#slope table. it slopes everything on it onto the floor and i have to frantically pick up my laptop and hope the table doesn't crush the mou

[the-chessboard-is-personal]

number of times my table has fallen apart: 3

am i still using the table? yes, because a new one would cost 300 bucks

i feel like uhhhhh whichever hermit had the 10 year old keyboard. i think maybe etho. idk i forget

[beauregardlionett]

all or nothing (it’s a game no one can win)

AO3 Link

Realization was a cold, viscous curl in her gut.

Her thoughts were racing, but they passed through her grasp like wisps of smoke—like illusions. None of them stuck where terror turned her mind into a slippery slope.

Eyes locked on Caleb’s, Beau imagined that his expression of horrified comprehension was mirrored on her own face. Her chest felt tight, ears ringing to where she could barely hear Fjord’s worried questions. His confusion meant little to Beau at the moment.

She and Caleb stood scarcely a foot apart from each other, bare feet planted to the floor and vulnerable in every sense of the word. Dressed in their sleep clothes, chests heaving from the dream—the nightmare. Caleb had torn his shirt off over his head and stood facing her with a naked chest. They had been asleep and still they were marked with those horrid eyes. Beau hypothesized they marked one for death—Lucien had died once already, Molly died, Vess died.

A curse.

Her thoughts were racing, but one clear, overwhelming emotion stuck at the back of her throat. It burned like the brink of nausea—that hint of relief. A sick part of Beau overwhelmingly grateful she wasn’t alone in this. That she had Caleb beside her like always. But she saw the heavy panic settling into the lines of his expression that tore through Beau with guilt.

The rest of the party stirred around them, and the tension snapped in Beau’s chest with all the force of a broken rib.

On instinct, Beau’s eyes flicked to Yasha where she leaned up against the door. She couldn’t face Yasha with this—not yet. Beau still didn’t want to face this, and she was the one with the unwarranted tattoo on her hand.

Seconds after Yasha’s eyes opened, she seemed to understand something was wrong. Jester’s sleepy question only enhanced that sense. Her muffled, “what happened?” against the pillow she pressed into spurred Yasha to shove to her feet, alert already, always a light sleeper.

She wasn’t ready. Beau moved faster than all of them.

Grabbing Caleb’s wrist and his discarded shirt, Beau yanked him from the room. Sleeping in Yasha’s bed had filled her with warmth, a sense of security. Now her fingers felt like they had been left out in the snowbanks of Eiselcross overnight, and her heart along with them. Her skin seemed too tight, too little to contain the frightful chaos underneath. Her breaths came with rapid fervor as she fled like an animal cornered to the worried calls of their friends.

Still clinging to Caleb’s wrist, Beau leapt off the platform into the middle of the tower and they began to ascend.

“Beauregard,” Caleb said tremulously at her shoulder.

“Take us to the eighth floor,” Beau said, her tone sharper than intended. At least it masked the tremor that wracked her chest.

Caleb unlocked the iris that lead to the upper floors with muttered Zemnian that Beau understood but couldn’t process. The contraption slid shut behind them with a soft shink that echoed against Beau’s nerves. Releasing Caleb’s wrist, she slid her hand into his and frantically intertwined their fingers.

“The first door,” Beau whispered. “Where was it?”

Caleb went rigid beside her, but Beau struggled to force her gaze to focus on anything at the moment, to even try looking his way.

They stood shoulder to shoulder in labored silence before Caleb finally took that infinite first step. He led her to a door and pushed it open with heavy intent. Somewhere among the tangle of threads, Beau understood. She just couldn’t seem to parse them apart long enough to comprehend anything beyond the exact second she was living in.

Standing just inside the door, hand in hand, shaken to their core, Beau and Caleb lingered.

Beau closed her eyes and took a deep, unsteady breath. Dairon had told her in one of their training sessions that when she needed to find her center, find a foothold to begin, to start with a breath. Inhale, and look forward.

She breathed in again, deeper and steadier, swore she tasted the salty air of Nicodranas on her tongue. With a tremulous exhale, Beau opened her eyes and latched onto the teacup sitting on the tiny, worn kitchen table. She could scarcely make out a hairline fracture against the lip of the cup in the dim light. There were flowers and vines painted against the fired ceramic, faded with use and more so in spots that welcomed fingerprints.

Caduceus.

The kitchen was stocked with necessities as far as Beau saw, so she inhaled once more and laid out a brief roadmap in her head.

She found purchase.

Turning to Caleb, Beau almost flinched at the expression of hollow dread etched into the exhausted lines of his face. Beau pressed his shirt into his hands and gave Caleb a nudge toward one seat at the table. He sat without protest, but Beau’s palm felt cold and empty without the weight of his presence there.

With a shake of her head, Beau mentally checked off the first step and turned to the kitchen.

A quick heft of the kettle on the counter found it full, so Beau set it over the fire crackling quietly in the hearth and returned to the counters. There was one other mug, faded brown clay that was chipped in so many places Beau was surprised it still held water. A tiny tin box held a scant amount of mint leaves, but it was enough for two mugs of tea.

She worked through the motions of brewing—the way Caduceus had shown her. It was a grounding sort of practice, almost like meditation. Each step required just enough attention to banish all other thoughts from creeping in.

Minutes later, Beau sat across from Caleb and hooked their ankles together beneath the table. Somewhere in Beau’s process, Caleb had attempted to put his shirt back on. He had gotten as far as pulling his arms into the sleeves before giving up, since it sat in his lap, his hands poking through the ends of the sleeves. Two steaming, steeping mugs of tea sat between them, steam curling lazily from the surface.

“This isn’t good,” Beau pressed out, her voice thick in her throat. That hint of nausea still lingered at the back of her tongue, accompanying the sensation of vertigo still spinning in her head from the dream.

“Nein,” Caleb said, voice hoarse.

“What do we do?”

Caleb was silent for a long, suspended moment before, “I don’t know.”

Beau had seen the way his fingers brushed and lingered over the eye on his shoulder, then the scars on his arm back in Yasha’s room. The marks on his arms were paler skin than his usual complexion, raised and puckered slightly—tangible things of torture endured and surmounted. They were evidence of something removed.

The eye against his shoulder was flat, etched and inked into skin with a permanence that neither of them had ever had the privilege or sanctuary of knowing. Beau imagined the mark against the back of her hand felt much the same, but she couldn’t even find the courage to look at her hand again.

With frustrated resignation to their fate, Beau curled the fingers of her left hand around the steaming mug before her and held fast. The weight of the eye on her skin stung like a caustic burn.

Caleb’s eyes flicked to her hand at the movement, his expression doing something complicated before he made a wounded noise. The sound came from the back of his throat, like a creature accepting its fate. He pressed his face into his hands, shirt dangling between his elbows.

“Scars and eyes,” Caleb muttered from behind his fingers before Beau could find her voice. “I’m becoming more and more like our purple friend every day.”

“Shut up,” Beau choked out near immediately, eyes narrowing. Her anger wasn’t for Caleb, but she was angry. At Trent, at Lucien, at everyone that had ever made him and her friends feel inferior, defective, and worthless. “Don’t you dare.”

“Beauregard,” Caleb dropped his hands to his lap again, eyes tired and dark. She hated this expression. “I know you care for me, but be realistic. My appetite for knowledge bears frightening comparison to Lucien’s…” His fingers drifted toward his shoulder, face turning bitter.

“It’s only a matter of time, it seems.”

The anger banished Beau’s haze of panic entirely.

“What about me, then?” Beau bit out at him. He flashed her a look of confusion and Beau released her mug to wave her left hand in his face.

“I’ve got scars and eyes and a need to know everything I have no business in. Am I going to turn into Lucien, too?”

“No,” Caleb said, sounding strangled at the very notion. “No, Beauregard, you’re different.”

“How?” Beau fired back, the furrow of her brow daring Caleb to put himself down in front of her. “Am I different because I’m younger, I’ve got more time to make it right? Is it because I wasn’t manipulated as a child the way you were? Or maybe I’m different because you assume I’m not afraid. Well, newsflash, asshole—I’m fucking terrified.”

Caleb blinked at her, lips parted slightly as he stared.

“We both know I’m blunt and I don’t have a filter,” Beau said by way of preamble. “But if you truly think you’re more like Lucien than you are like me, then your intelligence is fucking wasted. Lucien clings to that book because he wants the power he thinks will come of it. We,” Beau gestured empathetically between them, making the steam from their tea waft in erratic spirals. “Went into that book looking for information, for a foothold to understand. We’re sitting here like this because we don’t want this.”

Beau sucked in a tremulous inhale, her eyes stinging as she glared at Caleb. “So fuck you for implying otherwise.”

Caleb seemed at a loss for words, his jaw snapping shut, a muscle twinging beneath his cheek with the force of it. He looked down at his hands in his lap, tangled in his shirt, and said nothing. Dashing at her traitorous eyes, Beau didn’t even try to be subtle about the tears she furiously wiped away. The silence pulled, and they let it, the crackling logs being devoured by flame an undercurrent of white noise.

“Why are we up here, Beauregard?” Caleb’s haggard voice pushed through the silence between them.

Beau stayed quiet for a beat before answering. She weighed her options, wanting to tell Caleb everything that had been in her head since they were up here earlier. She just wasn’t sure if this was the right time.

The eye on her skin burned, and Beau remembered Fjord’s words from a couple nights before.

Who knows how long we have.

“Because I don’t think Lucien can get up here,” Beau replied to the surface of her tea. She paused and made her choice. “And I needed to tell you I understand now.”

The snap of Caleb’s eyes finding her was palpable, but infinitely more comforting than the stare of that stupid eye from their dream.

“Caduceus said you were going about this the wrong way. Jester said it was a punishment rather than a memory—but this isn’t here as a punishment, is it? You put this here as a reminder, so you don’t forget where you came from. So you don’t forget them. This is here because you’re scared you might forget them the way you forgot those years after you were tricked. You have this here so that it exists because it’s the closest thing you can get to without actually going back. You keep thinking about this past, about what it would cost to go back and fix things.”

She looked up finally, and the jarring lock of Beau’s gaze into Caleb’s previously fixated stare almost threw her. There was desperation to his eyes, a longing sort of hope that Beau might manage to put his way into words.

“I’d give up quite a bit for the chance to fix a few things in the past now, too,” Beau murmured. “So yeah, I understand why you keep this place around, why it’s hard to let go.” She looked around at the simple kitchen, at the cheerful hearth. “Jester’s right, it is a nice house. None of us were trying to judge you or shame you for it, Caleb. But you understand why we were worried before, right? Everything comes at a cost—even the right thing.”

They sat silently for a long moment, staring at each other in the dim. The press of Caleb’s ankles against Beau’s a warm, comforting weight.

“Caduceus asked you if you thought Lucien had a room like this,” Beau whispered. She could all but sense the amount of effort it took for Caleb to not flinch at her words.

“Even if he does, Caleb,” Beau spoke in a measured, firm tone. Her grip around her teacup tightened as she leaned in marginally to keep his gaze on her. “You aren’t like him. And I won’t let you be, either.”

Caleb held her gaze for a lengthy, tenuous moment before he seemed to come to some kind of conclusion. The furrow between his brow eased, and he raised his arms to tug the shirt fully over his head. He scooped up the clay mug before him with a trembling hand. The eye on his shoulder hidden away for now, but Beau’s still glared out at them with red intent.

“So how do we fix this?” Caleb asked, accented and gruff. His ankles pressed with more resolve against Beau’s where they were locked together. “Going forward.”

Hope was not a swell in her chest. Instead, it was the heated comfort of a mug of tea against her palm and Caleb’s warm hand covering her knuckles. His fingers obscured the eye etched into her skin, and Beau could almost pretend for a moment that it wasn’t there at all.

Inhale, and look forward.

[dreamsmp-au-ideas]

Shattered Skulls and Tampered Timelines

A/N: Two things!

1) I'm probably not the first person to come up with this, but i personally haven't seen anybody else talk about so if you see someone else with this idea, then that's pure coincidence

2) It's in the tags, but content warnings for blood, a bit of gore, mentions of broken bones, and death.

***

Drifting.

That was an accurate way to describe it, he thought. Drifting. Floating aimlessly through the world, mindlessly going through the motions, doing everything he was asked as simple as muscle memory. The nothingness of it all twisted his stomach and ate away at him like he was nothing but a corpse, rotting away on the ground.

Like the limp and bloodied body of the child laying in front of him.

He never really wanted to kill him, truly. It was the heat of the moment, a quick decision, a thought as sudden as the sickening crack of the boy's skull as it slammed against the wall or the scream ripped from his throat or the way he slumped onto the floor, eyes still open, and totally, undoubtedly dead.

He was supposed to play with his food. The same way cats do, tugging on the mouse's tail, clawing at its fur, batting it with its paws. Only difference was, he had never intended to let go.

Drifting. That's how he'd described it. Carried slowly by a current of air or water. Carried to build the community house by his friends, carried to steal the boy's discs by spite, carried to kill him by anger.

Carried to stumble across the prison cell as a blinding flash of light suddenly burst from the corner of the room.

He was met with a shock of neon colours, first. Purple, cyan, yellow, and what seemed to be a million more hugging the figure of a man with his back turned. Then was a mop of brown hair on his head, pale skin, and then finally a book in his hands, leather with gold strips on the spine and a cyan spiral on the cover.

The figure paused, then looked around the room. He perked up, held the book close to his chest and spun around, meeting his eyes. 

"Oh my god, finally! I made it!" he whooped, grin stretching ear to ear. His eyes shone brightly with something more than just excitement.

He hummed. "Nice of you to join us, Karl," he mused. "Not many people have visited."

Karl narrowed his eyes. "And nobody should." He peered over his shoulder and grimaced. "Tommy... you really killed him, huh?"

"I thought Sam already told everybody."

"He did, I just..." He trailed off, as if not wanting to say it. "You're disgusting, Dream."

"Why thank you, that's a very nice compliment." He hesitated. "Why are you here?"

Karl tapped the book. Its yellowing pages and colourful bookmarks ruffled under the leather case. Wordlessly, he pushed past Dream, kneeling beside the boy's body as it stared blankly up at him. Its jaw was dislocated and its temple was bleeding in three different places, the blood masking a third of his face. The back of his head was practically caved in.

"You didn't even have the decency to close his eyes?" Karl hissed, setting down the book. He reached out and touched the boy's arm. Cold as the leaking obsidian walls.

Dream shrugged. "Pretty sure I punched one of his eyes out of its socket," he hummed.

Karl could have vomited. But instead, he pressed the boy's eyelids down, and that lifeless grey stare was gone.

He put one arm under the boy's knees and the other on his back. Slowly, he hoisted the body until it sat slumped on his body, its head lolling on his chest, and tried not to look at the blood now staining his perfectly good hoodie.

Dream stared. "What are you doing?"

Karl flipped to a page in his book, one hand propping up the body, the other following the trail of words from paragraph to paragraph. "Fixing the past," he said simply.

Dream stepped forward. "Karl, you can't do that."

"It's what needs to be done." He flipped another page.

Dream stepped again. "I'm gonna bring him back anyway. He's not dead forever."

"That doesn't matter. I need to make things right."

"This is wrong."

"You're wrong!" He thumbed through a stack of pages. "C'mon, c'mon, where is it...?"

"What are you–?"

"I need to go back to when it all started," he hurried. "Before everything, before the discs, before Wilbur. Before you got a chance to hurt anybody."

"Karl–"

"I need to make things right!" he snapped. "Tommy needs to be okay again. This server needs to be okay again."

"You don't know what you're doing, Karl," Dream said softly. "Give me the book."

"No!" He snatched the book closer to him, rifling through the pages of bookmarks and trinkets and notes scribbled beside the paragraphs of spells and alternate timelines.

Dream leapt. Karl scrambled put the way, leaving the boy behind and jumping to the other side of the cell. His eyes flitted frantically across the pages until they landed on what he needed. "Found it!"

"Found what?"

"Tommy will be fine, I don't know and don't care about what'll happen to you." He skimmed over the words. "Turn back the hands of time, restore the form..."

Dream pounced at him. "Karl, give me that book–"

Karl sidestepped the attack, running as he read. "Things will go back to how they once were..."

Dream growled. "Give me the book!"

"The subject must not know about the original timeline..."

He went to strike his face, but Karl was quicker. He ducked out the way and the wall shook with the impact. "I'll kill you, Karl!"

Karl read faster. "...guide the subject and ensure their safety, otherwise the timeline will collapse–"

"Karl!"

"–and the traveller will forever be stuck in the Inbetween."

"Give me the book–!"

Karl slammed the book shut and dove to the floor. He pulled Tommy closer to his chest and closed his eyes.

And when he opened them, Tommy was gone, and Karl was lying on a patch of grass. He bolted upright so fast that he probably pulled a muscle in his back, but he didn't care.

"Tommy? Tommy!" he called out, frantically whipping his head around.

Good news: the spell had worked, and they were back.

Bad news: Tommy was nowhere to be found.

He looked around again, until his gaze settled on what looked like a dirt cave. Well, less like a cave and more like someone had blown up a couple TNT mounds into an otherwise perfectly normal slope, but still, it was something. Outside it sat an oak path snaking through the majority of the buildings and in front of the cave.

Karl sprang to his feet. "Prime Path!" He turned to the cave. "Tommy's house..."

Hopefully nobody would be watching as he entered a child's home while he was probably sleeping. He slipped through the entrance (the kid didn't even have a door) and took in the view..

The place was so different, now that he could really see it. Crafting table floor, no windows, dirt walls... for someone who was "married to the grind", he had a pretty shit living space.

Now, if the spell had worked how he'd planned, Tommy would be asleep in his bed. And sure enough, when he turned, there he was, sprawled out on his bed without so much of a scratch on him.

Travelling through different time periods, Karl had certainly gained a new appreciation for his life. But that was nothing compared to the wave of relief he felt once his gaze landed on Tommy. The kid was fine, if a bit younger, with his eyes closed peacefully and not a bruise on his face and his chest slowly rising and falling as he snored.

Karl sighed. Travelling was already tiring on his own. Having another person travelling with him was a whole other story.

"Right," he muttered to himself. "My name is Karl Jacobs. I have the ability to travel through time. I have two fiancés, Quackity and Sapnap. I travelled back to give Tommy another chance and to help the sever not downgrade to how it is now. If Tommy dies again, the timeline will collapse. My job is to help him. His memories should still be intact."

He nodded. That sounded about right.

He pulled out his journal and scribbled a note in one of the blank pages. He ripped it out, folded it and laid it down on Tommy's chest.

Tommy just needed to wake up.

Karl slinked out the exit, staying as quiet as humanly possible as not to wake him up. And he was doing perfectly well, not making a single sound, until he was met face-to-face with a white smiling mask and he nearly screamed until his vocal chords went out.

He slapped a hand over his mouth. "Uh– h–hey, Dream!"

Dream smiled softly. "Karl? You're not supposed to be here, are you?"

"Nope! Yeah, sorry, I was just... returning something to Tommy. I'll be out of your hair now–"

"No, I mean on the server. I never whitelisted you."

Crap. He's forgotten about that.

"Yeah you did!" he blurted out. "You did, uh, ages ago! I just never really came here, uh, a lot, so, yeah."

If Dream believed that, then Karl was either the most charismatic person in the world, or Dream was the dumbest man to ever live.

"...huh. Okay, then," Dream said slowly.

What.

"Yup!" Karl said. "Okay, well, uh, see you 'round!"

He bolted off before Dream could reply.

Now for Tommy to wake up, and for the operation to begin.

***

Tommy awoke with a scream.

It was the last thing he'd done before his head cracked against the wall; scream for Dream to stop and then scream in the agony.

Then suddenly, everything had gone black, and he was with Wilbur again.

His time in the afterlife had gone by in a blur, he could hardly remember any of it. All he recalled was a tall brown blot, the smell of blood and gunpowder, and now suddenly he was awake.

He looked down. A folded piece of paper sat on his chest, and he opened it up.

Tommy,

I can't tell you who I am, but I can tell you that you're safe and that everything's fine for now.

You're probably confused, so let me explain. Everything you remember wasn't a dream. You founded L'Manberg, got exiled twice, got killed by Dream, everything. I've brought you back in time so we can fix everything that went wrong and hopefully change the server for the better.

Hopefully you're where when I want you to be, but if not, then we'll just have to work with it. Here's the rundown: Wilbur's alive, L'Manberg hasn't been founded yet, you and Tubbo are still on three lives, and a lot of the server hasn't been whitelisted yet. That means no Quackity, Ranboo, Schlatt, everything.

It's better if I don't tell you who I am, otherwise it might affect the timeline. All you need to know is that I'm here on the sidelines if you need anything. Write me a note and I'll find it.

Good luck. You're gonna need it.

~Traveller

...well, that probably explained a few things.

He hardly had any more time to think when a knock sounded. He whipped his head around and was met with a familiar face.

"Wilbur!" he grinned, and raced forward to embrace him, burying his face into his shoulder. Wilbur stumbled back, mildly concerned.

"Woah woah woah– hugs? Tommy, are you alright?" he asked gently. Tommy nodded, but made no move to pull away.

"Yeah, yeah I'm fine, I just..." He pulled away slowly. "I... I had a dream that I lost you, is all."

He grinner. "Aww, Tommy...!"

"Alright, shut up, you sappy bastard. What do you want?"

Wilbur looked around. "Why is the floor crafting tables, Tommy?"

His mind raced. Fuck, why was his floor full of crafting tables?

"Eret," he said suddenly. "It's– it's Eret."

The puzzle pieces clicked together. That's right, Eret had done it.

Tommy frowned at the thought of him. Maybe he could stop the betrayal this time around.

Everything else went by in a flash. Tommy's head swam with thoughts, painstakingly trying to remember what he had said, what he had done, where they had travelled. He didn't even know where exactly in time he was!

Then Wilbur said something that set off every red flag and blaring alarm in his head.

"So, Tommy," he said nonchalantly enough. "Have you ever seen the TV show 'Breaking Bad'?"

Tommy's stomach turned. "Sort of." It wasn't a yes or a no, a balancing act.

"Imagine what would happen if we could get every brewing stand off the server," he continued, "and then we, make an empire out of producing all the potions on this server."

His head span. He felt sick. His chest hurt with the memory of the arrow that hadn't even been crafted yet. He remembered the towers, the TNT, the button– everything. The heartbreak, the nightmares, the downward spirals, everything leading up to that fateful day when his head shattered like glass against the obsidian wall.

He remembered everything, and he needed to stop it.

[shreddedparchment]

Absence Makes the Heart

04/17/2020

Pairing: Superman x Reader          Word Count: 5,431

Warnings: language, lots of language, violence, blood, wounds, injuries, plenty of angst

DCEU Canon

A/N: I’ve been meaning to write this one down for a while. It’s based on a dream I had but I just went and added details and a little bit of backstory. Nothing too crazy. This will probably just be a one shot. The top half is heavily edited while the second half I just spat out because I was inspired and I went with it. Hopefully it’s good. This is my first foray into something other than Marvel, so any feedback would be greatly appreciated. If you happen to reblog, thanks so much for helping me spread my work! xoxo

Edit: I forgot to thank @babiiface95​ @evansweaters​ and @sherrybaby14​ for giving me some feedback on this! It helped tons!! xoxo

It hurts.

Everything hurts.

In this moment, all you can feel is the pain in your side.

You stumble forward, hitting the chestnut wood of your door hard. With nothing to brace yourself on, you slide along the length of it until you’re sitting, shoulder pressed against it.

“Ugh…” You groan, letting your hand trace the smooth grain until it can latch onto the handle. “Fuck this shit. I quit.”

You tell no one.

There hasn’t been anyone for months.

The door gives as you twist the knob sending you falling onto the small foyer of your apartment. You’re on the top floor, beside the penthouse. Your own place is small. Compact. Just three rooms, four if you count your bathroom.

You pull yourself along the dated ceramic tile and watch as you leave a smear of red behind you.

“Honey…” You begin, kicking the door shut while you stay flattered against the floor. “…I’m home.”

No one responds.

You exhale through your nose as annoyance rips through your chest.

“Fucker.” You say at no one, but obviously someone.

It takes every ounce of strength you have left to haul yourself into your bathroom. You peel off your suit, letting it drop to the floor in a whip of heavy fabric, space quality tech that was not fashioned on Earth but created for you.

To protect you.

Because he said he cared.

“Fucking…fucker.” You huff, yanking the first aid kit from the open shelf beneath your sink.

Your sports bra is drenched in sweat and blood, sticky against your skin as you plop yourself at the small kitchen table. You pull open the kit and reach for needle and thread.

