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celestias-right-hoof-mas-au · 5 months ago

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♦ Ko-Fi ♦ Patreon ♦ WARNING: Although this particular chapter does not depict violence or cursing, future installments will. As this story is based on an adult parody of MLP called The Mentally Advanced Series. I would encourage that if you had not watched it to do so to get a grasp of the world in which this takes place. Many of the jokes, lore, and otherwise are in reference to MAS, not just simply My Little Pony. I have also made a supercut that includes every reference and appearance of Celestia in the series, in case watching the entire MAS series maybe too time consuming. If you find Celestia, or other canon characters, used in crude and unpleasant depictions offensive, this is your warning. However, I would appreciate that you take a look anyway with an open mind. Celestia Supercut Link ☼ Next >

“I’ll be back, Mom!” Hilfe called out as she opened the front door to her family home.

“Where are you going, dear?” Her mother answered back as she struggled to walk herself down the stairs.

“Dad said he needed more nails for the roof!”

The older unicorn mare brayed, “I told that damned fool to get extra just in case! Well, hurry back, then! I’m about to make everyone lunch!”

“I will!” Hilfe promised as she trotted off to the old dusty road.

The winter season had been bitter that year. Heavy snowstorms had battered the homes of the local Northern Fillydelphians, and Hilfe and her family were no different.

Just as Hilfe made it to the road, she turned back to get a good look at her house again. An old, chestnut brown, pinto Clydesdale, her father, sat on the roof banging away at the shingles. He took a moment to catch his breath and comb his beard. His eyes met with his daughter’s and he waved back to her with a hammer in his hoof. Far into the field, Hilfe could see her two younger twin brothers at play, hitting each other with sticks they found.

It was a beautiful day with only a few remaining patches of snow along the path. The sky was clear, save for a few clouds the local weather busters were still working on. The sun was bright and yellow and the animals were awakening from their slumber.

Yet, despite this new beginning, Hilfe couldn’t help but let out an exhausted sigh. As she walked along the cobblestone road to the town’s local market, she noticed her neighbors suffering from similar damages as her family’s home.

While she was relieved that the winter had subsided for spring, Hilfe already dreaded what the next winter would bring. Last year, the winter rain flooded their grain silo and spoiled the crops they were saving. The year before that, a chill brought a hail storm and it clobbered their fields before it was time to harvest. Spring felt less like a new beginning, and more like a brief respite from the next setback in an endless cycle of setbacks.

A broad rippling puddle blocked Hilfe’s path, covering the entire width of the road. ‘If only…’ Hilfe thought as she scoured back and forth along the water’s edge, ‘If only, there was a way to get ahead for once.’

Bracing herself, the young half unicorn leaped to the other side of the road. While her front hooves made it to the cobblestone, her back hooves splashed in the pool. Freezing water ran up her legs and hindquarters as she scurried out. Hilfe scowled at the pool, shaking herself dry, ‘It’s like we only ever make it, but just barely.’

Through her cloud of grumbling, Hilfe briskly made her way to the local market. Absentmindedly, she meandered through a noisy crowd that had gathered in front of all the storefronts. So deep was she in her thoughts, that she didn’t question why the market was so busy. That is, until she saw the line in front of Pone Depot. Only then did she realize that everyone else in town probably needed to make repairs to their homes too.

Blowing air through her lips, Hilfe begrudgingly got in line. She peeked over the heads of the other waiting customers without much trouble, but the line was locked, slithering along at a snail’s pace. As she waited, the weather busters continued to clear the skies, beating every cloud like it owed them money. By the time it was Hilfe’s turn to enter, only a few straggling puffs remained at the mercy of the pegasi’s assault.

Inside, Hilfe’s disappointment grew immensely. All the shelves of wood, tools, candles, bulbs, and bricks were cleared by needy townsfolk. Several were arguing over who had ownership of various supplies as Hilfe walked over to the register where the owner was waiting.

“Hey, Mr. Hammersmore!” Hilfe said as she leaned against the register counter.

The portly minotaur was too busy shuffling boxes of supplies to notice her at first, but when he turned around, his nostrils flared with a warm smile.

“Why, Hilfe! Is that you?!” The gray bull grunted as he scratched his coarse fur.

“Yes it is!” Hilfe smiled brightly.

The minotaur leaned his weight against the counter with a prolonged creak, “You’re still growing after all these years? You’ll be taller than Schaffer if you keep on at the rate you are!”

“Oh, God, no! I don’t want to look like a giraffe! Dad already made me too tall, as is.” Hilfe chuckled.

Mr. Hammersmore’s slapped the counter with a loud thud, guffawing, “Well that’s fair! I don’t think his pride would allow that either. What about Dearly Dove? Schaffer said that she’s about ready to have a fourth now?”

“Yep!” Hilfe nodded, “She’s a bit tender, but she’s trying her best. She said she was making lunch before I left.”

“Oh! Well then I better not keep you waiting. Does your papa need something, then?”

She shrugged, “He needs more nails for the roof. Got anymore?”

Mr. Hammersmore’s lip flopped to one side, “Well, let me check. As you could see, the whole town has gone and wiped me out! No matter how much stock I order, I still get emptied by the first week of spring.”

As the great beast lumbered into the back to check his wares, Hilfe rested her cheek onto her hoof while she waited. Before she could get lost in her thoughts again, a pair of young mares passed by, smacking their lips full of gum. While the rest of the store wasn’t particularly quiet either, the mare’s thick valley accents and constant popping of gum demanded Hilfe’s attention.

“... so then I said, ‘have you tried to get a real job and stop being poor?’ Then he, like, just stormed off to the power tool aisle. Started to stare at a bunch of saws and hammers, or whatever. So I just left him there.” One mare, with thick mascara, sneered as she blew a bubble.

“I know what you mean!” The other gasped as she stared longingly into a compact mirror, “I don’t know why everyone acts like it’s difficult to get rich! My Dad did, and that’s why Mom got married to him. She knew how to pick ‘em, before he even got there!”

Hilfe scoffed at the couple of airheads as they passed.

“My aunt got rich too! All she had to do was work at the Princesses’ castle for a few years as a maid. And they’re always��hiring, you know!”

“Really?” The mascara-ed mare asked.

“Yes! She had life insurance and everything. The only downside was-”

“Hilfe?” A deep voice snorted.

Hilfe gasped as she came back from her eavesdropping. The minotaur had returned and mirrored her posture with a teasing smile.

“Welcome back from dreamland,” He said playfully as he placed a box of nails on the counter, “just in time too. This was one of the last boxes I had.”

She took the heavy box in her hoof and shook it to hear the metal gently ring in her ear. Tossing a few bits on the counter, Hilfe said, “Thanks, Mr. Hammersmore, I’ll tell Dad you said hi.”

“Sounds like a deal! You get home now, before someone snatches your nails and the rest of your lunch money!” He joked.

She waved him goodbye as she cantered out of the busy store. Outside, the busters had caught the last cloud, savoring every last kick. However, what Hilfe focused on was what the two mares were talking about.

‘That must be nice,’ Hilfe thought, returning back to the quiet road, ‘to be able to retire early and well off. I wish I could do that.’

The young half-unicorn kicked a stone down the road, pondering how she too could make that kind of money to provide for her family. But suddenly, she stopped and a smile began to perk her lips.

“Wait, why can’t I?” She said aloud. A soft breeze pressed her cheek, the newly defrosted fields swayed gently. Her pace picked up again, happily galloping home.

While the wind blew past her ears, her home came into view before she could break a sweat. The roof had been cleared off, save for a few panels of wood covering the holes in it. The fields were also free of the twin’s rowdy bickering.

‘Perfect, they’re all at lunch. I can let them all know at the same time.’ Hilfe thought, climbing up the front steps.

Hilfe’s eyes slowly adjusted to the dimly lit home. Inside, her family quietly enjoyed the picnic-esque meal of sandwiches and a heaping bowl of pasta salad at the center of the table. The remaining empty seat had a fresh sandwich waiting for Hilfe to take a bite.

“Hilfe! What took you so long? Your father and I were beginning to worry.” Her mother said, getting up to serve Hilfe some pasta. The faded purple unicorn struggled to stand as the heft of another life weighed on her midsection.

Hilfe quickly held out her hoof, “Mom! It’s okay, remember what the doctor said! I’ll get some myself.”

The slippery pasta fell to Hilfe’s plate with a splat, “Sorry to keep you waiting. It was a zoo over at the Pone Depot.”

Her father grumbled, as he hunched over his plate, “The winter was heavy for everyone, huh?”

“Mmhm,” Hilfe nodded while she took a bite of her sandwich, “I was lucky though, got one of the last boxes of nails.”

“Good job, dear. I can probably finish the roof now.” Her father said, wiping food from the twins’ faces.

Hilfe shifted her eyes from side to side, “That’s not all though, I got some good news, too.”

“Is that so?” Her mother asked while collecting the dishes.

Hilfe hesitated for reasons she wasn’t sure why, “I… I think I’m going to sign up as a maid.”

Her father ruffled his brow, “You don’t want to stay at the farm?”

“She’s not saying that, dear.” Her mother chimed in, soaking the dishes in the sink. “That sounds like a great idea, sweetheart. Where are you planning on applying? Is there an opening at that old couple’s mansion down the way?”

“Actually,” Hilfe began, “I was hoping to work for the Princess in Canterlot.”

A shriek rang out through the kitchen followed by shattering glass. Hilfe’s head snapped up from her food and found her whole family staring back at her, still and silent.

“Hilfe,” Her father said softly, but sternly, “where did you get that idea from?”

“I-I overheard it while I was at the store.” Hilfe replied a lot quieter than she thought. “They said that they’re always accepting workers, and that you could retire early from how much you get paid. Why? Is that not true?”

Both of her parents looked at each other as if communicating telepathically. Her mother moistened her lips with her tongue, “Hilfe, Canterlot is a… different place. When your father and I met, we were given a real hard time. That’s why we came here, to raise you and your brothers.”

The older unicorn gasped and clenched her stomach. Hilfe and her father rushed to bring her a chair. Using her magic, Hilfe slid a seat over as her father helped to sit her down.

The old Clydesdale placed his heavy hoof gently on his wife’s shoulder, “We don’t need the money, Hilfe. We’ll make it by, as we always do. That’s final.”

“But I don’t want us to just make it by! Aren’t you both tired of it too?” Hilfe snapped back, to her own surprise.

“That’s enough!” Her father brayed. The whole house shook from his voice before falling silent again. He breathed in as he said again, “That’s enough, my child.”

“Y-yes, sir.” Hilfe looked away with a heavy brow.

There the whole family stood, frozen in that moment of trepidation. Still, bit by bit, they all pulled themselves from the miasmic moment and resumed their daily lives. The twins continued their play, her mother was put to bed for rest, and Hilfe helped her father with the roof. Though the father and daughter were able to talk and laugh through the repairs, Hilfe was wrought with a twist in her heart. Even at the day’s end, as everyone said goodnight, she was restless.

Crickets, now awakened from their winter’s rest, sang with the frogs in their rural chorus that night. The young mare laid listlessly in her upstairs bedroom, staring at her ceiling fan as it steadily spun around. She had been waiting for sleep to take hold of her for what felt like hours.

Dryness congregated on her tongue from the parched circulated air. Growing bored from her own restlessness, Hilfe threw off her blankets and got up from her bed to grab a drink from downstairs.

She tiptoed past the twins’ room, then her parents’, but when she reached the staircase, the warm glow of the fireplace from below, in the living room, gave her pause.

“...Then I found mold and termites in the basement. It’s gonna cost a hoof and a leg to fix it all, I don’t know what to do.” Her father’s voice muttered.

Hilfe drew closer to the edge of the stairs, careful to not be heard and listening intently.

“What about Hilfe? She doesn’t have to go to Canterlot, but she wants to help. I think she would do a fine job as a maid, or anything she set her mind to.” Her mother’s calm voice suggested.

“She doesn’t have experience, who’s going to hire her while the whole town’s recouping?”

“Dear, she can still try. Who’s to say she can’t run groceries? Or help Mr. Hammersmore at his shop?”

The ringing of quiet almost hurt Hilfe’s ears as she waited. Eventually, the creaking of a chair gave away her father’s exhaustion.

“Hmm. No… no. She shouldn’t have to do that for us. Besides, she’s been wanting to stay and work on the farm since she finished school. It’s all she knows.

“I’ll wake up in the morning and see if anyone in town needs help with their repairs for a few bits. Hilfe can stay here and help you with chores and the twins.”

Her mother softly huffed, “I’m fine, dear, really. Rabble and Rouser can play on their own now. Why not take her with you?”

Hilfe could almost see her father shaking his head, “Darling, you’re too far along to be left alone now.”

His chair scraped against the floorboards. Heavy hoofsteps walked to the other side of the room where the mother’s voice came from. They both let out the labored groans of a tight embrace.

“I’ll figure it out.” He whispered reassuringly.

