent to the staircase. “That'll work. Where's your box?”

Jess tugged the sides of her coat to fold them across her torso. “The phone box is out back,” she said, ambling to you.

A curt nod was your response, so she led you to the back door and pushed it open. The old hinges squealed in a noise similar to the yowl of a cat as they were forced to bend. A gust of cold air rushed inside the house, blowing past your face with a howl like a human voice.

The land was frigid that night. There could have been anything crouched and waiting at the edge of the woods, watching you when you could not watch it back.

The blue and orange lights that were strewn about the house cast your shadow upon the snow. It reached the tree line, and a more paranoid side of you thought it would be snatched and bring you with it.

Entertaining such musings had made the wind far chillier than before, which prompted you to turn back. You unfastened the latch on the phone box and were faced with two wires tucked into a larger wire.

The smaller wires pivoted in different directions and each bore a unique colour, ranging from blue to green. The larger wire was black and encircled them like a hose.

Resting your hand on the metal cover of the phone box, you counted the wires again before turning your eye to Jess.

Jess let the door close behind her and remained in the doorway, observing you with an expression of curiosity.

“Where's your attic?”

She glanced sideways and opened her mouth a bit. At first, no reply came from her except a slow nod. Then, after a moment of contemplation, Jess grabbed the doorknob and pulled the back door open. “This way.”

You followed her to the base of the stairs, where a chocolate brown desk and a corded telephone sat together against the wall. Decorative flowers and posters were lining the walls around the desk, and it was all illuminated by a red and yellow light.

The attic was tucked into a tight corner in the middle of the staircase. It was accessible by way of a short ladder, one that was sturdy and thick.

After giving the sight a quick nod, you turned back to Jess. “I'll start downstairs.”

Jess nodded in agreement and returned to the living room while one of the several doors in the upstairs corridor opened. Barb staggered out of it, her face sour and her brown hair ruffled. She held an unlit cigarette in her right hand and was flicking it between her fingers.

The door to Barb's room was adorned with a wreath, its electric lights having been replaced by empty wine bottles.

A muffled creak groaned above your head. “I'm no exterminator, but are you sure you don't have mice?” you asked, lowering your eye from where it had been attempting to see through the ceiling.

Barb responded to the idea with a brief mix between a scoff and a cough. “We might,” she muttered, shrugging and looking towards the stairs. “You're free to check. None of us goes up there anymore.”

You crept onto the lowest rung of the ladder and gazed up at the attic door. It opened inward, you discovered, when a slight push from your hand caused it to reveal nothing but blackness for a brief moment.

Before Barb could descend the stairs, you turned to her and called out, “Why's that?”

Barb stopped with her palm resting on the handrail. She glanced back at you and then took the first step down as if debating whether to ignore the question, but her eyes flickered over the attic door. “Honestly? It smells like someone died up there.”

There was a twinge of uncertainty in her voice, one that led you to peek at the darkness looming overhead again.

The sick and musty odour was as strong as a punch in the gut. You reached through the air and, with your knuckles, rapped three times on the ceiling.

A brief silence ensued, during which time you glanced at various spots on the door and started to lower your hand.

Then, there came the sound of skittering, like tiny feet scrambling for traction on a wood floor. It was followed by a series of thumps from a creature much larger than a mouse. The noises approached the door, and after a pause, three knocks were heard.

You retreated from the ladder and pulled your arm close to your chest. It took many seconds for you to yank your eye away from the door, but once you managed it, your first steps were down the stairs.

Jess was standing beside the desk with the telephone raised to her ear. The faint sounds of inane screams and nonsensical mumbles were radiating from it until you tapped her shoulder.

“Could I borrow that phone for a minute?”

Jess spun towards you with a slight jump, widening her eyes and jerking the telephone closer to her body. Upon recognising you, she glanced at the floor and shuffled her feet. “Oh, I'm sorry.” Her voice was little more than a whisper, and she had yet to release the telephone.

A shakiness was present in her words, as was a tendency to peer at her surroundings while speaking. It took a few seconds of gathering her bearings for Jess to look you in the eye. The tension in her shoulders remained when her left hand, which clutched the telephone, neared the cradle.

She tilted her head and pursed her lips, peeking around with a lost and disquieted reluctance. “But yes, you can use this one.”

The telephone was pushed to your chest as if touching it had burned her hand, and Jess stepped away from the small table. “I'm done with it,” she murmured, eyeing the telephone with a deep frown.

It gave you a moment's hesitation, and you watched her march out of the room before lifting the telephone to your ear. After spinning the correct sequence into the rotary dial, a click preceded the tired hello of your boss.

You twirled the cord around your wrist and scanned the entryway for any listeners. “It's colder than a moose's hooves out here.” Finding nothing but a closed door looking back at you, you allowed your voice to rise a bit. “The job's coming along, but I'll be needing a break when this is over.”

A sigh carried on the other end of the call, the sound of a man torn between too many problems. “They'll want you at the college when you're done there.”

It was a nice way of saying that you were in for a long night, so you diverted your attention to the peals of creaks from above. “You still have the number for that exterminator?”

A quick and simple “yeah” sounded from the telephone. “You got rats chewing on the lines?” he asked, his voice garbled by static.

Untangling the cord from around your wrist, you leaned back to peer through the handrails to the top of the stairs. “Maybe. They're nesting in the attic, I think.”

* * *

THE STENCH OF ROT singed your nostrils like fire, and in it was the musky scent of mould and dust.

The attic was carried by a wood floor that creaked with each step, the joints in the boards flexing and then settling as the weight shifted from one spot to the next.

There were cobwebs draped over every piece of furniture.

Standing with a vertical pole through its belly was a white pony wearing a red saddle, the kind that children and adults with childish hearts rode for a nickel outside of convenience stores.

A rusty birdcage hung from a thin string attached to the curvature of the ceiling.

In the corner nearest to the front window sat an old rocking chair, one that had not seen use in years. A candle had been lit and placed atop the windowsill to overlook the walkway to the house.

Once you were done feeding the wire through a gap in the plywood, you stood and moved to exit the attic. It was when you were a couple of steps from reaching the door that you realised it was partially open.

The door slammed as soon as you noticed it, and a cool shade of darkness fell over the attic. Your eagerness to leave waned like a flower shrivelled. Any intention of seeing who it was became locked behind layers of sweat and clammy palms.

As bravery lost and regained its hold on you every few seconds, you closed the distance between yourself and the door as if a monstrous beast was ready to lunge through it at any moment.

You peeled back the door, crawled down the ladder and were relieved to find an empty corridor. The stillness of it was toying with your mind as though it were begging to be broken.

Nearing the stairs was a simple task until a hint of movement caught your eye and halted your next step.

The bedroom door at the opposite end of the corridor was swaying. There were no lights on in the room, which forced you to goggle into darkness once again.

Nothing came to you, and no sounds were heard. Something was there, living in the shadows and meeting your gaze with an invisible eye. Just as soon as the thought occurred, you shook your head free of it and listened to the hum of the air conditioner clicking to life.

This house was not yours to snoop, so you turned and walked down the stairs when all you wished to do was rush down them and out the front door. The chances of some creature hurtling from the darkness and jumping you were haunting for every second that your back faced the doorway.

You arrived on the first floor without suffering an attack, gaining just enough courage from this to not run when a clink echoed from beside you.

Barb was downing another bottle of beer and had discarded an empty bottle next to a full one. She hauled a radio onto the coffee table with one arm, and her hand missed the dial twice before landing on it and cranking the volume.

The clarion guitar riff and harsh-voiced singer of a rock-and-roll song swelled in the living room.

Thunder cracked like the thrash of a whip, booming and pounding in the dark skies until it collapsed into a rainstorm. The fat raindrops burst against the sidewalks, roads and homes in a volley of water. They were swept crosswise in gales of wind that howled like wolves in the night, and the rain pelted the windows as if made of stones.

The occasional bolt of lightning flashed in your eyes as you stared through the glass. To your palpitating heart, it seemed like the storm was seconds away from pouring into the living room. While any car was risking a few dents by venturing into it, any person was flirting with drowning or getting thrown by a roaring gust.

The smell of beer and rain was in the air. You peeked over your shoulder at the armchairs, where Barb lifted the bottle in her hand and tipped it at you. She then shook it as if baiting you, so you chose to take a seat on the couch and put your back to the storm.

Jess descended the stairs, her feet thumping along each step. Her hair was frazzled, and her face was strained with a familiar urgency. “Thank you for hiring that exterminator,” she shouted over the din of the music before stopping at the side of the couch. “He never sent us a bill.”

This distracted you from digging your fingernails into the cushions. “That's strange,” you murmured, relaxing your fingers a bit in thought. “He didn't get back to me yesterday.”

Jess glanced between you and the window, and her gaze focused on nothing in particular until a wave of concern washed over her countenance. She turned to Barb and leaned forward, her eyes wide. “Barb! Did he leave?”

Without looking, Barb nodded drunkenly. “He stunk up the place,” she grumbled, her voice reverberating due to the beer bottle pressed to her lips.

The ring of a telephone broke the silence of confusion. It came from the newly installed unit on the end table, which buzzed unattended until Jess approached it.

Barb cocked her head, widened her eyes and curled her lip into a bitter mockery of a smile. “Would you look at that? Our first incoming call.” It was as though she could divine that the caller was not her mother, and the fact loaded her words with a sardonic edge.

Despite this, she reached for the telephone and snatched it before Jess could do the same.

Shallow, rapid breaths rolled into her ear. The faint static warped the sound into an undulating hum.

Barb opened her mouth and produced the first syllable of a word, which was cut off when the breathing exploded into screams. It was a wild and senseless kind of screaming that had no end and, in any other situation, would have come from the lips of a dying man.

“Where's the baby?” he howled, repeating the question over and over again with all the fervour of someone whose life depended on the answer. The panting was animalistic, like a beast heaving its lungs after a hunt.

Barb yanked the telephone away from her ear and looked askance at it. Her head leaned back, her nose scrunched, and her eyes narrowed in disgust and bewilderment. “What the hell?” she muttered, debating whether to hang up or not.

Jess fixed the telephone with a wide-eyed stare. She appeared as though she were reliving a horrific memory, and you recalled the conversation that had been unfolding when you asked to use the telephone in the other room.

“No!” shrieked the caller as if racked with agonising pain. “Let me taste it! Let me taste it!” This chant continued as his pitch and speed increased with each utterance until his voice became croaky.

Barb jerked her head up and shifted in her seat, crossing her legs and folding one arm across her chest. “Listen here,” she started with a snap, only to pause once Jess motioned for the telephone.

No sooner than a second after she mumbled hello into the receiver did the voice erupt in furious shouts of “Not you! Not you!”

Both Barb and Jess turned to the last person in the room, you, with Jess glancing back and forth between the telephone and your eyes while Barb furrowed her brows.

It took the two of them exchanging looks of puzzlement before Barb shrugged and Jess handed the telephone to you.

You had half a mind to slam it on the cradle and walk out the door, but the caller talked before you could make a definitive decision.

As if he could identify you by the sound of your breathing alone, his breaths calmed in an eerie instant. “Agnes,” he whispered, “don't tell them.” He spoke like one child sharing a secret with another, unwilling to speak louder for fear of his parents hearing it.

Your breathing quickened a bit. The thuds of your heart pounded a smidge faster, and as the room seemed to stretch in front of your eyes, it was as though you could hear every noise in the house at once.

A grandfather clock ticked, the logs in a fireplace crackled, and the floorboards above your head creaked for the umpteenth time that day.

You inhaled a tad louder than you had intended, and the caller shushed you with a sound like the hiss of a snake. “It's okay, Agnes.” There was an excruciating slowness to his voice, a deliberate inflection in each syllable. “Billy's here.”

Dismay shot up your spine like a bullet. The chill that came with it was akin to a splash of icy water crashing over your head, running down your arms and dragging a shiver out of you.

Barb stepped forward, bottle twirling in her hand, and leaned her head towards you. “What's he saying?” she asked without care for her volume.

A splurge of obscenities burst out of the telephone at the interruption, and aside from calling Barb a pig in so many colourful ways, Billy focused on his descent into screeching like a banshee.

This sent Barb reeling away from you, where she gritted her teeth and threw the bottle onto the coffee table. “I've had enough of this!” She wrenched the telephone out of your hand and thrust it onto the cradle with a resounding bang.