It’s a messy stitch, clumsy and crooked from the angle you’re forced to work in. However sloppy, you do seal the wound to your ribs and the bleeding finally stops.

In your blood-soaked underwear, you make yourself a sandwich and stand at your counter, staring at the primary blue coffee cup sitting beside your own in teal.

You chew loudly, smacking your mouth as the bread sticks to the roof of your mouth. Eyes glaring at the cup, you bite down more fiercely. Tearing the food apart angrily.

“You’re a stupid bitch, Y/N. Get over it.” You sigh, then retreat to your bathroom to tidy up.

~~~~~~~~~~

Exhaustion is not your friend. It makes you cranky and irritable and sad because you can’t stand the silence in your home.

You groan, pressing your hand against your side gently, then reach for the remote and turn on the TV to war the silence.

It’s a cacophony of sound and for a moment, it grates your nerves. Some cartoon, loud and full of slapstick.

Next channel has people screaming at each other from opposite sides of a stage. Chairs begin to get thrown. A guy with a mullet takes off his shoe and chucks it at a man with one ear.

Next channel has an old black and white movie. The pretty woman with dark curls and a heart shaped face leans across a table, chin in her hand as she moons over the composed man who is smirking at her casually.

Nope. You think. No romance.

Next channel is the news.

“-sure what to make of what we’re seeing. It’s like nothing we have witnessed before. Veronica, can you tell us what’s happening?” The news anchor presses his hand to his ear, eyes squinted as he stares ahead.

The screen shifts and Veronica—a pretty woman with flowing red hair and deep blue eyes fills your screen.

“Miguel, it looks as if all of the ocean’s water is being pulled away from our coastline and out towards the ocean. Where the water is going, we aren’t sure. There is no way to know what this means or what can be causing it. And although we’ve seen this phenomenon happen in films, doomsday blockbusters where a tidal wave the height of a skyscraper builds up before the subsequent flood, experts are sure this is not at all what’s going on.

There are dozens of meteorologists, marine biologists, oceanographers, and astronomers still searching for the cause. The only thing that they all can agree on for certain is that the oceans are not withdrawing, but rather, they are draining, leaving sea life, coral reefs, and the ocean floor exposed.

“Something is pulling this water away. Whatever is causing this, is not natural.”

Sitting up, you place your elbows on your knees as the video changes to that of a helicopter shot as it circles the ever-decreasing ocean line. A humpback whale and her calf attempt to outswim the retreat, but they fail and as the water falls away, the creatures are beached between two sheer ocean cliffs.

“What the hell…” Reaching up, you cover your mouth, watching as the video moves back to Veronica.

“If we can’t figure out why the ocean is draining, we will have hundreds if not thousands of species left without chance of survival. This is not only a loss of a life for many endangered species, but also leaves us to face the consequences within our fishing industries and the millions of people it not only feeds but employs as well. If we cannot stop-”

Veronica suddenly stops speaking, holding her hand to her ear as she listens for a moment.

“Sorry, Miguel, it looks as if Doctor Rashda has found a source point for the draining. Doctor Rashda can you hear me?” Veronica asks, waiting for a moment before the video splits vertically.

The second frame of video sits empty, a sloping sandbank visible in the distance. It curves around in a semi-circle at the center of which is a growing swirl of dark blue water.

“Doctor Rashda?” Veronica asks again, her eyes frantic as they search a monitor out of view.

“Surrender.” A voice says, high pitched. Female. “Surrender and you will not suffer. Surrender your planet, and I shall make your end quick.”

Veronica is silent as the column of swirling water parts a little, just enough so that a pale face is visible.

“Surrender.” The voice says again, the pale face’s lips moving as it speaks. “And you will die quickly.”

Frowning, you move to the edge of your seat, your anger doubling.

“M-Miguel are you seeing this?” Veronica asks, voice small with fear.

Miguel doesn’t answer.

The figure in the water holds out its hand and from the swirl comes a smaller sphere. In this sphere something moves. As the camera zooms in, you can make out the distinct shape of a body, thrashing within its bubble.

Veronica screams just as you and everyone else that must be watching realizes that within the bubble is Doctor Rashda, struggling and gasping for breath.

You’re up on your feet, racing to pull your suit back on when a commotion pulls your eyes back to the TV, legs already in but with one shoulder exposed as you freeze mid-dress.

“He’s back!” Veronica is shouting gleefully. Relief and reverence painting her voice. “Superman is back!”

You move two steps closer to the TV, not intending to take the word of a panicked reporter. Until you can lay your own eyes on him then it isn’t real.

A few seconds pass. Then, a blur of blue and red streaks through the center of the bubble and when the water stops rippling, Doctor Rashda isn’t there.

“Motherfucker.”

You pull your suit on roughly, ignoring the way the movement tugs at your side as you zip up and launch out your open window.

You fall fast, plummeting towards the ground in a streak of teal and gray. When you’re only three feet away, you feel a surge of power as your arms, and legs burn with white hot energy.

It pushes you upwards and propels you higher and higher until you’re soaring across the sky at incredible speeds, leaving a silver trail of light behind you.

It only takes you minutes to reach the coast but sometime between you jumping out of your living room window and arriving here by the Golden Gate, the fight has moved cityside.

You hear a deafening crunch as blue and red goes slamming into black, gray, and brown ocean floor, disappearing into the subsequent rubble.

Heart pounding, you propel yourself towards a thin figure, long stringy black hair, sallow skin, arm still stretched out from her hit. She turns to look at you just as you reach her, but you throw your own fist out in a powerful uppercut. It throws the strange woman high into the air.

You follow for a few feet, hovering in there as you watch her skyrocket out of sight into dark clouds overhead.

Behind you the heap of ocean floor rubble begins to shift.

Coming to rest on the cliffside above, six feet below he breaks through the rock and it falls around him, a flurry of fine sediment saturating the air.

Chest heaving, side burning, heart clenched so tight you think it might truly be shredding, you watch as the fucker stands up and does a quick scan of the area looking just as perfect as he did when he left.

His eyes are focused, searching the sky for sight of his attacker but instead he finds you.

His eyes soften and you’re still so angry you glare. You turn on your heel and walk away, staring up at the sky as you wait for the woman to fall.

“Y/N…” You hear him say, but you don’t turn to look at him.

You can feel the swirling of wind as he flies up to you, the soft pats as his feet hit the ground. He circles around your right, leaning forward to get a better look at your face.

In your peripherals you can see the gentle curl of his dark hair, falling along his forehead and a hundred memories of your hand gently sweeping it aside make your body tremble.

The pleasure that the memory brings makes your blood boil and you roll your eyes, ignoring the puppy eyes he gives you.

“Let’s just get this over and done with. I’m tired.” You assert and watch as the strange woman careens towards the two of you, an inhuman screech growing louder as she falls.

Moving forward a few steps you aim yourself, bend your knees and launch yourself up towards her. As you collide, she grabs hold of your shoulders, and the two of you twist and spin in the air, struggling to get the upper hand.

Shifting quickly, you pull her over you, grab hold of her shirt front and with all the force in your body, you spin and chuck her down as Clark flies towards you to finish the job.

~~~~~~~~~~

A tattered white dress is all that remains of the ocean thief.

“Who was she?” Clark wonders, moving to stand beside you as you watch the stain of saltwater grow as her body dissolves to nothing.

“You don’t know?” You ask him, turning to look at him and hating how much it pleases you to finally see him again.

His broad body, thick with muscle and stupidly accentuated by his damn blue skintight suit, feels larger than before he left though you know that’s silly. He’s as God like as ever, though he’s only an alien. To the world, he’s a savior. Invincible.

Superman.

What really hurts to look at are his eyes.

It chokes you, those baby blues, full of unspoken questions and expectation. For you. For the future. For the present. He wants to know you again.

You tear your gaze back down to the woman as Clark shakes his head.

“No. I was flying home when I saw the ocean empty and followed the trail to the spout she was in.” Clark explains.

“Well, it’s too late to find out now.” You point out. “The water will come back soon. You’ll need to make sure people stay away from the coastline.”

Turning towards him, you wait, your rage evened out and layered with betrayal.

That painful gaze of his so piercing it nearly steals your breath away.

“Where were you, Clark?” You ask quietly, your anger outweighing the hurt.

The apologetic look he gives you, the tilt of his head, the step he takes towards you grates your nerves.

“Y/N-”

“It’s been months. Almost a year.” You sigh, unwilling to give in.

He takes your hand and the impulse to pull away nearly overwhelms you.

His hands are rough, only in that masculine way. His skin is unblemished. Perfect.

The strength of his movements are carefully calculated. A natural habit he’s developed after a lifetime of having to be gentle to keep from breaking those he touches. The heat from his hands is familiar and it envelops yours easily.

“I was coming home.” He tells you.

“Home? How do you know that it’s still your home? Maybe someone else has moved in.” You threaten and there’s a visible fall in his eyes.

It nearly breaks your icy exterior. But you have every right to be angry and hurt that he left you. Out of the blue, no word as to where he was going or when he’d come back.

“I have to go.” He’d said, and left you sitting on the couch, wondering when he’d come home.

He looks down at your hand in his, his thumb gently caressing the back of your hand.

“You went to see her first, didn’t you?” You accuse and he quickly meets your gaze.

“No.” He assures you passionately, moving a little closer. “No, I was going straight home.”

“She’s been looking for you.” You tell him, tempted to confess how useless you’d been in those first few weeks he was gone. “All of them have been. Where is Superman? Is the million-dollar question. And now here you are.”

He’s back just as randomly as he’d left. Just as sudden. Just as quiet.

“There he is!” A familiar voice shouts. On the bank across the large ravine you both stand in Veronica appears looking dazzled and excited, her camera man hoisting up his camera to begin what will be the first clear footage of Superman finally back. Earth’s hero returned.

Quickly you pull your hand from his and turn to walk away.

“Where are you going?” He asks, following for a few steps.

“Home. I’ve been in Australia for the last month dismantling a new crime syndicate with Bruce. He and I are both very tired. He stayed behind.”

“Oh.” Clark says.

“Superman!” Someone calls. “Superman is back!”

Civilians have begun to gather along the empty waterway, all of them eager for a glance at the Man of Steel.

You know how you made it sound and maybe it’s your annoyance making you push him away now that he’s home, but all you can think about is getting back home and being alone.

“The water will be back, Kal.” You shift to his birthname with so many ears nearby. “Get these people away.”