Hilfe stepped away from the stairs and backtracked to her room. After closing the door, she slid down to the floor in a numb haze. Yet another calamity was nipping at her family’s heels. It felt like it was just a matter of time until their luck ran out.

No.

It can’t be this way.

It shouldn’t.

Hilfe rose to her hooves and took out her old, sports duffle bag, emptying its contents on her bed. She made sure to pack only the essentials, a spare toothbrush, toothpaste, mouthwash, a hair brush, a few tabloid magazines, and so on. She gathered all the money she had saved up from birthdays, Hearth’s Warming card bits, allowances, anything she could find.

Then she got to work on her letter.

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ateepmelfart · 2 years ago

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i have been away in portugal (and still am), so posts have been infrequent due to that but here is like the entire month of june posts

17/06/23 - "go, stink, fuck it up, go, stink, fuck it up go, stink, that's what's up, go, stink, i'm in love hey, boo-boo, too much complexity to learn me from google my momma told me that the money outgrew you my horoscope said i'm really out my noodle" america has a problem (feat. kendrick lamar) by beyonce

18/06/23 - "'cause in my head in my head, i do everything right when you call, i'll forgive and not fight all the moments i play in the dark wild and fluorescent come home to my heart, uh" supercut by lorde

19/06/23 - "i hope you find some peace of mind in this lifetime tell them, tell 'em, tell them the truth i hope you find some paradise (tell them, tell 'em the truth) tell 'em, tell 'em, tell 'em, tell them your- i've been goin' through somethin' one thousand, eight hundred and 55 days i've been goin' through somethin' be afraid" united in grief by kendrick lamar

20/06/23 - "you don't hate the summers you're just afraid of the space askin' strangers for answers to forget what they say" maine by noah kahan

21/06/23- "i've been having a hard time adjusting i had the shiniest wheels, now they're rusting i didn't know if you'd care if i came back i have a lot of regrets about that pulled the car off the road to the lookout" this is me trying by taylor swift

22/06/23- "i feel better tired, that’s why i’m up all night i think of what i’d say to you if you opened your eyes i can’t keep the light out, no i can’t sleep at all" straight faced by spacey jane

23/06/23- "if i was dying on my knees you would be the one to rescue me and if you were drowned at sea i'd give you my lungs so you could breathe" brother by kodaline

24/06/23- "pretty face with pretty bad dreams no one knows i cry in my sleep waking up, feeling like shit it's a normal thing to feel like this i don't care, i'm feeling down i wanna stay home, never go outside summer depression comes every year i just want to disappear" summer depression by girl in red

25/06/23- "where did i go wrong? i lost a friend somewhere along in the bitterness and i would have stayed up with you all night had i known how to save a life" how to save a life by the fray

26/06/23 - "time slows to let me jog along high hopes, don't last me very long but winding roads, they never seem to stop and i'll sink" sink by noah kahan

27/06/23 - "i think i'm feeling it now just like you did taking hits for you 'cause i wanna feel like i'm supposed to i could disappear if this is what makes me feel so real" break by alex g

28/06/23 - "gonna crack a rib when i get home i'm gonna bury you in my favorite hole i made a bloody mess in the kitchen sink i tried to fix myself but i didn't think" pretend by alex g

#music #2021 #kendrick lamar #beyonce #lorde #noah kahan #taylor swift #spacey jane #kodaline #girl in red #the fray #alex g

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roanofarcc · 3 years ago

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STRANGER THINGS -> LORDE - MELODRAMA

steve harrington - green light - But I hear sounds in my mind // Brand new sounds in my mind // But honey, I'll be seein' you 'ever I go // But honey, I'll be seein' you down every road // I'm waiting for it, that green light, I want it

lumax - the louvre - But we're the greatest, they'll hang us in the Louvre // Down the back, but who cares? Still the Louvre // Okay, I know that you are not my type (Still I fall) // I'm just the sucker who let you fill her mind (But what about love?) // Nothing wrong with it, supernatural

robin buckley - liability- So I guess I'll go home // Into the arms of the girl that I love // The only love I haven't screwed up // She's so hard to please, but she's a forest fire // I do my best to meet her demands, play at romance // We slow dance in the living room // But all that a stranger would see // Is one girl swaying alone, stroking a cheek

will byers - hard feelings - I care for myself the way I used to care about you // These days, we kiss and we keep busy // The waves come after midnight // I call from underwater // Why even try to get right? // When you've outgrown a lover (Oh) // The whole world knows but you (Oh) // It's time to let go of this endless summer afternoon

mike wheeler - loveless - Bet you wanna rip my heart out // Bet you wanna skip my calls now // Well, guess what? I'd like that // ‘Cause I'm gonna mess your life up // Gonna wanna tape my mouth shut // Look out, lovers // We're L-O-V-E-L-E-S-S generation

stoncy - sober II - All the glamour and the trauma // And the fuckin' melodrama // All the gun fights and the lime lights // And the holy sick divine nights //(Holy sick divine nights, whoa) // They'll talk about us, all the lovers // How we kiss and kill each other

nancy wheeler - writer in the dark - I am my mother's child, I'll love you 'til my breathing stops // I'll love you 'til you call the cops on me // But in our darkest hours, I stumbled on a secret power // I'll find a way to be without you, babe

elmike/mileven - supercut - 'Cause in my head (In my head, I do everything right) // When you call (When you call, I'll forgive and not fight) // Because ours are the moments I play in the dark // We were wild and fluorescent, come home to my heart, uh

elmax - perfect places - All of the things we're taking // ‘Cause we are young and we're ashamed //Send us to perfect places // All of our heroes fading // Now I can't stand to be alone // Let's go to perfect places

#lorde melodrama #stranger things #stranger things 4 #steve harrington #nancy wheeler #lumax #elmike #mileven #byler #stoncy #stranger things moodboard #max mayfield #el hopper #mike wheeler #lucas sinclair #will byers #jonthan byers #izzy's collections

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lacystar · 3 years ago

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hey guys, update on my mental health: I'm doing great, but cquackity is so thought you said that you would always be in love but you're not in love no more but honey I'll be seeing you wherever I go but honey ill be seeing you down every road 'cause honey I'll come get my things but I cant let go I'm actin like I don't see every ribbon you used to tie yourself to me midnight we're fading till daylight we're jaded we know that its over in the morning you'll be dancing with all the heartache and the treason the fantasies of leavin' our rules, our dreams, we're blind blowing shit up with homemade d-d-d-dynamite a RUUUUUUUUSH at the beginning I get caught uUUUUUUUP just for a minute but lover you're the one to blame, all that you're doing, can you hear the violence? megaphone to my chest, broadcast the boom, boom, boom, boom, and make 'em all dance to it our thing progresses I call and you come through blow all my friendships to sit in hell with you baby really hurt me crying in the taxi he don't wanna know me says he made the big mistake of dancing in my storm, says it was poison, so I guess ill go home into the arms of the girl that I love, the only love I haven't screwed up she's so hard to please but she's a forest fire I do my best to meet her commands play up romance we slow dance in the living room but all that a stranger would see is one girl, standing alone, stroking her cheek cause I remember the rush when forever was us before all of the winds of regret and mistrust now we sit in your car and our love is a ghost well I guess I should go yeah I guess I should go, hard. feelings. of loooove, when the sweet words and fevers all leave us right here in the co-o-old, alone with the hard feeeeelings of looove god, I wish I'd believed you when you told me this was my home these days we kiss and we keep busy the waves come after midnight I call from underwater why even try to get right? when you've outgrown a lover the whole world knows but you it's time to let go of this endless summer afternoon three years, loved you every single day, made me weak, it was real for me, yeah, real for me now I'll fake it every single day 'till I don't need fantasy till I feel you leave, but ill still remember every thing how we'd drift buying groceries, how you'd dance for me, I'll start letting go of little things till im so far away from you, far away from you, yeah bet you wanna rip my heart out, bet you wanna skip my calls now, well guess what, I'd like that cause im gonna mess your life up gonna wanna tape my mouth shut look out lovers we're l-o-v-e-l-e-s-s generation l-o-v-e-l-e-s-s generation all fuckin with our lovers heads lights are on and they've gone home but who am I? we told you this was melodrama all the glamour and the trauma and the fucking melodrama they'll talk about us all the lovers how we kissed and killed each other break the news, you're walking out to be a good man for someone else sorry I was never good like you in my head I play a supercut of us all the magic we gave off all the love we had and lost and in my head the visions never stop these ribbons wrap me up but when I reach for you its just a supercut we keep tryin to talk about us slow motion im watching our love I'll be your quiet afternoon crush be your violent overnight rush make you crazy over my touch but its just a supercut of us cause in my head in my head I do everything right when you call when you call I forgive and not fight because ours are the moments I play in the dark we were wild and fluorescent come home to my heart and maybe all this is the party maybe the tears and the highs we breathe, maybe all this is the party maybe we just do it violently but you're not who you thought you were I hate the headlines and the weather I'm 19 and im on fire but when we're dancing I'm alright, it's just another graceless night, all of the things we're taking 'cause we are young and we're ashamed send us to perfect places all of our heroes fading now I cant stand to be alone lets go to perfect places

all the nights spent off our faces tryna find these perfect places, what the fuck are perfect places anyways?

#so yeah guys im great! ^-^#listen to the melodrama album by Lorde for cquack #or if just one song then hard feelings/loveless because that's the Most cquack #anyways #mcyt #quackity #karlnapity #dream smp #lorde #long post

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harmonizingsunsets · 4 years ago

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Polin Week Day 4: Prompt - Jealousy

Touching A Live Wire

After dragging Colin by the arm through her and Eloise's flat with one hand, Penelope slams the door behind them with the other.

She folds her arms across her chest and looks him in the eye for the first time since they left her work party early. He'd looked apologetic, following her wordlessly to the car and remaining silent during the entire drive to the flat.

"You have five seconds to apologize."

Colin sighs, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. "Penelope, this is a misunderstanding."

"Five," she starts counting.

"I didn't mean to say it that loud!"

Penelope's lips curl further in anger. "Four."

"Wait, let me explain why I—."

"Three," she interrupts, tapping her foot loudly on the floor.

Colin tilts his head at her. "Pen, this is ridiculous."

"Two."

"Can't we just sit down and—." Pen opens her mouth, her lips forming the word one, but Colin looks alarmed and puts his hands out to stop her. "Fine, you're right. I'm sorry!"

Penelope breathes in relief. Despite the show she just put on, she didn't know what she would've done if she'd reached one. With Penelope's grade three students, she'd send them to the principal's office or write their names in the infraction book. But, Penelope didn't think those forms of punishment would've worked with Colin.

She moves her hands to her hips, pinning her gaze on him. "Sorry about what?"

"I'm sorry that I got a bit carried away."

"A bit carried away?" Penelope scoffs, causing him to flinch in guilt. "Colin, you yelled at my co-worker, "Penelope is too good for you," and then proceeded to knock over the punch bowl!"

"In my defense, whoever placed it there did a poor job. It was teetering on the edge of the table."

Penelope's jaw clenches. "I placed it on the table."

Colin's eyes go wide, adorably so, which she could appreciate more if she weren't so angry at him.

Well, she still does appreciate it a little. She's human, after all.

"Oh, then it was a lovely job!" Colin exclaims, trying to cover himself. "Perfect placement, angels in heaven would want you to be on punchbowl duty at every party."

"You think angels have parties?"

"No, of course not, but they host them. Can you imagine parties in heaven? Unlimited food, great entertainment, and you could dance with Pablo Picasso and Prince at the same time."

"You really think Picasso and Prince would run in the same social circles in—hey, don't distract me," she interrupts herself, pointing accusingly at him while biting back a grin. "I'm mad at you."

Colin takes a step forward, beginning to smirk. "Then why are you smiling?"

"It's an annoying side effect of being around you," Penelope explains grumpily. "But, I'm still angry."

Colin deflates. "I know. You should be angry at me." He begins to pace, making Penelope worry that he's going to slip as she and Eloise just polished the floor yesterday. "I was way out of line. I shouldn't have yelled at your co-worker. It was disrespectful."

Penelope exhales, her anger beginning to fade, but confusion still causing her head to ache.

"I don't understand. Why did you yell that at him? And why did you spend the whole evening scowling at him and steering me away from him the entire time?"

Colin doesn't respond, looking down at his shoes. His behavior worries her, as Colin's never been one to avoid telling her something. His eyes are always open, full of honesty and understanding. But lately, they've been clouded.

The clouds are unsettling. Penelope misses the sun's warmth, and she can't take the chill anymore, especially because she doesn't know what prompted the weather change.

"You've been so unlike you the past few weeks," Penelope quickly says before she loses her nerve. "You've been off ever since he started working with me at the beginning of this month."

Colin shifts his feet. "No, I haven't."

"Yes, you have! Whenever I bring him up, you completely shut me out, you've avoided my attempts for you to meet him, and I caught you rolling your eyes when I was talking to him on the phone," she lists, furrowing her eyebrows. "What do you have against him?"