Barb then collapsed on the couch and drew a hand to her forehead, which was slick with sweat. “Our first call, and it's some wacko,” she grumbled.

Jess stared at the telephone as though it were about to lunge at her. After a tense moment of eye contact with the cord, she crossed her arms and looked at you. “I do hope that doesn't become a habit.”

Quiet unease was rooted in her voice like a fungus, and when you offered no affirmation, she shifted and glanced at Barb.

Barb was lying supine with her legs draped over the armrest and her left hand dangling from the cushion. A half-empty bottle was pressed against her side, and a cigarette was pinched between two fingers in her right hand.

She was snoring lightly, her head rising and falling every few seconds.

The voice of Jess came from the base of the stairs, and you turned to find her with one leg on the first step. “I'm heading up to take a shower. You can let yourself out the front door.” She nodded at the door while saying this, which led your gaze to it.

As Jess arrived at the middle of the staircase, a putrid odour backhanded her across the face. The bulk of it rolled from somewhere above her head. She turned back and forth and scanned the ceiling for stains until a fresh line of stink drew her sniffs to the attic door.

Jess hovered by the handrail for many a second, observing the door with the vigilance of an animal sensing a trap. She crept toward it, and her head lifted to judge the length of the climb.

Just as you were reaching for the doorknob, the door swung open after a moment of battle with the hinges.

A pair of sorority girls strolled into the house in a merry fit of laughter, their arms draped in shopping bags and their eyes locked on each other. Clare was the name of the girl with untidy brown hair, and Phyl was the name of the girl with frizzy hair and octagonal eyeglasses.

You lurched back to avoid bumping into them as they walked forward for a couple of seconds without noticing you. During that time, you were maneuvering to their side and taking brisk steps with your arms slightly extended in an attempt to not put your foot down on top of theirs.

“Pardon me,” was all you said before you slipped past them and stumbled into the entryway.

A crash was heard from upstairs as soon as your shoes hit the outside world, and your head spun around to cast a final glance at the house. Fuelled by a surge of adrenaline, you pumped your legs and carried yourself to the edge of the property.

Clare looked between the stairs and your silhouette, which was disappearing into the heart of the storm.

Phyl looked at a passed-out Barb and then leaned forward to peer around the closing door. “Who was that?” she asked, momentarily dismissing the question when Jess came down from the staircase to greet them.

The storm battered you with fat pellets of rain and strong winds, but there was not a single moment where you considered returning to the sorority house. You held out your hand to be a thin shield for your face and stomped your way through the murky air.

Melting snow clung to everything below your waist. It was like swimming in ice water, but you persevered until the contours of a house approached your left.

Behind the window stood your next-door neighbour.

She was a little old lady who, at this particular moment, was clutching a coffee mug as if letting go of it meant unspeakable doom. The neat and dry fabric of her mustard yellow dress was in stark contrast to your rain-soaked attire, but your eye soon concentrated on her horror-stricken face.

Her eyes were stretched to their limits, her mouth was hanging open, and her forehead was creased so sharply that a vein was visible. She turned to watch you sprint past her home like someone observing their worst nightmare come to life.

What caused your gaze to linger on her was when she looked at something just behind you. In the split second that your eye caught the reflection on the glass, you saw a dark shape at your heels.

It flashed in the lightning and vanished before you could discern any details. You told yourself that it was the cruel hand of paranoia sinking its claws into your brain, but this did little to placate the way your heart jumped and banged against your ribcage.

Once you reached your house, you crammed the key into the keyhole and twisted it as if about to break it. The click of the lock disengaging brought a wave of relief that swept you into the entrance.

You doubled over, panting and throwing your hands onto your bent knees.

Many seconds passed before you spun towards the door and slammed it.

A torrent of raindrops gushed from your clothes, and the puddle accumulating at your feet was soaking into the floor. The earthy scent of wet dirt was entrenched in your nostrils like a toy stuck up a kid's nose.

When you turned to collapse on a chair, your eye was dragged across the floor to where an additional pair of footprints walked in a different direction. The shoes were outlined in rain just like yours, and they had taken shelter in the darkness of your bedroom.

You raised your head with a cautious slowness, straightening your back and clenching the fabric of your pants.

The blackness that returned your stare seemed deeper than the depths of the ocean, and you strained your ears to hear the presence that had followed you. Every shift in the house, every crack of the walls flexing became the precursor to something leaping out at you.

A thought was spared for the knives in the kitchen as well as the telephone beside the oven. An oppressive sense of nausea advised against pursuing either of those items, suggesting instead that you flee through the door from which you had entered.

Three knocks came from the bedroom.

Without the attic to muffle them, these knocks were much clearer and closer.

It was as if a fist had squeezed your heart and stolen your breath.

In that frightful instant, enduring the storm was a welcome distraction from confronting whoever had invaded your house. You wrenched the front door open and hurled yourself down the street.

Rain splashed on your face as you smashed your feet into various puddles and whipped through the wind. The howls of the storm dampened any sounds from within your home, and you did not wait to see if anyone followed.

The house of your next-door neighbour came into view, its brown shingles glistening in the downpour. You crashed into the front door in a refusal to stop and began pounding on the wood. “Let me in! Let me in!” you shrieked over the claps of thunder and strikes of lightning.

A little old lady emerged from the living room and stood behind the window, her hands wrapping around a steaming mug of coffee. She eyed you with a look of shock and disbelief, and the mug slipped from her grasp.

It landed on the avocado green carpet, bounced once, and poured coffee into the fibres.

The little old lady did not give the spill the briefest of glances. A finger rose from her side and pointed at you, trembling and struggling not to fall. Her mouth opened wide in a voiceless cry, which earned another plea from you.

It was barely audible among the roars of wind, plops of rain, and booms of thunder.

A shake of the head was her response. It was rapid, so much so that it seemed instinctive. She shoved her finger at you multiple times, and her lack of care for the coffee streaming around her shoes was enough to stay your panic for an instant.

After a moment spent panting in confusion, you gestured to yourself and nodded with a frantic urgency.

She shook her head again and jabbed her finger at you with more intensity.

You dragged your breaths out of your lungs as uneven puffs, and your eyes were jerking from the window to the door. The tightness in your chest and the throb of your heartbeat swirled in you like a typhoon and cast a hazy veil over your mind.

Overcome by a light-headed spell, your vision began to blur and distort the sight in front of you. Every thought was screaming at you to beat the door open, yet you fought this impulse with as much strength as you could scrounge.

It was then that the hairs on the back of your neck stood up. A warm gust of breath had rolled against them in a steady rhythm.

[letterstotheflre]

that’s the thing about illicit affairs

summary: james was never hers to lose.

warnings: CHEATING, age gap (not specified but reader is in her 20s), tiiiny angst?? i don’t think it’s sad lmao, allusions to sex and one miniature sex scene, some food mentions, and a very badly written argument.

word count: 3k (why are they always so long ffs)

a/n: my first james potter fic <3 i love this man so much, sorry for making you the bad guy here. this one’s been sitting in my drafts for a few weeks, and since i’ve been feeling kinda sad i finally got around to edit it. also hedric rights!!

They always meet like this.

The room is dark except for a small sea salt lamp she bought on sale from Target. Her clothes are piling up on the floor, discarded carelessly by her lover, and his are not too far from meeting the same fate.

He is kissing her hungrily as he could never get enough of her. His hands travel all over her back while she unbuttons his shirt, their lips never parting. He moves her to her bed, the sheets a pale green that reminds him of—

No. He closes his eyes tightly, pretends the green is actually blue like the lacy bralette that covers her breasts and moves his lips down to her jaw. He sucks and nips and bites, letting her moans echo freely between the four walls that make their little sanctuary.

Her hands quickly undo his belt and stroke him lightly through the fabric of his boxers. He groans against the junction of her neck, the skin softer than anything he’s touched in years.

He pushes her down on the bed, cupping her face while he looks at her properly, noting the tangled hair caused by his fingers. Her lips are puffy and shiny, his kisses being the perpetrator of their current state. He waits for her to say something, to give him a sign that this is okay.

(It’s not okay, and they both know it. It’ll never be okay.)

She nods her head, and he kneels in front of her, pushing her legs wide open before he dives in.

—

She is laying on her bed, the sheets covering her body as she watches him try to fix up his hair in front of the mirror on her makeshift vanity.

“Make sure no one sees you leave,” she says, “and put—”

“Put my hood up, I know,” he finishes the sentence for her. It’s not the first time they do this dance.

“Sirius and Remus are with Harry at home. I told them I was going for a run, so they won’t say anything if I show up all sweaty,” he adds, trying to fill the awkward silence.

She just nods her head, fingers playing with a loose thread on the edge of the sheet, pulling it a bit more every time she twists her index finger. He steps forward, then sits on her bed and traces her cheekbone with his knuckles. “You know I care about you, right?” he asks.

Her heart clenches, a heavy weight pressing down on her chest that makes it hard to breathe for a second. She lowers her eyes, refusing to stare at those hazel irises that started everything. “I know, James,” she assures quietly, looking at a picture of her and Harry that’s stuck to the wall just behind him.

James brushes back some stray hairs that are still stuck to her forehead, then presses a small kiss on the slightly sweaty skin. He gives her a tentative smile before heading to the door, and she only looks in his direction when she hears the click of the door.

(He might care, but not enough.)

—

Sundays are always a slightly awkward affair at first.

Both of their families have been friends for years, getting together every Sunday for lunch at the Potter’s. James and Sirius always man the grill with her dad, all of them wearing those corny ‘kiss the chef!’ aprons. Her mother helps Lily make the salads in the kitchen while they gossip with Remus, who steals a few tomatoes when they aren’t looking. Now that it’s summer, she and Harry splash each other in the pool instead of catching up in his room.

It’s always strange seeing James in the light of day, pretending that this is the only version of him she knows: the version of him that is a friend, a father, a husband.

But she knows the other version of him: the one that has her on her knees begging for a taste of him, the one that grips her hair while he pounds into her from behind, the one that lets his tongue explore places of her no one else has. The version of him that kisses her forehead and plays with her fingers while their bodies are tangled together under the sheets. The version of him that kisses her as if she were the only one made for him.

(She isn’t.)

They are sitting around the table eating. Sirius is laughing about something with his arm around Remus’s shoulders, his bark of laughter echoing across the garden. Her mother’s shoulders shake as Lily rolls her eyes in amusement. James and her father have gone back to the grill to bring everyone their second round of burgers, and she can hear her father complaining about something from work.

“Here y’go, kid,” says James as he places the plate in front of her before ruffling her hair. She tenses up for a second before relaxing, muttering a small “thank you” before reaching for the ketchup.

She hates that nickname. It’s so impersonal, keeps a distance between them that truly doesn’t exist. As if he isn’t the only person that can make her vision whiten and the colours of her room hazy while she clutches his shoulders. As if he isn’t the only person who can pull so many different sounds from her vocal cords, sounds he knows no one else has ever heard before because he is the only one who can create them.

She can feel Sirius’s eyes on her as she stretches one arm, so she hesitantly glances at him. He raises an eyebrow, eyes switching back and forth between James and her, and she can see the cogs turning in his mind.

She gulps anxiously, dismissing him with a wave of her hand and goes back to eating.

—

James’s moans are loud as he gathers her hair in a makeshift ponytail. His cock is buried in her throat, and he watches as she gags for a second before relaxing her throat.

She’s taking him so deep that her nose nuzzles his pubic hair, the musky scent of James filling her nose as she breathes deeply through it. She starts moving her head up and down, swirling her tongue around the tip every time she rises.

He is a mess above her, needy whines and wanton moans leaving his mouth. His hips thrust up softly, slowly fucking her mouth, and he relishes in the small choking sounds she makes. His head rolls back as he groans, “That’s it, baby, so good to me.”

She winces at the name and pulls away from him. “Don’t call me that,” she mutters, but her hands never stop stroking him. She takes him back into her mouth and starts sucking with a newfound fervour, his voice echoing inside her head as she tries to make him forget about her.

(She tries to forget too.)

—

Honey rays filter through her window.

They are both laying on her bed, James on his stomach while she refills the glasses with some cheap wine she got from the store. He looks at the tiny purple splotches on her neck and the red fingerprints on her hips, then smirks proudly. When she turns, she smiles at him softly.

There’s a summer breeze that ruffles her curtains, and he can hear some teenagers laughing as they walk down the street over the music that plays from her speaker.