You leave him standing there, watching you fly away, with those baby blues full of quiet yearning.

~~~~~~~~~~

The apartment…your home…it’s a void.

You sit on the arm of your sofa still in full uniform, hand gently resting on your thigh—palm up. You’re a mess again. Dirty with blood and dirt and sweat.

Needing a shower doesn’t do much to deter your silly brooding. Silly because you did this to yourself. You made it seem like you had someone new waiting for you here when really the bleak emptiness is in need of a six-foot, three-inch tall Kryptonian.

His presence is here. Loud and white hot. His coffee cup burns you from across the kitchen—asking where its owner is. His drawer still full of clothes. Comfy sweatshirts and crisp white t-shirts. Blues and grays and reds too.

There’s one you’d set aside. The last he’d worn. Only once. It had sat on the end of your bed night after night until you’d caved and pulled it on. Now it probably smells more like you than him.

The place is silent. Only the drip, drip, drip of the bathroom sink breaks the quiet.

Your gaze wanders to his shoes by the door, shoelaces left undone, a small speck of mud on the side of the left heel.

Shutting them, your eyes water.

No. You shake your head. I won’t cry.

You take a shaky breath and release it slowly, sighing as your body slumps forward.

The movement reminds you of your earlier wound and you gasp in pain as you sit up straight again, leaning to the side to look at the spot growing increasingly wet on your side.

“Shit.” Stitches are probably torn open. “Fuck.”

Maybe it’s your frustration with this whole situation or maybe your wound really just hurts a lot, but as you reach over to feel the bloody spot, your voice finally breaks. Though there are no tears, they really want to fall.

“Fucking, stupid, fucking…” You sigh again, this time faster, angry.

“That’s a lot of French.” Clark says, his voice smooth and even and excruciatingly beautiful to your ears.

You stand up, startled, and spin to watch him pull his left leg in through your open window, following his torso.

He’s still in his suit, cape and all. Once again, the sight of him reminds you of his Godlike status. His perfection unreachable and yet, here he is. In your home. Where he’d given himself to you openly and without reservation.

He stands there, his hands clenched into nervous fists. Skin just as dirty as yours but not sweaty. Not bloody. His hair is a little disheveled. The tresses normally so carefully tempered are free to curl and wave.

“What are you doing here?” You ask, voice still weak from your raw emotional outburst.

“I went to see Bruce.” He explains, and you might just kick yourself for implying Bruce would be waiting for you. “Why-?”

“Because I wanted to hurt you.” You admit, cutting him off before he can word the question. “Because I wanted you to regret leaving me the way you did.”

“I do regret it.” He sighs. “I-I only left because I thought I heard…”

He hesitates and you’re tempted to kick him out. You turn away from him and move into the kitchen, trying to ignore the wound that needs tending.

With your own coffee cup in hand, you pop a k-cup in your Keurig and punch the power button, waiting for it to power on before you select the largest cup option and listen to the whirr of the motors instead of Clark’s silence.

“I went to Krypton, or what’s left of it.” Clark finally says, this time from the mouth of your kitchen archway, hands still clamped tight.

You shut your eyes tight, hands clinging to the edge of your counter. Squeezing ever tighter until they begin to ache, and you still only keep squeezing.

“I wish I could be as impressed by that answer as I was the first time you told me that.” You shake your head.

“It was different this time, Y/N.” He shakes his head, then takes a step closer.

The movement draws your eyes and you watch the intense focus on his face, the uncertainty to speak.

“What is it?” You ask, still a little bitter.

Even though he looks as if he means it and this trip to Krypton is more serious, he’s not speaking. He’s keeping this from you. Holding it back.

“Jesus fucking Christ Clark, I guess you don’t trust me.”

“No.” He insists, moving another step closer which still leaves him a ways away from you in the kitchen. “It’s not that. I do trust you. More than anyone. But…”

You want to scream at him. You want to tell him to go to hell and to stay away from you and to shove his excuses up his ass, but your curiosity is growing.

There’s a small panic in his baby blue eyes. A fear.

So, you wait. You hold your tongue. You’re patient for now. You give him a familiar silence that tells him you will wait until he’s ready.

He recognizes it and meets your quizzical gaze as your coffee finishes brewing.

You don’t even realize it’s done as you stare into Clark’s eyes and he stares into yours.

The moment he decides, his shoulders relax. His jaw drops a fraction of an inch as he stops clenching his teeth.

As the weight on his shoulders is visibly lifted, you feel yourself relax too. Nearly a year of being without him and you’re still so attuned to his moods.

“I found someone.” He tells you. “On another planet, in a Kryptonian ship that had been sent only days after my own.”

“Another Kryptonian?” You ask, curious but also fearful.

You remember very clearly the last Kyrptonian that had come to Earth. Zod and his minions had torn Metropolis to shreds. They’d killed so many people and Clark had made the hardest decision in his life.

Not that you’d been there. She’d been there. But Clark had let you in on the weight of that moment. The choice that he hated to make but would gladly do so again.

He must see the fear in your eyes because he shakes his head and takes yet another step towards you.

“No. Don’t be scared. Really. She’s-”

She?!

“-she’s harmless.” You frown at him because that’s the stupidest fucking thing he’s said since getting back. Maybe the stupidest thing ever.

“Okay,” He amends. “Maybe not harmless, exactly. She’s my cousin, Y/N. And she needed help.”

“Your cousin?” You ask, voice low and full of questions.

“From what I can tell, she was sent here after me, but when her ship was knocked off course, she was trapped in form of hypersleep for a long time. She was older than me, but now she’s a lot younger.” Clark continues to explain, speaking with some gusto now that you’ve allowed him to pick up some momentum.

“Where is she?” You wonder.

“I left her with a family that can take care of her. Someone that I trust. Far away from me. She’s still very young and I think it would be best if she remained hidden for a while. Just until she learns how to control her abilities here on Earth and to give the world time to get used to the idea of another Kryptonian.” He takes one more step.

“After Zod, I don’t know that there is any amount of time that would prepare the world for a Supergirl.” You frown.

With your defenses lowered, Clark takes the opportunity to step even closer, finally stopping beside you.

He hesitates again, this time as he reaches to take hold of your elbow. His fingers press against your arm gently like he’s stroking piano keys. Testing to see if you’ll pull away.

You don’t.

He lifts your arm a little and doesn’t break eye contact with you until your arm is lifted enough that he can get a clear look at the red on your side. Head tilted to the right as he assess the injury.

Straightening his head, he slides his hand down to your hand, taking it before gently pulling you away from the kitchen, through your bedroom, and into your bathroom, switching on lights as he goes.

Watching him be like this has always been your favorite. He moves with a purpose, eyes trained on what he’s looking for without a glance spared your way.

You stand beside him as he holds your hand, hunched over to look under the sink for your first aid kit.

After he retrieves it, he pulls you back out into the kitchen. There’s more room there for both your bodies, especially with his taking up so much space.

He places the kit on the floor before he pulls you in front of him. Both of his hands find your waist and he lifts you up onto the edge of the counter to sit.

Slightly surprised, you gasp and place your hands on his shoulders, tracing the muscle while you can do so discreetly until you must remove them and place them at your sides.

Clark steps towards you, his hard abdomen pressed up against your legs as he wraps both arms around you, hands searching for the zipper on your back. Leaning over your shoulder to get a look at it, he’s almost hugging you.

And you can’t stand the tease of it.

The movement is quick, and he leans back again once he’s got the suit undone.

“What happened?” He asks as he hooks his thumbs into the top of your suit and pulls it down over your shoulders, your biceps—then holds the arms still as he waits for you to pull them out—then bunches it down along your waist to expose your injured side. “Lift your arm.”

You do as he ass, wincing as it tugs on the reopened cut.

“This is deep.” He disapproves.

“Bruce and I really were in Australia. One of the guys caught me with a knife just as we were getting them rounded up.” You explain.

“This is gonna hurt.” He tells you as he pulls the kit onto the counter beside you and pulls out a pair of small scissors and tweezers.

It takes him almost no time at all to snip away the broken threads and clean the wound again.

He waits, thinking for a moment, then meeting your gaze.

“Do you want something for the pain?” He checks, eyebrows raised in worry.

“Just do it, Clark.” You sigh, frustrated because this is all too familiar. This proximity, the smells, the heat, the way his hands poke and prod at the edges of your cut.

His eyebrows gather together as his jaw flexes with a frown, staring at the cut as he threads the needle quickly.

A proper needle this time, sanitized and threaded properly.

Taking your lifted arm, he pulls it over his head onto the opposite shoulder and places your hand there where his cape meets his suit.

“It’s gonna hurt.” He says again, and you realize he’s giving you something to squeeze.

And he’s right. Without the adrenaline from before, you feel every stitch and you’d thin you would get used to this sensation. But it hurts like fuck all and you squeeze his cape tight until you can’t help but give a small yell in annoyance.

“Why is it always the little wounds that hurt the most?” You sigh as he sips the thread and moves to clean his work area.

“You should go shower.” Clark says as he sanitizes the counter. “Be careful with your stitches.”

You don’t fight him on this because you desperately need another shower. Maybe if you’d been fine, you would have argued, but you’re dirty and aching.

When you emerge from the bathroom, you find that the sky outside has darkened. You dress quickly, just a pair of black old cutoff sweats and one of Clark’s gray hoodies.

You’re absolutely swimming in it, but it’s so soft and comfortable. Loose so that it doesn’t add any pressure to your stitches.

The apartment is so quiet you stand there, pulling the sweatshirt down as you listen intently for any kind of movement.

“Clark?” You call, just a little insecure after months of his absence.

You move out into the living room. The floorboards creak and moan as they settle beneath your feet. The large carpet in your living room silences your steps but you also stop walking, staring at the empty kitchen, then the empty living room.

Had you dreamt him?

Maybe he really isn’t back?

What if you’ve finally gone crazy?

What if he’s never coming back and you’d passed out after you got back from Australia and everything with the ocean had been a dream?

Are you really going nuts?

There’s a soft thud from your bedroom and with eager footsteps you rush back in.

Sitting on his side of the bed with his bare feet planted on the ground, Clark is hunched over. Elbows on his knees. Hands resting relaxed at the wrist while he stares at the floorboard underneath your bedroom window.

“Clark…” You sigh, not realizing how relieved you sound.

He’s changed, wearing a pair of gray sweats and a plain white t-shirt.

He looks good. Showered. His curls just barely damp.

“Am I welcome here?” He asks, staring ahead.

You move to the bed and climb on, walking on your knees towards him until you stop just a foot away and sit back on your legs.

It’s a good question. One you think on for a moment.

“You didn’t come back for ten months, Clark.” You sigh, hating that fact. “I didn’t know if something had happened to you or maybe you’d decided to leave me and Earth behind altogether? Mostly I just thought you were dead. I spent most of my time convincing myself that you’re so close to invincible that killing you might be impossible but-”

“I’ve died before.” Clark says, hating the idea that people think him a God. He turns towards you and frowns.

His words, however true they may be, send painful clenches into your chest.

Your face does something that makes his demeanor shift. Suddenly he’s sitting beside you, arm wrapped around your waist as he reaches up to push your hair back and away from your face.

His fingers graze the skin of your neck and he hooks it there, squeezing gently.

“I’m not dead.” He says, maybe guessing your thoughts of madness? “I’m right here.”

“But you weren’t.” You shake your head. “And I was so angry at you. I hated you. I cursed your name. Fuck that guy. Stupid fucker. I hate him.”

Clark simply watches you, his eyes moving side to side as he looks at your face and every expression that crosses your features.

The one thing that you’ve always loved about Clark, is the way that you can tell he’s really listening. Not once have you felt as if you weren’t being heard. Even if he doesn’t agree with whatever you’re saying, he listens so intently, trying to understand your point of view before he poses his own.

And you love him for it.

Shit. You still love him. Of course, you do. Of course, he’s always been yours.

Even in his absence, you were his and he was yours.

“I said that almost every night, hoping that you would hear me and come back. But you didn’t.”

“But I did.” Clark says. “I’m here. And I’m sorry I left without explanation. I’m sorry that I put you through that. And I know that you can’t forgive me for it. That I’ll be trying to earn your trust again every day that we’re together. But, please can I stay?”

He rubs your lower back, his large hand sending heat into every inch of your heart. Restarting it after he killed it ten months ago.

“Please?” He begs. “All I’ve thought about is getting back here. To you. To our home and our life together.”

You shut your eyes, relishing in the way his arms feel around you, his hands large and hot. His breath is sweet and warm. His scent is clean and so him that it makes your stomach flutter.

You won’t need that shirt of his anymore. Now you have him back, here with you. Where you can touch and feel and love and laugh and just be with him.

“Or should I leave?” He asks.

Your eyes pop open, red fury raging through them. “You do and I’ll hunt you down, Kent.”

He smiles, softly at first. But when your hand begins to trace the taut sinew of his muscly forearm, his smile grows wider. It grows and grows until it’s blinding and beautiful.

You trace the curve of his shoulder, tickle his neck before reaching up to smooth the curls that fall against his forehead gently.

He shuts his eyes, enjoying the affection before you push yourself forward between his legs and settle on your side.

You cuddle into the center of his chest, tucking yourself between his arms, head on his chest, under his chin, arms grabbing tight to the soft cotton of his shirt.

“I missed you.” He whispers against your hair.

You smile, shutting your eyes as you let yourself finally be at ease. Clark is home.

[meadowmood]

Ramdula’s Visitor

This the first short story upload I will be doing for all of the work I did for my senior show centering around my own stories and characters. If you would like to view the entire exhibition now, click this link! It includes a number of short stories, illustrations, and character bios for your viewing pleasure!

Read the story below the cut!

(content warning for themes of death, self harm, and suicide) A heavy feeling sunk deep into Beau’s bones that evening. She was sitting on the old woven chair outside of her home, wearing only a thin blouse and trousers. The air was warm, broken only so often by a cool breeze blowing across the meadow in which her home sat. What little light there was began to wane, and faint twinkles of stars began to peek their way into the sky as it darkened....

It was a beautiful night, but Beau was aware of none of it. Not the sky, not the breeze, and not the stars. 

Her eyes were glassy and seemed to stare at something non-existent. She had come outside to ground herself, to feel something beside the numbness that consumed her mind and body. instead she felt nothing. She sighed as she sat and stared out into the meadow, the only thing she could hear were the thoughts in her head. She was exhausted by her own mind. 

Why did something she couldn’t live without have to be so loud? 

It’s been so quiet in the house since Mara died, she thought. Mara had been her closest friend who lived in the house with her. Like so many times before, her mind flashed back to her death. They had been in the university lab cleaning up after class, chatting casually as they swept the floor and wiped down tables when a sudden large flash of light and a tremendous crash rang out. Beau fell flat on the ground under the force of the blast, suffering a few cuts and bruises, but when the smoke cleared and Beau came to, she was still alive and relatively unharmed. 

Mara was lying completely still, a single pipe running through her stomach. Dead.

Beau clutched her stomach instinctively as she remembered the sight. Apparently a student had failed to store a number of potions properly, and the resulting mix of chemicals and spells had been enough to cause an explosion. Thankfully no one else had been hurt. 

No one except Mara. 

Since then, Beau had dropped out of university. She didn’t wait to see how the school would bend over backwards to make it all okay, to pretend it never happened. She just wanted to go home. Except home was empty, and full of Mara’s things and memories of their life together. The life they should have had together. She held back tears as the wounds opened themselves anew and she felt rage within her at how unfair it all was. Why Mara? Why did her Mara have to be taken from her?

She had the sudden intense desire for numbness, for peace from her emotions. She couldn’t go back inside, nothing but hurt lay in there. 

She stared up at the meadow and her eyes landed on the forest that lay beyond it. She had never ventured into that forest herself, but people said that a reclusive spirit resided there, and Mara had always told her to be wary of it as the spirit could be malevolent. But Mara wasn’t here anymore, and whatever was in that forest might hurt her, hurt her enough that it would take all of the thoughts away, all of the pain. It would be quick, and she wouldn’t have to live in a home without Mara anymore. She wouldn’t have to live at all.

Before she could consider anything else she was running, the air growing colder as she neared the forest, the biting chill barely registering as she ascended the hill toward the trees. As Beau reached the treeline, breathing heavily from the run, she stared up at the massive pines, and before she could bear to give it a second thought, she ran straight into the trees.

Beau ran frantically through the forest making a tremendous amount of noise, breaking twigs and cracking dry leaves. Eventually she found herself making her way down a hill, its steep incline covered in wet moss and slippery stone. The slope caught her by surprise, causing her to fall onto her hands and knees. She yelled out in pain as she hit the forest floor, her skin stinging from the rough ground. She bit back tears as she held up her shaking hands, now covered in small cuts and debris. Before she could try and stand up she heard the footsteps of something large and heavy approaching. She turned to see a huge black dog. It was ginormous, easily meeting her eyes as she kneeled. Its long silky fur and pointed ears almost making it look like a grounded bat. Beau screamed and held up her hands in front of her, her body turning numb as fear washed over her. The dog stood still, and as she let her gaze wander from its piercing stare she noticed a great number of dogs behind it, standing just as still as their leader.

Beau broke the silence “KILL ME THEN!!” she screamed, waiting for it to attack. The dog simply stared back at her and tilted it’s head, as though it was trying to understand her. “DO IT!” she shrieked, almost pleading for the stupid beast to do something. “Go on! KILL ME!”

The dog walked closer to her and opened its mouth, its teeth white and menacing in the evening light. She flinched, waiting for the pain of the bite to come, but instead it grabbed onto her blouse. Beau put her hands down, confused, as the dog gently pulled on her shirt. A moment later she felt the other dogs behind her prodding her back, pushing her forward as the lead dog continued to tug on her shirt. She shakily got herself to her feet and began walking as the dogs continued to pull her, shuffling noisily as they guided her farther into the woods. 

Where are they taking me?

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

As the sky darkened and the air chilled, Matthias stirred. He raised his head among the sea of black fur of his packmates and pricked his ears up at the sound of his master stirring in the floors above him. He jumped up and yipped at his pack to get up. The dogs all sleepily got to their feet, noisily ascending the stairs from the basement toward the castle throne room. They met her in the hall at the top of the stairs, Matthias running to his master’s side as she walked the boisterous pack down the hall. He kept pace with her as he stared up at her face. She was somber, as usual. Matthias tried to picture with difficulty the last time she looked truly happy. She made a noise and motioned toward the front of the castle. Matthias knew this to mean she wanted him to patrol the grounds. He barked and led his pack out of the castle, across the drawbridge and into the dark forest. 

As they reached the edges of the territory Matthias pushed his snout to the ground, forcing a myriad of smells into his nostrils. Images of running deer, rabbits, squirrels, and songbirds all flashed in his mind as he patrolled the outer edges of the grounds. His large black paws produced deep impressions in the soft soil as he padded along, the rest of his pack following close behind. They kept their ears pricked and tails held high, ready to alert their master of any intruders. The forest air was cool and quiet, the crisp air felt good on his thick coat, energizing him as he led his pack around the forest’s perimeter.

The silence suddenly broke as a twig cracked in the distance and the sound of something making its way into the forest shot through Matthias’s ears. Crackling underbrush, heavy breathing, and panicked footsteps tip-toed their way into his mind as he located the figure. He signaled for his pack to remain quiet. Together they walked low to the ground toward the mysterious visitor. As they approached he could see them more clearly. They were a small creature, running on two legs and heading toward the castle. He titled his head, observing them struggle and stumble through the dense underwood of the forest. They didn’t seem to know where they were going, and they certainly didn’t seem dangerous. Suddenly the creature tripped and let out a yelp as they fell forward. Matthias ran to the noise, closely followed by his fellow dogs toward the fallen figure. As he neared them he slowed his pace and approached them carefully, unsure of what to do until they turned suddenly and faced him, letting out another yell. He held still, taking in everything he could see of the figure in front of him. They appeared frightened, eyes wide and fearful as they held their hands in front of their face, ready to defend themselves. This was not a dangerous intruder, he concluded. 

The creature suddenly let out a sound, a garbled noise he found hard to understand. They were not speaking an animal language. He stood up straight and tilted his head, trying to at least make out a command or a familiar word. The figure repeated themselves, louder and more desperately this time, and he almost winced at the intensity of their cry. The noises were similar to his master’s, and he wondered if she could possibly understand the visitor. 

He walked forward slowly and opened his jaws, the figure flinching as they expected to be bitten. He instead clasped the cloth that decorated them and pulled them forward. His pack realized what he was doing and did the same, some gently pushing on her back encouraging them to move forward while the others began to bark and yip as they walked ahead. The figure stood up shakily, and with the dog’s gentle motivation they made their way to the castle. The creature was slow, and shook as they walked, but with a good bit of gentle pushing and encouragement Matthias was soon able to see the silhouette of the castle peeking over the trees. He ran ahead and let out a deep, haunting howl. As he did, a heavy clanking rang out into the night as a drawbridge lowered itself over a wide moat surrounding the building. He turned and called back to his pack, who excitedly pulled the visitor into the castle, anticipating meeting their master.

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Ramdula walked solemnly through the halls of her castle, tightly gripping the hilt of her sword as her large group of black dogs padded happily behind her. She entered the throne room and sighed deeply. She was barely awake and it was only early evening. 

“Matthias,” she called to her lead dog, pointing to the front of the castle. “Begin your nightly patrols. I am heading to the library.” The dogs perked up at the command and headed to the castle gate, barking excitedly as they thundered across the drawbridge into the trees. 

Ramdula watched them go and drew the drawbridge up again with a wave of her hand, heading toward the other end of the room and through a large archway. After making her way down a dark spiral staircase she entered the library, a huge, airy, and circular room residing in the underground beneath the castle. The air was cold and dry as she scanned the dark wooden shelves, flickering fireflies illuminating Ramdula’s path down the corridors, flittering soundlessly around her head. The library was like a maze only she knew how to navigate, the endless twisting rows filled to the brim with books, journals, and manuscripts. Sitting in between these shelves were old items of previous residents. Armor of fallen enemies, weapons, garments, and treasures of old all passed her as she looked for something interesting. After 345 years of life, she had just about read everything the library had to offer twice over, and she was immensely bored. With a glazed expression she scanned the shelves she had stared at for centuries, looking for something, anything, that she might have missed, forgotten, or looked over. 

Nothing. 

Everything was familiar. Everything was uninteresting. 

With a heavy sigh she reached for a sizable book with a soft red velvet cover, now faded and worn at the edges. It was a book of local folklore and myths, the stories it told holding a special place in Ramdula’s heart. They were her favorite in her younger years. She flipped through the yellowed pages, recalling every word as they flashed passed her eyes. She tucked the book under her arm, ready to take it somewhere comfortable to read when she heard a howl. It was Matthias wanting to come back in. It didn’t sound like an alarm, perhaps he was looking for something to eat before patrolling. Ramdula rolled her eyes and focused her magic on lowering the drawbridge, walking toward the spiral staircase as she did so in order to climb her way back to the throne room. 

As she walked down the hallway and turned the corner around the stone arch, she met a sight she never would have expected, not even if she had lived to be a million years old. A young, teary-eyed, bedraggled looking girl was standing in the middle of her throne room, staring at her like she was on trial for murder. She stood absolutely still for a moment and then looked down at Matthias, who had walked up to her and sat down at her feet, tongue hanging out of his smiling mouth. 

“Matthias, dear, what exactly have you dragged into my home?” she sighed, motioning toward the visitor. The black hound simply stared back at her, shifting his feet in excitement. Ramdula sighed again, and peered into his mind to see what happened. Within it she saw him patrolling, the figure running into the forest, their fear, and Matthias desire for understanding. 

“Hm.” she said, unamused, and turned to the girl, who went rigid under her gaze.

“Hello…little...person,” she began. “You have mistakenly wandered into my home, I presume, and have been escorted by my familiars who for some reason think,” she glared down at a perfectly unaware Matthias, tongue still lolling from his mouth, “I will have something to say to you besides ‘please leave.’ I am not sure why they have brought you here but you need not stay. Head along home now, no harm done, just…” she waved her hands in a shooing motion at the girl, “get along. Matthias can show you out.” 

Ramdula waited for a response, expecting the visitor to appear relieved at her dismissal, but to her unfortunate surprise the girl looked even more upset than before. 

“W-what?” she stammered, eyes going wide with shock. “That’s it? you’re not going to kill me?” She began to sniffle, tears began pouring down her face. 

“Oh, I feel so stupid, why did I even come here?” The dogs crowded around her and began to whine, licking the tears off of her face as she sunk to her knees. 

“I’m s...so sorry I don’t  know why I came here,” she cried. “I guess I’ll go now, and go…h-h… ho...” A fresh new flood of tears burst from her eyes as she tried to finish her sentence instead crouching forward and covering her face. 

Ramdula stood still, looking especially uncomfortable in the presence of this sobbing creature. She gripped the hilt of her sword in her palm and rubbed it nervously as she pondered how she could rid herself of this small, distressed child without making them even more upset. She had already asked them politely to leave, she was not sure what else she could do about this. She had a sudden intense desire to be back in the library. 

“Child, look. Listen please. I am not going to kill you unless you give me a reason to, which you have not done thus far so, um…please don’t cry, you may go back home unharmed,” Ramdula said, stepping a little closer. The girl looked up at her, her eyes swollen and red, she looked quite a mess. 

“Well if you’re not going to kill me then I am not sure why I am here. I’m not sure what I’m doing at all,” the girl admitted. Ramdula’s expression went from uncomfortable to confused, her brows furrowing as she tried to understand.

“You came here..to be killed?” she asked the girl, brows furrowed. “By me?” 

The girl nodded, and Ramdula tried to think of what in Lun’s name she could be talking about. That was it. She needed this incomprehensible little creature to give her a straight answer this very second. 

“Matthias, go fetch the crackers and tea from the basement.” Matthias scampered away as she looked at the rest of the pack. “You, blankets. You, a kettle. And you, cups. We are going to be here a while.” The girl uncovered her face and looked around as the dogs dispersed, scattering down the hallways and descending stairs in search of the items they had been assigned. 

“Child, it seems you have a story you need to tell, and you are going to be a right mess until you get it out. So first,” Ramdula said, crossing her long legs as she sat on the floor, “tell me your name.” 

The girl wiped her eyes and tried her best to sit up straight. “Beau, Beau Conway” she said quietly.

“Lovely to meet you, Beau Conway. My name is Ramdula, and this is my castle.”

Before long, the dogs all returned with their items (coated in copious amounts of drool), and they had set up quite the cozy atmosphere in the throne room with blankets, hot tea, and crackers. Ramdula conjured a magical fire in between them, and the warmth of the flames breathed new life into the throne room. With a cup of hot tea and several large dogs lying on her lap, Beau explained everything. She told Ramdula about Mara, how she died, and how everything had been tainted by her memory: her home, her school, and even her own mind. She couldn’t escape all of the pain and feelings that surrounded her. She had just wanted it all to stop. The thoughts... the hurt… the memories… she had just wanted to feel numb. 

“A-and I saw your forest, and remembered what Mara said, that there might be a malevolent spirit inside, that might hurt me,” she said quietly, “so I ran inside hoping something would end me before I gave it too much thought,” she sobbed, her eyes welling up with tears. “A-and you haven’t hurt me, you’ve been so nice, I’m so sorry I shouldn’t have come here and bothered you so much. I’ve just been stupid, I-I’m sorry” she started crying again, and buried her face in her hands. Ramdula looked at her, having remained quiet the entire time Beau had shared her story, and twirled her tea spoon in her cup as she spoke.

“Sometimes, we cannot control where our lives take us. I do not blame you for coming here,” she said, setting her cup on the ground carefully. “However, if you truly are seeking death, then I am sorry. That is something I cannot grant you,” Ramdula said solemnly. She stood up and stretched her huge wings out to their full length before folding them back into their resting position. 

“I cannot claim to know exactly what to tell you, Beau Conway. But I can say if your home is a source of pain for you, you may stay here for the night, and decide if you would like to return in the morning.” 

Beau lowered her head, still sniffling. 

“Thank you,” she said.

“For everything.”

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Beau was led by Ramdula to a spare room, a journey that took them down a myriad of twisting stone hallways. “The dogs can stay with you while I perform my duties for the night.” She looked down at Matthias, a slight smile on her lips as she looked down at him. “You have the night off, lucky dog.” 

She bid them all goodnight and disappeared down the hall, heading somewhere unknown. Beau entered the room and saw that it was a plainly decorated stone study with a large bed at the far wall. She crawled under the covers, still a little dazed from that evening's events. As she got herself comfortable, the dogs climbed onto the bed with her and curled up on every inch of the blankets that she didn’t occupy. She started to doze to the sounds of the dog's heavy breathing. Her thoughts unoccupied by grief as she drifted peacefully into a deep slumber.

Before Beau knew it, morning had come, and she awoke in the same place she had fallen asleep. None of it had been a dream, she realized. She sat up, rousing the dogs that were sleeping on the bed with her and rubbed her eyes as she made her way to the door. The dogs, now fully awake, all crowded around her, waiting patiently for the door to be opened. She turned the knob and was nearly pushed out into the hallway by the rush of excitement of the hounds as they ran down the long hall. Matthias stayed behind, nudging her gently in the right direction, and when they reached the throne room Ramdula was nowhere to be found. Matthias put his nose to the floor and barked at Beau to follow him, leading her past the archway down into a spiral staircase.

The dogs thundered down the stairs into the dark underground, Beau following them closely behind. As she reached the bottom the narrow corridor opened into a huge circular room filled with endless rows of shelves, and she found she had come into a huge library. Right in front of her in a massive armchair sat Ramdula, reading a large red book with worn edges. 

“Ah,” she said, closing the book and setting it aside, “you are awake.” She stood up to her full height, and for the first time since meeting her Beau realized how tall the spirit was, towering above her by at least several feet. “How was your sleep?” Ramdula asked, leaning down slightly to meet her eye.

“Good!” Beau replied, she reflected momentarily at how well rested she felt, her mind was the clearest it had been in months. “Really good, actually, best I’ve had in awhile. Thank you again for being so kind,” she said gazing into the spirit’s eyes.

“Do not dwell on it, it was nothing at all,” Ramdula replied. She turned around, picking up the red book again. “Do you like to read?” she asked.

“Very much so,” said Beau, admiring the books as she did.  “This library is stunning.” 

“Yes, it is quite a sight for someone who is unfamiliar with its contents isn’t it?” Ramdula said, sighing deeply. “Unfortunately, I have read every word contained within these walls, so I cannot say I share the same awe you feel now.” She held out the book she grasped in her hand to Beau, allowing her to admire it. “This one I don’t seem to tire of easily. It is a collection of stories you might find enjoyable. I definitely did as a young pup.” 

Beau held out her hands and grasped the book tenderly, almost afraid it would turn to dust in her hands. “Wow, thank you,” she murmured, enchanted by the book's intricate gold leaf cover. As she stared at it, an idea crept into her mind “Would you like more? Books that is. I have some at home.” 

Ramdula perked her ears up, sporting an unfamiliar expression of child-like excitement. “More books you say? Now that sounds interesting.” 