"Nothing."

"Colin, tell me."

He shrugs but with tense shoulders. "There's nothing to tell."

Penelope presses on, taking a step closer. "Obviously, you have something against him."

"No, I don't," he says, taking a step back.

She steps forward, feeling a rook on a chessboard that's slowly advancing on his pawn as he moves it backward one square at a time.

"Be honest."

"I am."

"No, you're not. I know you well enough to know when you're lying."

"Penelope…"

"Please, Colin, just tell me what's really got you so—."

"He's into you!" Colin blurts out.

Penelope freezes, her rook stopping one square before her victory.

Colin grimaces at himself, taking a deep breath as if his words knocked the wind out of him.

"What?"

"He's into you," Colin repeats, his voice quieter than before. "I don't like the way he looks at you. He obviously wants something more than friendship."

Penelope knows she shouldn't, but she laughs. "That's absurd."

Colin's expression drops even further, beginning to frown. "Why is that absurd? "

"Because it's me. Why would he be interested in me?"

"Why wouldn't he be?"

Penelope narrows her eyes at him. "Colin, don't play dumb."

"I'm not. You're the one that's playing dumb."

"Excuse me?"

"Pen, you're intelligent, beautiful, funny, and kind," Colin describes, slowly raising his hands and placing them on her arms. There's something in his eyes as he speaks so vehemently, a gleam that sends a thrill through her body. "You're the perfect package. Who wouldn't want you?"

Something in his words causes her to pause, reassessing the entire evening. Once she does, seeing a supercut of Colin's reactions towards her co-worker and his behavior around the two of them, her mind reaches one conclusion—a conclusion which quickens her heartbeat.

However, it also inspires a newfound sense of motivation to stop tiptoeing at the edge of the cliff she's been on for years.

But, she has to make sure Colin is truly standing on the same cliff as her before jumping.

Penelope swallows nervously. "Alright, let's say you're right and that I'm the perfect package—."

"You are."

"Ok, let's say that I am," Penelope agrees, taking a deep breath before crafting her following words. "So, why shouldn't he like me?"

"It's not that he shouldn't like you because, of course, he should. But—he shouldn't," Colin blabbers, getting a cute crinkle in between his brows as he struggles to explain himself adequately, which only fuels her wonderful but terrifying theory. "Because… he's—that guy is not right for you. "

Penelope inches closer, so her chest brushes against his body. He intakes a sharp breath, and she has to restrain herself from doing the same thing, knowing the gravity of this moment—of getting this exactly right.

"But I'm the perfect package, so I'm perfect for him, right?"

"No—I mean, yes, he'd be lucky to have you. But that doesn't mean you should be with him." His eyes flicker to her chest, and back up at her eyes, and back to his shoes, his face becoming more red with each passing second. "He—he has a horrible laugh, he likes Star Trek over Star Wars, and he took way more than his share of the cheese platter—."

"Those reasons are inconsequential. You know they are."

Colin opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. So, Penelope raises one of her hands, moving up his arm and to his neck.

The path of Penelope's fingertips creates a live wire, causing his skin to brim with electricity everywhere she touches. But, it doesn't shock her. Instead, she's part of the electrical current and feels a hum of energy in her palm that his touch provides.

"So, there must be another reason you don't want me to be with him," Penelope continues, forcing her voice not to shake. "Right?"

"No," he shakes his head after a few beats.

She bites her lip, trying to hold on to hope. "Really, there's not one reason?"

"Um…no?"

Penelope sighs, dropping her hands from his neck, feeling stupid. How foolish was she to think ahead of herself like this? Clearly, Colin's answer was not what she predicted. Just like always, she got carried away in romantic notions, as she always seemed to, when Colin’s around.

"Ok," she says, clearing her throat. Colin frowns at the sudden distance, but Penelope can't see his expression as she's closing her eyes to try and banish the inclination to cry. "I know, it's been a long day, so let's forget it. I think I should—."

Penelope doesn't get to answer. Because, suddenly, Colin swoops forward, his hands cupping her cheeks and his lips crashing onto hers.

If touching his skin created a live wire, kissing Colin makes a high electricity voltage, one strong enough to power an entire city.

Colin's lips brush against her softly, but there's a desperate edge to it, one akin to the desperation she feels as she clutches the collar of his jacket and pulls him closer.

When Colin breaks apart for a breath, he rests his forehead on hers.

"I was jealous," he whispers.

Penelope pulls her head back a little so that she can meet his eyes. "What?"

"That's why I didn't want you to be with him, because I want you to be with me," Colin confesses, pursing his lips. "I know that's immature. I'm sorry. You should be with whoever you want to be with, even if it's not me. It's my fault that I was too much of a coward until—Ow!" He abruptly yelps, looking down at his arm, which Penelope just pinched. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing," Penelope ducks her head, the corners of her lips twitching into a smile. "I was just checking to make sure you weren't an illusion."

Colin smiles in the incandescent way that made Penelope fall in love with him in the first place. He tips her chin up, forcing her to meet his bright eyes filled with an emotion that wraps around her heart and squeezes it.

"I'm real, I'm very much real," Colin assures, his thumb skimming her cheek. "I'll prove it to you."

He closes the distance between them again. But, Penelope is the one to deepen the kiss. She feels a wave of heat run through her at Colin's moan. Also, she experiences a surge of confidence, proud that she was the one to elicit such a glorious sound.

Penelope wraps her arms around her neck, finding it slightly annoying that he's so tall, as she has to lean up on her toes to kiss him. Colin must sense her struggle, quickly amending the issue by swiftly raising her into the air.

But, as her legs sweep up as she's taken into his arms, she accidentally kicks the bowl that holds her and Eloise's apartment keys off of the table.

It crashes loudly onto the floor, the ceramic breaking into multiple tiny pieces.

Colin and Penelope's lips break from each other's, looking down at the mess near her feet. Then, for a moment, neither of them say anything, only staring at the floor.

"Well…at least there was no punch in there this time," Colin says, sidestepping the broken pieces of the bowl.

Penelope laughs, smiling against his lips as she pulls him in for another kiss.

While she has a lot of explaining to do about the dramatic scene the two of them caused when she shows up at work tomorrow and will have to answer Eloise about the broken bowl, she can't find it in herself to care.

When he opens his eyes briefly, looking at her and moving a strand of hair behind her ear, she no longer sees clouds. Instead, she only sees the sun, and she wants to bask in its glow forever.

Penelope knows how idealistic that thought is, but as Colin begins kissing down her neck after moving them to the couch, she thinks it's quite a reasonable notion.

#polin #polinweek #polinweek2021 #colin x penelope #penelope featherington #I love flustered Colin #I’m sorry #lol #colin bridgerton #fanfiction #polin fic #Drabble #one shot #modern au #Bridgerton #bridgerton netflix #jealousy #friends to lovers

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imaginingmarvelandeverything · 3 years ago

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Convenience - Playlist

Series Masterlist

Playlist: On Spotify

Heroes and Villains - The Beach Boys

I've been in this town so long that back in the city, I've been taken for lost and gone, And unknown for a long long time

White Wedding - Billy Idol

It's a nice day to start again. It's a nice day for a white wedding.

A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall - Laura Marling (Bob Dylan Cover)

Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son? And where have you been, my darling young one?

Phantom - Of Monsters and Men

With all this time wasted and all this time gone, You are still waitin' on me, And every time you leave the house remember you're not safe, But you are hardly ever

Something in the Way - Nirvana

Underneath the bridge, Tarp has sprung a leak

Supercut - Lorde

Cause in my head, in my head, I do everything right, When you call I'll forgive and not fight, All the moments I play in the dark, Wild and fluorescent, come home to my heart

All the Things She Said - Simple Minds

Take me in your arms and I'll fade away, When I hear you say what you got to say

For Reasons Unknown - The Killers

I said if destiny's kind, I've got the rest of my mind, But my heart, it don't beat, it don't beat the way it used to

Inbetween Days - The Cure

Yesterday I got so scared, I shivered like a child, Yesterday away from you, It froze me deep inside

This is the Day - The The

This is the day your life will surely change, This is the day when things fall into place

#bruce wayne imagine #bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne #convenience #batman imagine #battison #batman x reader #the batman #masterlist

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ravenvsfox · 4 years ago

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Things Fall Apart; the Centre Cannot Hold

Summary: He keeps remembering the chafe of Ronan’s shoulder against his ribs as they got oriented in his little bed, the glisten of tears and nightwash wringing his lovely eyes, the lonely twist in his unguarded late-night voice over the phone, the one that Adam had almost liked, because it meant that he was indisputably missed. It was worse, that Ronan had been trying so hard for Adam, because it was easier to tell when he stopped.

(Adam's perspective throughout Mister Impossible, as his worry reaches a fever pitch, and the two versions of himself begin to converge)

Word Count: 9.5k

Warnings: mi spoilers, death/suicide mention

A/N: batshit middle books my beloveds. adam pov or bust 😌

Read on AO3

In high school, Gansey would very occasionally call Adam in the middle of the night.

He would speak low and fast, his panic pinched between thumb and forefinger and held at a respectable distance. Adam would smother the receiver with his palm and step outside of his family trailer, listening hard for movement at his back.

The news was always the same: Ronan Lynch was on his latest rampage or bender, exercising his dark talent for bullying his way into people’s lives and then breaking down all of their windows and doors trying to get out again.

Gansey would fret and apologize, guilty for luring Adam out of his wolf-den, guiltier for neglecting his duties as Ronan’s warden. Adam would wait tiredly on the line for Gansey’s anxiety to exhaust itself, and then dutifully join the search party.

He would step into his beaten tennis shoes and pry his bike from the fence, silencing the silvery shock of metal on metal, and avoiding the reedy whir of the spokes by holding the whole thing aloft until he reached the gravel road.

From there, he would venture out into the abandoned Henrietta streets, the crunch of his tires cutting clean through the woolly midnight silence. He often circled the perimeter of the park nearest Monmouth, stepped through the great dark portal into St. Agnes, and nipped under the old bridge, squinting into the darkness for the challenging shoulders, the oil-slick BMW gleam, the slump of a body or clatter of bottles.

This is a part of Gansey that I admire, he would think. And with equal fervour, this is a part of Gansey that I resent. This blood attachment to Ronan, who was not even attached to himself. The insomnia that seized two heads of the lopsided Cerberus that Adam, Ronan, and Gansey were all part of, a restlessness on either side of him that shook him awake over and over again.

He chased Ronan’s shadow, hating him. Hating his thoughtlessness, his privilege, his chokehold on Gansey’s interests, his purposefully and continuously ruined potential, and yet bristling with anxiety at the idea of finding him bleeding.

They hadn’t known then that he was a dreamer, but they’d felt the ear-popping pressure of his grief, glimpsed the hulking animal of his self-loathing, urged onwards by the twin spurs of Declan and Gansey, the past and the future, digging into his sides.

Adam had seen Ronan, teeth bared, hurling himself at rock bottom, and he had rubbed the sleep from his eyes and pulled him back by the collar.

Things are completely different now, but he still finds himself sleep-raw and petrified, reaching after Ronan in the dark.

He examines himself in the mirror of the communal bathroom in Thayer hall. The overhead lights are an unflattering yellow, the sink has a long dark hair stuck to its basin, and Adam’s face is gaunt and bruised with lack of sleep.

He’s losing it, a little bit.

He takes his own pulse, focusing on the faraway burble of the ley line. Everything, lately, seems far away.

As if through a stranger’s eyes, he slips from the seafoam tiling and bleach tang in Thayer’s North bathroom to the accordion door of the trailer toilet, the creaky cubicle shower, his gawky, hurt reflection in the burnt-out light. This version of Adam had to watch his best friend’s best friend escape suicide watch and get screaming drunk in public, treading mud and malicious dreams all over Monmouth manufacturing.

He can still smell the salt tang from teenaged Adam’s ocean of disdain.

Now that he loves Ronan, his irritation has only gotten sharper, more deadly. Ronan performs each perilous swan dive into the unknown, each foolhardy act of self-sacrifice, as if the people who care about him aren’t gasping spectators. It makes Adam furious.

Perhaps neither of them have changed as much as they wanted to believe. As Gillian keeps advising the crying club—with the confidence of a seasoned psychiatrist—progress isn’t linear.

He keeps remembering the chafe of Ronan’s shoulder against his ribs as they got oriented in his little bed, the glisten of tears and nightwash wringing his lovely eyes, the lonely twist in his unguarded late-night voice over the phone, the one that Adam had almost liked, because it meant that he was indisputably missed. It was worse, that Ronan had been trying so hard for Adam, because it was easier to tell when he stopped.

He slides fingers over his temples, smooths a knuckle over each eyebrow to ease the tension he always carries there. Sleep is a little knot of gristle lodged at the back of his throat; he can’t swallow it and he can’t spit it up. It never used to be this hard to put his problems to bed. He would worry the weight on his chest into small pieces, and go to sleep knowing that even the worst things about his life were organized correctly.