She places her glass on her nightstand, her nipples brushing his naked back as she leans over him. She lays down on her side, her fingertips softly drawing shapes on his skin. It takes him a moment to realize they are not random shapes but letters.

Her name, written over his scattered freckles and connecting his moles with cursive loops.

He takes her hand and kisses it, slightly chapped lips pressing against her open palm. Then he kisses her lips, still bitterly sweet with grapes, as his tongue moves languidly against hers while he pulls her by the hand on top of him.

It feels like a distant memory. It feels like a dream.

—

The cacophony of different voices singing “Happy Birthday” rings in her ears.

Harry is at the front of the table, an adorable blush dusting his cheeks at the attention. On either side of him are James and Lily, smiles wide as they watch their son blow the candles. Cedric is behind him, hands on his shoulders, and he leans forward to give him a quick peck on the cheek.

She sings and claps, whooping with Sirius when Harry blows the last candle. She eats cake and drinks the pretty cocktails Lily ordered. She smiles and laughs, pretends she couldn’t see the way the candles made the golden band on James’s ring finger beam like the sun.

She pretends she doesn’t see the way James holds Lily’s waist before kissing her. She pretends she can’t see them dancing slowly to a song Remus put on the Spotify playlist as a joke.

She pretends she can’t hear his footsteps following her when she goes to the bathroom. She feigns disinterest when he grabs her wrist and pulls her towards a deserted corridor.

But she can’t ignore the butterflies in her stomach when he kisses her, the thrumming in her veins when he pushes one leg between her thighs, nor the pleasure-filled gasps and moans that leave her mouth when he helps her roll her hips along his covered thigh.

It’s thrilling; they’ve never done something like this in public, much less in such proximity to friends and family.

(In such proximity to her.)

Even though she knows it shouldn’t, it gives her a sense of victory. Because he is here with her now: he is kissing her, making her moan, and whispering dirty things in her ear.

A faraway call of his name breaks the spell they’re under. They pull away hastily; she fixes her dress while James makes sure there are no lipstick stains on his face. The footsteps are getting closer, heels hitting the floorboards at the same rhythm as their rapid beating hearts.

It’s Sirius.

James almost breathes a sigh of relief, but she remains tensed up. Sirius looks between them, the same look he had that Sunday all those weeks ago on his face, and she feels bile rising in her throat.

“Lily’s looking for you,” he says, his thumb pointing back over his shoulder towards the reception where everyone’s gathered.

“Right,” says James. “Better go see what she needs. You do not want to see an angry drunk Lily.” He laughs, almost oblivious to the awkward tension between his two friends. He goes back to Lily, leaving her leaning against the wall and Sirius standing in the middle of the hallway.

Sirius looks at her, and even though his mind already knows, he refuses to believe it. “I didn’t know where the bathroom was,” she offers as an explanation. It’s a flimsy excuse, she knows that, but it’s the best she can do under this kind of pressure.

“Right,” he whispers with a short nod, then follows James.

She stays rooted to her spot, lips tingling with the ghost of James touch and a guilty mind.

—

Hours later, she clings to a pillow as she lays on her bed alone. The same pillow James was resting on less than twelve hours ago.

She breathes in deeply, trying to catch any scent of him she can, but there’s only the scent of her fabric softener.

There’s no James. No citrus shampoo or woodsy cologne nor salty air from the beach near his house. Because he never wears any cologne when he comes to her, ensuring that there’s no trace of him once he leaves.

Like he doesn’t even exist.

—

It ends in a parking lot a month later.

She was waiting for Luna to arrive at the mall but ended up asking for a rain check when James texted her, saying they needed to talk.

‘Meet me behind the mall’, she texts him.

She walks to the back of the building and waits for his red car to show up. She already knows where this conversation is going to go, and her heart shatters at the thought of saying goodbye to him.

She raises her head when she hears a honk in front of her, and she gets in while whispering a small “hey”. He doesn’t start the car again, just settles for turning the ignition key off. She looks at the families leaving the mall through the tinted window, refusing to look at him, as her knee bounces up and down anxiously.

The silence is heavy, and she suddenly feels cold in the August heat.

James takes a deep breath, “We can’t keep doing this.”

She can’t help the snarky comment. “That’s not what you were saying yesterday while you had your fingers buried inside me.” He looks at her unimpressed, and she rolls her eyes.

“It’s wrong,” he says— as if she doesn’t already know that. “C’mon, baby, don’t make this harder than it has to—”

“I told you not to call me that!” she raises her voice, and the car gets silent again. She hates the tears that gather in her eyes, hates that she cares so much about him and their stupid game, but she couldn’t help it. Not when he whispered so many sweet nothings in her ears and caressed her skin so softly, almost afraid to break him if he was too rough.

(Not that he cared about that when he stretched her wide open and thrust so hard into her that the bed frame banged against the wall.)

“You can’t just show up here and tell me it’s over like you weren’t the one that came to me first,” she jeers, and she can see the tick of his jaw as he clenches it. Good, she thinks, make him angry.

“Don’t just blame me. You didn’t say ‘no’ once.” He grounds out, “In fact, I can recall you were begging me to fuck you against the wall.”

Her cheeks turn into a small fire, a slight feeling of shame overcoming her. “Oh, like you were any better!” she exclaims. “‘Been thinking about you for months.’ ‘You have no idea the things you do to me.’ ‘No one can suck my cock like you.’ ‘I care about you!’” She deepens her voice to mock him.

James opens his mouth to keep the ball rolling, and she wants him to do it because it meant that the fight was still on, that they wouldn’t have to end this. Instead, he takes a deep breath to calm himself. “I’m telling you now it’s over. Stop acting like a kid who didn’t get her Christmas present,” he says, knowing exactly what he is doing with those words.

“I’m not a kid,” she snaps, her eyes fighting back angry teats at his dismissal. “Then stop acting like one,” he shrugs.

Her hands turn into fists, nails digging themselves into her palms as she tries to keep her anger at bay. “Do you know how much of myself I gave to you? How many plans with my friends have I cancelled in case you called? How many guys I stopped seeing because they weren’t you?” she rants, her voice increasing in volume as she lets her frustration take over. Then, she pauses. “You’ve ruined me, James.”

Her voice is so pained that it makes his heart clench, and he lowers his head, refusing to look at her. He knows, God, he knows what he’s done, but he couldn’t help it. He had been so lonely with Lily spending so much time at the hospital, and then there she was with her caring and understanding nature. With her adorable laughs and those touches that were so addictive, a mercurial high that gave him the lowest lows whenever he tried to stop.

He keeps his mouth shut; there’s nothing left to say anyway, and it’s better for her to hate him rather than anything else. “You are not going to say anything?” It’s meek, vulnerable, and she wants to slap herself for acting this way. She knew it would never last, that he would always choose her.

He was never hers to lose, so why is she still fighting?

She nods her head in surrender, biting her lip to stop herself from sobbing. The anger now gave way to sadness, “I can’t believe I let you make a fool of me.” Her voice is hoarse, a result of the lump in her throat that prevents her from swallowing comfortably.

She gets out of the car and slams the door shut, then leaves the parking lot, leaving him behind. She keeps walking, fingers gripping the straps of her bag until she reaches an empty street.

The golden sun is ready to dip on the horizon, and she can hear James’s car speeding behind her.

—

She doesn’t let the tears fall until she’s inside her apartment.

The moment she closed the door, she crumbled to her knees, loud sobs falling from her mouth and fat tears rolling down her cheeks. It takes her a moment to gather enough strength to walk to her room.

She cries and cries, buries her face in her pillows and starts sobbing even harder because she can smell him. The salty scent and citrus shampoo finally embedded themselves in the fabric, and she can’t believe that after all those days she craved to feel him close to her, he chooses now to leave a trace behind.

She cries for hours until her eyes are puffy and red, and snot comes out of her nose. Her chest heaves with short breaths that don’t really fill her lungs as she clings to that damn pillow before throwing it across the room. She can’t believe it ended like this: with her completely broken for anyone else while James gets to go back to his life and act like nothing ever happened.

Yet she knows that if she had to choose, she would do it all over again because if she had to choose someone to be her ruination, she would choose James Potter a million times.

TAGLIST: @emmaev @gxtitobxby @ildm4ev @capsmischief @arisblackhole @dracosafety @dracoxgeorge @tonystarksmutgarden @blowing-mikey @roonilwazlibswhore @lovelylupinx @sarcasmismyon1ydefence @marxy-06 @glossiable @remusjlupinisdead @amixedwitch @mattefic @artisancowbells @zzzfour — if you want to be added tap here

[hobbydrawer]

Religious symbolism, reference and implications, oh my!

Disclaimer: Content is based on the gameplay demo. The final gameplay is subjected to change by Neowiz and Round 8 studio, and thus, potentially making this post’s information outdated. Also, I am not a religious study expert. Please take everything I said in this post with a grain of salt.  -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

To be fair, I thought I’m kinda done with the lore digging mission of this game’s demo but then... something happened. I came back, took a second glance at stuff in the gameplay and realized a few things.  This game has a lot of religious and philosophical references, and things don’t just stop at that La Pieta statue at the end of the trailer.  1) Christianity and Gnosticism 

The lamp that contains our buddy, Jiminy Gemini the Talking Cricket, is named as “Monad’s lamp”. Monad, in the concept of Greek philosophy, is the absolute Divine being, that comes first and being the perfect existence (that later bear the dyad, and then the points, etc). Monad is usually presented as a circle with a dot in the center, as below:

“The symbolism is a free exegesis related to the Christian Trinity.[5] Alan of Lille mentions the Trismegistus' Book of the Twenty-Four Philosophers where it says a Monad can uniquely beget another Monad in which more followers of this religion saw the come to being of God the Son from God the Father, both by way of generation or by way of creation.[5] This statement is also shared by the pagan author of the Asclepius[5] which sometimes has been identified with Trismegistus. The Book of the Twenty-Four Philosophers completes the scheme adding that the ardor of the second Monad to the first Monad would be the Holy Ghost.[5] It closes a physical circle in a logical triangle”

In this way, the concept of Monad is “tied in” with Christianity and the “voice of the conscience” that the Talking Cricket represents in the novel. As the description suggests, “Do not fear [...] cricket’s guidance will be with you.”, Gemini will function not only as our combat guide AI but probably also as the voice of conscience, the moral compass and the voice of the Divine. Being the voice of the Divine, Gemini could likely end up against P/the player in certain quests, and this might lead to the events like in the novel (the Cricket being killed, and then later appear again as the Ghost of the Talking Cricket). In fact, as I pointed out in one of my previous posts, this Gemini we saw in one of the gameplay demos is not even the first version of  Gemini that P met.  Additionally, being the voice of conscience and representative of the Divine, Gemini could also act as an agent for the Three council (whose symbol we encountered in V’s factory), and whose job is likely to guide and shape P toward a certain development (with P being hinted as one of the puppets that didn’t receive The Grand Covenant inscription).  The reason I’m speculating that Gemini and the Three council are probably relating to each other is because of this symbol:

that vaguely combines the idea of Monad with the Holy Trinity (and further reinstate the statement from The Book of the Twenty Four philosophers) : 

With a game that places a lot of emphasis on destiny, predisposed fate and God, it is not at all surprising that we get to see something like this in the game. The floor is drawn out with a “physical circle enclosed in a logical triangle”, and the placement of the chairs vaguely suggests the existence of a Holy Trinity-equivalent in the game. However, note that the game doesn’t strictly adhere to the Holy Trinity’s description in Christianity and also adds in their own creative characterization in the game.  It is possible that the Three council is comprised of Geppetto (the Father), Sophia (the Holy Spirits) and Venigni (the Son). So each person, to their own respect, is ‘God’ (or God equivalent) by themselves. Giveth that Gemini made some remarks about a mysterious woman, who is possibly related to Gemini and its duty, could it be that the Talking Cricket is referring to Sophia?  Another possible candidate for the third position could be Antonia, who is a genderbend version of Master Antonio (the person who discovered and gave the magical wood log to Geppetto in the novel). Following this interpretation, Antonia is the “Holy Spirits” in the Trinity, whom discovery and work has helped create the famous Krat puppets.  note: Someone has pointed out in Discord that Venigni is a reference to the name Benigni. Roberto Benigni is the director and comedian who both directed and played as Pinocchio, the titular character in the movie of the same name in 2002. He then goes on to play as Geppetto in Garrone’s movie in 2019. This is interesting, because a graffiti on the wall accused Venigni as “a dummy”...And the guy is owner and director of a factory which made a lot of important stuff, including puppets...And he is the Prince of the High society too... => So by either embracing the Divine’s guidance, or rejecting it, P is subjected to be an Antichrist Antigod figure or to be led toward salvation, to fulfill his destiny.  2) Buddhism, reincarnation and the concept of rebirth that happens in many heroic journey novel  A common concept that is employed in many adventure novel is the death and rebirth cycle for the protagonist. This can happen physically or metaphorically, depending on the plot’s direction. “The adventure of Pinocchio” is no exception. Many times, the protagonist went through literal and metaphorical deaths: being hung on a tree, turn into a donkey and thrown into the sea, swallowed by a shark, mourning for the death of his mother figure, etc.  And I swear I don’t have a hallucination from reading the Korean interview (that, unless I have been fooled by the beloved Google Translate), but: 

According to PD Choi, there will be Buddhism theme supplemented in the background as if the game doesn’t have enough religious reference already. It may sound far-fetched and ill-fitted with the Western philosophy and Christianity reference already there but, hear me out, this may work in tandem wonderfully.  One of the Buddhism concepts that overlap with the death-and-rebirth theme of the novel is the wheel of life and the cycle of reincarnation:

According to the principle of the cycle of reincarnation, one individual/soul will be born into one of the six realms, and depending on the karma they accumulate in their lives, that once one individual die, they will be reborn into an appropriate realm befitting of their good deeds or bad deeds. All beings are trapped in this cycle endlessly, and they can only break free from it through enlightenment. (”All beings within the six realms are doomed to death and rebirth in a recurring cycle over countless ages -- unless they can break free from desire and attain enlightenment.”)