Beau grew more enthusiastic, happy she had piqued the spirit’s interest. ”Yes they are! And I would like to thank you for what you have done for me. I can bring some by tonight, would you want that?” 

Ramdula paused, considering the offer. “I would, actually,” she said contemplatively. “I am not very good around regular humans and the like, so I haven't added any new books to the library in centuries. It’s a shame, since it is a tradition of my ancestors to build the knowledge this place holds.” She stared out into rows of shelves before turning back suddenly. “You said you slept exceptionally well last night?” she asked, peering at Beau before continuing. “Let’s say you wanted to sleep here for the foreseeable future. When you did, I wouldn’t mind you bringing me a book in exchange for a night’s rest in the castle...hm?” 

Beau’s eyes widened as the proposition sunk in. “You wouldn’t mind?” 

Ramdula shook her head. “On the contrary, Beau Conway, you would be doing me a favor in exchange for small effort on my part. I would be delighted if you accepted.” 

Beau’s eyes shone with happiness at the idea, a wide smile breaking out across her face. “Yes, YES! I can definitely do that. I will be back tonight with all the books I can carry! Thank you THANK YOU!” she cried. Beau ran back up the stairs, book in hand and ready to head home, this time not dreading what she would see inside.

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Ramdula watched her go chuckling as she disappeared up the stairs. What a peculiar person she was. She had an inkling that the most interesting thing Beau would bring back tonight was herself. She had to admit she didn’t just want the books, though they were quite tempting. She had actually enjoyed talking to someone besides the dogs for once, and to her surprise, looked forward to having company over for dinner.

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Matthias listened to the visitors footsteps slowly fade away up the staircase. He was happy to see they weren’t afraid anymore. He stared up at his master’s face, and for the first time in a long time, he saw content in her eyes. 

[tarithenurse]

If I succeed - 1

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x fem!Reader (eventually/sorta/you’ll see) Content: Everything (for the series in general). For this chapter it’s mention of injuries, but not much else serving of a warning. A/N: Yeah, I’ve joined the bandwagon and am indulging my ever-present cravings for fantasy and all setting medieval by creating a Witcher fanfic series. You want a tag? Send an ask or reblog! I’d love comments and feedback – even if it’s corrections on language. I’m not picky as long as I know my work brings joy too.

1 – The wild Things in the Woods

…   Reader   …

Be kind to others; work hard; keep out of trouble. Those were the simple rules you had been raised to follow. The problem is, of course, when following the former inevitable leads to the latter.

Your parents would have been horrified – although your father would have also been proud – however neither of them are around to tell as they have succumbed to the winter illnesses after the ear with poor harvest just like many other in the poorer areas of the country. They had brought you to the east, onto the western slopes of the mountains, when you were less than a dozen years old to keep you safe. To keep your secret safe. You were still too young when they died, however your wits saw you through the first years, and later (without parents to arrange a match) you kept enjoying freedom as best you could while earning a living through your few years of schooling in the capital and the makeshift knowledge of medicine. That life was disrupted a moon or so ago. You had naïvely assumed everything would return to normal once the straggler recovered enough health to move on with his friend, the bard.

Staring at the familiar duo slumped against the wall of your cottage, you realize trouble will be coming for you repeatedly from now on.

“I take it the Fiery Mountains were too hot for you boys?” you sigh as you bend to shove Geralt off of Jaskier.

One grunts, the other sighs in relief, but neither has the strength to answer. Oh bother…how are you going to get the bigger of the men dragged indoors?

One problem at a time. Both are subjected to a quick examination to find the source of the (mainly but not only) dried blood or identify any broken bones that would force you to be extra careful when moving them. Despite a jagged slash across Jaskier’s abdomen and hip, the young man has gotten away with little else than bruises, and you begin to suspect that he is the one who has brought the Witcher to your door. Again. Good thing too. The silver-haired fighter is more dead than alive, and you decide to move him upon seeing the dirty torso. One by one, the men are rolled onto an old blanket and dragged in to lie on the floor before the fireplace.

Then you set to work.

…   Jaskier   …

Warm and snug in the alcove, the dark nightmares seem to evaporate as the bard slowly wakes up to the smell of food. There are flashes of memory nudging the hazy mind, comforting him with the knowledge of a trustworthy person tending to both Geralt and himself. We made it. Safe and sound, it is easy to enjoy the moment of rest, watching the flickering light of the fire caress the wooden ceiling or, when he turns the head, the figure of [Y/N] as she works by the kitchen table.

“Take’t slow, Jask,” she orders gently without once turning toward him, “the soup’s almost ready and the mead’s chilling.” Finally she turns around and he can see the grime and worry still marring the kind face. “Once you both’ve regained some strength…” she sighs, “then you can explain what’s happened.”

“Geralt?” The once melodious voice cracks, but it hardly matters at this moment.

“…not dead,” [Y/N] nods towards another alcove next to where Jaskier has been placed, “woke up long enough to curse at everything and nothing while pulling himself in there.”

The smile spreading on Jaskier’s face tugs painfully at his cheek, reminding him of the horrifying injury he had suffered before Geralt fought away the monsters. With shaking hands and the heart in the throat, he tears away the warm covers to see how bad the damage is. Thank Melitele and all the others! A poultice is keeping a pristine strip of bandage to the wound which mars the soft skin but at least the most important area is unscathed.

“Some women like men with scars.” The soft laughter accompanying the comfort is hard to miss.

Still…Geralt has plenty scars and they all adore him. ”The dream of danger?”

“Something like that.” Coming over, [Y/N] hands a bowl of steaming soup filled with the plunder of her garden. “Eat.”

The piping hot broth does wonder to soul and body, and although Jaskier still is tired he can feel the strength begin to return as he is halfway through the second serving. We made it…we’re safe.

…   Reader   …

You have struggled to lift the fever-wrecked Geralt into a sort of sitting position and he still leans heavily against you now that you balance the bowl of soup in the lap together with the nuggets of bread. Wake up, White Wolf. The first attempts prove useless and you refer to harsher methods, rubbing his sternum with your knuckles. A groan precedes the wrinkling of his thick brows. There! Finally you can see a sliver of amber beneath the lashes.

“I need you to stay awake, Geralt,” you talk sternly, coaxing his attention towards you, “eat this.”

Spoonful by spoonful, the nourishing food is accepted with only an occasional rumble in his chest as “thank you”. It is as you had expected. No one, even someone less coarse in nature, would manage actual conversation when in this condition. Wounds, breaks, and bruises are plentiful and will take time to heal – the venom, however, is what truly troubles you. The sting of the wyvern must be treated quickly lest it is to kill the unfortunate person within a fortnight. Witchers are admittedly stronger than common folks but not unkillable.

“There,” you whisper to unhearing ears, “rest now.”

He does. Geralt’s head falls to the side, resting against your bosom as sleep reclaims him. Rest and recover. Maybe the herbs you added to his soup are already working – maybe it is wishful thinking – but as you linger with the White Wolf tugged against your frantically beating heart you imagine a healthier glow return to the sallow face. Unheeded, your fingers brush through the tangles of his hair not unlike the way he had caressed your own locks a sunny day last time you saw him.

You had escaped to the small clearing an hour away from your cottage. It was your favourite place to go when seeking comfort on days where sorrow over loved ones lost or if you simply needed to calm your mind. This time it was in a futile attempt to postpone the inevitable. Of course, Geralt found you as though he always knew about the place. Not a word was spoken as the kiss goodbye became a desperate attempt of imprinting his heat onto your skin, his strength deep within your core, and his kindness etched into your heart. Bittersweet. Heartbreaking. Magical. As the sun beamed down upon your naked bodies afterwards, the peace had returned. You were able to bid him farewell.

[meat-husband]

im the nsfw Bubba anon that just sent in and im dumb because I forgot to mention nsfw Bubba oral! Oops! I love your blog, thanks in advance and if not, that’s still okay :-)

I was going to do this as a second part to the thigh fucking post, but I liked it as it’s own thing better! So the other one will be a stand-alone :p

Breakfast had left a mess, jumbles of plates and half eaten food strewn over the rickety kitchen table, left behind for you to clean up. You did so with only minor grumbling, knowing that no one was around to hear you really complain. The men of the house were getting too used to having you pick up after them, you thought, stacking up dishes with a clatter. They were still a few decades behind everyone else when it came to most things, not least of all concerning how a household should be run. It didn’t help that cleaning was one of your most hated chores - you’d rather be out in the sun, sweating in the dirt than inside, sweeping the floor.

Heavy footsteps from the hall draw your attention, and you know that with the other two gone, Bubba is the only one home. You still felt a little bit of irritation, but you couldn’t really blame him for the chores you were dealt.

“Your brothers are pigs,” you start, hearing the kitchen door creak open, but remaining focused on your task. “Can you believe the mess they leave behind? I’m not their mother, you know.”

It’s a little bit of relief to have someone to vent to, at least, and you frown as you slide more uneaten food off a plate.

“All this food goin’ to waste, too, like we got money to spare for -”

A rush of cool air sweeps over your legs, and you let out a startled noise. You’re not completely aware of what has happened until you feel the skirt of your sundress, already a size too big and trailing the ground, thrown up over your back. You hurriedly brace yourself against the table, more out of instinct than anything else.

“Bubba!”

You scold him lightly, lurching forward and knocking into the table when he pushes at you. You reach for the hem of your dress, bunched up at your waist, but a forearm over the back of your shoulders presses you down, pinning your top half to the table. Cheek flat against the wood, you slap at it in protest, opening your mouth to scold him more harshly, but you don’t get a chance. A small gasp, breathless and quiet, is all you get out, the feeling of a big, warm hand squeezing the flesh of your ass silencing you. Surprised, your body jerks against his hand, the hard bulge of his cock brushing against the outside of your thigh. Your face is suddenly hot, and the thought of someone walking in and finding you like this puts a string of panic into your voice.

“Let me up,” you huff, squirming under his heavy arm. “I ain’t - oh!”

The hand sliding between your legs is more surprising than his disobedience, his other arm still keeping you pinned to the table as he pulls at the wet fabric covering you. Your legs snap together on reflex, but his hand is already there, cupping your mound and digging the heel of his palm into you. One thick finger slides underneath your panties, wiggling back and forth as he struggles to fit his hand between your clenched thighs. Panting, Bubba gives a few impatient tugs, moaning lowly above you. When he doesn’t manage to uncover you in the first few tries, he gives up, pulling his hand free and jerking you to the side. A sharp push of his hips against the curve of your ass jolts you into the table, rocking back and forth quickly.

You can feel the throbbing length of him even through his clothes, and judging by his eagerness to bend you over, it wasn’t going to be long before he came. You didn’t know what had gotten him so riled up in the short amount of time between breakfast and now, but his motions were desperate. The rough hands on you are a big change from his usual gentle touches, and he had never held you down before. Although you had gotten used to being the one ‘in charge’ between the two of you, the heat that burned between your legs now was making you wish that you hadn’t closed them over his hand. The frantic rutting made your stomach clench with every snap of his hips, but you weren’t going to be able to cum like this.

“Bubba,” you snap, voice more firm than before. “I’m serious now, let me up.”

He falters, slowing down as he thinks it over, trying to judge whether you really meant it or not. You push up against his arm, and it gives a little, letting you sit up on your elbows. Bubba peeks down at you, face flushed under the mask and sweat darkening his shirt, and he looks as if you’ve just told him off for doing something bad.

“Let me turn over, this table ain’t comfortable.”

He backs up, giving you enough space to stand up and face him, but still close enough that you’re stuck between him and the table. You look up at him, a little embarrassed by the hot flush you can feel darkening your cheeks.

“That’s no way to treat a lady, Bubba,” you complain, but the throbbing between your legs takes all the bite out of your words. He doesn’t look chastened at all despite your lecturing, grabbing at your hand to press it against the bulge in his pants. You let out a squeak, wondering what exactly had caused him to be so bold today.

“Oh, no,” you say, but you give him a rough squeeze anyways, ignoring the breathy whine you get in response. “I ain’t rewarding you for acting up!”

Bubba leans in, a flurry of kisses pressed to your cheeks and lips between high pitched noises of apology. He reaches up to pet your hair, patting your head and babbling into your ear, an edge of desperation in his voice as he mumbles. You’re not mad, and you have no intention to leave him so needy, but a slow smile comes to your face as you watch him.

“Bubba,” you interrupt, tugging up the skirt of your dress until you held the loose fabric in both hands. “It’s alright. Don’t worry, you’re gonna make it up to me, aren’t you?”

He nods quickly, watching you gather up your skirt, then going still when you pull the rest of the dress up and over your head. You drop it to the floor in a pile, and Bubba’s desperate whining picks up again, big hands landing on your waist and breast. A sharp tug to your nipple makes you hiss, but he soothes the sting with his thumb, rolling it over the peak of your flesh. His tongue flicks out over his teeth and lower lip, eyes following his hand as he palms your breast and squeezes, fingers digging into your side.

“Get down,” you command, gently covering his wandering hand with your own to get his attention. When he looks at you questioningly, head tilted to the side, you point down, motioning to the floor. “Down.”

It takes him only a second to catch on, and Bubba is more than eager to comply, dropping down to his knees heavily. He’s panting, tongue hanging over his lip and wetting his chin, looking up at you as if waiting for another command. You wiggle up and back, seating yourself on the edge of the table, and he follows, half crawling after you. Hot puffs of breath hit your skin, trailing over your thighs and hips as he leans forward, but you put a heel on his shoulder to stop him. Bubba looks up at you for a moment, a little whine building in the back of his throat at your denial.

“You stop when I say, alright?”

He’s quick to agree, nodding enthusiastically and gripping your thighs in preparation. You know he’ll do his best to obey, but he tended to get carried away when it came to this particular act, and you didn’t want to have to fight to get his mouth off of you when you became too sensitive.

Throwing the other leg onto his shoulder, you let him slide forward, his hands pulling your legs apart as far as they can go. A few token kisses are pressed to your inner thighs, but he doesn’t stop to tease you at all.

You’ve only just settled back on your elbows, looking down the slope of your torso at his eager expression, before his mouth is on you. A harsh suck against your clit is the first thing you feel, your whole body going tense and legs locking around the back of his neck. Mouth dropping open with a groan, you hear his own noises drowning yours out, muffled squeals and snorts that sound more like a pig being gutted than anything else. Reaching down, you grab a fistful of his hair, jutting your hips out and pulling him in, rocking against his mouth. Bubba lets out a shrill, pleased sound, pushing in more forcefully and straining to get closer. His mouth doesn’t leave the pink nub despite your bucking hips, lips suctioned over it and tongue lashing.

“Slow down!” You gasp, but he doesn’t, and you feel the building weight and tension in your abdomen suddenly close to tipping over. There’s too much of everything, the fingers digging into the flesh of your hip, the hot tongue that laps at your slick cunt, and you don’t want to cum so quickly, but it’s happening anyway. Your back goes stiff, legs tightening around his head, and the loud, wet noises from between your thighs only become louder as you twist and jerk against his face. His mouth doesn’t ease up at all, instead nuzzling deeper and squealing so loudly that the vibrations of his voice feel almost as good as his mouth.

You let yourself fall back, completely flat on the table, arms too weak to hold you up now. Bubba’s enthusiasm hadn’t faded at all despite your release, his thick tongue still wiggling between your legs. Each kiss he placed there was harsh and deep, turning into long, rough sucks against your clit, pulling away from your flesh with a wet pop. It was almost too much, but you let him continue, ready to start building up to the next orgasm immediately. Your chest heaved and sweat dampened your skin, but there was still the heavy pull low in your stomach that hadn’t been satisfied yet.

Legs trembling, you start up the rocking of your hips again, bucking up slowly. A hand reaches up, slapping at your sides and stomach as it searches, until his fingers firmly grip the soft weight of one breast. You arch into the clumsy touch, spine curving upwards, holding onto his wrist with one hand and tugging his hair with the other.

His fingers were rough, pulling and squeezing, and you yelp when you feel the probing digits of his other hand trying to find their way between your thighs. A thick finger finally pushes its way into you, slipping in between licks and pants, quickly followed by another. You’re already arched up, but you throw yourself towards him even more, the stretch of his fingers giving you a pleasant burn that only intensifies the heat in your belly.

The table wobbles underneath you, but this isn’t the first time you’ve had to make use of it in this way, so you’re sure it will hold up despite the creaking. You could honestly care less if the whole thing falls apart under you at this point.

“Almost!” You gasp out, but you can’t tell if he even hears you, your thighs pressed tightly to either side of his head.

Hand still buried into the hair of his mask, you feel Bubba straining to get closer, to push his face even deeper between your spread legs. You jerk upwards to meet him, sitting half upright to angle yourself better, grinding over his mouth. The muscles of your stomach and thighs clamp down, both of Bubba’s fingers fighting to move against the tight grip around them.

You’re on the edge for what feels like forever, getting more and more tense until your whole body aches with the pressure, before a heavy, shuddering weight slams into you. A loud wail slips out of you, unable to do anything more than push against his face with all the strength you have left, legs burning with the effort, thrashing against the table under you. Bubba doesn’t let up, lapping at your cunt faster now and burying his fingers as deep as they will go. Your muscles finally give out, legs dropping from his shoulders and chest heaving as you fight to catch your breath.

A hot wetness trails down your thighs in rivulets, mixing with the mess already there and quickly licked up as he slowly works his way away from your twitching, sensitive flesh. Bubba’s teeth are sharp against the meat of your thigh, pricking the skin until it stings and soothing it with a wet kiss. You want to praise him for that, for pulling away without having to be told, but you can only focus on breathing now, a numb, sluggish feeling washing over you.

“Love you.” You mutter, a limp hand reaching for him but failing halfway through the gesture. He snorts and squeals in delight, happy sounds that you know mean ‘I love you, too’.

[birdscreeches]

The River | Aisha R.

Five days before Miles Santos dies, the sink in his bathroom breaks. 

It started with a trickle of water dripping from the pipes underneath before growing into a spurting torrent that soaks his knees. This is what he gets, he muses, for not switching to water replication plumbing. He goes through his things looking for anything to fix it, but his condo is a crowded mess of wires and screens. Miles manages to find a roll of duct tape tangled within an extension cord. 

With shaking hands, testaments to the sleepless nights of the past week, he wraps the leaking pipe with tape. Outside, his tablet continues playing the video he left it on. The voices drift into the room quietly, bouncing off the porcelain. Soft, pattering sounds of disaster. 

“—the eye of typhoon Tomas was located, based on all available data, at 2,635 kilometers east of Southern Luzon. This is still outside of the Philippine Area of Responsibility. It has maximum sustained winds of 130 kilometers per hour and a gustiness of up to 160 kilometers per hour. It is moving west at 30 kilometers per hour. This typhoon is expected to enter PAR by Saturday—”

Water slips past his fingers and soaks his arms. It splashes against his face, sharp and cold. Miles coils tape around the pipe over and over, choking the water back in the place until finally, the pipes yield.

“—when we say super typhoon, it has to sustain a wind speed greater than 220 kilometers per hour. Typhoon Tomas is not a super typhoon, but it still has a long way to go above water before it reaches landfall and thus has the potential to, ah, acquire more strength.”

“So it’s possible for typhoon Tomas to become a super typhoon.”

“There is a possibility—”

Miles’ hands are soaked. His shirt is damp. His bathroom floor is a glorified puddle and he’s kneeling in it, an attempt for absolution. It’s a flimsy attempt at best, he thinks. He will never be clean again.

He stands up from the mess he’s made, sits down at one of his monitors. Still cold and rapidly becoming colder, he types and creates a monster.

-

Is it done?

yes 

am i good now

No, you still have to install it.

We’ll also need a physical copy on a hard drive.

A team will come by next week to confiscate all your equipment.

It will all be compensated for, so you don’t have to worry.

okay

when will the payment come through

After we have the system and after you install it.

you’re sure

Yes.

I’ll text you again with details for the drop.

Stay updated.

-

Three days before Miles Santos dies, the traffic on slows to an unbearable crawl right on the bridge of Marcos Highway. Trapped from every angle, at mercy to the sheer power of unmoving vehicles, Miles has no choice but to see the river. He could keep his gaze straight, focus on every detail of the truck in front of him, but the river would snake its way into view. From his periphery into his mind, the river is there, demanding attention, until he can’t help but turn to look at it.

Already, the water is higher than usual. The surface ripples with turbulence as it rushes forth, crashing against the concrete bed that slopes down from the riverbanks. There was a time when those banks were nothing but the same earth and silt it had always been, but Miles couldn’t remember it. He was born only after they started constructing the improved channel. He grew up climbing over chain link fence with his friends, a flattened cardboard box in hand. On summer days, the river was docile. Dry. Just a trickle of water in a ditch too large. Miles and his friends would sit on the edge of the concrete slope, cardboard safely under him, and push off the edge, sliding down to the sound of laughter and a barangay tanod yelling at them to get the fuck outta here, stupid goddamn kids. 

The pillars shake Miles out from his memory. On the edge of the concrete slopes, tall, grey magnetic pillars stuck out every few meters. Unactivated, they stood silently. Watchtowers over a vicious beast.

There is a barrage of beeping from behind him. Miles scrambles to step on the gas and drive forward.

The truck in front of him stops. Miles brakes. Alone in his car, he feels he can’t breathe. The river is there. A chill wells up deep in his stomach, branching out to his body. A restless energy.

Miles drums his fingers on the wheel and slowly, as the cars inch forward, rain begins to fall. 

It’s hours before he gets to his mother’s house. The drive seemed like it wanted to drain the entire day away before he could live it. The house, fittingly enough, was gray and drab. The plants in the garden were alive, but slumped in lacking care. The paint of the gate was peeling, showing off the hard metal underneath. His mother’s house looks like as if all the days had drained away years ago.

His mother is much the same.

The mother he grew up with was sharp and nagging. Always scolding him for every mess and mistake, pushing him to be better, yet never showing him anything more than an absent nod for his achievements, too busy with cooking for the small carinderia she ran on her own. Now, too old to work, she sat in a house Miles got for her the moment he had enough money to, out and away from Tumana and into the quieter neighborhoods of Antipolo. Her edge had been weathered down by time into something weaker, but no less biting. Her memory was fuzzy at the edges, always calling Miles by the wrong name, or forgetting the date today, or forgetting that she had forgotten in the first place.

Miles came over every other week to have lunch with her, whether she liked it or not. Today’s lunch had passed in the same old questions followed by the same old silences. 

He helps his mother from the dining table back to the living room. She reclines in her rocking chair, and massages her temple. “Matt---”

“Miles,” he reminds her. 

“Miles, habang nandito ka pa, ayusin mo nga yung TV,” she says. “Ang choppy ng signal ‘tas ang hina pa nga ng volume, wala na akong marinig.”

“Ma, computer science yung alam ko, hindi engineering.” 

She scoffs. “Sana nag-doktor ka na lang.”

Miles doesn’t say anything. He simply stands to fix the TV if only to escape another endless circle of conversation.

He switches the TV on and watches the glitching static distort the face of a variety show host. The host’s grating laughter distorts through the speakers, an awful, terrible sound. As he unplugs and plugs different wires with barely trembling hands, the noise flits in and out. Miles manages to get the volume up higher again, like his mother wants it, and his own voice finds its own sound.

“Ma, medyo busy ako for the next few weeks, ha.” With a hard thwack to the back of the TV, the screen phases into clarity. He looks at it instead of his mother, continuing. “I won’t be able to come by for a while, but, uh, I got a really big bonus at work, and I’ll forward the money to you, okay?”

“Ha?” His mother says, squinting past him to look towards the TV. “Anong sabi mo?” 

“Wala,” Miles shakes his head. “Wala, ma.”

-

11pm

MRMC Station 3, Tumana.

Don’t be late.

-

On the day Miles Santos dies, he goes back to where he used to live. He parks nearby, and walks through the rest. It was a part of the slums that had been demolished to make way for the large, hulking powerline that fed into the electric pillars of the river. Where once there was a cluster fragile houses Miles would once run and duck through, there was now just flat rubble and the metal reinforced wires trailing through, out and away. 

There are a few kids kicking a ball around, scuffing dirt and laughing. One of them kicks the ball too far, rolling towards Miles’ feet, and Miles forces a smile as he bends down to toss it back to them. He tries to forget he ever saw them, but when you see one person, the rest keep coming in. A fruit vendor passes, pushing his rickety cart filled with cool pineapple. Women with streaks in their hair snickering and gossiping. A stray dog following at the heels of a young girl.

Miles used to live here, and the ache of seeing the place again after working so hard to leave it thrums through every inch of his body.

All he wanted was better.

And look where that got him.

He arrives at the drop location hours early. In his car with his silence, he sits and watches the rain engulf him.

To his left, he can see the crowded Tumana slums barely illuminated by the dusk. It was home once, when he was smaller. Houses here were small and grimy and flimsy ribcages people would live in. The streets and pathways would get narrower and narrower the deeper you went ,the ground a perpetual a slog of sticky earth and discarded garbage. The canals that ran through the barangay were as sleek and high tech as the main river, with smaller but no less advanced magnetic pillars, but all the innovation had stopped there. The ribcage houses were finally safe from the river, but weren’t safe from everything else. 

To his right, the river slithers into his periphery, demanding attention. Next to one of the pillars sticking out of the concrete banks, there is a small building, STATION 3 emblazoned on the side in block letters, punctuated by frantic sprays of vandalism. The station was just one of many dotted along the length of the river. Manual control systems for the improved channels. Nobody’s used them in years.

Dusk bleeds into night. One by one, windows of the slums light up. Old school fluorescent lights mixing with the newer EMLED lights. 

Miles hears it before he sees it. The undeniable thrum of energy. Miles swears he feels the earth shift when. It does, in a sense. The magnetic pillars were a revolutionary piece of technology, but it took energy to power. More energy than can be taken without a price. 

The grey pillars light up, a soft, illuminated blue streaking across the center of each one. The top of the pillar beams out an arch of light connecting to another pillar on the opposite bank. Like dominoes, all the pillars buzz to life, creating an endless, unbreachable tunnel of energy. Rain that falls onto the magnetic field slides off, slipping into canals at the side that filter back into the river. Every canal and ditch is encased in a magnetic tunnel, pulsing through the roads, veins and arteries of rainwater filtering into the river. All the rain coming from the mountains, from the city gutters, from the sky mercilessly pounding rain into the earth. 

The Tumana slums tremble into darkness, all the power sucked into the cages keeping the water captive. 

Miles doesn’t do anything but breathe. The restless energy is gone, replaced instead by a deep, stinging chill that constantly scraping at the walls of who he is. He sits there, unmoving, and lets the rain and the night pass him by. 

He watches the magnetic field. Hours pass. The water rises. Rises. Rises past the riverbank, the magnetic field the only thing holding the water back from overflowing and drowning the slums just meters away.

Up ahead on the road, a nondescript red car parks in front of him, the headlights still on, shining directly into Miles’ eyes. The lights blink at him. Get in. He grabs an umbrella from the backseat and exits the safety of his car, brisk walks through the torrential downpour, hurriedly opens the door of the other car, and clambers into the passenger seat.

Four is sitting behind the wheel, phone in hand, idly swiping. He looks just about as pristine as Miles knew his own self was the opposite. Four looks up, eyes scanning over Miles’ soaked frame, bored and amused at the same time

“You really had to bring all the water with you, no?” Four asks, looking at Miles with that unimpressed gaze he always has.

“There’s a super typhoon,” Miles grits his teeth. “In case you haven’t noticed.”

“Touchy. I’m just joking,” he rolls his eyes then holds a hand out. “Physical copy?”

Miles digs a small plastic ziplock bag from his pocket. Inside, a small USB stick. He hands it over to Four who doesn’t even spare it a glance, stowing it in a side compartment without looking up from his phone. 

“No other copies exist?” 

“None.”

“Alright then, we’re nearly done,” Four says, tapping on his phone. “I’ve queued the payment transfer to go through once news sites start blasting the breaking news headlines. You get back into your car and follow me out and—”

“I’m not going.”

Four’s typing stops. He looks up and meets Miles’ gaze. Miles can’t find any shock in Four’s eyes. If anything, the only thing that’s there is a twinkle of intrigue. 

“You’re not?”

“I’m—” Miles tries to find his words, all feeling awkward and clunky. “I’m staying here. I’ll deploy the program here.”

There’s a beat of silence. The rain outside is coming down so strong, the noise blurs into a static. Everything and nothing. A held breath.

“Hm,” Four looks back to his phone. “That explains the payment thing. I wondered why the account wasn’t yours. Whose is it?”

“None of your business.”

Four actually laughs, and Miles thinks it looks like a snarl. “I guess you’re right. Do me a favor and wait til I’m out of the danger zone before you run the program, will you? The payment expires if any of my programs detect a sign of an untimely death.” Four swipes his finger across his phone and Miles hears his own phone ping. “This car’s details,” Four explains. “Watch over me while I drive.”

“Can I go now?” Miles says. He wants to get out of this car. He wants to never see Four again. He wants to never have met him in the first place.

“Sure,” Four smiles. A sneer trying to look kind. “This is good work you’re doing here. Remember that. Pleasure doing business with you, Santos.”

Miles gets out of the door and slams the door shut. Under his umbrella, he watches Four back the car up, turn, and drive away. 

He pulls out his phone and taps on Four’s car details. Miles watches his GPS show Four’s car drive further and further away. His trip is made short and smooth by clear roads. Too late and too rainy for anybody to drive out. People are in their homes, sleeping soundly. 

When Four passes the threshold into Quezon City, Miles closes his eyes. When he opens them, he can feel every drop of water on his skin like a knife pressing into him. In his hand, his phone feels like a grenade.

He opens his program. The pin is pulled.

Miles had created a lockpick. A universal lockpick. A program that could adapt to any system and open any doors. Untraceable, quick, and efficient. Creating the program was a long and delicate science of knowing where to make it prod and where to make it push. A balance between toeing the line and destroying it. He understands more than anybody the meaning of a breaking point and what happens when that point is pressed. 

It’s child’s play now. He runs his program remotely from his phone into the servers of the Station 3. From there, he watches it frolick along tens of security measures and failsafes. He watches it weave past all of them. He watches it mangle the system to pieces.

Miles can’t watch it finish, his shaking hands dropping his phone into the muddy ground. Even if the water shorted his phone out, it was too late. His body wasn’t cold anymore. His body was an absence of everything. He’d been hollowed out and then deleted. It was over.

Miles doesn’t look up from his phone. He doesn’t have to. Through the reflection on his screen, he sees the lights of Marikina City come alive. The streetlamps, the homes, the stores. Power surges through all the lines, unbidden, rattling appliances awake, blowing out too-old lightbulbs, taking every home hostage. The night glimmers out of the darkness in chunks until the city is thrumming with electricity.

Behind him, the magnetic field flickers. Once, twice—

[deathbyvalentine]

Harrowing Commissions

Sebastian

The light from the fire flickered, making the shadows in the room shudder and jump. Starting, the maid in the armchair jumped up, adding another log to the flames. It was a room with a lot of shadows - part bedroom, part parlour and part study, odd objects littered side tables and shelves alike. The walls that were not dominated with bookcases were dominated instead by windows or portraits. The room was dark, the windows blocked out by heavy curtains. In all of the clutter, it would be easy to miss the young man lying in bed, surrounded by pillows and cushions, holding a faded blue book in his pale hands. 