This time though, he’s out of sorts, divided, always busy but always spinning his wheels. He has a white-hot secret pressed to the roof of his mouth.

Every time he folds himself into bed, his subconscious helpfully reminds him that Ronan might be dead. And then a highlight reel plays in his head like an In Memoriam: Adam’s hand cupping Ronan’s nape, a barn silhouetted against a melancholy sky, a fistful of dreamt light, a dozen hard-won smiles and a hundred easy ones, a white handprint on a flushed thigh, a colourful joke to placate a brother, a kiss pressed to a dream’s forehead. All of that—gone. And Adam, at Harvard.

He highlights long patches of text in his sociology textbook, drinks a sensible amount of jack and coke at Eliot’s birthday party, declines Gansey’s calls by sending cheerful and conciliatory texts, and drifts through the library with his hand knotted in the strap of his satchel, looking for something that he can’t really articulate. He reads the same line of theory over and over and over and over, feeling like he’s scrying, like his focus isn’t his own.

He did all of this before Ronan went missing too, but now it’s a whole different class of performance. It used to be, I’m convincingly attentive, I’m sipping overpriced coffee on the way to class like a good Ivy leaguer, I’m making an impression on my professors, I’m forging friendships. Someday I will cash in these relationship tokens, and it all will have been worth it. It felt impossible that his life could be so simple and rewarding.

Now he thinks, I’m studying for finals and my boyfriend is being hunted by people whose job it is to kill him. I’m drinking a latte and the only people I’ve ever loved have left me, and I'm alone again. I’m putting my hand up in class and somewhere, Ronan’s life is changing, rapidly, dangerously, without me.

He lies to everyone, all the time, and tells himself that this life he’s building is more important than anything.

Once, as they cleared placemats and mugs full of stagnant coffee from the kitchen table, Ronan—still cobwebbed in his most recent dream—had detailed the sensation of hovering over himself afterwards. He was unable to manipulate his physical body or even really recognize it as his own, and his consciousness, detached, had its own limbs, its own intentions. He was like a parasite trying to wriggle back into its host.

Whenever Adam consults his double in a bit of glass, he imagines himself as a nimble dreamer, peering down, working to bring a fantasy to life. He can see his own outline, a slick college student with a flat, pleasant affect and a gaggle of soft-shelled friends. He plays his role impeccably well, but he can’t fit himself into it. If he passed himself in the hallway he would not stop.

Looking in the mirror now, he feels a red pang of fear, then a supercut of the ways he used to let himself love and be loved, then resentfulness hot on the heels of his worry.

His reflection withers, and he looks deliberately down at his hands. It’s a Tuesday, and he needs to sleep, or his tightly-scheduled Wednesday will be a misery. It’s a Tuesday, which means he hasn’t spoken to Ronan in—he stalls. Call me, he thinks, miserably. Just call me.

He can deal with a multitude of challenging and improbable situations if only he can see them clearly. Ronan is, for whatever reason, keeping him in the dark.

The not knowing is bad. It’s not how he functions. It’s not how they function. But instead of dwelling, he puts his back into the narrative that is now his reality: Impeccable student. Devoted friend-group. Tough break-up. Bright future.

Ronan isn’t here. Can’t ever be, physically, so far from the ley line. Adam has to be.

“Croissant, as ordered.” His gaze snaps up, connecting—not with his own image, but with clever, horn-rimmed Gillian. “They tried to foist it upon me without butter, if you can imagine that.” She deposits a crinkly brown and tan paper bag in front of him, and then two little plastic pots of butter. Adam regards the squashed shape of the bag’s contents with confusion.

It’s— “Is it Tuesday?”

“Wednesday,” Eliot corrects airily, licking jam from their thumb.

“My god, Adam. Whatever happened to your infallible circadian rhythm?” Fletcher asks. “You are the Swiss timepiece by which we measure our days.”

A terrible wave of vertigo strikes him, and he’s grateful to find himself sitting, at one of two conjoined wrought-iron tables in the courtyard near Thayer. He can feel the ley line breathing for the first time in a long time.

He must have gone to bed after his late-night breakdown in the bathroom. He must have. He hadn’t realized how exhausted he was. His hand strays to his hair. Wet. He’d woken, showered, and met his friends for breakfast, and he can barely remember it.

“Sorry,” he chokes. “Sleep deprivation is catching up to me, I think.”

“Aw, chicken,” Benjy says affectionately. “I’ve sung those end of term blues. The profs think we’re machines. Don’t even get me started on Dr. Fraundberg’s Lit Crit for assholes.”

“Whyever would we?” Eliot says. “We want to make it to class before noon.”

“Har-har. You wound me. Adam you’d better get a tissue ready, I’m about to tear up.”

“Also,” Gillian says, pointing her be-honeyed knife in Eliot’s direction. “Speak for yourself. I want to make it to class never.”

“Your presentation is going to be exceptional,” Fletcher tells her. “Your rough draft already drove me into paroxysms of jealousy. I don’t know why you’re so concerned.”

“I don’t just want to pass,” Gillian says. “I want to win.”

“Admirable,” Benjy sniffs.

“You’re being awfully quiet, Adam,” Eliot says, at length. He’s aware that they’re all trying very hard to act like they don’t notice how poorly composed he is.

“Can’t a man savour his pastry, Eli?” Fletcher rumbles.

“No, that’s fair,” Adam sighs. The four of them peer at him expectantly, eyebrows arranged into an array of benign and non-threatening shapes. “It’s possible I’m having a slight breakdown,” he says, adopting the grim hyperbole of a student for whom finals are the beginning and end of their emotional upset.

Everyone at the twin tables indulges in a bit of mild laughter.

“What a coincidence, so am I!”

“Well if it’s only slight, I’ll stow my concern.”

“Harvard or personal?”

He smiles faintly, and says, “kind of both. The personal is political, or something.”

He thinks he’s laying it on thick, but Gillian grins at him. “'Atta boy.”

Fletcher goes to take a sip of his tea, but chokes when his phone lights up with an incoming text message. “Criminy, is it eight already? Starting the day with a bang, as usual. I’ll meet you at Weld this evening, yes?” he asks, shaking out his tweed jacket and thrusting an arm through it, securing the remains of his bagel between his teeth with his other hand.

“Of course,” Adam says. Fletcher gives him a thumbs up, mouth charmingly stuffed, and sweeps away across the now bustling courtyard.

“Hey magic man,” Eliot says. “Will you do a reading for my sister tonight? The break-up with Margot is hitting her kind of hard. I’m pretty sure she just wants to be told she’ll find love again.”

Adam watches the juddering impact of Benjy kicking Eliot under the table.

He shrugs. “First come first serve, but I’ll give her the friends and family discount.”

“You’re a prince,” Eliot says, blowing him a kiss. Adam tries to imagine any of his friends from Henrietta doing such a thing, and can’t. “Come along Benjy. Bookstore or bust. They’re giving out discount computing textbook codes at sixty dollars a pop.”

A slip of paper for sixty American dollars. Adam’s head aches profoundly.

Gillian waggles her fingers at their friends as they depart, then she turns and fixes Adam with that familiar amateur therapist look.

“What?”

“Are you sleeping?” she asks bluntly.

“I’m a very good sleeper,” Adam says wryly. “Ask anyone.”

“But are you actually doing it?”

“Yes, Gillian.” Liar, liar. “Do you want me to keep a dream journal as evidence?”

“Oh, yes please.” That shark’s grin. “I’d pay to know what the fuck is going on up there.” She taps her own temple to indicate Adam's guarded mind.

He spreads his hands between them. “I’m an open book.”

She hums, only half-smiling now. “I dunno. That Southern charm. I’m never quite sure if I should trust a politeness that perfect.”

“On that note,” Adam says, standing. He’s relieved to find that he’s wearing matching socks, and his pant legs are rolled just so. There’s a tiny streak of yellow on one of his shoes, and with a jolt he realizes that it’s dream-crab guts. He presses on. “Thanks for the croissant. And the psychoanalysis. Send me the bill.”

She salutes him with her coffee cup. “You couldn’t afford me.”

He laughs, and turns, and then spends the whole walk to his 9 AM class trying to straighten all of the haywire compasses in his brain so they point due north.

His assignment is in his bag, pressed neatly into a navy blue folder. He has three classes today, a meeting with his supervisor at three, a study block set aside from four to six, then dinner, then tarot readings all evening—his phone rings. His treacherous heart leaps. Ronan.

He stops mid-stride, scrambling for his cell in the front pocket of his bag.

“Hello?”

“I—oh—Adam! I didn’t expect you to pick up. How on Earth are you?”

“Gansey.” He exhales through his nose. “I’m just on my way to class.”

“Fantastic to hear your voice. How’s—not that one, Jane, the I-90—exactly. How’s Harvard? Are you batting away job offers yet?”

“Constantly. How are your nature hikes and hippie communes? Contracted any backwoods diseases yet?”

“Charming. I’m actually in remarkably fine form, health-wise.”

“Is that a brag?”

A guffaw. “More of a curiosity. It’s actually part of the reason I’ve been trying to get in touch. Have you noticed any surges of power from the ley line lately? I mean, of course you have, but do you have any idea what’s causing them?”

He frowns, pinning his cellphone between his good ear and shoulder as he heaves open the ancient door to the physics building. “I could give you my best guess.”

A beat, and then, “I’m listening, Parrish.” Something about the way he says it makes homesickness pulse painfully in Adam’s chest.

He finds a semi-secluded stone slab bench behind an empty stairwell, and slings his belongings across it before he replies, “Dreamers.”

“Dreamers,” Gansey repeats, but it sounds like he’s saying of course! “Plural?”

“At least three.”

“Doing what?”

“I’m not one hundred percent sure yet.”

“Ronan hasn’t spoken to you,” Gansey guesses.

“Not—in a few days.”

“Is everything alright?”

He swallows, and is horrified to find tears burning at the back of his throat. There’s no pretending with Gansey. It’s why he never calls him.

“Adam,” he says quietly. “Is he in trouble?”

He struggles with his composure for several long seconds. “Possibly.”

A world-weary sigh. “I really wish you had called.”

“Yeah, well,” he says vaguely. He checks his watch. 8:23.

“So he’s playing with others. Why would Ronan want to do that?”

“I think—he’ll do anything not to feel powerless.” He understands as soon as he says it that it’s the pockmark in the windshield from which all of the damage is splintering outwards. “And people take advantage of that.”

Gansey makes a thoughtful noise, somewhere a thousand miles away, and it clicks in a lock and opens Adam’s shoulders up. Maybe he doesn’t have to be alone in this fight. How could he have forgotten careful, persistent Gansey?

“Well. He’s certainly not powerless. I almost feel back to my pre-Cabeswater self. Everything is pleasantly linear. And Blue is—lighting up.” In the background, he hears her say supercharged with relish. “I can only imagine what it’s like for full-blooded dream stuff, with all of that energy at their disposal.”

“I don’t know if I like it,” Adam says carefully. “It’s good for a while, helping all the Matthew’s of the world, and then what? Where does all of that diverted power end up? What makes dreamers qualified to harness it without their worst nightmares manifesting?”

“You’re worried about the Lace.”

The last time they spoke, Adam had told them briefly about his last scrying session, warning them to look out for the hateful, faceless thing that had pierced his cells and magnified all of his pain and fear until all he could possibly do was scream.

“I’m worried about Ronan. I know he’s in over his head, and I know he won’t believe it until it’s too late.”

“Sounds like someone I know. Don’t bite off more than you can chew with this, Adam. I know you’re enormously busy.”

It stings, a little. “I’m still going to—I’m obviously still going to make time for him. Especially when he’s—“

“Struggling. Yes. I understand perfectly.” It occurs to Adam that, unlike his well-meaning Harvard friends, he actually might. A needling murmur in the background, and then, “listen, Blue’s telling me that you should get in touch with the psychics, and Mr. Gray.”

He nods. The rhythm of problem-solving is soothing his frazzled nerves. “I’ve been considering it. I’m also pretty sure that Declan has been keeping his own tabs on things.”

“My money’s on yes,” Gansey says. Adam half-smiles. His money has been on a lot of things. “Poke around when you can. See what turns up. I’ll give Ronan a call, not that it’s ever done me much good before.”

“I’m pretty sure he ditched his phone.” He checks his watch. 8:24. It feels like it’s been much, much longer than a minute. There is so much day ahead of him.

Ordinarily, he would be compartmentalizing better than this. No feverish Gansey phone calls directly before class. No pleasure with his business. No finesse when logic will do the job just as well. But the subterranean, black-eyed Adam is still within him, tethered to the ley line and to his friends, and he wants very badly to fix this.

“Ah, Ronan,” Gansey sighs. “It’s always got to be him, doesn’t it?”

“I know,” Adam says narrowly. “If he’s not looking for trouble it’s looking for him.”

“You sound like Declan.”

Adam makes an offended noise in the back of his throat. Blue must be leaning across Gansey, because she says “that’s a new low,” almost directly into the receiver.