The six realms are (some wording can vary depending on regions):

Realm of God-Heaven (also known as Realm of Deva)

Realm of Demon (sometimes refer to as Realm of Atula)

Realm of Hungry Ghosts ( Hungry ghosts = Preta-gati in Sanskrit, or Gakido in Japanese)

Realm of Human

Realm of Animal

Realm of Hell 

In this, Hell is considered the ‘worst’, for all of its torment, and suffering, while Heaven is the representation of “bliss” and “pleasure” (but not necessarily the best, because the ‘Deva’ who enjoy a long life of bliss are eventually blind from the suffering of other realms’ citizens, and in the end, are still subjected to the principle of the reincarnation).  Interestingly, a parallel: by traveling to the Land of Toys and being turned into donkeys...is vaguely an equivalent of being reincarnated into the Realm of Animal, because both realms require their denizens to accumulate “ignorance” and “laziness” to be ‘reincarnated’ into animal Now this next part is simply my interpretation of the situation, and again, does not necessarily reflect the game’s content, or the development team’s artistic interpretation. So treat it with a grain of salt (or as a headcanon) ======================================================= With all the info so far, it is possible to consider Krat city right now as a representation of “Realm of Hell”. According to Chinese mythologies, that was popularized in Tang dynasty, Hell is consisted of 18 layers. And then, in an interview, Director Choi has hinted, that the game will have around 15 chapters, each chapter represents an area, with expandable DLC. I don’t know how many DLC packs the team are going to implement but summing up the number, that’s roughly equal to the 18 layers of Hell!  Now if you go along with this interpretation, putting into the perspective of P’s journey going into Krat (Hell) to find his father, Mr. Geppetto, then we can draw a big parallel with a famous Chinese Buddhism tale called “Mulian saves his mother from Hell”

(image courtesy of a 19th century scroll, from Wikipedia) The reason why I’m pulling this up as a parallel is not only because of the idea of P finding Mr. Geppetto in Krat but also because of Geppetto’s plea from the Gamescom’s trailer, asking P to help him. In the original Mulian tale, Mulian’s mother was punished in the deep layers of Hell for her sins (”his mother is suffering extremely in the Avīci Hell, the cruelest of the purgatories “), suffering all sort of cruel punishment. Mulian, who is a Buddha’s disciple, wants to save his mother due to filial duty. But he can’t do it by himself, and thus needs to ask for help from Buddha and other disciples. Thanks to his relentless and filial effort, his mother (after reborn through many other realms as well) is finally saved (some ver may say not), and thus the concept of Ghost Festival is born. It is possible that Geppetto has committed some serious sins in the past, and is now “suffering for his punishment” in this hellish Krat. P, being a filial child, is willing to journey into this hellscape to save his father, but he would need help from other characters to do this. note: This story was one of the earliest to be written down in the literature Korea, Japanese and Vietnamese. A another interesting finding.  => In this interpretation, P’s journey is parallel to Mulian’s journey. By saving his father, P might be setting up a foundation for an unprecedent virtue/action that never seen before. And like Mulian, who later ascended and achieved enlightenment (breaking free from the cycle of reincarnation), P could also achieve enlightenment, transforming into a being beyond human. (I don’t know if this interpretation can apply to Antonia, no info further so far to support this) ======================================================== 3) P/Pinocchio and how does he fit into all of this? With so many elements coming together like this, it is easily to be confused about what role or figure P is playing in this game. To be fair, I don’t know either. We don’t have enough information to interpret this. One of my speculations is that P is currently “stuck” at the Realm of Hungry Ghost, which is a domain below the Realm of Human, and characterized by an aching emptiness and perpetual yearning for something that is unattainable. This is also a domain for obsession and addiction, and a result of accumulating bad karma for such desire. Some might say it is a domain for those who refuse to ‘descend’ into Hell. This would make sense, considering that P wants to be a human, to ascend to the Realm of Human.  I’m using the word ‘stuck’ is because so far, we haven’t seen P displaying any characteristics of a typical denizen of the Realm of Hungry Ghost. More likely, P only reflects a part of the characteristic of this realm: longing and yearning for something perpetually- in this case, Humanity. Thus, this is not a strong evidence to support this theory.  Another possibility is that P is already outside of this cycle of reincarnation, but he is willing to earn a ‘soul’, and become a part of this cycle, so that he could fulfill his predisposed destiny that is guided by the voice of the Divine (to be a savior? to break the cycle?). But for whatever his higher calling is, he must first delve into this Hell called Krat city first. 

TLDR: In a journey to Hell, influenced by both Eastern and Western religions, depending on whether you embrace the guidance from the High above or not, P may or may not end up being a Messiah, or in a less favorable position. Maybe P stands for Player, not just Pinocchio

[there-must-be-a-lock]

Contact Comfort

Spencer Reid x (gender neutral) Reader

Word Count: ~2000

Warnings: None, really? Emotional hurt/comfort and sorta like a touch starved deal doing on, but it’s pretty thoroughly fluffy and sugary-sweet. 

A/N: For the “bed sharing” square on my @cmbingo​ card! 

Title is from the referenced psych study, because I’m a dork. 

“One sec,” you call, wincing at how thick and nasal your voice sounds.

You wipe your cheeks hastily as you sit up. It’ll be obvious anyway, though; wouldn’t take a profiler to notice your tear tracks and blotchy face. 

It’s Spencer. Of course it is — because he’s the last person you want to see you like this, when you’re all snotty and puffy and gross. 

His eyes go wide and solemn when he sees your face, genuinely distressed. There’s that empathy again, the too-big heart that everyone seems to overlook in favor of his big brain. You love him for it. 

Well, you love him for a lot of things. 

“Hi,” he says quietly. “I was going to just ask if you were okay, but… I guess I don’t actually need to ask now.” 

You let out a watery little chuckle. “Guess not.” 

“You want some company?” He looks hopeful, almost, and then seems to catch himself, dropping his gaze with a shrug. “I understand if you just want your space, though.” 

If it was anyone else, you absolutely would not want company right now. But it’s Spencer, so. You pretty much always want him around. 

“I was just about to turn on some shitty TV because it felt too quiet in here, honestly. Company would be really nice.” 

He gives you a quick twitch of a half-smile as he steps past you, and after you close the door, there’s a pause where you both stand there and look at each other, Spencer suddenly shy as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, in a thin unhappy voice. 

“Not really. Just… one of those days. One of those cases.” 

“Can I do anything to help?”  

You hesitate, because it seems like such an immature thing to say out loud, but you’re too tired to be anything other than honest.

“I could use a hug.”  

Spencer’s expression goes all soft and sweet, and your cheeks feel hot under the drying salt water as he steps closer. He wraps his arms around you, and you bury your face in his chest and try to inhale. Your exhale is a ragged little shudder, and you fist both hands in the back of Spencer’s cardigan as you cling to him, feeling raw and sensitive and so very young. 

He lets out a quiet, shaky sigh of his own, squeezing you tighter. 

How long has it been since anybody hugged you like this? It’s like the contact — the warmth of him — the pressure of his arms around your shoulders — the rise and fall of his chest under your cheek — is lifting some massive weight you never realized you were carrying. All you want in the entire world is to hold him tight, take the comfort while you can, but you know you should pull away. 

He hesitates for a second before releasing you, like maybe he doesn’t want to let go either. 

Then he’s stepping back, hands in his pockets, slightly pink-cheeked as he bounces on the balls of his feet and gives you one of his frog-faced not-quite-smiles. 

“You said something about shitty television?” he asks. “Or maybe we could watch some television that’s not actually shitty?” 

“That sounds perfect.”

Turns out Planet Earth is on, which is the rare overlap in your and Spencer’s tastes, and it’s not until you’re eagerly toeing off your shoes that you realize the bed is the only seating option. 

Spencer sits cross-legged, with his elbows on his knees and his chin propped on his fists, and he stays as close to the edge of the bed as physically possible. You lean back against the headboard and hug your knees to your chest, feeling the need to hunch over, like you could physically protect your heart. 

Then again, it’s much too late for that. You knew your heart was in trouble the moment you met Spencer. 

Today, especially, you already feel vulnerable, like all your carefully-constructed walls cracked open the second you let yourself cry, and now you’re just ripped-open and bare. You need a good night’s sleep and a long, hot shower before you’ll be able to go about your life as a professional, fully-functional, grown-up human again. Right now you’re just kind of a mess.  

“I know there’s the germ thing,” you blurt out, without looking at Spencer. “But —” 

His laugh sounds crackly and nervous, but relieved, like maybe he’d been holding his breath. “Come here.” 

You give him a grateful smile as you scoot closer to each other, and apparently you’d been so worried about your own swollen eyes earlier that you hadn’t noticed the fatigue evident in every drawn, wan line of his face. 

Not that he isn’t still the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. 

You duck tentatively under Spencer’s arm, and it’s not like you’re cuddling, exactly, because there’s still an inch or so of space between your hips and legs… but the bony plane of his chest, between collarbone and heart, makes a surprisingly perfect pillow. You pull the sleeves of your sweater over your hands, tucking them under your chin, curling up.

The moment feels delicate, like a soap bubble that you could burst if you simply breathe too loudly, and you hold yourself stiffly, at first, not wanting to move any closer for fear of pushing a boundary. It feels like you’re glowing at the points where your bodies are touching; the warm weight of his arm feels like bright spring sunshine across your upper back. His palm on the round of your shoulder is thawing away the last chilly bits of your self-consciousness. 

When the commercial break starts, Spencer says, “Do you ever think about how little physical contact the average single adult experiences on a regular basis?” His voice is quiet and almost sheepish. 

You smile. “Yeah, I’ve considered it.” 

“Especially when we live away from our families,” Spencer says wistfully. 

You can feel the vibration of his words in his chest. You shift, making yourself more comfortable, feeling dazed and dumb with his proximity.

“The monkeys. I feel like — you know?” 

“Harlow. I know exactly what you mean.”

Trust him to get that from your ridiculously vague mumbling.  

“Except they’re babies,” you add. 

“The emotional benefits of physical touch don’t decrease just because we get older,” he says softly. “It’s just that the fear of judgement makes it difficult to be honest.”

There’s silence for a minute as the show starts again, and David Attenborough says something about sloths. Spencer’s thumb strokes your shoulder gently, back and forth, soothing. It’s hypnotic, and the tension drains from your muscles, leaving you more relaxed than you’ve felt in a long time. 

“Thank you,” he whispers. 

You swallow hard. “For what?” 

“Being honest.” 

There’s no reason for your eyes to be stinging like this, but they are. “I should be thanking you.”

“Nothing to thank me for. This is… really nice.” 