Only his cheeks had colour in them - a feverish flash of rouge. His hair and eyes were dark. His lips moved in silent prayer as his eyes flickered over the paper thin pages. A cough came over him, wracking his thin body. His attempts to muffle it did no good - the maid immediately bustled over with a tray of bottles and ointments. Propping him up, in a business like manner she rubbed a foul smelling liquid onto his chest. It appeared to the job and the odd whistling his breathing had taken on faded. She lay him back down and began to fluff up the pillows around him, fussing in such a way it betrayed her fondness for her patient. 

 He caught hold of her wrist, stopping her in her tracks. “It’s soon, isn’t it? It’s going to be soon.” She stared at him, unsure of how to respond. It didn’t matter. A few more moments and he picked up his beloved gospels, resuming his study.

*   

Alice

The clock was just chiming... a number when the latch to the servant’s entrance to the kitchen lifted. The hearth fire was still burning, so when the young lady slipped in, she managed to avoid kicking over the mop and bucket just to the side. One hand held her boots, the other her skirts to keep the rich fabric off the dirty stone floor. Now safely inside, she placed the shoes down beside the door and collapsed onto the bench alongside the long wooden table. Idly, while looking into the small flames of the fire, she picked a grape from the fruit bowl and popped it into her mouth, enjoying the sweet burst of flavour. 

She pulled the pins from her hair, letting the curls cascade down her back. She winced a little and inspected her fingertip a moment after. One of the jewels had caught her funny and sliced her. A small bead of blood welled up. She blinked at it for a moment before placing her finger in her mouth too, soothing the wound. Outside, the sun was beginning to creep up over the horizon, painting the sky in pinks, indigos and purples. She should slip to bed before the breakfast preparations begun - she knew her mother had slipped an extra coin to one of the servants to report on her, but she wasn’t sure which one yet. If she slept now, she had enough time to be woken for breakfast and pretend to be as fresh as a daisy. 

She stood, stretching once. Then she disappeared up the servant’s corridors, knowing the route to her room by heart. Her boots lay forgotten by the door.

*

Thomas

“Behold, a story for the ages! Be dazzled, wondered and amazed at the power of - “

No, that’s not right. You’re not writing a circus side show. 

“Come and be welcome in an epic spreading centuries. Heroes, lovers and villains convene in this - “

You’re not writing a fairytale either. Think Thomas. What are you trying to do here?

“This year, a new play arrives that will reveal not only the essence of characters within it, but those who watch it. Watch the story unfold and let it awaken something within you too. We all wear masks. The hero, the lover, the villain.... This is an invitation to find out exactly what is behind yours. If you dare. If you’re brave enough.” 

That’s the advertisement done. Now I just have to finish the damn thing. 

*

Eloise

“He loves me... He loves me not. He loves me... He loves me not - ” Petals drifted to the floor like morning snow, to be crushed as the woman paced barefoot, releasing their too-sweet perfume into the air. The floor was almost slick with them, the top layer bright and pink, the bottom little more than browning sludge. Her skirts trailed, disturbing the petals enough to reveal how many lay beneath. It seemed that everything in the room was coated with petals or dust. But still, she walked.

“He loves me.” She stopped short at the mirror, allowing a slight smile to spread across her beautiful face. She reached out with gloved hands, her fingertips just touching the spotless surface. Her fingers left a slight smear and she recoiled, finding the bell on the sideboard to frantically call a maid. The mirror being obscured simply would not do. She stepped back and let the bustling girl come in with a cloth, the door creating a semicircle of clear floor. The girl didn’t touch anything else, didn’t even ask about the petals. She cleaned the mirror and was gone in a flurry of business like activity. There was a breath, a moment where everything was still.

“He loves me not.” The slow chant resumed, almost lyrical in its cadence. Another petal tumbled to the ground. Another step was taken.

*

Charles

Day 15 “... My sleep was greatly disturbed last night by a number of dreams. Such visions! Such phantasms! I believe this is a sign that my work is taking me closer than ever before. A number of studies has found that sleep is when the mind is most susceptible after all. I plan on capitalising on this by distilling a mineral (imported from Italy) into a chemical that is supposed to induce a most coherant train of thought. Lucidity and revelation are of course, key and I have high hopes for this latest experiment granting me fresh sight and new contact.”

Day 20 “Well, that did not go exactly to plan. The chemical did indeed induce a number of wonderful sights, but as always, the body was not willing. My hands trembled so violently it shattered the simmering glassware and I was forced to retire, bedridden for several days. Every failed avenue is a clue however, and I refuse to consider it an utter waste. In brighter news, a letter has arrived from my Vatican friend’s expedition. He promises to send his logbook as he believes there are some encounters I will be interested in. I await this with baited breath - he has always given me fascinating data before.”

Day 23 “A small break while I was forced to deal with one of the children’s latest indiscretion. Did the good lord grant us families purely to curb the progress of the human race? I can only assume so. No matter, tomorrow I try some new components from America, promising to engage with the energy that sits around us all, invisible but present all the same.”

*

Elizabeth

She tutted and held the glass up to the light, turning it this way and that. Placing it back on the table, she snapped her fingers at a passing maid, steering her towards the sparkling glassware. “Do you really think this is good enough?” Not waiting for an answer, she shook her head. “There are still fingermarks on the stem. Polish them again. I shall check on your progress in an hour.” 

Sweeping from the room, she entered the busy hallway. Preparations were underway. Everywhere you looked there were maids carrying fresh linen, silverware or carpet beaters. Butlers converged in corners, talking about how best to organise the cloakroom, the game room, the parlour. A smile tugged at her lips. She was rarely as pleased as when the house was alive like this. There was something pleasing in the shifting bodies, the business of it all. It reminded her of a great beehive of which she was the queen. 

Pausing on the upper landing, she rested her hands on the (gleaming, shining) banister. The house would be perfect for the ball, of this much she was certain. If only her family were as easily polished up.  Or perhaps as easily put away as the silverware was, only to be brought out at special occasions. With an amused smile, she shook the thought out of her head. They would be perfect. She would make sure of it. When she set her mind to something, she never failed.

*

Georgiana/Mystery Member #1

She held a fork up to the light, turning it this way and that. Frowning at what she saw, she clicked her fingers at a passing maid. With an eyeroll, the girl sloped over, hands placed in her pinafore pouch in a most slovenly manner. Letting the fork fall to the table with a clatter, she clucked her tongue. “There are still marks on the cutlery. Fix it. At once.”  “Yes ma’am.” The maid replied, though she could swear she saw a hint of a smirk on her face. Her cheeks flushed red though she kept her head up high. What impertinence. She may not be the lady of the house but she still deserved respect. Elizabeth would never deal with such nonsense from her servants and yet these girls thought they could get away with it with her. She stalked from the room, being sure to make her heels click on the floor in a way she thought of as most stately. 

She got the same response when she found a smudge on the guest linen, two scullery maids very almost giggling. Hating herself as she did it, she invoked the most compelling line she could think of. “Of course, if you would like me to explain to Elizabeth why your work is not up to scratch, I would be happy to explain.” Instantly, their smiles disappeared and a solemnity appeared in their eyes. The rush of power only lasted an instant. It was borrowed, after all.

One day she would be married and she would have her own house, bigger and grander than this. She would have maids that straightened their backs whenever she swept past and butlers that refused to lift their eyes to look at her directly. She would hold all the keys to the house on a chain on her waist and she would never have to ask for something twice. One day. 

*

Mystery Member #2

Dearest friend, I write to you with a matter of great urgency. Too long I have been silenced and now the time has come for me to finally beg for help. I am not sure what may befall -

I am not sure if harm will - I am sure great harm will befall me if this letter was discovered, so I beg you and your servants to be discrete. If you investigate, keep my name off your lips and papers. You must be wondering why I chose you. Well, your kind and - 

your gentle and good - 

Well, you would believe me. The constabulary would surely find me mad if I approached them with my tale of woe and I would be in Bedlam before the month was out, which would suit my captors fine.  To be clear, I do not want them harmed - I do not want violence -  I just want to escape. A safe haven. An oasis. Away from this den of iniquity and sin.  Eagerly I wait for your reply. I know you shall not fail me. With love.

*

The House

It sat, quietly for now, among gardens and fields. If arriving by carriage, it snuck up on you. A turn in the road and there it was, looming and large, casting shadows easily around it. If arriving by foot, it simply waited for you to arrive, watching you with its many windows, glistening in the sun. 

It had been used to house soldiers once and it hadn’t forgotten it. If you looked closely enough, the marks were still there. A scuff on a door frame where a sword had caught passing through, the basement with a forgotten box of munitions sat, covered in cobwebs and caked in dust. Soldiers had slept here, loved here, mourned here. Entire lives had been acted out with the house as a constant backdrop.

It used to house monks and it remembered this too. In its carvings, its windows, in paintings of men that nobody could recall the names of. There was a reverence that could not be simply scrubbed away like old paint. It lingered like perfume. It stayed in the bones of the place, the memory becoming as essential as the bricks.

A ball was to be hosted soon enough. The servants and the family prepared, gardeners tidied the grounds and merchants came to and from carrying exotic goods. It was not the first party it had seen and it most certainly would not be the last. The house looked its best when filled with people. It was not a place made to be empty, to be unusued. It always had a purpose and its purpose now was simply to host. 

[maaaddiexo]

Stretch - Shawn Mendes

summary: Shawn finds out the truth as to why you wouldn’t have sex with him

requested: no

warnings: smut

a/n: (VERY IMPORTANT) so, books often make sex romantic and painless and easy. but the truth is, sex isn’t easy for everybody. not all vaginas are magically ready for dicks, and this one is for those people who can’t have sex easily - who find it painful and who are embarrassed about it. all 5.5K words are for you

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Just landed. See you soon baby xx

You stare at the text, gnawing on your lips so hard you draw blood. After licking your lips to soothe the pain, you drop your phone on the couch and walk into the kitchen.

You’d prepared Shawn’s favourite dish – breakfast for dinner – as a welcome home treat, but you knew it wasn’t enough. You knew what he wanted for dinner, and unfortunately, his plate would only be half full.

Shawn had been an open book from the moment you met, and you had done mostly the same. But the one secret you kept wasn’t deep or dark, but embarrassing, and it ate at you every time Shawn was in that mood and wasn’t. You could tell that, as of lately, it was beginning to get between you and Shawn in the bed. Soon enough, you’d both be on the floor.

Shawn had never pressured you into sleeping with him. You sex life still existed, and because sex was off the table, it led to your sex life being adventurous. Shawn was almost always down to try something new.

But you knew that the one thing you knew he wanted, you wouldn’t give to him. Couldn’tgive to him.

The anxiety claws at your throat again and you hunch over, bowing your head between your knees.

Shawn had seen you have panic attacks before. You had lied and told him you didn’t know why they happened but you did. Another lie. So you imagined Shawn was at your side and talking you through what to do while rubbing soothing circles on your back.

What are five things you can see in the room?

You lift your head slowly and look around the room, pointing out the first five things you can see. “The T.V., the fireplace, your guitar, your Rubix cube, and my shoes.”

Good. Four things you can touch?

You take a deep breath, focusing on your surroundings and answer. “The couch, the floor, the dirt under my nails, and my glasses.”

Three things you can hear?

“The bacon sizzling, an ambulance, and…the furnace.”

Two things you can smell?

You still can’t breathe but push forward. You have to because you won’t let your anxiety control you, though it seems to be doing just that. “The bacon, and your cologne.” At that, you lift his shirt to your nose, taking in the smell of him.

One thing you can taste?

“Strawberries.” You drop your head again and struggle to breathe. “It’s not working, Shawn. It’s not working. Why aren’t you here?”

“I am here, baby. I am. Feel my hands, baby.”

Shawn would do this when the techniques the psychologist offered didn’t work. You squeeze your hands, knowing you’ll only dig four half-moons into your palm only to gasp when you squeeze something else.

Shawn squats in front of you. Both of his hands are wrapped in yours. He looks at you hopefully as you raise your eyes to his. “Hey, baby.”

You lunge forward, knocking Shawn onto his back, and wrap your arms around his neck. The familiar scent of his cologne and hair paste invades your senses, calming your fast-beating heart and the pressure behinds your eyes fades.

“I missed you,” you mumble into his Armani shirt.

“I missed you more.” And he sure did. You could feel his hard-on pressing against your inner thigh. You slot a leg between his and lie on top of him as you slowly calm down.

Shawn presses kisses to your hair and forehead, running a hand up and down your back. “Just breathe, baby. Take your time.”

When you’ve finally calmed down, you press a kiss to Shawn’s shoulder, telling him you’re okay. He sighs and drops a hand on your back, looking down at you.

“They’re happening a lot more often. And it’s getting more difficult to fight them.” Shawn says cautiously. He knew how you were about your anxiety – you were embarrassed about it and didn’t want to trigger another attack so soon. “Maybe…maybe you should see someone and try and figure out why they’re happening.”

You whimper as tears threaten to fall and the truth threatens to pass your lips. But I already know why they’re happening.

“Y/N? What’s wrong?”

You shake your head but he scoffs. “Don’t say it’s nothing when it’s obviously something. You have a panic attack you can’t stop, you burst into tears – please tell me what is going on. I feel bad enough that I’m always away and can’t be with you. Please don’t lie to me and say that you’re fine.”

Shawn snapping at you makes it harder to fight the tears and finally tell him the truth. But you couldn’t help but think about how he would react when you told him. He would be disappointed, for sure. He probably wouldn’t want to stay with you, but he deserved to know. After the distance and the anxiety attacks and the crying, Shawn should know. But…

“I can’t tell you,” you sob. “I want to. I want to so bad, but I can’t.”

Shocked at your words, it takes him a moment to react. And when he does, he only sits up, leaning against the couch and bringing you to straddle him, face tucked into the crook of his neck.

“Is it illegal?”

“No?”

“Will it kill someone?”

You giggle. “Killing is illegal, Shawn.”

He rolls his eyes. “Fine. Does it cause harm?”

“Not technically, no.”

“Then it can’t be that bad. Look, baby. You don’t need to tell me, but I don’t want you to feel like you can’t tell me things.”

“It’s just really awkward and embarrassing,” you mutter, looking away. “And I’m scared as to how you’ll react.”

“There’s really no way of knowing unless you tell me, baby.”

“I thought you weren’t going to pressure me into telling you?” You tease.

“I’m not,” Shawn shakes his head. “At least I’m not trying to. But just because I tell you that you don’t have to tell me doesn’t mean that I don’t want to know. I want to know everything about you baby. Even if you think it’s embarrassing.”

“I’m scared,” you admit.

“Don’t be.” Shawn nuzzles his nose against yours. “If you think I’m going to run or scream or whatever, you know me. I do not run.”

“And if you do?”

“I’ll tell you first.”

Shawn presses quick pecks all over your face, following the line of your jaw, down the slope of your nose before finally pressing firmly to your lips. His hands rest on your waist, pulling your chests together.

“I missed this,” Shawn mumbles, trailing down your neck, sucking hickies into the skin. “Being so close to you. Being able to touch you.” At those words, he pushes you down and grinds you against him. You both let out loud moans, starved from one another’s touch for so long.

Shawn’s moan echoes in your mind as he bites and licks over your collarbone. You know where this is heading – it always heads in the same direction. And you’re forced to hit the breaks.

And like usual, he stops when you ask. Disappointment and desperation are clear in his eyes.

“Shawn, what I’m embarrassed about,” you look down between the two of you where Shawn’s erection is uncomfortably confined by his skinny jeans. “It has to do with that.”

“My dick?”

You nod uncomfortably and Shawn chuckles, making you heat up in shame. You knew this would happen. Why had you believed him?

“Oh, God. No, babe. No.” Shawn grabs your chin frantically, forcing you to meet his eyes. “I wasn’t laughing at you.”

“You weren’t?”

“God, no. I was just laughing…well, because…I know you want to wait.”

You reel back, looking at Shawn with wide eyes. “Wait, what?”

“You want to wait for us to have sex. For what, I don’t know. I didn’t want to ask because I know you always feel bad about stopping. But baby, I love our sex life. I mean, that cockring and the fleshlight?” Shawn inhales deeply. “Shit, baby.”

“Shawn, stop.” And like usual, he does and peers at you with curiosity swirling in his brown eyes. “I don’t want to wait. I want to have sex with you right here, right now.” The excitement in Shawn’s eyes breaks your heart. “But we can’t.”

Shawn hates the way his voice cracks. “Why not?”

You take a deep breath. “Please don’t laugh.”

“I won’t,” Shawn assures. “I promise.”

Nerves knot and tighten in your stomach as you lead Shawn to the bedroom and gesture to the bed whilst you disappear into the large closet. You had hidden it somewhere you knew Shawn would never look. He wasn’t nosy, per say, but he tended to snoop unknowingly.

He’d found your birthday present for him last year and tended to ruin surprises by coming home earlier than he said and you wouldn’t have the surprise finished.

You go on your tiptoes to see the top shelf, reaching around your childhood teddy bear and under your childhood blankie for the small canvas bag. You keep it hidden behind your back as you step back into the bedroom.

It seems Shawn is just as nervous as you are, rubbing his large hands on his thick thigh and, oh God, you wished more than ever you could take him. But you couldn’t. You sit down beside him, placing the mystery bag between you two, still clutching onto it tightly.

“Remember how I told you that you would be my first?”

“Yeah,” Shawn nods. “That’s why I thought you were waiting – because you weren’t ready.”

“I am ready, Shawn. More than ever. But I’m not technically a virgin.”

Shawn shakes his head. “What do you mean?”

You suck in a sharp breath. “When I was with my previous boyfriend, we tried to have sex, but he was too big and it was too painful.” Shawn winces at the thought of you having sex with another guy – especially because he wasn’t even having sex with you.

“Did he try to force it on you?”

You shake your head. “No. I made an appointment with the gynecologist and well…”

Shawn raises a brow. He wouldn’t push you, but he couldn’t just go with half the story and a mystery bag sitting in your lap. “Baby, don’t be embarrassed.”

“I’m just having difficulty getting the words out,” you reply. “I haven’t really told anybody this.”

Shawn holds your hand, squeezing it gently. “Take your time. If I can help, let me know.”

You nod and take a moment to compose yourself, word out what you were going to say before swallowing the anxiety and continuing. “Basically, she said that my entrance was different. It was farther back so the skin was protected by the labia and still super sensitive.”

Shawn nods. That would explain why you always jumped and bucked whenever he ran his finger over your entrance.

“But my entrance was also smaller, as well as my vagina. It’s just...”

“Tight?” Shawn offers when he sees you struggling. With red cheeks, you nod.

“So the gynecologist told me what I can do to fix and it said that I shouldn’t have sex while I do the exercises. I told my boyfriend that and he broke up with me because we couldn’t have sex. But the thing is, he didn’t see that it was difficult for me too. I wanted to have sex with him, and I want to have sex with you, but I’m not stretched far enough.”

“Stretched?”

You nod quickly, opening the bag. “I started with my fingers. That way, I could stretch and pleasure myself. This was before I met you, by the way. And that’s also why I said you could only do one finger up until recently – I hadn’t stretched myself far enough. I still wasn’t quite ready for two fingers because, well, let’s face it.” You grab his hand and hold it up between you two. “Your hands are huge.”

Shawn doesn’t smile with you. “Is that why you were scared to tell me? Because you thought I would leave you? Because of what happened with your ex-boyfriend?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere, past all the anxiety, I didn’t think you would leave me, but I was scared that you would. So I kept it a secret. But it hurt every time we had to stop when I know you wanted more. That’s why I have the anxiety attacks –because I hated lying to you but didn’t know how to tell you.”

Shawn leans in, pressing his lips firmly to yours and placing a hand on your thigh. “Well, I think you told me perfectly.”

“There’s one last thing, Shawn.” Slowly, you open the bag and empty its contents onto the bed.

Shawn clears his throat. “Are those, uh, what I think they are?”

“They’re dilators. That’s how I’ve been stretching myself out now. I bought them the moment we started dating, but I’m not done yet. And, I mean, I practically keep these things in every second you’re away. A lot of the time, when you call me at night and I’m in bed, I have one in. You just leave it in for like ten to fifteen minutes and I read or watch a movie or something. Plus, they keep me fairly satisfied when you’re away and get me closer to finally and actually sleeping with you.”

“So what’s this last thing?”

You fidget in your place and grip Shawn’s hand. “There are six sizes. I’m currently on number four. I’m pretty comfortable with it so sometimes, if I’m wet enough, I’ll try number five. But the thing is,” you hold up the largest size. “Number six is still fairly smaller than you are, so even once I’m comfortable with number six, it’s going to take some time to adjust to you.”

“I guess I’ll just have to add cockwarming to our list of sexual activities,” Shawn replies, picking up number four and the handle, putting them together.

You sputter. “What?”

“You said that you’re supposed to leave dilators in, right? And just chill with them inside you? If letting you sit on my cock and me not moving puts me closer to finally making love to you, I’ll do it. Until then,” he holds up the dilator. “These will have to do. Can I use it on you?”

“Um, y-yeah, sure. Okay.” Shawn’s quick acceptance of the situation has you stuttering as he smiles and clears the bed, pushing you back into the middle of the bed. And as he pushes your shirt up your body and presses open-mouthed kisses to the warm skin, you ask yourself how you could have doubted Shawn, even with the anxiety. He was a complete angel. Well, a complete angel with a long list of kinks, but an angel nonetheless.

Your back arches as Shawn finds that spot on your breast that drives you insane and bites down before licking away the pain, slowly moving down. He presses a kiss below your belly button and another right above the waistband of your pants.

“Um, babe?”

You prop yourself up on your elbows, looking down at Shawn. The dilator sits at your hip and he’s gripping your pants. “Yeah, Shawn?”

“I want to do this, but I have no idea how to do this.”

You giggle and push your hips up so Shawn can take your pants off. “It’s just like sex, Shawn. But instead of putting your dick inside, you put the dilator. Do it like we usually do. If you want to stop, let me know and we will.”

“No,” Shawn insists. “I do want to do this. I just…walk me through it?”

You laugh. “Baby, I don’t need to. Imagine we actually are going to have sex and do what you would do in that situation.”

“I’m drawing a blank, baby. You seriously need to help me out.”

You laugh again and sit up straight, reaching for his belt buckle. “Well, first…we’d both get naked. Though, honestly, it’s hot seeing you standing in just your briefs when you’re hard.”

Shawn pulls his jeans down his legs, kicking them off to the side. “Then those can stay on for now.”

You both remove your shirts but Shawn takes yours from you, throwing it beside his pants. Now, you’re both left in just your underwear and Shawn can’t take his eyes off your matching set while your eyes zoom in on the hard bulge. You can’t stop yourself from reaching forward and palming him through the fabric of his black briefs.

“Shit, baby.” Shawn groans, lacing his hands behind his back as he stares down you with heavy lids. Unless he was fucking your mouth or you needed your hair held back, he didn’t touch you. Something about not touching you made it all the hotter for him.

You press hot, open-mouthed kisses over the briefs, tracing the bulge until you get to the tip and suck lightly through the fabric. Shawn whimpers, leaning down to kiss you and push you down on the bed, placing himself between your legs and grinding down hard. You moan, your back arching off the bed, and Shawn takes the opportunity to reach underneath and unclasp your bra. It ends up somewhere beside his shirt.

“Do you remember what to do now?” You mumble as he scrapes his teeth down the side of your neck. He hovers you with a devilish glint in his eyes and a matching smirk.

“Yeah. Fucking eat you out and make you scream.”

Shawn kisses down the valley of your breasts, hands running up and down your sides, never touching you where you want him most. He playfully bites the outside of your left hipbone, fingers curling around the thin fabric of your panties.

“I love these panties, baby. I really do. But I like what’s underneath them more.”

“Then fucking take them off.” You moan as Shawn peels them off slowly, placing wet kisses to the insides of your thighs, licking and sucking softly.

“God, I love these thighs. I know how you think they’re too big but honestly, baby, I think they’re perfect. I love it when they’re wrapped around my head when I eat you out. I love watching them shake when you come. I love smacking them. Baby, your thighs turn me on- what’s wrong?”

You shake your head, turning away to hide your watery eyes. “Nothing’s wrong. And I mean it. It’s just, what you said, it made me both so happy and so wet.”

Shawn comes back up to hover over you. “Glad I could do both.”

His lips are soft and warm, and you run your tongue over his bottom lip to get him to open but you stop halfway, mouth falling open in a silent moan as Shawn finally pushes his fingers through your folds.

Sparks zip up your core as you let out a heavy breath, Shawn nipping at your neck. Two fingers spread your wetness before he brings them up to his mouth, licking them clean.

“God, I think you taste better than the last time I ate you out.” Shawn groans, bringing his hand back down between you two and rubbing your clit. You moan again. “Pretty sure you’ve gotten louder too.”

His heat leaves you as he moves down your body until he’s settled comfortably between your legs and your legs wrap around his head when his tongue runs a bold stripe up your center.

“Now I know I said I love your thighs wrapped around my head,” Shawn pries your legs off his head, pushing them as far apart as he can. “But I’m going to need perfect access to your pretty little pussy after so long.”

You whimper at his words, fingers tangling in his hair as he eats you out like you’re his last meal. He lets you grind against his face, sticking his tongue out all the way, making noises of encouragement as you come closer to your high. He pulls his tongue away from your clit when you scream, knowing you’re less than a second away from tipping over.

“Shawn, you little shit!” You growl. “Put that mouth back on me.”

“I just wanted to hold your hands.” Shawn smiles mischievously, reaching for your hands. Once you’re holding his hands, he puts his mouth a little lower on you, sucking right over your entrance before tracing the opening with the tip of his tongue. Both were actions that brought you to the edge almost instantly, but when used so close to climaxing, made for a very long and intense orgasm.

“You like it when I suck your pretty little pussy? Come on baby,” Shawn coaxes. “Let me hear you scream my name as you come on my face.”

You do exactly as Shawn says, screaming his name as the orgasm crashes over you. Your legs shake in Shawn’s grip as he laps up everything you give him. Your orgasm is so intense that you end up sitting up completely, hunched over Shawn between your legs and dig your fingernails into his scalp.

He pulls away, his chin, lips, and nose glistening. “You taste so good, baby. How do you feel?”

“Sexually relieved.” You pick up the dilator, holding it out for him to take. “Loose.”

Shawn takes the dilator with shaking hands, inhaling deeply through his nose and gnawing on his lower lip. The dilator looks so small in his large hand. “Baby, I don’t want to hurt you.”

Carefully, you place your hand over Shawn’s shaking hand that holds the dilator. “You will not hurt me. The dilator will feel uncomfortable at most. And if it becomes too much, I will tell you.”

Your words seem to have no effect on Shawn. He still nervously chews in his lip and plays with the feather ring on his finger. Gently, you pull his lip from between his teeth and pull him in for a kiss. He melts instantly, dropping the dilator to cup your jaw.

“Remember whenever we try something new, we start off slow, gentle, careful?” You murmur, moving to his chest, fingertips toying with the few curls. You feel the vibrations as he hums. “And then slowly we go faster and a little harder? We are always careful to make sure that it is enjoyable for the other person and not painful. Right?”

Shawn nods.

“Remember the first time you put the vibrator on high? You thought I was screaming in pain when I obviously wasn’t. But you were so careful.”

“And you were careful when we first did the butt stuff on me. You didn’t pressure me and was always asking me how I was doing. But it always felt good.”

“This will be just like those times, Shawn. You’ll be careful and loving and gentle. It’s a toy, Shawn. Treat it like the vibrator.”

Shawn nods and reaches for the library. “Okay. Lie back for me.”

You do as he says, keeping yourself propped up on your elbows to watch Shawn. He runs the dilator through your folds so it collects the wetness and can easily enter. After looking up at you one more time, he probes your entrance with the tip of the dilator.

Shawn pushes a little bit in before pulling it all out, only to push in a little further. He continues to do so until he’s about halfway, when you wince, feeling the stretch. Shawn stops, noticing your curled toes and tense legs and pulls the dilator out.

“Baby?”

“I’m good, I’m good. I just, it’s sort of uncomfortable and me clenching around it doesn’t help. Can you hold my hand?”

Shawn reaches for your hand wordlessly, interlocking his fingers with yours. He lines the dilator up with your entrance and pushes it in slowly. Once again, you wince at the halfway mark and Shawn pulls out.

“I don’t want to do this if it’s going to hurt you, Y/N.” Shawn admits.

“It’s just uncomfortable – a small, sharp pain, really. It just takes a moment to adjust. But, I think I should…” You reach a hand between the two of your, rubbing your clit. “Okay, go.”

Shawn pushes the dilator in half an inch before moving my hand out of the way and looks at me. “You can’t move though, okay. I don’t have a free hand to hold you down.”

“What do you mean?”

Wordlessly, Shawn attaches his lips to your clit, sucking harshly. You keen into his touch, back arching but your hips stay glued to the sheets. Through the pleasure, you barely feel the sharp pain as Shawn inserts the dilator all the way to the hilt.

“How’s it feel, love?”

You can’t help but moan in response, grabbing his curls and forcing his head back down to your dripping cunt. “Just keep your mouth there, Shawn. It feels so good.”

“Yeah? You missed my mouth? And all the things it can do?”

You bite your lip, tugging on his curls as he flicks his tongue over your clit. “Please, Shawn. Please do something.”

Shawn detaches his lips only to drag them across to your hip as he pulls the dilator out slowly. He sucks a hickey into your inner thigh as he pushes it back in slowly.

“God, Shawn,” you cry.

“Does it feel good?”

You nod, gripping his hand tight and bringing your head up before slamming it against the mattress. “Go faster.”

Shawn picks up a steady rhythm, pushing the dilator in and out, eyes closing as you moan and whimper, and opening them to watch you writhe under his touch. It’s when you begin to talk as if it’s Shawn fucking you that he needs to grind against the mattress to give himself some relief.

“Shit, Shawn,” you moan. “Just like that, baby.”

Shawn grinds down hard into the mattress, pushing the dilator deep. “Yeah, baby?”

“Yes. Fuck, Shawn! Shit, you feel so good, baby.”

Shawn cries out in pain, stopping his actions to bend forward beside your hip. He whimpers lowly, hand gripping himself, tugging lightly.

“Shawn, baby. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.  It’s just…” Shawn turns his head to face you. “This is really hot and I’m painfully hard.”

“Oh, Shawn. Why didn’t you say something?”

“Because this night was supposed to be about you.” Shawn tugs a few more times before nodding. “Okay, I’m good.”

You grab Shawn’s arm before he can grab the dilator, pulling him down beside you. “No, you’re not.” You tug at the waistband of Shawn’s briefs and he pulls them off wordlessly. “There is never a night where it is just about one of us. It will always be about both of us. Now flip.”

Shawn follows your orders and you position him so he’s on his back, his feet near your head. He watches with heavy-lidded eyes as you surge forward to his cock, licking the underside and tracing your tongue over his slit, swallowing the leaking precum. Shawn grunts, unable to stop his hips from bucking up, wanting more of you.

“Babe, stop. I should be taking care of you.”

You push his hands away, looking at him as you force all of him into your mouth. Your middle finger and thumb squeeze his girth, acting as a makeshift cockring. You keep that position for as long as possible until you have to pull off and take a deep breath.

“Look at that pretty mouth taking my cock,” Shawn groans, grabbing your head and fucking up into your mouth a few times. “Fuck, I love watching you take all of my cock between those pretty lips of yours. Can’t wait ‘till it’s your beautiful pussy too.”

You moan, bobbing your head a few times before you can’t wait any longer and flop onto your back, inches from Shawn. Eagerly, he reaches for the dilator and moves the leg closest to him to his far side, giving him perfect access to your center.

He pushes the dilator in as you pump him, eliciting moans from the both of you. This wasn’t the first time you had pleasured each other at the same time so you worked out the kinks fairly easily. The only real issue was that it was difficult to hold the other person down from bucking their hips up.

You pump Shawn harder, focusing in his tip as you stare at how flushed it was. His legs shudder, involuntarily trying to close while he struggles to keep them open.

You whimper as Shawn sucks another hickey into your thigh before lightly slapping your clit.

“You close, baby?” He asks, speeding his hand up. “Hmm? You like me fucking you like this?”