“I’m hanging up now,” he says flatly.

“Update me if anything changes? We’ll come home the moment things go south.”

He resists the urge to check his watch again. “Don’t cut things short on my account.”

“Well. Don’t disrupt your studies on Ronan’s. I’ve never known you to put your future on hold for anything.”

“I’m not—“ he stops. “Ronan is a part of my future.”

“Good,” Gansey says warmly. A test, then. And like most tests, there was never even a possibility that Adam wouldn’t pass.

______

It’s easy to tell when a dreamer is suffering.

As the energy from the ley line ebbs, dreamt creations judder and bolt like horses loosed suddenly from the service of a carriage, galloping towards safer pastures. If the dreamer is in more immediate peril, the dream simply folds its limbs into an agreeable shape and passes into sleep.

In the wee hours of Thursday morning, Adam lies awake in bed, dangling his hand between the wall and his bed frame, feeling along the subtle unfilled crack in the plaster. A flagpole casualty, from the day that everything stopped being enough for Ronan, and he slipped away on a dreamt current like a dark Ophelia.

He’s being dramatic.

He feels the drywall flaking, and digs his thumbnail into the split, wanting to rip the whole wall open with his fingers.

He keeps picturing Matthew’s half-lidded eyes, cloudless and blue as a wide prairie sky. The slouch of his posture, the tarnished golden head, the body briefly without a pilot.

Matthew had looked—Adam turns in bed, taking his chalky hand from the wall and fisting it in the sheets. He had looked like a faded old pillow, tucked unobtrusively into the chair by the window. He wouldn’t respond to Declan’s call, fluttering his drowsy lashes, and Adam had thought, ah. This is how I find out. His heart slumped over in his chest, dizzy with sudden grief. The tarot cards in his hands were dead leaves.

This is what happens when your life is tied to my brother’s, Declan had said, diverting his horror into scorn as he often did. The death of any one member of his family ensured the destruction of another. It had always been that way.

Matthew eventually roused, and Adam had closed his eyes and turned his face towards the ceiling until he could be normal again. He felt suddenly foolish for peddling lies to college students when magic was so obviously in the room with him.

Earlier, he had called Maura over lunch, and she vaulted right over small talk to ask him, with concern, about his loosening grip on his psychic inclinations. She’d said, “You do know that the ley line isn’t the source of your problems, right? Give yourself some credit. You can fuck things up in a completely non-mystical way.”

She pulled the Magician, reversed, and the eight of wands, and then, without further comment, passed the phone to Mr. Gray.

Unexplained weaponry, he’d reported. The Lynch brothers loosed on two separate worlds at the same time. Buttoned-up Declan for the first time unbuttoned, schmoozing with an array of dangerous and connected people, trading in secrets just as his father had. Purposeless Ronan for the first time with a purpose, wading out from the murky waters of his dreamspace and bringing the tides with him.

Bryde, the name in the corner of everyone’s mouth, joined all at once by Ronan’s and Hennessy’s.

Renegades, liberators of dreams, scorchers of earth. He could see, easily, why this would appeal to Ronan. A mission, finally. A father figure to guide his hand. A world that wanted his dreams, and wouldn’t crumple under the weight of his unusual ambition.

When they were teenagers, Aglionby was just another one of Adam’s jobs, but it was one of Ronan’s nightmares. He would go to school, a hooded bird of prey, seething with resentment and squandered ability. He longed for the Barns because of what they represented: the childlike belief that his family would never die; the possibility for creatures like him to roam free; a landscape powered by unconditional love.

Bryde, Adam knows, must be offering him the same relief. Exquisite flight, after the cage.

It’s not possible, is the thing. It’s a pipe dream. A Niall Lynch fairytale.

Foresight has never been Ronan’s strong suit. He gets it into his head that a solution is right up until the point that it falls apart in his hands. He throws himself entirely into belief. It makes him an extraordinarily loyal and trusting person. It also makes him stubborn, rash, and susceptible to manipulation.

He believes in one facet of something, and the rest follows. He can’t just take a sip—he downs the bottle.

Adam is a boy on a bicycle in November, needing to find Ronan alive so that he can hate him without feeling guilty about it. He never stops oscillating between resentment and love, reality and unreality, understanding and disappointment. He wants to be normal so that he can choose to be abnormal. Sometimes he wants the cards without the magic.

He closes his eyes and remembers a slumbering mouse against an angular cheek. He imagines Matthew like that, perpetually immobile, perpetually innocent, like a taxidermied puppy. The pieces of Ronan��s consciousness that will linger after his death, statues in a graveyard. Tamquam—tamquam—

What would Ronan be without his dreams? Here, Adam thinks. He’d be here.

He stays in bed for another wasted hour, and then stands up, disoriented, in the dimness of the room. Fletcher is snoring softly. Someone outside their cracked window is shuffling over the concrete stoop. His upstairs neighbour is playing tinkling soundtracks while he sleeps. Adam can’t be here anymore.

He plucks Fletcher’s laptop silently from its charging station, tucks his bare feet into stiff leather shoes, drags the cardigan from his desk chair, and lets himself out into the hallway. The glare from the overhead light pins him against the wall for a moment.

He shuffles half-blind down the hall and upstairs to the solarium, nearly losing one of his unlaced shoes in the stairwell in the process. The lights are blessedly shut off up in the attic, and he feels his way to the nearest of the tables hunched in the shadows. Aching with fatigue, he sits, unfolds his stolen laptop, and gets quietly to work.

He’s never had the time nor means to be truly proficient with technology, but he extracted a handful of leads from Mr. Gray, and he’s been in touch with a friend of Benjy’s—a computer science grad student and hacking hobbyist.

He chases key phrases down rabbit holes and assembles news articles, tracking Ronan’s movement by his “unexplainable” signature (code for mind-fuckery, joyful innovation, and dark humour). Adam is a practiced note-taker and serial obsesser, so it’s barely a strain to find Ronan—whom he knows better than anyone—cropping up all over the continental United States.

“What are you doing,” Adam murmurs. The sky lightens gradually to periwinkle. He has work today, but his shift doesn’t start until noon. His mouth is bone-dry, and his head feels cotton-stuffed the way it always does when he’s pushing his body to its limit.

When it’s late enough in the morning to be socially acceptable, he messages Benjy’s friend with the bare bones of what he’s looking for: a project under wraps, a lonely last name, a suppressed pattern. They correspond, remotely, until Adam is reading government files over watery coffee, wearing sweatpants, dress shoes, and a cardigan with cracked elbow patches.

He pores over it all, cross-referencing dates, and ignoring the widening sink-hole in his chest.

Industrial espionage isn’t at all Ronan’s usual brand of destruction. Highly controlled, not much up-front gratification. A little more political than Ronan usually leans. A lot more ambitious. Whatever their agenda, ley energy is flowing more easily now that it's unobstructed on such a large scale. Adam has been feeling its effects rippling all the way out to Boston, a persistent background pressure, unavoidable as a migraine.

It’s clear that the Moderators are desperate to eliminate Bryde’s party. Their reports are a comedy of close calls.

Slowly, Adam begins to understand the scope of things.

Billions of dollars in damages, manmade structures ripped from their foundations. Magical fugitives hunted by a team that specializes in murdering the targets they call Zeds. Visionary headlights pointed towards certain apocalypse. A world that is always awake, but always, always feels like it’s dreaming.

It’s pretty much exactly as he feared. Night terrors. The Lace. Beasts and legends. Adam holds his head in his hands. It’s more than what Ronan must be imagining. It’s more than Aurora waking happily in Cabeswater, powered by the swaying trees. It’s the indiscriminate waking of every incredible thing that’s ever been dreamed.

He’s struck by a wave of hopelessness that rushes all around him and tears at his hair. Ronan, dreamer of baubles that dispense music and light, cars that go very fast, and menageries of curious creatures, recruited to a cause that transmutes creation into chaos. Ronan, promising to wait, and then running full tilt at a future that can’t possibly keep Adam in it.

His dream half is going to destroy his human half, and he’ll take everybody else down with him.

If he could just see him, maybe—

His jaw creaks, teeth clenched tight against the emotional groundswell. The late morning sunshine strikes him, and he feel more like a vague, pale shape than a person. Like a dream, maybe.

Alter idem.

If Adam can’t reach Ronan, maybe the Moderators should.

He feels the weight of that awful thought burning a hole through his stomach lining. He can’t think about it. He needs to go to work.

_____

The next evening, he experiences a surge of power so acute that it nearly puts him in a coma.

It’s another Wednesday night, and another batch of his peers hitch polite smiles to his heels as he passes them by, winding his way up into the high, arched sunroom at Weld hall. They’re all wishing for magical solutions for their mundane problems, the opposite of Adam in nearly every way.

He bumps knuckles with Benjy and Eliot in turn, pulls up his chair, and knocks his last reading from Persephone’s deck, mostly out of habit. He consults his phone idly as his friends try to make pleasant conversation, holding up a finger when he finds a new batch of texts from Gansey.

John Amos power plant in WV shut down Monday

Intense. maura said she could’ve brought HER dreams to life afterwards

no word from Ronan yet? Leads from Declan? pls advise

I’ll assume no news is good news

He puts his phone in his satchel and fastens it closed. Every new scrap of information he gets feels like a stroll through Ronan’s security system at the Barns—hopelessness compounding and compounding until he staggers out the far end weeping.

He needs to focus on something productive. He nods at Benjy to start letting people inside, straightening the notebook where he usually scribbles his observations. Here, he is an adjudicator: powerful, organized, and reserved, tallying points and offering constructive critique.

His curious audience starts pouring in then, amateur wiccans and wannabe believers, aggrieved last-resorters and skeptics following friends’ recommendations. It’s a brighter collection of characters than Aglionby could ever have hoped to foster.

Gillian texts him to say that she just passed Weld and his line-up was out the door. He is a prim and unobtrusive con artist, a false prophet, and business is booming.

Eventually, a bespectacled girl who looks anywhere from five to ten years his senior sits across from him, tucking a bag armoured to the teeth with candy-coloured enamel pins between her feet.

“Hi,” she says nervously. “Anna.” She stretches her hands out in front of her, then thinks better of it and drops them into her lap. “I’m not sure how this usually goes, so you might have to hold my hand a little bit.”

“No problem,” he says smoothly, passing his deck across the tabletop. “Just go ahead and shuffle. Concentrate on what you want to ask the cards.”

She does as directed, struggling a little to keep the papery stack in check. Not a natural born card sharp, then. He studies her neat black shirt, tucked precisely into a plaid skirt. A Marilyn mole drawn on just above the corner of her mouth. A pride flag pin he doesn’t recognize next to a cat wearing a cowboy hat, and the word “rude” in cursive.

She holds the deck fleetingly to her chest, eyes squeezed shut like a child making a birthday wish, and then plops it in the centre of the table. A card slips near the top, slightly uneven, and Adam plucks it free.

He hums thoughtfully. “Eight of cups. Okay. So you’re having some trouble with letting go.” She frowns and nods once, quick.

He lays out the rest of a simple five card spread neatly between them. A couple of stray swords, the chariot, a wand.

“It seems like things are stagnating in your personal life. Maybe your friend group used to feel like your family, but you feel like they’ve lost interest in you. And you love them, but Anna, if you’re being honest with yourself, you’re pretty sure you were done with them before they even started pulling away. Right now you’re kind of just going through the motions. A couple of years overdue to convocate, right? Everyone else moved on to greener pastures.” He taps his thumb thoughtfully against the bones of his opposite wrist. “It’s not even the loneliness that gets you. It’s the not knowing. Are you supposed to chase after them? Is there another community out there for you? There is, you know.”

He notices another card spilling loose, and he grabs it without thinking. The Magician again. He thinks, huh, caught in the coils and dust of Persephone’s overturned cards.

And then the waking world disappears.

Adam is airborne, tumbling up into the atmosphere on a geyser of ley energy, whipped by branches and light. He throws his arms out to stop himself, but he’s only a projection, so his momentum doesn’t slow.

Something—Lindenmere? The cosmos?—shows him a series of images: an upturned nose made from oil and turpentine, a coiled old tree stump, a red-haired woman grinning toothily and then exploding, a rose the colour of warm dark skin, a pale scar-split hand cradling a silky head, the animal haunch of something black, a terrible voice booming turn back—

He skitters away, panicked, and bumps into his own body. Or not his own body. A double, blinking confusedly in the bathroom mirror.

His doppelgänger turns to leave, and Adam reaches after him, through the mirror, following himself into a version of Thayer which is not Thayer. Everything is alive, in this reality. Energy sings and saws its fingers together.

It’s a memory, but it’s also the present, and it’s also a nightmare. Wake up!

Obediently, the city wakes.

He gasps, although he doesn’t have a mouth. It’s the heaving first breath of a sleeping witch, like Gwenllian turning in her grave.