“Yeah. It really is.” 

He’s quiet again. 

Spencer smells like vanilla and old books — although the latter might just be your imagination, something to do with the power of mental association — Spencer could probably explain the science behind that. Your brain has them inextricably linked, though. You’ve caught hints of that smell before, but never up close like this. 

The softness of the worn knit of his cardigan makes you want to rub your cheek against it like a cat. His arm, skinny as it may be, feels like protection — like you’re safe here. 

After the brutal violence of the case and the emotional turbulence of the day, this quiet, golden moment is even more breathtakingly peaceful by contrast. It doesn’t feel real. 

It’s too good to last. This isn’t yours. It’s not going to last, no matter how right it feels, and your chest already aches with the idea of letting him go.    

You try to appreciate it while you can, to remember every sensation, but your body is leaden, exhausted down to the bone, completely drained of whatever adrenaline-stubbornness-caffeine combination was keeping you running until now. Spencer’s thumb rubs invisible circles on your shoulder, and he breathes evenly, and you feel safe. 

You’re asleep before the next commercial break. 

A distant car alarm wakes you, sometime later. In the handful of seconds before it’s turned off, you come to without opening your eyes, trying to remember where you are and who you’re with. The smell of vanilla makes you relax instinctively, before you can process why. 

Spencer has all but melted against you in his sleep, soft and boneless. He’s got both arms around you now, holding you close, his breath tickling your forehead. Then he stirs, and you can feel the moment he realizes where he is, because his muscles go tense as he freezes. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs hoarsely. He’s barely audible over the infomercial voices coming from the TV. “I didn’t mean to — sorry. I’ll go.” 

And before you can think better of it, you whisper, “Don’t.” 

He’s still frozen, and silent for a second that feels like an eternity. “You mean —”

“I don’t want you to leave. Stay.” 

Honesty seems to be your default setting tonight, and anyway, you can tell without looking at a clock that it’s long past midnight, well into the early-morning hours where boundaries and reservations and reality don’t seem to follow their usual laws. You can’t lie to him (or to yourself) right now. 

Spencer’s voice cracks as he says, “Okay. I’ll just — let me get the light.”

You don’t open your eyes as he slips away. This all seems like a dream, and the sharp bright lamp light might make it dissolve around you. You might wake up. 

The TV goes quiet, and when you tug at the hotel comforter, sliding between cool sheets fully clothed, the barely-there rasp of moving fabric sounds loud in its absence. 

Spencer turns off the lamp, and you open your eyes. You can just see his shape as he navigates the dark room, negative space on a charcoal backdrop, but as your vision adjusts, you can see a faint suggestion of his features in the blue-black. 

You feel it, though, when his weight makes the springs of the old mattress dip. You’d expected him to lie on his back again, but instead his face is just inches from yours when his cheek comes to rest on the pillow. You feel the way he’s breathing, quick and shallow and nervous. You feel your heart kick in your ribs, thudding so loud he must be able to hear it. 

He reaches out slowly, hooking an arm around your ribs, and pauses with just the very tips of his spidery fingers touching your back, between your shoulder blades: five soft points of contact that you feel so intensely they might as well be electrode pads connecting you to a defibrillator. 

This is crossing a line, and you both know it. 

It’s not a sexual touch, it’s not that sort of thrill going through you, but something about this feels profoundly intimate. That intimacy is almost more shocking than lust might’ve been, and it’s much more dangerous. It’s the sort of closeness you don’t walk away from unscathed.  

Spencer’s fingers flutter, butterfly-wing delicate, like one or the other of you might be trembling. 

“Are you sure this is okay?” he whispers. 

“Yes.”  

Maybe you’re both trembling. 

His palm comes to rest on your back, easing you closer, and you shift, settle, readjust. He pulls back and tilts his head just long enough to brush his lips over your temple, soft and sweet, before tucking you neatly under his chin, where you fit like you were meant to be there, with your nose nudging at the gap between his collar and the delicate skin of his throat.

“Sweet dreams,” he whispers, sounding just as awed as you feel. 

“Sweet dreams, Spencer.” 

.

.

.

If you enjoyed this, please reblog or leave a message! 

More Criminal Minds fic is here. 

[neonponders]

Here’s a prologue for my The Mummy AU!

This all started because of the moodboards above, created by @memes-saved-me and @harringrove000 . I just couldn’t help myself.

Here’s my original post about this au (it includes links to the moodboards) ~

And @hoegrove I know you wanted to see this so 🌹

Read on ao3 ~

• • • • • • •

The overhead bulbs and candlelight cast harsh shadows and warm light throughout the grimy bar. Everyone glistened with sweat from the desert heat. The night brought with it gentle, cool breezes over the Nile, but in this packed place, the occasional thworp of paper and silk fans being thrown open could be heard. Even the swish of luxurious ostrich feathers swayed to cool people off.

Steve moved his legs to cross his knees, the papyrus green trousers brushing against the military beige breeches of the man sitting opposite him at their small, round, gambling table. They had gathered quite an audience; the messy pile of money had long since included bets beyond Steve and this man’s wagers. Steve hadn’t caught his name, but he felt the heat of his body through their trouser fabrics, and more than once caught himself staring at how the light gleamed in that dark blond, honeyed hair.

“You trying to distract me?”

“No,” Steve smirked, “I’m trying to get comfortable.”

“Stressed?” the man crooned.

Steve removed his gaze from those pin-made waves of his hair. They had long since given up their shape to the day’s heat, but a tress outright curled over this handsome bastard’s forehead. Steve dared to think he looked better unkempt. “Not one bit. Play your cards. You’re dressed like you have somewhere to be.”

“I’m in no rush,” he replied lethargically, like this was exactly where he wanted to be.

Steve let his eyes wander him a little more. “You sure? You look like a military man.”

“Honorably discharged.”

“Congratulations.”

Steve knew his eyes were blue, but in this lighting they looked like clear glass over onyx pupils when he tilted his head to look at Steve curiously. The latter retaliated before he even spoke. “Is that a strange thing to say?”

The blond shrugged with a gentle shake of his head as he plucked at his cards, rearranging them in his hand. “Only if you worship at the alter of hyper patriotism and military imperialism.”

Some chuckles sounded around them as harlots shared long, cigarette filter stems with their johns, and the barkeeps made glass clatter. Steve exhaled in a huff. “Whatever that means. I’d like to win, already. Play your cards.”

“You first, dear.”

He did, laying down his fan of cards underneath the row of cards from the dealer. The Madame of the place listened to their exchanges with amusement but kept it professional as she narrated, “Full house. Always something to brag about. And you, Mr. Hargrove?”

Hargrove, huh? Steve mused as he watched for any amount of discomfort on the man’s face. He didn’t get it.

“Straight flush,” the Madame said, aligning the winning cards with those from Steve’s and her own line. Steve had practically given him that win. And more of his father’s allowance than he would ever admit.

Hargrove moved a stack of chips to the Madame’s side of the table for a substantial tip, and then offered that hand to Steve. “Good game, Mr…?”

His eyes lolled under a slow blink before he accepted the hand. “Just Steve. It’s what I get for losing.”

“Let me top off your drink, at least, Steve.”

He took his loss with grace and stood to follow Hargrove to the bar. The crowd separated for him apart from a random slap on the back and long fingers stroking his hair in consolation. Hargrove reached the bar first, and watched all this while leaning back on his elbow. A light overhead moved across the exposed skin of his chest, just as honeyed as the rest of him, and the sparse hair there. Steve discretely lowered his gaze as if to not trip over the tiled stair raising the bar from the regular floor.

“Do you come here often?”

Steve snorted a quiet laugh and lifted his gaze. “You’ve already got me here. Ask me a real question.”

Hargrove smiled as the barkeep approached. “A bottle of red, please. Two glasses. It is a real question. People respond to you as if they know you here.”

Steve mirrored his stance and leaned into his elbow on the bar. “My sister and I come here sometimes. When we want to get away from…all of it.”

Hargrove hummed deep in his chest as the sound of a cork popping briefly diverted their attention. “Sister?”

“Stepsister, if you want to get specific, but she’s not here. You’ve only got little ol’ me.”

The barman poured two glasses without stopping, holding the vessels together with a practiced hand before he set them and the bottle on the bar. Hargrove paid him as he replied, “I have one of those. A stepsister, I mean. Although I don’t know how much it counts if you haven’t seen your so-called family in years.”

Steve reached for his wine and asked before he meant to, “Do you miss her?”

It was a bit too personal of a conversation between strangers. Hargrove’s pause made him quickly add, “You don’t have to answer that.”

“I’ll miss you, depending on how the rest of this night goes.”

Steve coughed on his wine. Hargrove chuckled as he offered a pale blue handkerchief to wipe his mouth. “Are you always this generous to people who’ve lost money to you?”

“Only the ones who are pretty enough to be a prize themselves.”

Steve’s eyes lolled in his head despite the rouge blooming in his cheeks and dusting across this throat. “If I’d known you were so used to winning I might’ve spent my money better.”

Hargrove’s eyes held steadily on him. “I’m glad you didn’t.”

* * *

Steve’s back pressed hard enough against the wall to break the kiss with a huff. He craned his face towards the sky as Hargrove made him shudder with soft lips and prickling stubble on his throat. They could hear the bar’s goings-on just on the other side of the exterior wall, but leaving the humid interior was refreshing on their wine-flushed skin. The darkness of the Cairo alleyway freed Hargrove’s hands to massage Steve’s backside.

As Steve caught his breath, he managed to slip his own hand between them, feeling the muscle of that chest for himself before he ducked to taste Hargrove’s skin. Salt and the neutral sweetness of a man’s skin. He liked the little sounds that Hargrove hummed while making a mess of Steve’s hair.

“I want this hair all over me. Better than silk.”

Steve lifted back up to frame Hargrove’s head in his hands, claiming and tasting and licking into his mouth. The way Hargrove kissed—like Steve was an oasis and honeycomb. Delicious and all his. It made Steve want to have him right here. Better than wine and cigars—intoxicating, having this kind of attention all to himself.

Hargrove hummed again, this time to get Steve’s attention. “Put your arms around me. I’ll do the rest.”

He didn’t fully understand until his trouser buttons slid free with ease. Steve openly moaned in the wake of Hargrove’s hand massaging his front, finding which direction his erection stood and easing it out into the night air. As his warm palm pumped him to aching readiness, Steve’s hands continued to wander Hargrove’s body. The man kissed him in a rush, almost brutally plundering his mouth before releasing to latch onto Steve’s collarbone.

One of Steve’s arms remained anchored around Hargrove’s shoulders. The rest of him rocked gently against the man intent to take him apart in a back alley—not that Steve minded one bit. His other hand pushed aside that half-open shirt to squeeze a nipple. Hargrove groaned deliciously and lifted his head to give Steve’s ear the same tantalizing attention—

Steve frowned a little at the hard and heavy rock of a thing knocking against his hand. It didn’t take much to pry the thing out of Hargrove’s jacket breast pocket. Steve didn’t have the time or the lighting to see what it really was. He had half a mind to hold onto it just out of petty spite. A token for taking so much out of his own wallet.

A reason for Hargrove to find him the next day.

Except a voice made Steve chirp, “Huh?”

And then Hargrove faced him with the same curiosity. They realized together that neither of them had spoken. Gas and oil lanterns were quickly moving through the alleyway, held aloft by harsh voices.

“Shit!” Steve hissed, rapidly putting himself back in his trousers. He yelped a choked sound as Hargrove yanked him out of the alley by his arm.

“We gotta go!”

“No shit!”

“Split up!”

“What?”

“GO.”

With that, Hargrove shoved him right into the vaporous air of a crowded hookah restaurant. Steve could only dodge and duck around rapidly standing patrons as the police flooded inside. The kitchen staff only reacted after he’d already dashed through the room, and by then, the police were too held up to catch up with him. Steve didn’t stop running. He heard yelling and whistles in the streets behind him, but he kept going—Hargrove’s strange stone clutched tight in his hand.

Only once he’d finished a very round-about path back to his lodgings, did he sneak quietly past his sister’s room and light a lamp to see his prize. The octagonal…thing…fit well in his palm. On one face, jagged lines had been finely carved, but all around its edges were familiar hieroglyphics.

“Oh. What the hell—better yet, what is a handsome American in Egypt doing with you in his pocket?”