You nod, eyes closed and hand momentarily still around his girth. You focus on the feeling of the dilator moving in and out of you quickly, feeling the drag of it. “God, Shawn. Please don’t stop.”

“I won’t, baby. Not until come for me.” Shawn reaches over to rub your clit furiously with his free hand. “Come on, love.”

In your need to catch your high, you forget about Shawn’s need to get off as well, but he doesn’t care. Watching you with your eyebrows furrowed and lips parted open in a silent moan, he didn’t even need to be touched to come. He continues to encourage you to come as he nips and sucks at your inner thigh and thrusts just a little bit faster to get you closer.

He feels you clench around the dilator, speaking against the soft flesh of your inner thigh. “Yeah, that’s it, baby. Let go. Come on my cock.”

Those four words snap you out of your fantasy, reminding you that it isn’t Shawn that’s fucking you and that he’s lying right beside you, hard and just as needy. You pull away from Shawn, quickly swinging your leg over his thick thighs so that you’re straddling him. His shaft nestles between your folds. Slowly, you lean down and begin to grind down against him, smiling as his eyes roll back.

“Yeah, I think I will come on your cock. And it’s so beautiful too. So pink and big.” You scatter open-mouthed kisses across his jaw, slowly finding your way to his parted lips. “I can’t wait to feel it inside me.”

Shawn whimpers as his tip catches on your entrance, hips bucking up as your grind down against him. You gasp, “Do that again.”

You work against each other, capturing each other’s moans and heavy breaths as your lips mold and fight for dominance, Shawn easily winning when he brings his hand down on your ass. The sound reverberates through the room along with your gasp.

Shawn’s large palm smooths over your ass, drifting between your legs to rub over that small piece of skin between your asshole and vagina, adding pressure as your legs begin to shake, squeezing his.

“Oh god,” you cry, pressing your forehead into Shawn’s chest. He continues to rub you and grind up into you as you’ve stopped moving. You try to escape his touch by pressing down against Shawn and he feels himself being shoved against that wall. He fights the pressure, wanting to break through the wall after you.

“Come on, princess. Be a good girl, come on my cock.”

“I am.” You squeeze your eyes shut as you reach your peak. “Fuck, Shawn. Please.”

“Just let go, baby.”

When you finally do, it’s nothing like you’ve ever experienced before. Your entire body convulses as Shawn’s fingers run up and down your back and you grind down into him hard. Shawn grunts as he breaks through the wall seconds later, veins in his neck straining and fingers digging into your flesh.

When you’ve calmed down enough, you roll off Shawn and curl into his side, staring at his chest as it rises and falls. “That was really good.”

“It was,” Shawn agrees. “But please don’t ever keep secrets from me again. Look at what this secret gave you.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper softly into his arm.

“Don’t be sorry, Y/N. I just don’t want there to be secrets between us, especially in the bed and especially after what keeping this one did to you.” Shawn grabs your chin and forces you to look up at him. “ I am not your ex-boyfriend. I will never make you feel ashamed for something you cannot control. I love you and everything you consider an imperfection but I consider perfect.”

“I love you too. And I won’t ever lie to you again.”

Shawn rolls off the bed and stands up. “Good. Now let’s get cleaned up and head back into the kitchen because I noticed you made my favourite meal.”

“It’s probably cold and bad by now. We’ll have to remake everything.”

Shawn shrugs, returning from the bathroom with a warm washcloth and bringing it between your legs. “That’s fine. But this time, cook it naked.”

[webcricket]

Looking Glass

Chapter 26 - The World Ender

Pairing: CastielXAU!Reader

Word Count: 1312

Summary: Castiel is left floundering when fate finally catches up to team free will in the form of a three-letter word. With some reflection, he learns endings are also beginnings. Final chapter for the series. Thanks for joining me on this journey! On to the next!

Miss a chapter? Masterlist Link:

webcricket.tumblr.com/post/175727716145/looking-glass-masterlist

What they say about hindsight is true; if you knew, caught up in Castiel’s arms in the kitchen, bodies drawn so close together room to breathe barely existed as you comforted one another in the aftermath of Maggie’s death, that the tender moment would signify the beginning of a rapid and calamitous downward spiral of misfortune to befall the bunker and your seraph, you might have insisted on holding on to him just a smidgen longer.

Not long ago, your world ended; your life too – nearly. Providence interceded in the form a Winchester ferrying you here to find renewal of hope; a place wherein you embarked on a fresh start rooted and flourishing in an angel’s empathy and a rewriting of every experience, conception, and recollection you once wielded as a universal shield of truth to survive.

You couldn’t know, clasped head to chest, sniffling against the silk of his tie, tears darkening the navy cloth almost to black as your fingers sought the well-muscled slope of his spine and skimmed upward until they found the sensitive spot at the base of his shoulder blades eliciting a soft moan from his lips where they lay in a lingering kiss upon your scalp, that your very same savior’s rebelliously carved niche in this one, the sanctuary of support he welcomed you into, a family fixed to each other by bonds – not solely of blood, but of self-made fate, fierce loyalty, and love – was about to be torn asunder.

Not that any mediation could have occurred to alter the outcome. Once a rift is opened, in flesh or between two divergent worlds, flow of blood seemingly staunched by a ripped band-aid of spell work, the canvas of unseen space is weakened forevermore; there’s no mending it without leaving scars.

Naive, deafened to words of reason by a smoldering rage and guilt, Jack needed to be led astray by Lucifier’s lies – a lesson of greed for power learned too late leaving the Nephilim cosmically impotent.

Nor can destiny itself be fully caged, although the details, like the plot of a story, may be altered in revision – a showdown of apocalyptic proportions between two sets of brothers was ordained by God to occur in Detroit, and so it did in the shadow of a church alter in darkness flattered faintly by the fragmented glow of stained-glass and violently unbridled grace.

And Dean, well, the righteous man was always going to say, “Yes,” to Michael; Fate deigned that archangels must be defeated by a designated sword, and she can be forestalled for only so long.

So much of who Castiel is, what he fell for, fought for, and believed in dwell on the foundation of free will. Sam and Dean served proof to him of one’s ability to defy fate and choose their own destiny time and time again. Emulating the brothers’ boldness, choosing humanity over Heaven, doubt dogged the angel’s every step; but through the doubt, the concept of having choice seemed certain to him until now.

Now, he wonders if Dean ever had a choice at all; or, if the march of years merely delayed the inevitable. The weight of death, destruction, pain – emotional and physical – the blood shed in the name of choice washed from his vessel’s hands yet nonetheless staining the calloused surface crimson as he stares down at where the palms limply spread in supplication on his knees, and the heavy regret muffling every beat of his angelic heart crumple the seraph’s frame where he sits on the map room stair.

“Cas?” The flutter of a black feather on the grey concrete floor at your feet, disturbed by your guardedly creeping movement around the corner, steals your focus as you peer into the library from the hall leading to the garage where you retreated with Mary and Bobby at Cas’ unyielding request when Michael stormed the bunker door.

Stooping, you pluck up the bedraggled plume in your fingertips; spying a bloodied mass of pulp at the end of the quill, you flinch and shrink back, fright tightening your throat. “Cas?” you repeat in a fear-stifled shout; glancing wildly beyond the strewn carnage of traumatically extricated feathers, books thrown from their shelves, and toppled tables and chairs, you see the angel’s silhouetted and unmoving figure slumped against the threshold. “Cas!” Lunging forward, tripping over a few stiff-spine tomes, you forget caution in favor of panic.

He stirs to look sideways as you near; stumbling down the stairs, you sink ungracefully next to him. You ignore the corpse of Michael’s meat suit in reclining repose against one of the far most pillars; it’s a sight that should be a relief, but nothing about Cas’ dampened blues and vacant gaze hollowed of hope remotely suggest a sense of relief; neither does the notable absence of the Dean.

The angel’s regard shifts slightly over your shoulder, chin somberly shaking at Mary and Bobby’s questioning faces where they followed in your frantic footsteps. You all half-hoped after Sam’s phone call saying he and Jack were alive, Lucifer was dead, and they couldn’t be sure of Dean because he disappeared with Michael, that perhaps against all odds Dean somehow returned to the bunker. The two hunters retreat in silence to give you space.

“What happened?” Reaching up, you brush a collection of unruly chestnut curls from Cas’ brow and compel his concentration to you.

Already pale lips crush into a taut line and blanch. Wet lashes lower and a subtle shiver of pain courses his vessel.

You mold a palm to the cool pallor of his cheek, swiping a thumb soothingly over the prickly skin.

He swallows the guilt girding his throat before speaking. “Dean said, ‘Yes.’ He let Michael in,” he pauses as if saying it aloud makes the reality infinitely more painful. Carrying blame for himself, his jaw tenses around an admission of defeat, “I couldn’t stop him. I couldn’t-” Leaning into the warmth of your touch, eyes closing, his voice chokes in grief, “I couldn’t even follow him.”

You suddenly understand the scattering of feathers and disarray of a struggle; Castiel tried to follow his friend in flight – tried with his whole heart in defiance of the damage to his wings, and failed. “Oh, angel.” Curling your fingers around his neck, you ease his head onto the pillow of your thighs. “It’s not your fault. It’s not anyone’s fault,” you reassure, softly whispering as brine freely brims his lids.

“Everything we worked for,” he says between sobs, “it was all for nothing. It’s impossible to escape fate. Dean is lost. This world … it’s lost.”

Tenderly cradling the angel, showering him in light caresses so he knows he isn’t alone, you let his emotion drain, waiting until the jagged shallow jolt of his breath quiets with deeper regularity. Gaze drifting to the high ceiling of your new home, the angel you love lying on your lap, a reflective smile cavorts your countenance at a thought which undulates your tongue in speech. “I used to believe a lot of things were impossible – alternate realities, loving angels, second chances – then I met you and all that changed.”

Shifting at the curious statement, he straightens to peer into your aspect.

Smile stretching, you continue, “Nothing is impossible, it just seems that way until a door you didn’t know was there opens and you see what’s on the other side. We’ll find the right door, Cas.”

“You really believe that?” The question is moot, divine being or otherwise, he intuits your conviction without asking.

“You’re my proof.”

Gloom-dim irises glide searchingly between your fondly smile-creased eyes and the mirror image of himself reflected as evidence within their lustrous pupils. Seeing his echo afloat in a soulful sea of belief, leaning in to trace salt-laced lips over the smiling swell of yours, he can’t help but begin to believe too.

[fidemcanem]

❛ ♡ ❜

send  ❛ ♡ ❜  to suddenly hug my muse // accepting

@lupiinee ---- cut for length (2k+)

T-3 DAYS

It’s a Monday morning.

Sirius’ body may be upright, but his soul is still in bed; he’s barely human by any recognisable functional standard. He dresses through sheer force of habit ---- James’ tie, Remus notices, and not his own, ends up around his neck, messily knotted and twisted to one side ---- but James merely snatches Sirius’ in return, so no harm done.

His eyes are half-open, sleep-heavy; he shuffles instead of expending the energy to raise each foot and let it fall again. He’s grumpy and he’s rumpled, and all somehow with that indefinable air of elegance that seems to seep from his pores. The tie, skewiff, manages to look like an artful statement of rebellion, rather than the result of stumbling fingers. His hair, unbrushed and still mussed from sleep, still falls in tasteful disarray that people might spend hours attempting to emulate.

(It is, Remus thinks, all rather unfair. Sirius has no regard for ordinary people, who have to tame their hair and straighten their clothes, and darn up their socks and manage to look passable where he looks ---- right.)

“Breakfast,” Remus says, in a soothing voice, like he’s talking to the dog and not to the boy. “C’mon. Bacon and tea and toast and marmalade.” Often, the promise of a good meal is all it takes to motivate Sirius. His table manners are shocking (a deliberate affront to his upbringing, no doubt, or perhaps it just hadn’t mattered much to Walburga to rebuke him when he was still a favoured son ---- too late now to change him, either way) and even a mouth full of food can’t shut him up, but at least he can be reliably tempted away from idiocy at any given moment with the promise of some chips.

Merlin knows where he puts it all; he’s certainly not growing.

This morning, though, it seems that even the Eden that is breakfast can’t penetrate the fog that is his brain. Sirius grumbles something indistinct under his breath, and half-turns as though to meander his way back to bed.

“Oi,” James says, and lobs a balled-up pair of socks with uncanny precision to smack Sirius right in the temple. He wobbles. “I’m hungry, you lumpy cushion. Let’s go.”

Remus takes pity on Sirius, whose hand rose to ward off the incoming sock-missile a full three or four seconds too late, pawing ineffectually at empty air after the injury had already been done. He takes Sirius by the shoulders, and turns him back towards the door that Pete has been holding open impatiently.

“Bacon, Padfoot” he says once more from behind Sirius, and steps close to wrap his arms around the shorter boy in a hug, using the embrace to shuffle him steadily towards the door. “Just think of the bacon.”

Sirius makes a noise that might be acquiescence or might just be defeat, and reaches up to clutch at Remus’ arm with clumsy fingers, and lets himself be guided, one swaying step at a time, towards breakfast.

T-2 DAYS

The tree they’re leaning against is their favourite; broad trunk and thick foliage provide a perfect and shady spot on summer days, and it’s far enough from the castle doors that it’s never too busy at lunchtimes and after school, a little too far for most to be considered convenient. Remus sits, idly shredded a leaf with his nails, watching James and Peter play exploding snap.

It’s impossible to predict who’ll be victorious. James has impeccable reactions, honed by years of quidditch, but a tendency to get distracted by Sirius, or Peter’s jibes. Peter’s got a good eye on him, and knows James well enough by now to exploit his weaknesses.

Though he prefers the sun ---- lounges in it, soaking it all up like he’s storing the heat to fuel that bright fire that burns inside him, drawing people inexorably towards him like moths in the night ---- Sirius is next to Remus, who knows full well that more than twenty minutes in the sun will leave him pink-red and tender on the bridge of his nose and across his cheeks.

It’s nice, the idle quiet punctuated only by the detonations of the cards and the cries of defeat from either James or Peter. Even Sirius seems to be quieter than usual, his laughing observations reserved to a few choice, teasing remarks.

Impulsively, Remus leans in towards Sirius, nestling close that they’re pressed close together all down one side: shoulder to elbow, elbow to forearm, and Sirius’ knee overlapping Remus’ thigh where he’s sitting cross-legged.

Sirius shifts into the touch, like Sirius always does ---- a boy who longs for nothing more than to human contact, affectionate touch, whose movements always account for the position of his friends, effortlessly solving the three-body problem to ensure a closeness to them all ---- and it seems only sensible for Remus to reach up and drape an arm across his shoulders to pull him closer still. Usually, it’s Sirius who drags Remus into a hug.

Now, with the tables turned, it’s clear to see that adjusting to fit himself into Remus’ arms is an effortless thing, for him. Remus wonders what that’s like: to be so confident of who you are to carve a space with such admirable ease for yourself anywhere you feel you ought to belong. His eyes are closed and his head his tipped back into Remus’ shoulder.

When his eyes open, the clear grey of them is startling in the summer sun, and there’s a smile curling at his lips, lifting one side of his face more than the other.

“Did you know you’ve a freckle under your chin?” Sirius asks, and reaches a finger up to poke gently at the alleged spot. Remus’ hand comes up to follow the touch, self-conscious of the soft warmth of Sirius’ touch. “I think I’ve got one there, too,” Sirius continues, conversationally, and cranes his head up to show Remus the long line of the column of his throat, summer-golden skin marred only by one or two dark freckles.

“So you do,” says, and pokes it in return; it seems the done thing.

“We match,” Sirius says, and there’s a tone of such satisfaction to his voice that Remus can’t help but wonder if, despite the shade, the tips of his ears are reddening anyway.

T-1 DAY

They’ve been camped out in this corner of the common room all evening, claiming it as their own. It’s got the squashiest armchair, Remus’ favourite, which Sirius had unceremoniously evicted a second-year from. He probably ought to feel bad, about that, but the best he could manage was a reassuring smile as the boy had reluctantly sloped away, and a grateful groan as he’d sunk into the cushions, which Sirius had magnanimously fluffed up for him, first.

It’s still a week until the full moon, but Remus is tired and a little stressed, and the ache in his bones is beginning to creep in and settle like a fine film ---- not enough to hurt, as such, but enough to make itself noticed. Enough to make him aware of each muscle in turn.

“Poor old man,” Sirius teases. “Ought to get you a walking stick. Why don’t you pop your teeth in a glass, and I can pre-chew your snacks for you.”

“You’re disgusting,” Remus remarks, dryly.

“You’re ungrateful,” comes the easy response. “Fine then; gum helplessly at everything. See if I care.” Remus feels like he ought to toss a pillow at Sirius, but is loathe to lose one of his. Peter thoughtfully solves the problem for him by smacking Sirius with one of the cushions from the sofa. There’s a brief, laughing scuffle, until Sirius flops onto the floor, leaning half against the sofa and half against James’ legs, shirt untucked and hair messy and legs stretched out in front of him.

They do absolutely nothing at all: not one of them is frantically trying to finish homework, not one of them is also reading a book, or playing wizard chess, or even talking to anyone else. It’s an evening just for the four of them, and they lounge and laze and talk about all sorts of nothing.

It’s only when the fire is dying low and the common room is mostly emptied that they stir from their little huddle. It’s Sirius first, levering himself up from the floor with a groan. His back pops audibly when he stretches his arms above his head, raising himself onto his toes like a puppet whose strings are all being pulled.

“Now who’s an old man,” Remus observes. James perks up at one of his favourite lines of teasing where Sirius is concerned.

“Geriatric old fart,” James joins in, happily. “Have to find you a nursing home, soon.”

“Don’t worry,” is Peter’s contribution. “We’ll take good care of you. Only the best.”

Sirius stretches again, reaching his hands out to each side and twisting his torso back and forth, as though he’s limbering up for something.

“Well,” he says when he’s done, arms dropping back down to his side. “As the eldest, and obviously the most mature,” ---- Remus snorts ---- “I’m for bed. You young hooligans can stay up late if you like, but I’ll be the one laughing in the morning.”

“Age before beauty,” James quips.

“And being sorely lacking in both, that puts you dead last,” Sirius fires back.

“Well, I’m going to,” Remus says firmly, because here’s a back-and-forth they’ve all heard a hundred times. Creative as those arguments might get, it’s too late to be putting up with now. Sirius offers him a hand and Remus takes it, letting Sirius pull him to his feet.

“Night, children,” Sirius grins, and Remus laughs a fond, despairing laugh, and they wander up to the dorm without James and Peter.

“All right?” Sirius asks, with false casualness, when he catches Remus absently massaging an aching shoulder with the heel of his hand before he gets into bed. He appears so abruptly in Remus’ vicinity that he might as well have apparated. There’s concern painted across his features, and he looks as though given half the chance, he’d personally tend to Remus’ every ache and pain in any way he could think of. His face is very intent and very serious, and he looks at Remus with an intensity that almost burns.

“I’m fine,” Remus answers, just like he always does. And then, because Sirius is not always so easily reassured, he pulls him into a brief hug. It’s slightly alarming, the choked-off, strangled noise that Sirius makes, and Remus ducks behind the hangings on his bed, unsure what it might signify.

T-0 DAYS

“----and I suppose it would have made sense if they’d been presenting a strong opposition, but they could barely hold a formation together. What’s the point in using your keeper offensively if the rest of you aren’t even making an effort, I ask you?”

James and Sirius are lounging, as they often do, on the same bed. All squashed up and tangled together. Sirius is a little less vocal than usual, letting James do most of the talking, but James is more than happy to fill the silence with talk of his latest quidditch match.

“----don’t you think?” Sirius tunes back in with a small hm? and blinks owlishly as he tries to remember what James was talking about. He apparently fails, and James is left a little baffled when his friend reaches over to grab his face, one palm on each cheek, and look into his eyes with a desperation that’s frankly alarming.

“James, I want to kiss Remus,” he says, faintly. All he can think about is the way Remus had hugged him last night, hands sliding around his waist and head ducked to tuck against his neck, and the tickle of breath that had wrought a surprised, yearning noise from him that he’s fairly sure he’d been unable to hide. He’d barely slept, after that, lying there in the dark and feeling like a traitorous pervert for thinking about Remus’ hands on him, on what it might be like for those long fingers to brush against bare skin instead of his shirt.

His next word is low and pathetic and spoken with all the meaning he can muster: “Help.”

[dreams-of-wings]

Out of Your Time (2/?)

Warnings: Swearing and some violence

Masterlist

‘Thump’

'Thump’

'Sploch’

Both your eyes follow the sound of foot steps to the other side of the arcade machines lined up in a row - probably the only thing keeping the monster from finding the both of you, and the only thing keeping you alive right now. Will doesn’t dare open the door out of fear that the noise may alert the creature to your exact location. Slowly, you turn to look at Will and bring your index finger to your lips, motioning for him to keep quiet. The little boy swallows thickly and nodes his head, eyes darting between you and the spot the noise stopped. You quietly take one step back towards Will, and then another, then another, till you’re a few inches away from him.

There’s a growling noise and the two of you brisle, afraid the monster has caught on to where you’re at. The both of you pause for a moment, waiting to see if anything happens. When nothing does, you turn to look at Will you motion from yourself to the arcade machine infront of the creature. He looks at you with scared eyes and shakes his head while mouthing a silent 'no’. You simply nod in response and point from him to the door.

“When I go,” you whisper quietly - pointing from yourself to the arcade machine then from him to the door, “you go.” Will shakes his head frantically, the fear visible in his eyes. Using your fingers you count down from three.

Three.

You turn to face the arcade machine blocking your view of the Death Flower.

Two.

The hand holding on to the handle of your machete clenches, turning your knuckles white while Will’s hands do the same with the door knob.

There’s a gurgling sound coming from behind the game machine.

One.

You run to the machine and slam into it shoulder first, causing the electronic to topple over from the force and fall onto the monster. It gives a loud screech and flails, in that second you stumble - almost falling with the machine, but you catch yourself before turning to look at the door. You see Will is gone and you immediately sprint to the door, shoving it open and slamming it shut, just in time to see Will turn a corner around the arcade building. Without a moment’s hesitation you follow and easily catch up to him with your longer legs.

The two of you run and run till you see a two story house with a driveway the goes around the back. Patches of brick wall peak though the rot in the first story, and half of the white painted wood is exposed on the second floor.

“C'mon!” Will pulls you by the arm towards the front door and he lifts up the welcome mat to pull out a key. He then quickly unlocks the door and shoves it open - you following not too far behind before he closes the door and locks it from the inside.

“Mike,” he calls out, “Nancy!?” There’s no answer.

“Friends of yours?”

Mike looks at you and nods, “Well, Mike is. Nancy is his older sister.” You nod in reply and look around the vacant home.

“You know it’s just us right,” you question with a raised brow. You really didn’t want to burst this kids bubble, but you also didn’t want him to get his hopes up.

“That’s what you thought, but here I am,” Will stated plainly with a shrug.

Fair point.

The two of you looked around the house for any signs of life. While Will searched the rooms for any clue that his friend was here, you raided the fridge. Only taking things that wouldn’t spoil easily and putting them in your satchel - apples, carrots, Jello, and some bottles of water. You were just moving to the pantry when Will came from upstaires, “What are you doing?”

You paused, bag open and can opener in hand, “Stocking up,” you went back to your forging - placing a can if beans and some SPAM in your bag, “We don’t know when’s the next time we will be able to find food.” He nodded in understanding before helping, placing some items in his school bag.

“Why don’t we stop by the store?”

“We will,” you don’t bother looking at him as you continue to reorganize the pantry in search of more nonperishables, “But the store should be our last resort.”

“Why?” His brows furrowed in confusion.

“Because,” you closed the door before going to situate your findings, “at least we know there will always be food for us at the store, if we go through the houses first we can ration what’s at the store later.” His brows furrowed, taking in what you said as he finished organizing his backpack - emptying it of school supplies and replacing them with cans and containers of food.

“But,” you interjected, “Now that I think about it,” you close your satchel and sling it over your shoulder, “After this we’ll go to the store and leave everything there,” you moved to help him put the backpack on, “then we’ll go see what we can find at the other houses and do the same.”

“So the market will be like a storehouse for food?” Will turned to look at you, jumping slightly and jossling his bag to make the contents rest more comfortably on his back. You smiled in response and nodded your head.

Smart Kid.

“Yes, exactly like a storehouse,” you raised your hand to ruffle his hair affectionately, “But that means we’ll have to go through the perishables before we get to the canned food, so we have to eat the fruits and vegetables first.” His face scrunched up in response.

“I know,” you laughed slightly,“Yuck, but we have to eat that stuff first to make the food last longer.” Hesitantly, Will nodded - he didn’t like it, but he understood the reasoning. The two of you head out, with Will leading the way and you following close behind - machete drawn.

It took the two of you about half an hour to get to the foodmart - though to you, it felt like forever since you had no idea where you were going. Once you were there you examined the condition of the store. The place looked rundown and abandoned, just like all the other buildings, but the glass doors infront seemed to be in the best condition.

Will lead you to the door and attempted to get it open by waving his hands. He seemed perplexed, why wasn’t it opening?

'Crash!’

You threw a large rock through the tall glass door and it shatters. Will jumps nearly a foot in the air, before turning to look at you with a shocked expression, “What are you thinking!?”

“That there’s no electricity, so the automatic doors aren’t going to open,” you walk forward, stepping over the black door frame and shattered glass as you head inside - Will quickly following on your heels.

The twelve-year-old brings a hand to his mouth to stifle a yawn, but you glance back at him in time to see it.

“Tired?”

Will nods.

You bet, you yourself have not gotten a good night’s sleep in a while - just short naps here and there.

“Tell ya’ what,” you sling your bag off your shoulder and plop it on to the nearest checkout counter, “as soon as we’re done unpacking this food,” you dump the contents of your bag, “You can take us somewhere safe to sleep.”

Will stared at the pile for a moment, and then brightened as soon as he caught on, “I know just where to take us!” He dumped the goods on the counter as well before bolting to the door, and you stumble to keep up with him.

“Slow down!”

You hear a garbled roar in the distance and the both if you stagger, looking back in the direction it came from.

You reiterate, “Don’t slow down!”

Both you and the boy make a mad dash in whatever direction Will is taking you, “It shouldn’t be that far! It’s just up ahead!”

You huff, and look past Will to see a one story house in the distance. It rested on top of a small slope and had a wide front porch that spanned from one end of the home to the other. Will scrambled to a halt once he reached the door, you nearly crashing into him as he looked around before picking up a small potted plant next to the door to reveal yet another spare key.

You raise a questioning brow, “Another friend of yours?” Will nods his head in responce.

“Except this friend has a cellar with a steel door,” he glanced back at you, a somewhat smug smile plastered on his face, “With a steel lock and padlock, So we should be safe down there.”

“Not bad,” you made a face and gave a nod of approval, “Not bad at all.” The two of you stepped in and looked around - out of habbit - to make sure no one was home before closing the door behind you and locking it. Immediately, you made a beeline for the kitchen and proceeded to go through the fridge and pantry. Will wandered off somewhere in the house (you assumed to his friends room) before coming back a few minutes later with a small stack of board games. You paused, can of pudding halfway into your bag as you looked at the palefaced boy with an arched brow.

“What’re those?”

A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips, “Board games.”

The two of you situated yourselves in Dustin’s cellar for the night. You both made sure all the doors leading into the house were locked and barricaded with with various pieces of furniture - sofas, the coffee table, stools, and whatever else you could find.

“Okay, now it’s your turn,” Will was currently trying to teach you how to play Dungeons and Dragons - a watered down version of it.

“No now it’s time for you to sleep,” you shook your head and Will pouted in responce.

“Why can’t I just stay up with you?”

You snicker, “Because we have to rest and we need to take turns, so that if the monster comes one of us can wake up the other.” Will simply nodded in response, shifting into his sleeping bag before turning his back to you. A small smile on your face as you watched the boy for a few minutes till his breathing slowed. With a deep sigh, you reached for your worn satchel and pulled it towards you, before opening it and pulling your phone out. It looked dingy - the glass screen protector was cracked in various places and the casing around the electronic was beginning to peel around the edges. You were certine that if you removed the protector, dirt and grime would be caked around the inside if the rubber case. After a moment, you turn the cell on - the screen flickering to life as the logo of your phone company appeared before your lock screen is displayed.

A sad smile etched its way onto your face as you looked at the wallpaper of you and your friends all smiling at the camera. Silently, you wonder how everyone is doing back home. You wonder if Jughead and Betty are doing okay, if they’ve caught the Black Hood yet, if Jug’s father has made it out of jail, and if Archie has managed to say that infamous three word phrase to Ronnie yet: I love you. You then unlock your phone and open up your apps, making your way to your gallery where you swipe through various pictures of friends, family, and important moments. You take in a sharp, shakey breath - vision blurring for a brief moment before clearing up, and you feel a small draft on your cheeks. Slightly confused, you raise your free hand to wipe your face and find that your hand is wet. Wonderful, you’re crying.

You sniffle, glancing up at Will in hopes that you hadn’t woken him. When you see that he’s still fast asleep, you pull out you headphones from your bag and plug them in as you play Imagine Dragons - being sure to only put one earbud in and keep the volume low so you could hear your surroundings. Another drawn out sigh leaves your lips as you tilt your head back against the wall. You stare at the ceiling for you don’t know how long, but you jump when you feel a hand on yours. Your head quickly snaps down to look at the young boy and he jumps slightly from your sudden movement.

“I can’t sleep anymore, your turn?”

You looked down at your phone to see how much time had passed since Will went to sleep and you were reminded that your phone’s clock was stopped. You huffed before looking back at Will and nodding your head, pulling the other earbud out. Battery at 15%.

“What are those?”

You glanced up at Will, “Headphones.” His head jerked back, brows knitting close together.

“Headphones?”

You laughed at his response. Yes, that’s right, almost all electronics around in his time would have been large and bulky.

“Yeah, but we call these kinds, earbuds,” you held the small headphones out to him and he took them in his hands, examining them curiously.

“Earbuds?” He turned them around and held them up in the air - taking in their shape, “Buds as in flower buds? They’re shaped like them…” He was rambling now and you couldn’t help but giggle at his reaction.

“Sure.”

He looked at you after a moment, “Can I listen?” You glance down at your phone before nodding and handing him the small electronic as he slowly places the earbuds in his ears before carefully taking the phone. Will quietly looks down at the bright screen for a moment and examines it, not quite sure what to do.

“How do I make it play?” He looked perplexed, the screen took up almost the entirety of the front and he couldn’t see anybuttons other than one in the center at the bottom. You laugh a bit before leaning forward to look over the screen.

“It’s touch-screen,” you say as you swipe up and down with a finger, scrolling through the various playlists. His eyes widen in shock before he taps the play button in the screen with his free hand and Demons by Imagine Dragons begins to play where you left off.

I want to hide the truth

I want to shelter you

But with the beast inside

There’s nowhere we can hide.

Will smiles and bobs his head slightly to the music as the chorus begins to play, you watch him as you head over to settle into the sleeping bag - a smile on your face as well.

No matter what we breed

We still are made of greed

This is my kingdom come

This is my kingdom come.

“I like it,” he says excitedly to no one in particular as the music continues to blare through the speakers of the earbuds.

When you feel my heat

Look into my eyes

It’s where my demons hide

It’s where my demons hide.

“I’m glad,” you yawn, though you know he can’t hear you since he has both headphones in. You watch him while you lay on your side, his smiling face illuminated by the screen as you slowly drift to sleep.

Don’t get too close

It’s dark inside

It’s where my demons hide

It’s where my demons hide.

Battery at 12%.

[holdon-a-minute]

As Time Repeats

Chapter II

Gone

"Hello I'm here to report a missing person."

"Okay slow down Madame, what's the name of this person?"

"Renae Cruzette."

"And your name?"

"Alice Cruzette."