Adam struggles against the current of wild power, thick and pungent as gasoline. Everything feels more intense near magical artifacts, dream stuff, supernatural fault lines, and it is with great effort that he hunts for something familiar, something heavy enough to bind him. He was unprepared for this, and although everything around him is bitingly familiar, he's lost. He wheels around and around, reaching for his most trusted tethers—Gansey, Ronan, Blue, Persephone—

Persephone.

He follows the lingering perfume of her intuition, feeling blindly for those old handholds in her tarot deck, that familiar grip, like the hilt of a trusted weapon.

And then he finds himself looking again at the girl, Anna, her fate bunched around her narrow shoulders. And then at his own empty body, a glowing card clamped between his fingers. As soon as he’s aware of looking at himself, he’s looking out of himself, and he stands up quickly, overturning his chair.

“—Adam? Jesus Christ, are you okay?”

“What on God’s green Earth was that?”

A palm between his shoulder blades.

“Don’t touch me,” he chokes.

The hand retreats. A murmur: I’ve never seen him like this.

“Is it—is it bad? Am I going to be okay? Is it bad?” Anna keeps asking, horrified.

“You’re fine,” he manages to say. “I’m sorry.” The ‘o’ in sorry comes out a little wide and swerving.

“You went blank,” Benjy says, voice high with residual panic. “For like—ten minutes. Beyond hyper-focus.”

“I thought it was a gimmick,” Eliot says. “But a ten minute gimmick? What is this, Las Vegas?”

“I got carried away. I have to,” he swallows. “I need a minute. I promise everything’s fine.”

“Do whatever you need to do,” Eliot says quickly. “But, fair warning, I’m going to ask you a hundred questions when you get back.”

“And then I’m going to ask another hundred,” Benjy says. “Magic man.”

“A riddle, inside an enigma, wrapped in a sweater vest,” Eliot muses. He can tell they’re still shaken. He’ll have to deal with that, later.

“I'll be right back,” Adam says, touching them very lightly on the shoulder as he passes. The ley line is bursting, and he feels so flushed with its vitality that it almost makes him sick.

He stumbles past them, all the way out of the building and into the street. The winter air tears at his thin shirtsleeves, nips at his sock-less ankles. He shields his eyes against the sun, watching a bird swoop low overhead. A silvery, seagull-sized thing, but with knobby legs that taper into—he squints. Hooves?

He keeps moving, propelled by the mad urge to catch the bird, to pin the wild magic down so he can understand it.

Adam walks for what feels like a long time, trying to find the source of all of this haemorrhaging power. He spots a couple of fidgety-looking students, a few more curious creatures. Somewhere, faraway, there’s music crooning, and it sounds exactly the way a hot shower feels.

He stops in the middle of Oxford street, head cocked towards the natural history museum across the way, the orderly buildings, the sparse evening foot traffic. Business as usual. All of it screaming with energy.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a parade of scuttling creatures marching towards an invisible destination. Frowning, Adam crosses the street, chasing the peacock blue shimmer from an unfurled wing. He slows, stooping in the alley to pick one of the strange insects from the stream. He peers through a nail-sized hole in its head. Its spindly legs wave fearfully for a moment, and then it goes limp in his hand.

The ley energy punches out of him, and he sits back on his ankles, winded.

Adam gazes down at the jewelled beetle in his palm, its siblings scattered out like shell casings around his knees. Dreams, all of them. Briefly, impossibly roused in a dead city. He stands, letting the beetle drop from his hand and bounce across the concrete. He kicks them all hurriedly behind a nearby bench, mind racing. Bugs from an exhibit next door, no doubt. Dormant animals, transplanted from their habitats and pinned in place for decades.

What kind of ecoterror was wrought to bring about a flash flood of energy in a drought? How must Ronan be feeling, out there in the world, wracked with waking dreams? What unimaginable monsters were just stirring in the shadows because of him? Is Bryde one of them?

His lives are merging. The distant rumbling of thunder is overhead now, and the downpour is rolling in. There’s no way he’ll be able to keep dry.

Standing in that alleyway by himself, drained and ordinary again, he feels terribly alone.

He weighs his feelings against his logic for several agonizing minutes, standing still and watchful as a predator. He recalls the jarringly clinical accounts of Ronan's most intimate dreams, the sparsely encoded language in those government files outlining the world-ending dangers of something Adam had, for a long time, shared a bed with.

If something happens to Ronan now, it might kill Adam. If something happens because of Ronan, it might kill everybody.

Another minute, and he has his phone out and ringing.

“Hello?” Declan answers. Oddly, it’s not his usual prickly greeting. He sounds almost jovial.

Adam looks out into the darkening street, feeling like a death omen, a shadow across someone’s doorstep. “We really need to talk about Bryde.”

______

It’s the worst possible time for Declan to be withholding information from him.

Adam had graciously tipped his hand and Declan was, infuriatingly, holding back, as if this was a low grade in Ronan’s high school algebra class, and not the cataclysmic fuck-up of a powerful dreamer.

Declan, so uncannily like his brother in vulnerable moments like this, had thought of Matthew first. A world where dreams could stay awake, he’d marvelled. As if they could afford to think so small.

Once, Adam had awoken to find his arm glued to the bedspread. Ronan had dreamt a bee-less hive in the night, and it was oozing a steady stream of honey into the sheets between them.

“Score,” Ronan had said, when he’d rolled back into his body. “Sting-free. Fucking vegan.”

“What happens when we don’t want any more honey?” Adam had asked, critically. Ingesting dreams always felt like a slippery subject. “Does it shut off like a faucet?”

It didn’t. Ronan filled a dozen amber jars full, and then abandoned the hive in a dusty kiddy pool in one of the barns near the back of his family property.

A month later, Opal had crept in through a window looking for trouble, and emerged, shrieking, in a viscous flood of syrup.

Combing the mess out of Opal’s fur, her little legs slung across his lap, Ronan had complained about the magnitude of the clean-up job he would have to do, the special honey hoover he would have to create, what a waste of a dream it would be. Adam reminded him of his faucet idea.

“Too late for that, Parrish,” he’d griped.

It was their pattern. A marvel, too good to be true. Adam, the skeptic. Ronan, too in love with creation to care about consequences.

Eventually, it will all be too late.

Ronan will pursue this liberation fantasy, this golden daydream, even if it never stops oozing. Even if it makes the whole world uninhabitable.

______

That night, Adam tries to scry for the first time in months.

He gently pushes the crying club—only tenuously placated after the tarot incident—to have drinks without him, claiming stress-induced fatigue. He leaves his study notes open and blinking on the bed, lights a sad little tea light, and casts himself out into the ether.

Straining hard, he searches for the familiar contours of Ronan’s dreamspace, plucking the distant strings of the ley line and listening for the particular timbre of Ronan’s consciousness.

He doesn’t like walking this tightrope without a net, but Harvard isn’t exactly flush with psychic spotters. He keeps a delicate balance, far from his body, inching closer and closer to Ronan’s mind, the safe plateau at the end of this rope.

Eventually, he finds himself in a grey bedroom. It's full to the gills with water, there's a toy sailboat bobbing past at chest height, and storm clouds huddling nervously on the ceiling. Adam’s hair plasters instantly to his scalp.

“Ronan?” he calls, sloshing through the curiously luminous water. It starts raining harder. A familiar, curly-headed child stares at him through the darkness, eyes sharpened into silver points in the moonlight. “Ronan?” he asks again, gently this time.

A muffled sentence, a sad, crumpled expression, and then Adam is staring at a closed door.

“What—let me in! Ronan!” He pounds at the door. “Come on!” He can still feel rainwater, unnaturally warm on his neck.

A voice in his head, not Ronan, whispers, turn back.

“No,” he snaps, knocking harder. “Just let me—“ A sudden gust of wind in his sails, and he’s ejected from the dream altogether.

He pinwheels for a horrifying, weightless moment, struggling to tune back in to the feeble light from his stubby candle, and then dragging himself, hand over fist, back to his dorm room.

“Fuck, Lynch,” he says, when he has a voice. “Don’t be stupid.” He recrosses his legs, shaking off the pointless, clinging feeling of rejection.

When he tries to reach out again, searching, searching, Ronan’s expecting him. He never makes it past the threshold.

Back in his body, he knocks his candle over, relishing the controlled destruction, the spill of wax, the sizzle of the squashed wick. A fire he can actually put out.

______

The next time Adam scrys, Ronan looks like himself. Maybe a little scruffier, with what looks like a tunnel piercing on his right ear, and a rare openness to his posture. He’s lounging in a pasture up against a sleeping cow, boots up.

As Adam watches, he tips his shaved head back into its mottled hide, and the sun makes his eyelashes into lit matchsticks. He loves him very much. He’d almost forgotten.

“Don’t lock me out,” he says quickly. Ronan opens his eyes, and when he sees him he smiles instinctively.

“Adam,” he says, vaguely. And then he locks him out.

“No,” he cries. “Would you listen to me.” He feels for the fissure in space and time, the pocket where Ronan is dreaming, sweetly and inaccessibly, about the only home Adam has ever known.

Nothing gives. Nobody replies. He crawls back to Harvard, weak with misery.

In the next dream, Ronan is older, driving a boxy jeep over a foreign landscape. Rolling Irish hills, skies humming with artificial energy. A woman who can only be Jordan Hennessy, chattering in the passenger seat.

Then it’s Ronan with his head in his dead mother’s lap, stroking the downy wing of a black swan.

Then Ronan and Hennessy again, opposite one another in a sunny gallery. One of them examining an impressionist portrait no bigger than a postcard, the other examining the exit.

Then Ronan, discovering Matthew’s corpse in a dim hallway, blinking furiously at the stranger crouched over his prone body. “What did you do?” He sounds like a kid reprimanding his sibling for getting them both in trouble.

Every time Adam gets close, some defence mechanism stops him, like a firm hand against his chest, pushing him away again and again.

He doesn't know what to do except keep trying.

______

Blankly, he looks down at a sink full of tinfoil and uneasy water. In pieces, he becomes aware of his surroundings—green stalls and laminate countertops, a row of hundred-watt lightbulbs, and somebody rattling the locked doorknob.

“Adam, are you in there?” Fletcher. “We’re going to be late. It’s nearly ten. Adam?”

“Just a minute, sorry,” Adam slurs. He stares closely at his face in the mirror until he recognizes his own features. He has an exam at 10:30. He glances down at his watch. 9:52. He had been so sure that he could just drift for a few minutes, maybe catch Ronan before he woke up. That was almost an hour ago.

He drains the sink, hands shaking, cuffs getting damp. The lightbulb filaments float behind his eyelids when he blinks. He throws his satchel over his shoulder, smooths his hair up and out of his eyes, and rubs the bags under his eyes until they hurt.

When he lets himself out of the bathroom, Fletcher is directly outside, tapping a nervous rhythm on his hips. His hands fly from his body and into the air at the sight of him.

“Adam! Thank god. I’ll cancel the search party.”

“I got lost in my notes,” Adam says, as they both make for the stairs.

“Of course you did,” Fletcher says warmly. “A supremely Adam move. I just hope you’re taking care of yourself. Gillian thinks you might be—well—not spiralling, but—“

“I’m handling it.” He takes several mental paces backwards. “Uh—poorly, clearly. I’m sorry Fletcher, I didn’t mean to snap.”

Fletcher, to his credit, recovers quickly. “I can’t imagine going through my first semester of college and a break-up at the same time. You’re a stronger man than I.”

Adam rather doubts that Fletcher can imagine going through a break-up at all, but he nods conspiratorially. They hop down the last few steps and out into the chilly sunshine together.

“You’d be amazed what one can do out of necessity.”

“Too true. We all have our hidden depths, don’t we,” Fletcher says thoughtfully. For a moment, Adam considers telling him—something, looping him into this tangled web with him, but then he says, “now, chapter twenty-three wasn’t on the outline, was it? I beg you to say no. Lie, if you must.”

And Adam is a student again. He doesn’t have out of body episodes. He doesn’t carry wads of tinfoil in his trouser pockets. He doesn’t keep deadly secrets from people whom he is mostly pretending to like and understand.

They walk onwards, towards a test which Adam will rouse himself for long enough to ace. Then he will think of the next thing, and the next. Appease these school acquaintances of his. Tinker with finicky car engines. Make flash cards. Drift into the beyond using one of Fletcher’s three-wick candles from pottery barn. Text Declan, who activates Ronan’s accountability in a way that Adam does not. Call Gansey, if he can bring himself to face his disappointment.

And clear away his feelings, which keep pouring out of him like so much honey.

______

Ronan hangs up on him, and Adam holds himself in the biting wind outside the library for a very long time.

He’d thought, if he could only speak to him, that he could begin to undo Bryde’s poisonous influence. They know each other. They’ve known each other. Ronan would listen to Adam’s fears as he always does. Adam would appeal to Ronan’s heart, which tends to ache for helpless things. They would see how lost they had become without each other. Adam would be allowed back into Ronan’s dreams, and Ronan would be allowed back into Adam’s future.

Why didn’t you text back?