Steve went over to his writing desk to find his glasses in a drawer. He popped them on and recognized a cartouche when he saw one. “Seti. Pharaoh Seti, huh? Well, Robin’s going to be all over this when she sees it.”

A shrill whistle outside startled him enough to drop it heavily on his floor. The whistle sounded far away, but he remained very still in case the wrath of a woman awoken before dawn barged into his room.

If Robin woke up, Steve remained blissfully unaware. He quickly undressed, washed as much of himself as he was able with the washbasin, and collapsed onto the bed. With Hargrove’s fancy artifact on his bedside table, Steve let the memory of sharp beard stubble and firm hands guide his own down to his cock. He got himself back to standing and finished what Hargrove started quickly.

But it was soft lips, open arms, and steady eyes that eased Steve to longing sleep. A slumber so deep that had his stepsister threw a pillow at him the next morning for oversleeping on her way to work at the National Library.

[grailbot143]

Wow, there is so much going on in this house. One might think this is 'typical elderly folks' home, but what this is to me is typical hasn't been renovated since I was a kid home. Not far off from what you might see in the homes of my aunts and uncles. So, list anyone?

Bookshelf with lots of books and

a picture of a dog and

an Autumn Harvest scented candle (yum)

A picture of a bird hung on the door with seashell embellished frame (sure, why not . . . )(*Looks like Twitter cause also why not...*)

A picture of a farmhouse (does this house belong to our barn?)

a seashell lamp

a model lighthouse

a raggedy doll

an antique metal milk can with a rooster picture

a stairwell lined with pictures and knickknacks

a hung quilt

a picture of the barn

a schoolbus frame (my step mom used to have one of these for each of us. You're intended to put school pictures from each year in them)

a family portrait of Greg and parents

a giant spoon from Beach City (cool)

a yellow rose in a round frame (which makes me think it's likely needlepoint of some kind)

a picture of the aviator aunt and uncle (the same one we saw in the barn, except bigger)

a picture of a hut in the jungle

a Love Lives Here sign holding a photo of an alligator??

Book: Historical History

Book: Design ____ Nineties

Book: The Joy of Order (blegh)

Book: Quilt. . . something?

A fisherman lamp

Some Dutch girl figurines

Some glass goat figurines

A collection of vases and glass ornaments

a very dated ceiling fan that looks like the ones I replaced in my house a few years ago

a green couch

with a round afghan throw

and 5 throw pillows including a heart-shaped one and one with a barn embroidered on it

an oil lamp

a very cool coffee table with DRAWERS and a SHELF (oh, the utility!!)

a bowl of potpouri

some more scented candles (is this the home of a foul smelling monster of some sort?)

really awful yellow curtains with a matching valence

a bowl of candy

a white chair with a round afghan

and some throw pillows including a bunny one and maybe a pumpkin one

a hanging curio cabinet

a really cool floor reading lamp

some unexplainably creepy kid cutouts standing on either side of the fireplace (*Oh sure those are creepy but not Patty...*)

the iodized salt girl figurine (I don't actually know if that's who that is, but it's where my brain went)

some house and building cutouts

some super cool 3D birds (cut in to wall or sticking out?)

a really awful yellow floral chair with ottoman

this weird spoon collection with gems? I've seen several spoon collections, but never one with gems in each spoon, so I feel like I'm missing some callback here or something.

I think that's all so far. Just a lovely(*cluttered*), well(*overly*) decorated(*messy*), and well scented(*overly fragrant*) home.

[lailoken]

‘How to Consecrate the Supper’

“Here follows the supper, of what it must consist, and what shall be said and done to consecrate it to Diana.

You shall take meal and salt, honey and water, and make this incantation:

The Conjuration of Meal

I conjure thee, O Meal!

Who art indeed our body, since without thee

We could not live, thou who (at first as seed)

Before becoming flower went in the earth,

Where all deep secrets hide, and then when ground

Didst dance like dust in the wind, and yet meanwhile

Didst bear with thee in flitting, secrets strange!

And yet erewhile, when thou wert in the ear,

Even as a (golden) glittering grain, even then

The fireflies came to cast on thee their light

And aid thy growth, because without their help

Thou couldst not grow nor beautiful become;

Therefore thou dost belong unto the race

Of witches or of fairies, and because

The fireflies do belong unto the sun…

Queen of the Fireflies! hurry apace,

Come to me now as if running a race,

Bridle the horse as you hear me now sing!

Bridle, O bridle the son of the king!

Come in a hurry and bring him to me!

The son of the king will ere long set thee free;

And because thou for ever art brilliant and fair,

Under a glass I will keep thee; while there,

With a lens I will study thy secrets concealed,

Till all their bright mysteries are fully revealed,

Yea, all the wondrous lore perplexed

Of this life of our cross and of the next.

Thus to all mysteries I shall attain,

Yea, even to that at last of the grain;

And when this at last I shall truly know,

Firefly, freely I'll let thee go!

When Earth's dark secrets are known to me,

My blessing at last I will give to thee!

Here follows the Conjuration of the Salt.

Conjuration of the Salt

I do conjure thee, salt, lo! here at noon,

Exactly in the middle of a stream

I take my place and see the water round,

Likewise the sun, and think of nothing else

While here besides the water and the sun:

For all my soul is turned in truth to them;

I do indeed desire no other thought,

I yearn to learn the very truth of truths,

For I have suffered long with the desire

To know my future or my coming fate,

If good or evil will prevail in it.

Water and sun, be gracious unto me!

Here follows the Conjuration of Cain.

The Conjuratiom of Cain

I conjure thee, O Cain, as thou canst ne'er

Have rest or peace until thou shalt be freed

From the sun where thou art prisoned, and must go

Beating thy hands and running fast meanwhile:

I pray thee let me know my destiny;

And if 'tis evil, change its course for me!

If thou wilt grant this grace, I'll see it clear

In the water in the splendour of the sun;

And thou, O Cain, shalt tell by word of mouth

Whatever this my destiny is to be.

And unless thou grantest this,

May'st thou ne'er know peace or bliss!

Then shall follow the Conjuration of Diana.

You shall make cakes of meal, wine, salt, and honey in the shape of a (crescent or horned) moon, and then put them to bake, and say:

Conjuration of Diana

I do not bake the bread, nor with it salt,

Nor do I cook the honey with the wine;

I bake the body and the blood and soul,

The soul of (great) Diana, that she shall

Know neither rest nor peace, and ever be

In cruel suffering till she will grant

What I request, what I do most desire,

I beg it of her from my very heart!

And if the grace be granted, O Diana!

In honour of thee I will hold this feast,

Feast and drain the goblet deep,

We will dance and wildly leap,

And if thou grant'st the grace which I require,

Then when the dance is wildest, all the lamps

Shall be extinguished and we'll freely love!

And thus shall it be done: all shall sit down to the supper all naked, men and women, and, the feast over, they shall dance, sing, make music, and then love in the darkness, with all the lights extinguished; for it is the Spirit of Diana who extinguishes them, and so they will dance and make music in her praise.

And it came to pass that Diana, after her daughter had accomplished her mission or spent her time on earth among the living (mortals), recalled her, and gave her the power that when she had been invoked. . .having done some good deed. . .she gave her the power to gratify those who had conjured her by granting her or him success in love:

To bless or curse with power friends or enemies [to do good or evil].

To converse with spirits.

To find hidden treasures in ancient ruins.

To conjure the spirits of priests who died leaving treasures.

To understand the voice of the wind.

To change water into wine.

To divine with cards.

To know the secrets of the hand (palmistry).

To cure diseases.

To make those who are ugly beautiful.

To tame wild beasts.

Whatever thing should be asked from the spirit of Aradia, that should be granted unto those who merited her favour.

And thus must they invoke her:

Thus do I seek Aradia! Aradia! Aradia! At midnight, at midnight I go into a field, and with me I bear water, wine, and salt, I bear water, wine, and salt, and my talisman—my talisman, my talisman, and a red small bag which I ever hold in my hand—con dentro, con dentro, sale, with salt in it, in it. With the water and wine I bless myself, I bless myself with devotion to implore a favour from Aradia, Aradia.

The Invocation to Aradia

Aradia! my Aradia!

Thou who art daughter unto him who was

Most evil of all spirits, who of old

Once reigned in hell when driven away from heaven,

Who by his sister did thy sire become,

But as thy mother did repent her fault,

And wished to mate thee to a spirit who

Should be benevolent,

And not malevolent!

Aradia, Aradia!

I implore Thee by the love which she did bear for thee!

And by the love which I too feel for thee!

I pray thee grant the grace which I require!

And if this grace be granted, may there be

One of three signs distinctly clear to me:

The hiss of a serpent,

The light of a firefly,

The sound of a frog!

But if you do refuse this favour, then

May you in future know no peace nor joy,

And be obliged to seek me from afar,

Until you come to grant me my desire,

In haste, and then thou may'st return again

Unto thy destiny.

Therewith, Amen!”

—

Aradia:

or the Gospel of the Witches

Chapter II: ‘The Sabbat, Treguenda or Witch-Meeting’

by Charles Godfrey Leland

[willowcrowned]

Imagine toddler!qui-gon picking up all of Obi-Wan’s discarded robes and dragging them around to use as blankets 🥺

hey HEY look I was NOT emotionally prepared for this. That level of cuteness requires advanced warning of at least fifteen days. just thinking about lil babie-shaped babie with his lil hair tie and squishy round face is killing me but then he’s grabbing a cloak and pulling it around him like a nap blanket and falling asleep in it and i die. i die. he’s wrapped up like a baby burrito. he’s a baby burrito full of babie-shaped love and cuteness and i don’t think you understand how devastated i am that my art skills are negligible because i need this in front of me like right now. this is now a vitamin necessary for my survival. i am no longer licking salt lamps for the sodium now i am staring at this ask trying to manifest baby qui-gon in obi-wan’s cloak into existence so i can pick him up and cuddle him. you don’t understand what you’ve done to me this has altered my brain on a physical level. at all times i will be thinking about this and crying. i hope you understand what you’ve done to me

[bella-enchanted]

I just read this post by heatherwitch on love magic for bedridden witches and I want to write down the ones I like so I can remember them.

I’ll add my comments/ideas in blue

✨ “Assign a candle to each person you care about, and burn it when you’re thinking of them to send good energy their way”

I’m going to do this, as well as create my own prayer ritual. Maybe I could create several mini alters, each composed of: the candle, gems and some other small items that I feel correspond to the person. Ouuu I could order stickers of their photos and stick their photo to their candle – that would be super cool. Or I could get a beautiful mini picture frame for each mini photo. I can pick a song and scents I associate with my love for them as well.

✨ “Enchant your salt lamp to fill the room with love whenever it warms up”

I’m gonna do this because I love the idea of light filling a room with positive energy, especially if it’s coming from a rock, but I do want to say... So, the belief that Himalayan salt rocks/lamps produce negative ions in the air by adding electrons to oxygen molecules is not backed by any clinical study. Based on what I’ve read from several sources over the years, I am inclined to agree that the claim cannot be regarded as true.

✨ “Keep a jar of the coins you find on the street for luck”

When I find coins, I usually just put them in my wallet to bring home and put in my savings jar. When the jar is full, I roll them up and deposit them in the bank. But now that I’ve read this.. instead of putting change I find into my savings jar, I’ll put it in a jar designated only for lucky coins. Coins I get back from purchases can go in the savings jar. Ouu! Once the lockdowns finally lift, and it’s safe to use cash again, I can use my lucky coins to put in tip jars/dishes at stores. And to give to people when they’re buying coffee for me! ☺️

✨ “Write your wishes on a bay leaf and place it under your pillow”

This is so cute ☺️ some other plants associated with love: basil, calendula, thyme, patchouli, yarrow, lavender, oregano, fennel

✨ “Keep moonwater from every phase”

I knew I wanted to make moon water at different times during the lunar cycle but I always imagined myself using it right away. Now that I’m thinking about this... I could get tiny glass jars to store a little extra in case I want to do a spell later in the month that a certain moon phase would be best for! I want tiny little jars shaped like hearts, plants, the stereotypical potion jar you see in movies (round base thin neck and a large cork cap/cork/lid).

✨ “Hide little hearts around the room, infused with different energies that you get whenever you remember and notice them”

I already have hearts all around me, but I never thought about attributing a meaning to each of them. I could have the heart-dish that holds my keys remind me that I’m grateful for my home and family. I wanna get some small/medium heart-shaped wall mirrors – I can enchant those as well – maybe with the feelings of self-love, self-compassion and self-acceptance to remind myself to have confidence 💕

rose banner: fairysmooches

created with: these transparent rose icons

@heatherwitch 💕 thank u for the inspiration!