~~~~

She pries her heavy eyelids to open, a pounding rattling Renae's skull making the struggle even more difficult. A painful moan escapes her lips but it only sounds an alarm in her head, her ears screeching in pain and an absurd ache searing through her mind. As she slowly and shakily lifts her body up off the damp, concrete floor to rest on her grazed hands and knees, her consciousness awakens all in one daunting flood and the survival instincts kick in. Renae scrambles to her feet surrounded by darkness—cold, empty darkness—the only slither of daylight visible from a barred window that's barely reachable from the ceiling.

Once she's taken in her environment, which is just a concrete box with no visible door and a tiny window, all of the questions start to stampede in. Where is she? Why is she here? Why did Clemence do this? Was she planning to take Renae all along? Has she really been kidnapped? And if so, how was she going to get out?

It didn't take long for Renae to start to lose hope after a full night in obsidian, oblivious, freezing, hungry and weak still trying to claw down the walls encaging her or find some way out. Her head is a mess. Twenty-four hours have barely passed and she's already began to lose her mind to the dark cloud of fear creeping up her neck, surely but slowly starting to possess all thoughts that cross her mind at two-hundred miles per hour. There was no knowing what was to happen to Renae down here, and she'd scraped at every inch of her skull to snatch at that solution, but her hands were slippy with sadness and she just couldn't think straight.

She's slumped against the wall, her knees to her face and her arms loosely hugging her bruised legs. Renae lifts up her battered head to reveal her red, blotchy eyes from tears that seemed to burn her face like lava trickling down a smooth mountain edge. Mourning in the moonlight, she whimpers in her grace, her blue lips trembling as she whispers aloud, "How did I even get here?" utterly dumbfounded. She knows that whoever locked her poor soul away in here used some force to launch her into this demented wreck of a place, evidence being the black and blue bruises that snake their way up Renae's whole left side of her body.

Maybe she was dropped.

Her body sulkily follows Renae's demands to stretch up and stand in the centre of the box as she peers up at the ceiling. And only now, as if she has been blind ever since she woke up, Renae can see clear as day the faint lines creating a large square right above her head. Her throat tenses up as realisation dawns on her, and Renae frantically starts to search for a way to get up. Scarcely reaching, she manages to brash her fingertips along the edge of the barred windowsill and finds a sharp slice of slate. She grips it tight in between her teeth, and begins jumping as hard as she can to grasp hold of the thick metal bars. Now dangling about two feet from the ground, Renae plants the flats of her feet firmly against the wall and walks her way up as far as possible. But as she turns to face the centre of the room again, her arm jolts, and a bar slips from its held positions. "Sh-t!" the slate muffles her exclamation.

Almost slipping back down the wall, Renae uses all of the little arm strength she has to yank and yank on the loose bar before she falls or someone hears her. It pops out, and she struggles her way through the gap, having to scrape and lean on her bruised side to fit. "Arrgh!" she lets out a strained, strangled noise and rolls down a small grass slope. The gentle breeze somewhat calms her as it caresses Renae's cheeks. She is outside. And she runs.

~~~~

Cold metal bar still in hand, teeth bearing in a snarl of anger and self-defence, and no sense of morality comprehendible until she is safe. She runs like no other, her mix of emotions getting washed away as the wind whips at her flesh. Where she is, Renae does not know, but she's racing alongside a huge, old brick building in an open, soft meadow where the grass tickles her calves. The building is just as much a box as the solid room she just escaped from, this wall running a mile long and half a mile up.

Adrenaline still coursing through her veins, Renae slows and steadies herself once she reaches the corner of the building. She peaks round the bend, and sure enough, there's the main entrance and an armed man guarding it repeatedly pacing back and forth. She spots a fairly busy country road about another two-hundred yards off, and a guy stood on the edge of the field—with his pulled-over, keys-in-ignition Renault—bellowing in pure frustration down his phone. The cogs start clicking in Renate's brain, as she watches for a minute and pieces together her escape; the guard is distracted by the fuming businessman on the side of the road, and she uses this to her advantage.

She swiftly but smoothly rounds the corner on crouched legs, silently stalking up to the guard while his back is turned and his eyes are fixated on the livid man, until she's close enough to bound onto his back—reaching for the handgun strapped to his right hip with her free hand—sending both of them barrelling forward face-first into the dry earth. Without thinking, she jumps to her feet and pulls. Pulls again.

And he's dead. No sound was made. Silencer, she notes. But one handgun is not enough for what she's been dragged into now, so she takes his long gun too. Renae starts to plod forward, taking a mere second to look back at the murdered guard before belting straight for the rearing and ready-to-go Renault. She's about to snarkly comment, "Perfect timing," as she slides into the driver's seat, but is held back as an alarm more like a war siren sounds melancholically in the distance, cutting off her devilish train of thoughts.

"Hey! What are you doing!" He drops his phone.

"Music to my ears," Renae slyly murmurs in response, like a serpent stinging all feelings with every slurred hiss, mainly to the piercing noise coming from the old building rather than the snarling businessman. She slams the car door and pushes the simple engine to drive. As fast as is can go. Just to get her anywhere but here.

~~~~

Renae finds herself back in Paris, the whole drive from the unknown to streets she can recognise a blur. Sometimes her flawless sense of direction really does come in handy. She speeds through the avenues of her estate, her aunty's house standing out like a pink elephant in a parade. She cannot peel her eyes away from the black front door, the closed white blinds in the windows, the folded newspaper thrown into the little yard, the neatly shut metal gate, the rough brown shoe mat on the little step. Her home, her bed just behind that wall, Alice sat snuggled up with a blanket and a mug of coffee on the couch, the ancient grand clock in the porch, that one creek in the stair, the soft fairy lights hung in the study, the old brown leather desk chair that smells of musk and cigarettes, the spider that's been living on the corner of the kitchen doorframe for weeks now, the chip in the wooden banister, the red wine stain on the countertop, all the miniscule things that bring tears to well up in her eyes, all the things that bring this clammy, nauseous feeling to settle about her. All the things that make Renae homesick.

But she cannot deal with that now, she can't face Alice in this state, in this brain-fogging mess. She carries on driving, to the next best place she thinks she can find answers. She scowls at the thought, "Millbruery Lane."

She parks some distance away, another narrow alleyway off the main road, and hides the long gun underneath her seat, tucking the metal bar and handgun into the band of her dark jeggings. Her loose-fit hoodie covers the odd shapes they create on her lower back, just like in the movies. Walking rigidly, all wrong and out of place, she heads down the lane she knew would make her feel like a ghost reliving a memory out of her physical body. The stores right along the bottom of the attached buildings are still magnificent to the eye, cafes still sit with intricate metal table and chairs outside, hanging baskets spread throughout are filled with rather dull, delicate flowers, antique shops still showcase their treasures in the wide window each store possesses, and the cobbled floor beneath is now as dry and gritty as the bark on a tamarisk tree in the Sahara desert.

Renae simply stands and peers at her surroundings, puzzled and pale, not quite knowing what she thought she would find here other than a feeling of fear and anxiety she never believed could be comprehendible by one human being. Still limping, she paces a full three-sixty spin, too truly scared to do much else as the realness of everything starts seeping in. "Wait..." she hushes, rushing to get the word out before she loses the thought again.

*Ding ding*

Her phone, she remembers. She took her phone and threw it behind her back whilst stood with a gun pointed to her face. Clemence's gun. She searches desperately along the floor, finding it convenient that she happened to just hear it go off. There, tucked behind a plant pot, is her her glossy black phone in all its glory, shining like the sun, like a shooting star promising Renae a wish, lighting up hope in the deep dark night. But the only thing her phone promises her is a message from an unknown private number. She opens it, barely prepared for the video she finds, not any bit ready to play it, and utterly too innocent for the horrors she watches.

~~~~

A black and white screen, speckly, blurred. Showing two separate rooms, side by side. Concrete. Dark. No doors, only an open barred window. A woman comes into view on the left-side room. Panic-struck. Stressed. Using her hands to comb back her long bouncy curls. A woman comes into view on the right-side room. More exhausted looking. Like the panic has settled down now. Until she starts to climb up the wall, pulling herself up by the barred window. She's tearing down down her exit. Her escape. Struggling until she's out of the cameras view. But as she finds her way out into the open, free, the woman on the left-side is met face to face with a man fitted in black. Head to toe. Identity indescribable. And as she backs up, fearful, she's ruthlessly forced up against the wall. Showering dark liquid everywhere, as she's shot twice in the skull. Blackness.

~~~~

"...No," Renae whimpers, "Oh no...no no no no no. Please. Oh...Alice!" She buckles over, face growing paler by the second until its true olive undertone is gleaming through. Dropping the phone, she turns to the public bin beside the large plant and doubles over again. Throwing up, hyperventilating, choking, sweating, getting dizzy, feeling limp. Numb. She twists and crashes to the floor, her back bumped up against the bin. Renae slowly wails in her weak state. She sits strangely on the floor—her head hung forward and her limbs hanging loose—and quietly but fiercely sobs. She sobs and she cries and she feels overwhelmingly grief-stricken.

Still hyperventilating, she almost chokes every time she tries to breathe in-between her involuntary snivelling, and she would have stayed this way—crying helplessly on the floor and letting herself cripple until she dies—if it weren't for the young man who stops to ask, "Miss...what has happened?"

Renae glances up, shocked to feel back in reality and in touch with the bustling life surrounding her. A man stands straight in front of her, tilting his neck to study her at a better angle. He wears a navy knit jumper paired with a plaid shirt underneath, stylish skinny jeans and a huge professional camera slung around his shoulder. It doesn't take Renae long to recognise his wavy black hair, deep blue eyes and curious persona. "Don't fucking move," her face reduces to cold stone, she pulls out her silencer and cocks it like she's done this a thousand times before.

Steadily, she stands, and keeps her trembling hand aimed right at the man's heart. "Woah!" he throws his arms up in innocence, "I'm sorry! I was just trying to help. Where did you get that?" He refers to the weapon in her grasp.

"You." He only stares guiltily at her. "You were taking photographs of me in the...the café. Why did you do that?" She steps intimidatingly closer, pressing the gun against his lean chest, "What do you want with me? Who are you? Who do you work with? Why did you do that? Why did you do that you sick son of a bitch!" Renae bellows out her last question, full of force and raw hatred, the same words as her two previous questions but utterly different in every way.