As if they’ve been suspended in time since Ronan’s last tamquam, and none of it—the running away, warding his dreams against Adam, abandoning his phone, trusting a complete stranger over his friends and family—had ever happened.

It’s absurd. He should have expected it. Ronan was searching for a reason to stay, and when he looked for his reflection, his second self, Adam wasn’t there. For a single moment, he wasn’t there, and now he’s paying for it.

Impatient, wrathful Ronan. Leaping from the moving vehicle because Adam was going the speed limit. Going rogue, and then calling Adam with all of these stinging accusations, like he was the one who’d been abandoned.

He thinks again of Bryde manipulating Ronan, preying on his loneliness, his love for his brothers, his fear of himself. This big bad rumour, older and crueler than the Lace itself.

And Ronan letting himself be manipulated, putting on blinders, using Adam’s brief silence as an endorsement for a glorified joyride with unthinkable global ramifications. Self-destructing because things got a little too quiet.

Adam feels hot rage taking ahold of him with its sticky fingers.

Then he thinks of Ronan saying I need to see you, his thin, frightened voice finding Adam from somewhere out there in the city, and his anger goes clammy.

There’s no way Ronan will call again. Negotiations were off as soon as Adam refused to house them both from the Moderators.

And now, without Hennessy, Ronan is the last arrow in Bryde’s quiver. He’s going to be the explosive that brings everything down. He’s going to be buried at ground zero.

If I'd replied an hour sooner, would he really have waited? If I’d gone to school closer, would I have noticed him disintegrating? If I explained that my dream isn’t what I thought it would be either, that he’s the only thing that feels real, would he have said it back to me?

After everything that’s happened, am I going to be the one who gives up on Ronan Lynch?

Everything is so fucked.

He calls Declan.

He picks up on the first ring. “Parrish—”

“He hung up on me,” they both say at the same time.

“Mother of God,” Declan moans. “Then there’s no hope. He thinks I sold him out to the Mods.”

“Did you?”

“No. I did exactly as we discussed. I negotiated for his safety. I thought—I mean, you said it yourself, Adam. Being anti-apocalypse is a pretty solid platform.”

He shakes his head. “Ronan won’t see it that way. He’s not like us. He doesn’t want to be moderated even a little bit.”

“Believe me, I know that. The way he was talking—about the world screwing them over, all of them, dreamers. That’s not the way my brother thinks. That’s all Bryde. And now he’s taken him—Christ—Christ knows where.”

“He wanted to see me,” Adam feels compelled to say. “He was trying to come here.”

“He said that? That's good,” Declan says, relieved. “Where—“

“I let him get away,” Adam says, through numb lips. “I let him go.”

______

He texts Gansey, things have gone south, and then he turns his phone on silent.

His puts his fingertips to the floorboards, a knobbly hand on either side of a scrying tableau: the leaping flame of a candle, a well-organized pile of cards, his overturned phone and discarded tie. He’s just finished crying, and he feels volatile and ill-prepared even as he ties himself to the flickering light.

His mind races through the night like a skipped stone. Vaguely, he pictures a vast body of water and a glittering mountain range, with no horizon line in-between. Darkness reflected in darkness.

“Ronan,” he calls. The dreamspace whirs and grinds its gears and won’t reply. “You know this is wrong. You know, or you wouldn't be hiding from me.”

It’s all water out here in this sublime mirror-space, but it’s also warm, like the steam rising from a hot spring. Something is moving, changing things on a chemical level.

For a moment he thinks he sees himself, a wan doppelgänger with its hands raised. But it’s not Adam. It’s Bryde. Cool, sturdy, a pale Atlas holding the dream together on his back. He recognizes him instinctively.

Adam deliberately throws his mind closer, into the terrible heart of this fire Ronan is creating. Smoke whispers and catches all around him, and it’s even harder to tell the difference between things now. No horizon, no seam, no reality, no death.

What have you done? What are you doing?

The heat is quickly becoming unbearable. Adam is stretched too thin, and the fire is fraying him, eating through each fibre of his connection to reality.

Ronan, please, I need you to stop. I’m losing my grip. Listen to me.

And then, without any warning at all, he collapses on his dorm room floor.

He hacks and retches, lungs full of phantom smoke. Everything feels very wrong. He thinks for a second that he’s blind, but it’s not his vision, it’s another, less tangible sense, it’s—

He scrambles backwards on his hands, heaving. He tries to pull himself up onto his bed, head first, then chest, but he has to stop with his face buried in the comforter.

Ronan is—he must be—he’s—

“God, no, oh my god, no, no.”

He needs to throw up. He needs to call somebody. There’s complete silence in his head.

He was slingshotted back to Cambridge, swatted back along the zipline to his body, because there was nowhere else for him to go.

He’s sure, in a very non-magical, intuitive way, that every dream in the world has just collectively collapsed. Adam staggers to his feet. There’s a smoke alarm going off, somewhere. A background hum of electricity groaning as it shuts off. A high, scared voice.

As if in a trance, he goes to the window.

There are five dead lightbulbs in the nearest row of street lamps, what looks like a sleeping child out in the middle of the square, and a woman clutching her chest and sitting slowly on a bench.

Panic is deadening his senses, crawling blackly into his mouth and nose and eyes. He thinks of Matthew sitting weakly by the window. Opal slumped over a stump in the woods. Chainsaw falling from the sky like a stone. Gansey’s Cabeswater heart decaying in his chest. Ronan, either dissolving into nightwash or felled by a Moderator’s bullet, dead, lost, or powerless.

Every morsel of magic, every innovation, every cherished friend, every sacred place, turned off like a faucet.

The world outside, drooping and disconnected, is now exactly as ordinary as Adam has been pretending it is.

The ley line is gone.

#mister impossible #the dreamer trilogy #mi spoilers #tdt #adam parrish #trc #trc fanfic #pynch #mine #my tfc besties...... soon #in the meantime. here's some adam pov please clap

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causeimasinger · 4 years ago

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Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier Fic Masterlist

Completed:

Richie Tozier: Come Out & Play (Oneshot, Rated M)

Richie Tozier: Come Out & Play, a new Netflix special! Comedian Richie Tozier is back after a very public mental breakdown. And he's ready to (over)share. (5.7k words)

baby i didn't know, but i'm glad that you found me (Series, Rated E)

1. i've been waiting

Eddie loses touch with the Losers after he's forced to move away from Derry. After 5 years, he finds a way to see his friends again - including Richie, who is just as beautiful as he remembers. (15k words)

2. i'm seeing the most in your eyes

Eddie comes out to his mom, visits with an old friend, applies for a job, and finds his home. (14k words)

we'll get where we're going even if we're late (Oneshot, Rated E)

Richie sees a lot happen in the deadlights. Eddie has to keep reminding him what's real. (7.8k words)

the time and space between us (Oneshot, Rated T)

For Eddie Kaspbrak, dying was just like falling asleep. And then he woke up. (10.7k words)

The Power of Sexting (Oneshot, Rated E)

Richie accidentally sends Eddie a shirtless picture. Things escalate from there. Or, Richie and Eddie play Gay Chicken: Sexting Edition. (4k words)

i love you, ain't that the worst thing you ever heard? (Chaptered, Rated E)

They'd been so close to everything they ever wanted when they were young. And then they forgot. Now that they're back in Derry, they're remembering. Or, a retelling of Chapter 2, with a happier ending. (36k words)

(Continued Under The Cut)

That's where you'll find me (Series, Rated T)

1. In The Wrong Place Trying to Make it Right

"Richie wasn’t sure how the fuck he’d managed to forget Eddie Kaspbrak. Like, now that he’s got Eddie’s hand in his (his remaining hand, Richie’s traitorous mind reminds him cruelly, and he avoids looking at the hospital gown lying flat against the bed where an arm should be) he remembers everything. " Or, 27 years later, Eddie makes it out of the sewers alive. (5.5k words)

2. Got My Heart Set On Anywhere But Here

“Let’s make it a rule to never talk about It again,” Richie suggested, and Eddie readily agreed. “Let’s focus on the future instead of the past.” “Like visiting New York next week?” Or, 27 years later, Eddie gets divorced. (4.9k words)

3. I'll Be What You Need (Goodbye, Apathy)

"Helping you through nightmares of me dying is the least I can do after you literally nursed me back to health for six weeks," Eddie responded with a tired smile. Richie didn't say anything, just let his head fall back into his pillow, pulling Eddie with him. Eddie sighed as he nestled into Richie's bed. Richie felt his heart beat faster the way it always did when Eddie was in his bedroom, in his bed, in his arms. The small smile that had formed on his face fell, however, when Eddie spoke again. "I think you should see a therapist." Or, 27 years later, Richie goes to therapy. (4.6k words)

Block the Noise, (Oneshot, Rated T)

Richie has a conversation with his newly ex-manager and Eddie doesn't like what he (over)hears. (1.5k words)

i've never seen nobody shine the way you do (Oneshot, Rated T)

It was like this: Richie had thought that moving to New York together, getting an apartment and going to school, would be good for both of them. And it was! But! While Richie had thought that he had reached his limit, his max capacity, the top level of Loving Eddie Kaspbrak, he was now being proven dead wrong. Perhaps there was no cap to how much a man could love Eddie Kaspbrak, and wouldn’t that have been nice to know before he’d gone and moved in with the little asshole. Because it was one thing to see each other every day at school, and to have sleepovers on Friday nights, and to spend their afternoons together doing fuck-all, but it was another to see Eddie fresh from the shower, his wavy hair dripping water droplets onto his bare shoulders, his skin flushed from the heat. It was another to wake up and eat breakfast together every morning and dinner together almost every night. Especially since Eddie had decided to start looking like he did now, all bright-eyed and ready to take on the world. So, it was like this: living with Eddie had him absolutely fucked. (2.6k words)

just hold me close (Oneshot, Rated T)

It's Richie Tozier's birthday, and Eddie Kaspbrak would do anything to make him happy. (1.7k words)

say anything (Oneshot, Rated T)

There were so many things he wanted to say to Richie, all the time, but he just couldn’t. He couldn’t put himself out there, couldn’t risk ruining this friendship. But it was getting harder and harder with every day that passed to keep his mouth shut. (4.6k words)

you heard them say it (Oneshot, Rated T)

Even after she's 6 feet in the ground, Sonia Kaspbrak still lives in Eddie Kaspbrak's head. (2.5k words)

Misinterpretation (Oneshot, Rated T)

A prompt from Tumblr: "I'm only here to establish an alibi." (1.7k words)

let's find the place where happiness begins (Oneshot, Rated T)

After Eddie survives Neibolt, he and Richie have a few things to discuss. (3k words)

make it feel like the first time (Oneshot, Rated T)

“Eddie,” Beverly said, grinning. Eddie felt his heartrate speed up and focused on taking a deep breath. He was 17, he hadn’t carried around his aspirator in ages, and he wasn’t about to have a panic attack in front of his friends over a stupid party game. “Truth or dare?” Eddie gets asked about his first kiss. Too bad he lied about the fact that he's had one. (2.7k words)

keep you sheltered (Oneshot, Rated T)

Richie has a fear of thunderstorms. (1.6k words)

so into you (Oneshot, Rated T)

Richie is tired of Eddie watching from a distance. (1.7k words)

Like Kisses on the Necks of Best Friends (Oneshot, Rated T)

He’d wanted to kiss Richie for ages, and suddenly, on their walk home from school Richie just fuckin’… plants one on him, blushes beet red, uses a Voice to say “Good on ya, mate,” which didn’t even make fucking sense, and then takes off running in the opposite direction. Eddie had stood there, gaping, until Richie was an entire block away. Or, Eddie has to sit on Richie's lap for a car ride two days after Richie kissed him and ran away. It's totally not awkward at all. (2.2k words)

now my bedsheets smell like you (Oneshot, Rated T)

Richie and Eddie can't sleep without each other. (3k words)

You're only brave in the moonlight (Oneshot, Rated T)

A homophobic church sign makes Eddie cry, and Richie decides to do something about it. (2.3k words)

WIP:

once in twenty lifetimes (Twoshot, Rated T)

Eddie Kaspbrak had to say goodbye to his best friend at age 13. He wished desperately to live in some other universe where Richie never had to leave. He can imagine them. Happy together in other, better worlds. 27 years later, Eddie Kaspbrak gets to say hello to his best friend at age 40. Maybe he decides this universe was worth the wait.

isn't it just so pretty to think... (Series, Rated T)

...all along there was some invisible string tying you to me First kisses at every age in every universe.

a supercut of us (Drabble Collection, Rated T-E)

#reddie #reddie fic #my fic #my fics #redid my masterlist #updated with latest fics

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letsperaltiago · 4 years ago

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supercut, i’ll be your favorite scene

Here it is: THE KITCHEN COUNTER FIC™️

Hope you guys like this pile of filth and feel free to share your 😌thoughts😌 in the tags or in my indbox/ask! I’d really love to hear them!! For context: takes place during Season 6, Episode 6: The Crime Scene!