[the-beetle-and-the-shadow-offi]

Season one: Episode one: The Castlemaster

Felicity breathed in deep as she hit the sand, inhaling the salt breeze. It was nice to get away from her hectic family, even if she temporarily had traded them for a busy beach.

She set down her beach bag and stretched. She wasn't far away from Granveston Main Street, and with thirty bucks and four hours, Felicity was ready to enjoy her day.

Screaming interrupted her dash for the waves, and she slipped to a stop, ankle deep in the waters. At first, all she noticed was that people were screaming and running. Then she noticed the growing mound of sand behind them.

Felicity started to back away, thinking that she needed to get out of the area and help some other people, when the most horrifying thing about the sand monster revealed itself.

The monster, who was shaped like a young girl on a moving sand throne, raised a fist and launched a beam of sand at a running passerby, turning them into a sand sculpture. They were then washed away by the ocean.

Felicity took off running, her water shoes digging into the sand. She left the waterfront and rounded a corner, where she found a group of cowering people huddled in front of a building.

"Why don't you go inside?" She asked, out of breath and confused.

Someone pointed to the door. "It's abandoned, and locked."

Felicity walked over and checked the lock, then checked around. "I don't normally do this, but everyone stand back."

Felicity took a step back, then kicked the locked knob off the door with a jump. She rubbed the back of her heel as the group of people filtered inside.

"Well, that was an impressive use of destruction," a raspy voice said from behind her.

Felicity spun around, panicking. When she didn't see anything right away, she looked around in confusion.

"Come to the alley, slow poke!" The voice called.

Felicity hesitated. Then she proceeded with caution.

She wasn't expecting a floating cat holding a ring to be the one who'd been calling her.

<On the other side of the beach>

Diego Hart was not having a good day. First, his dad woke him up early on the last Saturday of the summer. Then, he was dragged out to the beach, where it was hot, scratchy, and all people did was scream and splash.

And then there was this monster thing.

That was unexpected, but also very inconvenient.

Or was it?

Diego had broken away from his family, equal parts intentionally and accidentally. He hadn't meant to separate, but when you get a chance to get away, well, he wasn't one to say no to fate.

Which put him here. Face to face with a large pinkish... bug? It was flying, so he guessed that was right, though he didn't see any wings.

"Hello, Chosen! I am Tikki, and I will be your Kwami and companion through this next stage of your life!"

"You're helping me get through my last two years of high school?" Diego asked, bewildered. "And what's with this 'Chosen' stuff? Being the chosen one never ends too well in books and movies."

The creature—the kwami—Tikki—blinked. "I chose you to wield my miraculous! The Miraculous of the Ladybug, of creation and healing!"

Diego scrunched his nose. "That sounds like a girl's power."

Tikki crossed her arms(fins???) and pouted. "There have been many male wielders of the Ladybug miraculous. You would be following a legacy, rich with creation and life, and it is not a 'girl's power'."

Diego shrugged. "Can I have an explanation for what exactly all this is?"

Tikki quickly explained the situation, the Miraculous, and his powers. She also told him he may have a partner.

"If Plagg found a suitable one, that is. The Black cat is a tricky one to hand out, and since we can't trust our Guardian.... Well, Plagg is in for some searching." Tikki turned back to him. "I was lucky to find you so quickly! Your use of the beach umbrella was very clever! I knew you were the one at that moment."

Diego felt his face heat up as he recalled the moment the kwami was speaking of. The monster, Castle Crasher, had almost caught up to him, so he had pulled a big beach umbrella out of the sand and used it as a shield. It wasn't something especially creative, but it had just made sense.

"That was just a use of resources," Diego attempted, but Tikki waved him off.

"We can't waste anymore time! Say 'spots on'!"

<With Felicity>

"Claws out?"

With a yelp and a flash of green light, Felicity was transformed into a black cat superheroine. As she examined her new look, she found that her hood covered all her hair, her mask covered all her recognizable features, and she could feel that she was more athletic than she already was.

"Wow," she breathed. A distant crashing brought her back to earth, and she slid her baton out from it's place on her thigh. Guided by a deep instinct, she swiped her thumb across the surface, and it opened like a slide phone.

Another swipe, and it closed. Her fingers found a button, and pushed it. She let out a yelp as it extended and speedily carried her upwards.

"S-stop!" she cried. The baton-staff thing stopped at her cry. She clung to the pole, trying to catch her breath, half wondering how the staff was balancing on it’s tiny surface.

The ground shook, and the staff fell forward. It hit a roof, and Felicity managed to roll forward on impact and get to her feet instantly.

“Woah.”

<Diego>

Diego skeptically examined the dark red magic fabric that now covered his arms.

“I guess it’s plenty tough,” he muttered. Then he pulled out his… weapon. “A yoyo…. I’ve never even touched one of these before… How does it work?”

He tentatively dropped the yoyo down and swung it back and forth a bit. As he got more comfortable with it, it felt more and more natural, and he executed more and more complicated maneuvers with the yoyo.

At the height of the activity, he threw the yoyo forward. When it wrapped around a building ornament and pulled him forward, he was jerked out of his reverie, and he realized just how absurd his situation was.

<Felicity>

Felicity looked up from trying to track down the villain to see a red and black speck in the sky. She narrowed her eyes to see it was getting bigger. It was only when she heard a voice yelling “I’ve been kidnapped by a yoyo!” did she think maybe she should move.

She came to her conclusion too late, unfortunately, and before she could make a move, she was crushed under a warm, red and black weight.

“AGH!”

She pushed against the weight, unable to get a good look thanks to her hood. “Is this some part of the akuma’s powers? Because it’s dumb. Stupid sky debris.”

“I’m not dumb!”

Felicity’s eyes widened at the sound of a fellow teenager. A male one, specifically. With a burst of strength she hadn’t possessed before, she kicked him off and jumped to her feet.

<Diego>

Diego clutched his stomach, reeling from not just one, but two sudden impacts in thirty seconds. He finally peeled apart his eyes to see the cause of the second impact, or rather, who had so forcefully kicked him off.

He got it, it was rude to lay on top of people, but he hadn’t meant to!

He looked her over. On the small end of the average spectrum, or the large side of the petite spectrum, wearing a black suit with a hood over her head, white, and very angry. Or scared. He wasn’t sure which.

“Is there a word for someone both angry and scared?” he wondered, only realizing too late that he’d said it out loud. “I mean--! Uh…. You must be the Black Cat! Tikki told me about… your kwami, I guess. Are we allowed to talk about the kwamis?”

The cat let her guard down, just a little bit. “Plagg didn’t say anything about it. He didn’t tell me about another wielder, though. Who are you?”

He mentally stopped in his tracks.

Don’t say Diego, don’t say Diego, don’t say Diego!

“I’d prefer to go by Escarabajo, if that’s okay.”

“Ah, I figured you were Latino.”

Diego pouted. “I thought I masked it well….”

The cat looked at him. “It’s… a work in progress, Escarabajo.” She turned as a rumble went through the building. “Focus on the akuma, we’ll talk later.”

She took off on her staff, and Diego—no, Escarabajo—followed.

<Felicity>

As long as no one asks me for a name, I’ll be perfect. If I’m given one, that’s different, but I won’t pick one for myself.

She stopped on top of a street lamp, marveling at the ease that she now balanced with. She scanned the streets, pointing out the street that had many sand figures.

“That’s where we need to go, Escarabajo.” She said, turning to see him hanging upside down, looking rather surprised by his new predicament.

He looked at her, his eyes wide. “I could be Spider-man….”

Felicity harrumphed and crossed her arms. “I’m no Mary Jane.”

<Diego>

In his haste to explain as quickly as possible that that wasn’t what he meant when he said that, he’d let go of the yoyo, and fell. Luckily he managed to land on his feet.

“Ow...” When he looked up again, the cat was offering a hand up, though she looked rather exasperated.

“Come on, you can play around later. Let’s deal with the sand castle monster.”

Escarabajo stood up and followed after her.

Following the sound of screaming and a trail of sandy figures, Escarabajo and the feline girl beside him soon caught up to the monster. The girl looked to him, and it slowly dawned on him that she was looking for him to direct her. He hastily thought out a plan and whispered it out to her.

“Can you sneak up on the monster? Tikki says there should be an object that, essentially, controls them and their powers. If we destroy it and capture the nasty butterfly--” Here he made a vague questioning noise before continuing “--We should be able to stop it. I’ll have to purify it. Haven’t quite figured out how.”

The Cat looked at him, her eyes narrowed. “Well, read your manual then. I’m gonna go find the object. I’d bet my tail it’s either the bucket or the shovel.” She leaped away, and Escarabajo nodded absently.

In light of her words, he took the yoyo off his belt, and thumbed it open. As if Tikki had overheard, which she probably had, the user’s manual was highlighted. As he skimmed over the most pertinent sections, he kept an eye on the Cat.

<Felicity>

Felicity snuck up on the villain just fine. She had quietly jumped from one building to the next, to a streetlamp, to the ground, all without any real noise.

The catch was when, despite her best efforts, she disturbed the very edge of the sand. And that alerted the akuma to her presence.

As the akuma stilled, Felicity attempted something she’d never done before but had full confidence she could pull off in the suit. She did a back flip on to a small billboard, and jumped behind it. She held her breath as the villain rumbled closer and closer. The villain missed her by a hair, and continued on it’s rampage.

Felicity kicked into gear. Plagg had said that because of her age, she could use her special power three times, and she knew exactly what to use it on.

She ran parallel to the villain before leaping forward. “Cataclysm!”

She broke the chains holding up a large sign, causing it to fall down and cut off the path the villain was taking. She repeated the process two more times, then dove out of the way, waiting for Escarabajo to do his thing.

She peeked up, and spotted the shovel and pail. She risked glancing behind the villain, and saw Escarabajo coming up behind. She crouched down farther, waiting for the right time.

<Diego>

Escarabajo had watched the Cat’s movements with awe. She was so fluid and confident looking. He noticed, of course, the tenseness she held whenever she was a misstep from being turned to a sand pile, but the grace with which she threaded around the villain was astounding.

Then Diego reminded himself that he was graceful, too. One of the most graceful in his gymnastics class.

“Yeah, it’s just another gym class,” he muttered before jumping into action.

He swung on his yoyo, catching up to the Cat. He saw her trap the villain on three sides, then dive for cover. He threw his yoyo in the air as he got closer, yelling, “Lucky Charm!”

He grabbed the tiny box out of midair and kept running. He glanced around the area, and spotted a few items he thought he could use. He quickly grabbed a red can and a fallen branch with his yoyo. He slipped behind an advertising sign, and took a moment to look at the box in his hand, just to double check.

Yep. Matches.

He poured the liquid over the stick in his hand, and threw both the stick and the box over to where the Cat was, keeping a few matches for himself. He hoisted the can up, then swung forward. As he swung behind the villain, he poured the liquid out of the can, creating a line of gasoline behind the villain.

Then he struck and dropped the matches he was holding.

<Felicity>

Felicity felt the air heat up, and knew she only had a short window. She struck the match, lit the branch, and jumped out of hiding. She swung the branch like a sword, cutting off the sand holding the shovel and pail.

She threw the pail to Escarabajo, and stomped on the shovel. Escarabajo threw his yoyo through the bucket, bursting straight through the bottom before pulling back.

Then he opened up his yoyo, and swung it at the black butterfly that left the broken bucket. The yoyo closed automatically over the insect, and Escarabjo brought it back to him.

He gently pushed the center dot on the yoyo.

<Diego> He watched the butterfly fly out, purified to a bright white. He speaks without even thinking.

“Bye, bye, little butterfly.”

Then he takes the empty matchbox that the Cat offers him, and throws it up into the air, yelling out the curing spell.

As magic ladybugs zip through the city, the Cat heroine walks up beside him, attentive and curious.

“So that’s how we avoid legal trouble. Nice.”

Escarabajo had to take that in, then he glanced at her. “I guess. It’s pretty and convenient.”

She snorted. “Well, was pretty decent working with you. See you around.” She made to leave, but Escarabajo shouted after her.

“Wait! What’s your name?”

She shrugged. “What do you want it to be?”