"What I, I, I...just do it for fun I didn't—I don't mean to, to offend...Miss. It is just a beautiful café to shoot in, and you were so carelessly...glowing I, I, I...couldn't not quickly snap the, the opportunity up...Miss..."

"Don't fucking lie to me. I've got a bullet about to put you six feet under and you try to fucking lie to me. Tell me what you were doing!" She's now got him plastered up against the wall.

"Alright! Okay okay," he cowers, "I could sense your powers' strength. It was radiating. It was immense."

Renae blinks a couple of times, bewildered, "Stop playing games with me, you fool," and grips his jumper with her free hand to shake him violently, then shove him back up against the wall.

"No! I'm being serious! I have this family heirloom that's been passed down for years, and it allows anybody who knows how to unlock it to see if someone is currently using magic or if they're even Thaumaturge at all. It's called seeing 'Inside out'."

"What are you on...you disgusting fuck?!" Renae releases him from her grasp and backs up a little.

"Wait look! I'll show you," he replies making her flinch and lock her arms into pointing the gun at his head as he reaches into a hidden pocket in his jacket, revealing a small, transparent sphere.

"It's a goddamned fucking marble!" She's aggravated now, and getting impatient.

But he ignores her dangerous temper, and carries on to softly breathe the word onto the orb, "Édisper..."

~~~~

All in one magnetic wave, the alleyway becomes a little brighter and a little hazier around them. Renae is jolted towards the photographer guy, forcefully pulled by no one in particular, and she claws at the jumper on his bicep, "What did you do?" But they're both distracted from the question as the dainty doorbell in the antique shop rings ten times louder than it should do behind them, and gradually a woman hops out. But she isn't hopping, she's walking in slow motion, like she's on her way to a party on the moon. Renae watches her for a solid minute, the man watching Renae for a reaction, and she's too focused on how strangely she's strolling that she completely misses the warm pink glow the woman's emitting, until it's too late and she rounds the corner.

Renae spins back around to face the man, but looks directly over his shoulder as she spots two more people strolling in slow motion. "Why are they doing that? Is he...glowing? What did you do? Turn these lights off!" She looks up into the sky, trying to find the lights this guy must have switched on.

"Uhm," he coughs.

"You're glowing!" But alls he does in response is obviously do a once-over on Renae with a raised eyebrow, "I'm...glowing? Have you drugged me?! Why have you made my glow black?" she asks him, more confused than angry now.

"I haven't made you anything, I've simply allowed us both to see what is already there. If a person is letting off that pink, wavy glow, it means they're Thaumaturge. If you see pale green in there too it means they're currently using magic. It kind of looks like the Northern Lights, you know? Oh! Look there! See? He's using magic to tie his shoelaces while he's on the phone." And he was. There was a man walking steadily, not taking a glance at his feet, while his right hand is holding his phone to his ear and his left hand is slowly twisting and turning in mid-air, tying his shoelaces from afar.

"What...? That doesn't explain why I'm blazing blackness," Renae pushes, slightly worried to listen to any more this mad man says.

"Well, that's exactly why I was taking photos of you. I don't know...I've never seen anything like it. At all."

"So let me get this clear, magicians are actually magic? And you have this...family heirloom that lets you see which people are magicians and if they're currently using...magic."

"Well...yes."

She chuckles, "Why should I believe anything you're saying, because it all sounds like a load of bullshit right now just to postpone your death?"

"Magic. What is the magic we believe? And what is the magic we see? For thousands of years, we read of fairies and wizards and goblins, and people believed. Yet how many of us will see a stand-up illusionist and not believe their capabilities at all? You're seeing it with your own eyes right now Miss, and I haven't touched a hair on your head, how could I have drugged you?"

"I...I don't know," Renae whispers in defeat, ashamed and confused and in so much shock, "Take us out of this," that when the man sucks them back into the dull movements of reality, Renae's body shuts down and she completely loses consciousness.

[artificialqueens]

little light (8/8) (Trixya) - Elissa

A/N: The last part of that one where Katya is Trixie’s brother’s friend.

Chapter warnings: smut, body worship, biting

(full fic on ao3 at yekaterinunhhhh, come visit me on tumblr at tempfixeliza)

The girls head back to the food court, late but walking up to the table at the same time as Farrah and Adore. Adore’s hair is messier than it was before and Farrah’s blouse is wrinkled, but they’re a respectable distance apart, a bag from the sporting goods store hanging between them. Trixie tries not to laugh and Katya hooks her pinky through Trixie’s, shooting her a small smirk.

“You guys ready to go home?” Trixie asks.

They both nod and the group goes back to the car, the evening air thankfully much more temperate than when the sun was high in the afternoon. The sun sets over the highway in front of them as they’re driving home, this time with Adore’s phone hooked up and playing through the speakers.

Trixie drops Adore at her house and then Farrah, and then she’s heading around the block to Katya’s and pulling into her empty driveway.

“I need to go home and talk to my mom,” she murmurs when Katya laces their fingers together over the center console.

“That’s fine, I need to clean up a bit anyway.”

“An hour?” Trixie squeezes Katya’s hand.

Katya squeezes back, a smile on her face. “An hour.”

Trixie drives home, mind racing. She doesn’t know what to wear. She doesn’t know what to pack. She doesn’t know what she’s doing.

Trixie talks to her mom, telling her that she’s staying at Kim’s for the night and not to wait up. Her mother just nods, waves a hand at her from the recliner where she’s watching Wheel of Fortune.

The overnight bag she packs makes a soft thud when she drops it in the passenger seat of the car. She pops her mix CD into the player and Dolly Parton starts crooning.

“Your touch is as soft as the words you speak to me,” Trixie sings along, letting the song calm her nerves momentarily.

Any calm she had been holding onto falls out onto the pavement when she opens her door to step out of the car.

As Trixie makes her way up the driveway to Katya’s house, her heart thumps hard against her ribcage. The small, square house in front of her gave off a sense of warmth – pale yellow siding with dove grey shutters hanging next to the windows. She laughs when she realizes that the door is an icy blue shade - nearly the same shade as the matching bra and panty set she had rushed to put on under her loose shift dress. Trixie decides to take it as a good omen.

She admires the bright flowers in the window box as she presses against the doorbell, hearing it ringing out through the house. It doesn’t seem likely from their past interactions, but Trixie is hoping that Katya doesn’t laugh in her face at her inexperience. Now that Katya knows, Trixie is even more nervous about her first time.

The door swings open and Trixie has trouble catching her breath. Katya is standing in front of her, hair still in her usual messy waves but now they’re cascading over her shoulders, tumbling onto an oversized white t-shirt. A pair of thigh-high stockings peek out from the bottom hem. Her eyes trail up to the neck of the shirt, where it’s stretched out and falling off of one shoulder, the skin there is so smooth, so tan, and it leads up so beautifully to the tendons on her neck and - oh no.

She’s said something and Trixie was so busy being overwhelmed with attraction that she hasn’t listened. And there’s Katya, staring at Trixie expectantly, taking her overnight bag and setting it to the side, moving half a step to let her into the house.

Trixie stumbles when the toe of her sandal gets caught on the welcome mat, her arms reaching out as she tries to find her balance. Katya grabs Trixie’s forearms near the elbow, keeping her from tumbling to the floor with her strong arms under hers. Trixie is fairly certain she’s red all the way up to her hairline, she’s so embarrassed, and she manages to stutter out an apology as she rights her footing.

“No, don’t apologize,” Katya pushes a stray curl behind Trixie’s ear. “Are you alright? You’re not, like, hurt or anything?”

Trixie shakes her head, hand trailing down Katya’s arm to her fingers as she moves to close the front door.

“And you’re like - you’re sure about this? About us?” Katya is pulling Trixie over the plush carpeting to the sofa, situating so they’re sitting at the edge of the couch, turned in toward each other, knees bumping against knees.

Trixie takes a quick glance around the small living room - a decent sized tv playing a rerun of Friends , a coffee table swathed in magazines with pictures of cars and brides on the cover, a recliner pushed into the corner. This isn’t the place she’d imagined having this conversation.

“I’m sure, yeah,” she nods. Katya tilts her head slightly, as if second-guessing Trixie’s level of enthusiasm. Trixie prays that Katya takes her at her word without asking for more.

She doesn’t know how to say more without giving up everything, without admitting that she’s never been more sure about anyone than she is about Katya.

“Alright,” Katya reaches for Trixie’s ice-cold hands, takes both of them in hers and rubs her warm thumbs across her knuckles. “Is there anything I should know? Anything you’re worried about?”

Trixie could cry right now, for a lot of reasons. She could cry because her heart is squeezing with anxiety and embarrassment, she could cry because the nick on the back of her knee she’d gotten while shaving still hurts a bit and she can’t stop wondering if Katya will notice. But most of all, she could cry because Katya’s eyes are so soft, her face so concerned and attentive.

Trixie has had this conversation before, mostly with her ex-girlfriend, has sat and backed out of her first time more times than she’d care to admit, and she had never looked at her the way Katya is right now. She isn’t used to attention like this, not at all.

“Um, I don’t think so, just can we… like, take it slow, I guess?”

“Of course we can. And you can always ask me to stop, if things are going too far or if you don’t like something. I just want to make you feel comfortable,” Katya squeezes Trixie’s hands. “I just want to make you feel good.”

Trixie smiles at Katya, turning her hands around to lace their fingers together. She stands, Katya’s assertion emboldening her movements, and tugs Katya up by her hands.

“Come on, then,” Trixie giggles, “Make me feel good.”

Katya grins, leaning up to press a kiss to Trixie’s lips before leading her down the hall. Trixie’s sandals make shuffling noises against the carpet and she looks down, follows Katya and her stocking feet into her bedroom.

The room itself is small, like the rest of the house, a queen sized bed pushed into one corner. The white duvet is a little rumpled, and Trixie can picture Katya rolling out of bed and half-heartedly yanking the bedding back where it belongs. There’s a desk along the opposite wall, a few polaroids hanging over the dark wood with tiny clothespin shaped clips from a length of twine.

It makes sense to Trixie, that Katya’s room is small and mostly neat (aside from a few pieces of clothing on the floor near the hamper) with tiny touches of personality. She can see a set of matryoshka dolls is lined up on the windowsill, a tapestry draped on the wall over Katya’s bed, the lamp on her bedside table sleek and modern but with a tiny hand attached to the end of the pull chain.

Trixie is hovering in the doorway, not quite sure how to proceed until Katya sits on the edge of the bed and beckons her over with a crook of her finger. Trixie slides her sandals off and pads softly over to stand in front of Katya, who pushes her own knees apart to make room for Trixie to stand between them.

And then Katya is looking up at Trixie like she hung the stars in the sky, resting her hands gently on Trixie’s thighs and beaming up at her like she’s the only person she has ever seen. Trixie’s palms are a bit damp now, a fluttering nervous feeling in her abdomen. Katya pushes Trixie’s dress up, over her hips until the skin is exposed up to her belly button

“You’re an angel,” she murmurs, pressing a kiss against the curve of Trixie’s soft stomach. She lifts her dress further and Trixie takes over where Katya’s arms can’t reach anymore, sliding the dress off and letting it fall to the floor.

Trixie is in front of Katya almost naked and she can feel her heart in her throat. Her bra is a little snug around her ribs, the light blue lace of the cups unlined.

Katya stands, lifting her shirt over her head and dropping it next to Trixie’s dress. Her small breasts are bare and Trixie can’t keep her eyes off of her lean stomach, the gentle sloping lines that lead to the waistband of her black lace underwear.

She moves behind Trixie, sweeping her long curls over one shoulder and leaning down to kiss the other. Trixie lets her head fall to the side as Katya’s hot lips work their way up her neck, her fingers reaching for the clasp of Trixie’s bra and deftly unhooking it. She trails her fingers down Trixie’s back, over her hips, and circles around Trixie again to stand in front of her.

When Trixie drops the lace bra to the floor, Katya is mesmerized and leans forward to close the gap between them. She traces her fingers over the faint pink lines left behind on Trixie’s ribcage from the band of the bra, watching as goosebumps rise across the flesh of her full breast.

Katya’s lips meet hers and the tension in her shoulders dissolves. Trixie kisses her back eagerly, lets her hands wander up her spine and tangle into her hair.

She’s got Katya this time; it’s not rushed and frantic like the encounter in the dressing room, it’s slow and easy and Trixie can feel Katya’s small breasts pressed against her own, she swears she can feel her heart beating where their skin is touching. Katya is real, tangible, she’s really here under Trixie’s fingers, under her lips, and Trixie feels like the sun is shining on her face.

Then Katya is guiding her backward to the bed, lips following a path down her neck and chest while Trixie’s back meets the cool duvet. Trixie whimpers when Katya’s teeth graze her breast, warmth pooling in her stomach, and lips are wrapped around her nipple. Trixie’s head falls back against the pillows and she brings a hand back to tug lightly at Katya’s hair.

Katya kisses her way back to the spot just below Trixie’s ear, nips at her earlobe lightly as her fingers ghost over her now-sensitive nipple.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” she says quietly, and Trixie smiles and lets her short nails scrape over the nape of Katya’s neck.

She had been nervous, walking in earlier, but Katya is treating Trixie like she’s holy and Trixie can’t remember what it was she was nervous about.

Katya scoots down Trixie’s body, adjusts so that she’s kneeling over Trixie’s thighs, and Trixie misses the weight of Katya’s full body pressed against hers. Trixie puts a hand on either one of Katya’s firm thighs, admiring their strength by brushing over them and then squeezing gently.

She’s gazing at Trixie adoringly, eyes dark with lust. Her fingers trail over Trixie’s shoulders, between her breasts, and down to her hips. Katya follows her touch with soft, messy kisses, all open-mouth and tongue, stopping to place a peck over her left hipbone.

Trixie isn’t thinking straight, but somewhere in the back of her mind a voice is ranting about stretch marks, about oddly placed freckles, about stray hairs. Katya’s fingers are back tracing over Trixie’s hips, over the silver-pink stretch marks Trixie had sprouted that one summer when her hips grew in, the stretch marks that Trixie had been so devastated about. She’s kissing the freckle at the juncture of her thigh and hip, from where it peeks out the side of Trixie’s thong.

Katya’s fingers are tracing every area where Trixie has ever felt self-conscious, and Trixie doesn’t care - in fact, she likes it. Katya’s fingers are tracing every area Trixie has ever felt self-conscious of, and Trixie has never felt more beautiful, more wanted in her life.

Trixie is suddenly emboldened, hauling Katya back toward her lips and kissing her desperately. In the moment, it feels like Katya is the only thing in the world Trixie needs, like the air passing between them is the only air that exists and without Katya she might no longer breathe.

Katya is looping her fingers around the sides of Trixie’s thong, still kissing her like their lives depend on it but tugging the lace off and tossing it somewhere over her shoulder. She slots her leg between Trixie’s thighs as her teeth nip at her pulse point, and Trixie is suddenly very aware of just how wet she is.

A whimper escapes her when Katya’s fingers gingerly pinch and roll her nipple, a wave of heat rolling down through her core. Her hips rut up, searching for friction but coming up empty and she whines.

Katya slides her thigh up against Trixie’s wetness, smirking into her neck at the moan she elicits from Trixie. She reaches down with a hand, two fingers running over Trixie’s slit, her eyes boring into Trixie’s and she brings her fingers to her lips, slides her tongue over where her fingers are slick with Trixie’s arousal.

Her lids are hooded as she crawls down Trixie’s body, pushes her legs apart and settles between her thighs. Katya kisses Trixie’s inner thigh, from her knee and up dangerously close to where Trixie needs Katya most, skipping over it and trailing down the other side.

Trixie is writhing under her touch, desperate and wet and so ready for her. She can feel her wetness sliding down to her thighs, can feel it pooling onto the bedding below her. She almost feels guilty, but any apology she might’ve formed flies from her mind when Katya’s tongue meets her clit.

Katya works over her with her tongue, swiping it broadly over her entrance before wrapping her lips around Trixie’s clit. Trixie can’t help but gasp, hands kneading at her own breasts as she peers down at Katya.

The most beautiful girl in the world is between Trixie’s legs and she’s not quite sure how to process that, but right now she doesn’t need to process anything but the feeling that begins to grow in her stomach when Katya starts to slowly pump one, then two fingers into her.

Trixie moans and her hands tangle into Katya’s hair near the root, holding her head in place. Katya crooks her fingers inside of Trixie, rubbing against her g-spot and Trixie’s back arches off the bed, fingers harshly tugging the golden blonde strands trapped between them. Katya hums against Trixie’s clit in response and the vibrations travel through her to her core.

Then she’s coming, the spring coiled in her abdomen coming undone, thighs trembling, a gasp and then a whimper of Katya’s name tearing through her. Her eyes are squeezed shut, but she can feel Katya shift to hover over her hip, fingers still coaxing her through her orgasm.

Her heart thuds wildly as she comes down from her high, Katya’s lips pressing a gentle kiss to each of her inner thighs and her hips. She shifts so she’s face-to-face with Trixie, who has finally managed to pry her eyes open again.

Katya looks so proud of herself, is the thing, and Trixie can’t help how attractive she finds it. Trixie wants her moaning, whimpering her name. Trixie wants .

She leans up to kiss Katya hard, hands sliding over her back. Trixie can taste herself on Katya’s tongue, herself and a hint of cigarette smoke. Trixie has never liked the taste of cigarette smoke but she’ll make an exception for Katya, because Katya tastes like Heaven and Trixie’s not sure they have cigarettes in Heaven but she hopes for her angel’s sake that they do.

Trixie’s got her hands gripping Katya’s perfect ass, fingers slipping under the lace of her panties. She slides her lips over Katya’s jaw, down her neck, letting her teeth graze the prominent veins there and Katya whines.

Trixie smirks against her collarbone and Katya’s hips are pressing forward, her legs parting to grind down on Trixie’s thigh, desperate for friction.

Katya grabs onto Trixie’s wrist when she brings it forward, dips her hand under the waistband of Katya’s panties to rub circles into her clit. She teases her fingers over Katya’s entrance and Katya whimpers.

“Please,” she tangles a hand into Trixie’s hair, and who is Trixie to deny her.

Trixie slides two fingers into Katya’s warmth and begins to thrust, thumb pressed against her clit. Katya is bearing down on her fingers, meeting Trixie’s every movement, and Trixie listens to her noises. Her wrist is starting to cramp a little from the angle but she couldn’t care less, she wants to catalogue each sound, wants to remember each of them Katya has ever made and file the ones she’s caused in a folder labeled ‘favorites.’

Katya is starting to clench around her fingers and her whimpers are getting louder, more frantic, and Trixie knows she’s close. She kisses over Katya’s neck to her shoulder, biting down lightly and Katya moans loudly, comes with a cry of Trixie’s name on her lips, and Trixie thinks it’s the loveliest thing she’s ever heard.

She works Katya through her climax, sliding her hand out from between them when Katya’s muscles relax and she slides off of to Trixie’s side to catch her breath.

Katya presses a soft kiss to Trixie’s shoulder, looking up at her.

“How was that, angel?”

Trixie smiles blissfully down at Katya, pressing a kiss to the tip of her nose. “It was perfect.”

Katya leads Trixie to the shower, massages shampoo and conditioner into her curls taking breaks to kiss her breathless against the tiled wall. She wraps herself in a robe and Trixie in a towel, using another to gently squeeze the water from Trixie’s hair.

When they’re tucked into bed, Katya’s arms warm around Trixie’s middle, Trixie kisses her again, lips pulling up into a smile.

Neither one of them says anything for a while, just smiling at each other, sharing looks and kisses like secrets they’ll keep between only them. Then Katya’s head is resting in the crook of Trixie’s neck, just above her chest, and they’re drifting off to sleep.

[angel-of-death-diangelo]

Down the Rabbit Hole, Part two

part 1

“Curiouser and curiouser.” Nico di Angelo spoke softly in the dark tunnel he was left in. He walked slowly down the tunnel until he came to a small door. As he reached down to turn the brass knob he thought he should just turn back, go back to Bianca and Bob, but he was so far now. He couldn’t just-

“Hey!” A voice cut off his thoughts. “That hurt!”

Nico whipped around, trying to find the source of the noise.

“Down here!” Nico looked down, making eye contact with the doorknob he held in his hands. Nico jerked back, scrambling away. The Doorknob wiggled his knob as you and I would scrunch up our nose.

“Oh,” Nico said, “I’m sorry, that was quite rude of me. Would you mind letting me in.”

The knob shot Nico a look as if to say how dare you

Nico urged, “Please, I’m trying to find the White Rabbit.”

“The White Rabbit, you say,” he stopped, thinking, “you’re much too big to fit through this door anyway. It simply wouldn’t work. Impassable if you ask me.

“Do you mean impossible?” Nico asked.

“Of course not! Nothing is impossible- see for yourself!” His eyes flicked behind Nico, gesturing.

Nico looked behind him, he was greeted with a table, it had appeared out of thin air- like magic. On the table there was a small bottle filled with a pinkish liquid. Next to the bottle, there was a hinged box.

The Knob piped up, “try the bottle, just follow the directions and you’ll be directed in the right direction.”

Nico picked up the bottle, skeptically he removed the cork with a satisfying pop. He thought, once again, he shouldn’t be doing this. He shrugged to himself and tipped the bottle into his mouth.

“It tastes like Bianca’s cooking,” he took another sip, “No cookies, no- woah!”

The world around Nico grew, he looked down at his body, as the bottle’s contents hit his stomach, his limbs, torso, and everything else shrunk, before he knew it he was just a fraction of his original size.

He walked up to the door, his chest puffed out in a proud posture.

“Very good!” The Doorknob cooed, “now just unlock me and go on through.”

Nico’s smile faded, “unlock? But sir, I don’t have a key.”

The Knob looked at him in mocking surprise, “oh don’t tell me- you left the key on the table? All the way up there?”

Nico looked up, sure enough, hanging of the edge of the table way a giant, shiny key. Though the table loomed over him, much too high to reach.

Nico prepared his small body, sprinting up to the leg of the table, trying to run up the vertical slope. He slipped back down, landing on the floor with a thud.

“Oh no, what am I going to do?” Nico exclaimed, looking to the door frantically.

“Do not fret, boy, try the box this time.”

“But-” the hinged box from before appeared in front of Nico, now proportional to his small stature.

Nico picked it off the ground, unlatching the metal lock. Inside the box was a variation of colored cookies. All with the words eat me in different fonts.

The young boy stared at the contents, running his fingers along the edge of the box.

“What?” The Knob chastised. “Do you not know what to do with it? It says right on them.”

Without replying, Nico plucked a heart-shaped blue cookie from the box, nibbling off the point. In less than a second, Nico’s small stance doubled in size, tripled in size, until he was too big for the small tunnel. His arms were tangled awkwardly, trying to squeeze into a comfortable position.

“What happened?” Nico exclaimed.

The Doorknob, struggling to speak around Nico’s giant shoe that was in his face, explained with “a little goes a long way, huh?” He chuckled harshly.

“It’s not funny!” Tears welled into Nico’s eyes, “Now I’ll never get home!”

“Come on now, crying won’t help.” The Knob supplied.

Nico, overwhelmed with images of Bianca looking for him, started to cry harder. His voice was wavering, his breath choppy. “I-I-I just can’t help myself!”

The huge tears fell off Nico’s cheek and to the floor, collecting quickly. The room was quickly filled with water, as Nico covered his face with his hands, his head bent down as to not touch the ceiling.

In the tall water below, Nico saw the small glass bottle. As his fingers reached down to pluck it up, he saw a small amount of pink liquid settled in the bottom. Through his hysterics, he dumped the drop upon his tongue. Startled by the effects, he dropped the bottle and shrinks, falling into the choppy, churning waters below. As Nico prepares himself for the landing, he hits a solid surface.

Opening his eyes from when they had been clenched shut, Nico looked around, the water being held away from him. He had landed in the bobbing bottle, that now was much bigger than he.

He floated above the waves, looking around fearfully. As the water pushed him closer to a familiar sight, Nico recognized the Doorknob from his bottle.

The Doorknob was shouting, trying to keep his keyhole mouth above the water. As Nico floated closer he shouted at him, though the words were muffled by the glass. As the Knob’s mouth opened wide in a scream, the bottle slipped passed the Knob’s lips and onto the other side of the door.

Nico, trapped in a glass bottle floating on a sea of his own tears, some how thanked he was passed the door.

The sea thinned out as his bottle skid against solid ground. Nico some how smiled as the bottle slowed to a stop on sand.

He looked to the sky, heart pounding in his chest. Slowly, Nico ran a hand through his damp hair, and prepared himself for whatever awaited him next.