At his stunned expression, she turned around and leapt away.

Hearing the beeping coming from the studs attached to his wrists, Escarabajo followed her example, swinging up and running across rooftops before people came out to investigate. He made it to the beach and ducked behind the portable toilets before being blinded by pink light, and returning to his normal self.

Tikki flew out of the studs and into his hands. “You did a good job,” she whispered to him. “Now, I need someplace to hide.”

Diego offered her his beach bag.

Tikki hidden, and his Miraculous secured safely on a lanyard, Diego quickly returned to his family.

<Felicity>

Felicity whispered “Claws in” not too far from where she’d cried “Claws out”. Despite not being tired at all, she decided to go home. After all, she could only be gone for so long after something like that before her parents found out and flipped.

Plus she had to get ready for school on Monday, and that was gonna be a pain.

<Chapter Fin>

[officialleehadan]

A Story of the Ages

Hello darlings and happy Solstice! it's grey and dark here, and the sky is absolutely featureless with silver clouds. So much for my chances at seeing the conjunction!

Today's story is brought to you by Jennifer! Darling, this series is spooky, and scary, and I'm so thrilled you Prompted it. Enjoy!

Prompt: HGE - Terrors of the Deep

+++

“I would ask a favor,” Vree said carefully when their drinks were finished, and Lady Petros lounged at her ease on the airy dock that hung out over the wide, turquoise waters of Triton Five. The tides had changed since the death of Triton’s other four moons, and Lady Petros was often on the last surviving sister to ensure a safe transition for the colony that inhabited the ocean-moon. As most human settlements did, the colony of Triton Five was expanding quickly, and boasted several small restaurants. This one was a particular favorite of Lady Petros, and featured pools of water for the sea-going population to lounge in comfort with their land-going companions. “But I fear it is one that is impertinent, and I wish not to give offense.”

“Offense is taken, dear Vree,” Lady Petros said, sprawled in her pool, Her scales were brilliant red and marked with spines. Vree had asked, and been told that her type, like Human-Nerea’s, was that of an Earth fish called a ‘lionfish’. He wasn’t sure what a lion was, but anything with spines and venom was surely dangerous. “Not given. Ask your question. I will not take offense.”

Vree hesitated, even with her reassurance, but curiosity drove him forward even when courage failed. “The mermaids of Styx. They are exiled.”

“They are not mermaids,” Lady Petros said, not without a shadow in her eyes, and the faintest hum under her voice that spoke of old anger. “It is a dark story, and not one with a happy ending. Do you still wish to hear it?”

As he always did, Vree thought about it carefully. There was no other answer he could give.

“Yes.”

“Very well,” Lady Petros said, her spines flared and her smile sad. “The story begins on Earth. Not Earth of today, but Earth before the humans built ships of the sky, and reached for the stars.”

+

“I’ve heard a rumor,” Evelene told Blaec as she spread her fins lazily in the warm pool of their lair. “One that will take me into the sea for a time.”

Yellowstone, being a great volcano, was an ideal place for a dragon’s lair. It was volcanic, which meant it was warm enough for Blaec to bask in the heat without needing to go topside for it, and had enough water to keep her comfortable and happy. The humans, of course, didn’t know they were there. Blaec had flown over centuries ago, back when the first Egyptian ships made the crossing from Africa to South America. He followed the smell of burning stone to the ancient caldera and made a comfortable home in the volcanic stones.

The great nations, of course, were dismayed by a dragon taking up residence, but Blaec assured them that he was uninterested in them, and they gave him wide berth. Later, when more humans came, he simply dug the lair deeper, hid the entrance, and shrouded the whole lair in spells to keep it well out of sight.

(Is everything alright?) Blaec asked. Like her, he was sprawled comfortably, wings outstretched. He, of course, preferred to lounge on a pile of gold that had long-since been heated and crushed into the precice shape that Blaek liked best for napping. (Do you need me?)

“I want you, always,” Evelene said, and leaned over to kiss his nose, which rested on the stone beside her pool, comfortably in reach. “But this is mermaid business.”

(You will be safe?)

“I hope so.”

(What is the rumor?)

Evelene trailed her fingers through the warm water of her pool. It was mostly fed by a cold spring, but Blaec had redirected one of the nearby hot springs nearby, and the mix kept her pool at the perfect, tropical warmth. Of course, it wasn’t her only pool. The whole lair was threaded about with pools and canals connecting them. If she cared to, she could spend her life in the water and never take another step on land.

“In the far northern sea, there are rumors of a shoal who hunt only at night,” she said, her thoughts on the letters she received, posted by way of a mermaid’s land-going mate and carried to them by post and magic. It was rare for a Shoal to send a message to her. Most Shoals preferred to handle things themselves, and with good reason. Long ago, Evelene herself had been in the first Shoal with her sisters, and watched their children grow and blossom into every Shoal yet to come. A call for their First was almost never needed. That she had received not one but two such calls for aid, both with the same plea, told her how bad things must truly be. “Of a Shoal that hunts humans.”

(Many shoals hunt humans, and many of those hunt at night,)

“This one is different. They hunt our own kind.”

(Shoal wars are not unheard-of either. My Treasure, what has happened that has you worried?) He raised his great, black head and peered down at her in she soft, warm light of the huge salt-lamps that lit their lair. His eyes were toxic-green, and his pupils were nearly round as he looked down at her. (What did the children say to raise your spines so much?)

“They say that the new shoal are blood-drinkers,” Evelene said at last. It should be impossible, but then, maybe it wasn’t so unreasonable. They were human first, after all. “That one of the children of my sisters loved a vampire, and when he betrayed her, she took his blood and left his bones on the sand, and her hunger may threaten this world if left unchecked.”

+++

HGE - Terrors of the Deep

There are some enemies that give even the First Mermaid reason to be cautious. The Sea Witches were the first.

Dive Down Deep (Free on Patreon!)

The Lighthouse on Styx (Subscriber Only!)

A Story of the Ages

+++

More Stories!

+++

[hansoulo]

i’ll write a hymn again; i’ll be your woman

Pairing: Steve Murphy/!Reader

Warnings: angst (duh), canon-typical mentions of violence and blood, softness, cursing, etc etc again it’s literally just this scene from s2 ep4 so make of that what you will

Word Count: around 1.4k

A/N: title is from this song. not very fitting tone-wise but the lyrics do b hittin home. yeehaw 🤠

The door opens, groaning on its rusted hinges before it’s interrupted by footsteps. You turn at the sound, seeing familiar shoulders and cheekbones - rounded edges that are still sharp to the touch backlit by the outside traffic. It’s late. Midnight, maybe. He smells like whiskey and a little like paper, like ink and manila folders and other dry government things that all spell out danger. His eyes are rimmed and swollen lilac, an exhaustion that seems to seep through him from the inside until it cracks and shows on his face in a way that never seems to settle. You’re curled on the couch with your knees tucked into your side, almost asleep but not quite. You were waiting for the phone to ring.

“Hey,” you call out.

Steve’s voice is low, graveled and drawling something hollow. “Hey, sweetheart.” He shuts the door with a soft click and you can hear the sound of keys hitting the coffee table, metallic and slightly off-key. “I’m sorry about this honey, I meant to call it’s just-”

“Work,” you answer for him with a small smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “I get it.”

Steve rakes his hand through his hair, already tousled and gripped through as evidence of frustration and stress and who knows what else before he made it back here. Back to you.

The scrape of his facial hair brushes against your cheek when he leans over the back of the sofa, his palms coming to rest at your shoulders as he kisses the shell of your ear. “I missed you,” he says, his exhales tickling and sending a small wave of goosebumps across your arms. You reach a hand to the nape of his neck, guiding him down until your lips meet. It’s brief and it’s soft, melancholy because that’s the only thing he can give right now but you don’t mind. It’s enough.

You hear Steve’s footsteps drag over hardwood as he sits down by the kitchen table, making your way off the couch in search of a drink of water.

You watch through the glass as you lift it to your lips - his reflection warped and melting wax underneath the faint yellow of the living room lamp. Everything is muted, tamped down by the night air and the low buzzing of late-summer insects outside your window.

It’s compact, slow but still tense and drawn tight almost to snapping and you want to say something but have no idea what. You don’t want to fight again. To turn away when he climbs next to you in bed, to waste every waning day as the sag of his shoulders sets into permanence. It kills you, takes little pieces every time he leaves, never promising he’ll come back because you both know it might not be true. Better to have low expectations, you suppose. Or none at all. It’s not fair to him, though. Steve’s trying, he really is - and if it kills you then what’s it doing to him? You can’t imagine. You’re not sure if you want to.

The clink of your glass against the sink bottom breaks up the silence, jarring even though you tried to be gentle about it. Steve looks… not good. Not bad - he could never look bad - but… not good. He’s been better. You both have.

Your wedding ring catches in the kitchen lights when you step towards him, bouncing back a soft gold and memories of times that weren’t constantly bubbling over, teetering on the edge of something catastrophic. It was a nice wedding. He proposed on your two-year anniversary, in the tacky little bar where you first met. You said yes right before a man threw up his third beer, which made your friends laugh and your mother - on the phone the next morning - horrified. You were both young, impulsive and impatient, so the wedding was held three months later on his uncle’s beach, the night colored with sand between your bare toes (no heels, because duh) and memories of Steve’s great-aunt Myrna flirting with the MC. Back when things were light, impossibly easy and fogged over with all the things you could become.

What had you become?

“Steve,” you call out, your voice notching in your larynx and coming out tremulous, quivering slightly on the ending note like the slow drag of a violin string. You stand in front of him, the side of your hip digging a little bit into the edge of the table as you shift your weight from foot to foot.

There’s only a few inches between your bodies but it feels like miles, endless and tunneling until you’re choked with all the chipping rubble that’s being hacked at - by his job, by the pistol still tucked in the waistband of his pants and the way he never seems to come back to you even when he’s right there. Your eyes say what your mouth can’t bring itself to shape. Come back to me. Please.

You speak again when he remains quiet, staring off to the side of your figure like he can’t bring himself to look you in the face lest something splinters. “Are you okay?”

It’s a stupid question, really, because of course he’s not fucking okay but you ask it anyway, just wanting the balm of empty assurances and the knowledge that he still cares enough about you to try. You know he cares about you, know he loves you because he whispers the words until you’re dizzy, memorizing the way they sound for when he isn’t around to speak them himself. You know he loves you. You know you love him. You just don’t know if that’s enough.

Steve nods, pursing his lips and trying to give you something to grasp onto before the nod turns into a shake and a noise escapes his throat, choked and muffled. It sounds like a sob.

Something inside him is split open, something raw and beating a scar-tissue glossy red that has him falling forward and nosing his face into your shirt until you can feel his breath against your stomach. You try to soothe him, carding your fingers through his hair and whispering quiet nothings as arms wrap around your sides and pull you closer - tight and strong and familiar. The ridges of his watch dig into your back but you don’t really care, only registering the way you can feel tears dampen the fabric of your top and the way his breathing hitches.

You want to ask what happened, what he saw or did or didn’t do but that’s not what needs to be said. Later, maybe.

He lifts his head after a few minutes, resting his chin on your sternum as your thumbs come up to smooth over the creases drawn on his face. Hands, smaller and softer that haven’t killed but are weighed down by the witnessing of it, stroke across the ridge of his brow, the sloping contours of his face until they’re no longer drawn tight and dragged heavy. Steve leans into your touch, his skin still hot and thrumming with forced alertness and too many cups of watered-down coffee. There are tracks running down his cheeks, rivulets of hot salt that map across his jaw and pool into the hollow of his clavicle, wet and shining against skin you’ve grown to know like it’s your own. Your vision blurs over, desperation aching and beating against the bones of your ribs until they feel liable to break.

You lower your head, ghosting your lips across his hair until the arms around your waist go slack and heavy, still seeping warmth through your shirt when Steve lifts his mouth to meet yours.

He drinks you up like a man dying of thirst, parched for softness and anything that isn’t the sound of screaming - that isn’t the last ragged gasp before a man gives up his ghost to heaven or hell or whatever numb thing comes after. He’ll let you swallow the hurt and the pain until the shell casings swimming behind his eyelids flicker out, momentarily quelled underneath the feeling of your mouth and the tenderness of your touch. He’ll try to love you, here, now, at a kitchen table in an apartment that’s not home and probably won’t ever be but it’s okay.

You’ll be okay.