Also do I need to make a disclaimer saying that I know Jake would never intentionally neglect Amy yada yada...? You know the drill.

Enjoy!

READ ON AO3 HERE (RATING E)

It had been going on for weeks now and by then it was safe to say that Amy was getting fed up with the situation. Ever since this mysterious, seemingly unsolvable case had started consuming Jake’s every thought, move and decision, Amy had felt somewhat neglected. Her husband was of course still, as always, sweet and caring but lately the case had completely overtaken his life and Jake spent more hours twisting and turning every clue than he spent being paying attention to Amy – or anything that wasn’t case files or clues, for that matter. It’s not that Amy needed attention, like some child screaming for affection, but she was worried for her husband’s health and, even if it felt silly to say, their intimate life.

Sure, they’d kiss good morning, goodbye and hello but especially the past few weeks Jake had more often than not fallen asleep atop of the case files at the dining table rather than in bed with her. Naturally Amy felt many things: impressed by her husband’s dedication and hard work but also worried and frustrated… in more than one way.

One night, another one of those spent alone in bed with Jake sitting at the dimly lit dining table, Amy was done being cool and reasonable; fact was that she missed her husband and she was shamelessly horny. It didn’t take long for her to make a decision: tonight, four drink-Amy, minus the drinks, was going to make an appearance.

“Hey, babe,” she spoke softly with a sweet, curious air, keeping her ulterior motives hidden, as she wandered into the living/dining-room in her pajamas and pink nightrobe. Her steps brought her up behind him and when he finally came within her reach, she made sure to slide her hands onto his shoulders with extra grace and tenderness, softly squeezing them to hopefully give him a taste of the tender touch he surely had a craving for though he currently was too stressed to act on “What are you doing?”

A beat of silence.

“Just working the case,” he mumbled tiredly sounding unaffected by her presence.

It was going to take more work than what she’d originally intended to put into it, but Amy was more than willing to put in the extra work; she did love a good challenge.

“I see that,” she added bending over to wrap her arms around his torso and rest her head on his shoulder as to get a closer look at his work… amongst other things. He was only wearing his flannel and boxers, perfect, she couldn’t help but think.

“You’re working so hard, babe,” she stated sweetly making sure it went straight into his ear. “Don’t you want to relax a bit?”

Her hands stroked his chest smoothly sliding over to play with the top buttons of his flannel, the same flannel he’d worn yesterday, she couldn’t help but notice. Alas this wasn’t the right moment to mention this.

“I can’t,” he flipped over a page to scribble down whatever information crossed his mind. “Not right now.”

“But that’s what you’ve been saying every day for the past few weeks now. Working yourself too hard won’t do you any good, you know… It can affect your way of thinking.”

A peck to his neck was basically Amy begging for his attention, for some kind of reaction to both her words and actions, but it never came.

“I’m fine, Amy. I just need to get this done.”

Scribbling and flipping of pages continued even so, as if she was air, and Amy, more than ever, was now growing awfully frustrated about the situation. Never before, at least while they’d been together, had Jake been blunt and cold towards her like this. Of course, she knew it wasn’t personal, and that it was all tied to the case and the promise he’d made to the victim’s mother, but still she couldn’t help but feel rejected. Rather than letting it get her down, it did the exact opposite and fueled her inner flame.

This problem was only not solved because it was demanding new, more bold, methods.

“But…” she swiftly as ever popped open a few buttons of his flannel “… don’t you think you would be able to think clearer…” she slid a hand down his now revealed chest before continuing to lure him in with sultry words and notes “…if you just let me help you feel good for a bit.”

Gosh, his skin felt so soft and so good, even after all these years, and oh how she just wanted to bite into it, scratch it red and raw with her fingers till both their hearts exploded.

“Amy, please. I love you but I need to keep working on this.”

Ouch. Her hand froze just above his belly button before removing itself. At least he said something kinda nice, she thought referring to the I love you, but this wasn’t enough. I love you wouldn’t have her writhing and screaming till climax.

First attempt was a lost cause but luckily, in a twisted way, Amy was furious and desperate. Vanishing back to their bedroom without another word, boiling with both lust and frustration, the woman proceeded to plan B; and plan she hadn’t really planned but quickly came up with. Said plan was hiding in a paper bag in the back of her closet and she’d actually planned on revealing it to him on Valentine’s day but enough was enough: now would have to be the right time.

Said plan started ten minutes later when she waltzed down the hall and back into the dining/living room wearing the same night robe as before. Only this time she was wearing something else underneath: something fiery red and shamelessly lacey.

“If you’re going to stay up all night drilling this…” Smooth, Amy. She planted a few candles on the table before him before lighting them, making sure to bend over just enough for the dip in her robe to reveal what was hiding underneath, “…then lets at least make it nice and cozy for you.”

“Thanks, babe, but no need to. Just go back to bed and I’ll join you there later.”

He didn’t look up, not as much as a quick glance and Amy could feel her blood beginning to simmer in her veins from wanting her husband’s attention and touch so badly. He couldn’t be serious? He couldn’t not notice how she was basically begging for him, could he?

With a firm grip, in one smooth motion, she pulled out the chair besides him and sat down before slowly untying the knot of her robe as her eyes watched him, attentive, hoping see his reaction when he saw the surprise she was presenting him.

Slowly, oh so slowly, she peeled apart the robe and let it slide off of her like ice cream melting on a sunny day. The fabric fell to the floor without a sound and there she sat, half-naked and more inviting than ever before in her life.

Not that she’d tried to be discreet before, but she was now so very obvious about her intention that he couldn’t possibly let it slide. And if she wasn’t obvious enough then the way the red silky fabric enhanced her skin’s warm undertones while the black, soft lace complimented the curves of her breasts and thighs certainly were. All things she’d considered upon picking out the set. The gleam from the candles danced in the reflection of the silky fabric and Amy Santiago was more than impossible to overlook.

“Why don’t you join me in bed… now?” She bit her lip smiling while her fingers played with a lock of her dark hair.

“Babe, I’m really trying to work here. Please.”

He almost sounded annoyed with her as he scrolled through his phone, looking for whatever could be more interesting than her.

Anti-climatic was not the word; this was way worse, Amy was sure of it.

How could he do this to her? There she sat, exposing herself, metaphorically and literally, and all he could think of was work! Maybe she should try to be reasonable, consider how he felt in his situation with this specific case, but enough was enough! She pushed herself out of the chair and stomped off to the kitchen. At first she didn’t know exactly why she headed to the kitchen… Perhaps she just wanted to get away from him but then again, she could’ve just gone to the bedroom. The doubt faded the minute she saw some unpacked groceries, more specific carrots, on the counter. Standing there in the kitchen in her very lingerie at 1 AM feeling like a sad, rejected porn star, she found her Plan C and felt that there was no other way. Amy Santiago did what she had to do: grabbed a bunch of carrots, picked out the tiniest, crummiest knife she could find, a cutting board and started chopping.

Noisily. Over and over again. Repetitive and loud.

“Ames, what are you doing?”

A reaction – good. She looked up, just barely, through her eyelashes only to be met by the sight of her husband still not caring enough to look at her properly.

“Felt like getting a snack, that’s all…”

She kept chopping, faster, harder and most importantly: louder. Carrot after carrot, way too many, but she figured they’d just eat it some other time. For now it was all about pestering him, getting on his nerves as he on hers. Ten seconds went by… Twenty… Thirty…

Chop. Chop. Chop.

“Amy-“

Another loud cut interrupted him. Amy didn’t even bother to cut into proper shapes or sizes. It was all about the sound.

Forty… Fifty…

“Amy, could you please stop!”

Finally.

She smiled to herself at the sound of his snarl, hearing the specific shade of Jake Peralta she’d waited for all night long. Her eyes were still glued to the carrots on the cutting board before her and, she knew, if she looked up, she’d see her husband stare right at her. God, she loved their open kitchen-dining room.

“Why don’t you come over here and make me?” She challenged hoping to make it the tipping point.

Then she looked up and as predicted, her husband was staring at her with a newly arrived squint and dark look in his eyes. It seemed as if his frustration had finally opened his eyes to what was really going on: his wife was in their kitchen almost completely naked, wearing only the skimpiest lingerie, and he’d been stupid enough to look past it. Their eyes met: his angry and storm full, hers playful and hungry, begging.

Right then and there a pin could’ve dropped to the ground and it would’ve made the ground shake and sound like an explosion. The tension was thicker than quicksand and it was only a matter of seconds, an unbearable staring contest, before the sound of Jake pushing back his chair cut through it like a knife.

He slowly walked, as if he was planning his every step, around the counter dividing the dining area and kitchen area, and Amy could feel herself beam with excitement at the muffled sound of his steps.

“What did you just say?” Jake’s voice was low, a few tones deeper than usual, something he only did when he was angry or during sexy timez. “Think twice before answering me.”

His hands slowly slid onto her almost naked hips feeling the arousing sensation of the lace beneath his fingers. She was trapped between him and the counter before her, on purpose, she could tell and God, she loved him like this. After years of being together it was no secret to either of them that Amy, as much as she enjoyed being dominant and in charge, loved playing the play of the submissive one, the one getting told what to do. Something, if put in the right mindset, her husband handled very well. Key word: handled. Tonight, she needed to be handled. By him… With care? No, they were way beyond stage. Amy was buzzing with impatience. This needed to be properly balanced with the nature of the moment; a tempered Jake who would not put up with being told what to do. Not tonight.

“I didn’t say-“ her breath hitched interrupting herself when she felt him lean his body against her from behind, leaving no room behind him and her, and her and the counter, before letting his right hand slide along the top hem of her panties. “I didn’t say anything. I was just c-cutting-“

His index finger tugged on the elastic hem.

“Cutting carrots,” she breathed out nervousl and he picked up on it.

“Is this cool? Safe word?” he quickly added.

“It’s perfect and ‘Manhattan’ as usual.”

“Okay good,” he pecked the shell of her ear as a sign of approval before picking up where they left off.

“Hmm,” he hummed removing his finger knowing it’d disappoint her. “I don’t think that’s entirely true.”

“Oh,” she whimpered in reaction to his words being breathed against her sensitive neck. While being distracted by his breathy taunts Amy had completely failed to notice the hand sliding down the right leg of her panty. Here, when down low enough, his index finger had crooked itself around the center section of the garment to pull it to the side and reveal her forlorn womanhood.

Tonight wasn’t going to be a long night of slow fucking, they both knew, but Amy was still surprised when she almost right away felt two fingers part her folds, automatically coaxing her into submission.

“I have barely touched you…” he spoke with a voice so soft and in no way is a match to the sinful activity happening further down her body, “…and you’re already this wet.”

No words, only sounds of strain and pleasure, were to come from Amy. Jake was in charge now and he would make the calls tonight. All she could do was wait and obey.

“You’ve been such an annoying little pest all night and I thought it was just because you were bored, when in reality- “

“Jake,” escaped her in the form of a breathy declaration, in a moment of weakness in reaction to his finger’s Godsent work, interrupting him and this usually wasn’t well received, not in a scene like the one they found themselves caught up in, but Jake was too pleased with the display of his effectiveness to reprimand her. Instead, he just smiled to himself and made sure to stroke the exact same spot over and over again feeling her get weak in her knees.

“When in reality you just, so desperately, need to be fucked.”

To prove his point, he leaned a bit more of his weight onto her forcing her midriff up against the counter. His fingers still had room to work thus moving with more and more ferocity.

“Am I right, Amy?”

Eyes closed, mouth agape and head bent back to rest against his shoulder, it was safe to say that Amy was in another world. Yes, she heard the loud rumbling that was the sound of his voice, but his fingers were louder than anything else happening at that moment. If it wasn’t for the fact that he had her trapped she would’ve been grinding for more, used her body to get a better feel of his touch. Alas she’d have to earn it some other way.

“Amy,” he scolded bringing her attention back to his demands. “Tell me. Am I right?”

His hand not stroking her heat slowly started playing with the upper edges of her panties, pushing them down her curves in the process.

“Y-yes,” came out in a voice so breathy that the word was barely audible, and Jake could only just hear it because he stood as close to her as he did.

“Thought so,” he bluntly approved her answer and removed his fingers from her heat to allow himself to push the panties down entirely, letting them to fall off of her and onto the cold kitchen floor. Amy could feel the bulge in his boxers pressed against her now bare ass and it killed her to not be able to grind against it, to feel it properly.

“So…” he used his now wet fingers, glistening with her juices, making sure to trail them across her skin, to slowly push her hair to the side and leave him room to kiss the back of her neck. “Now that you’ve so selfishly interrupted me and the important work I was doing, just because you just can’t behave and wait to get fucked…”

Amy’s voice hitched, loudly even, in reaction to his words. Dirty talk had definitely moved up a few spots on her favorites list when her and Jake got together; he was so good at it and it made her want to play along.

“… there are two ways things can go now: either you pull yourself together like a good girl, let me get back to work and wait in bed…”

Amy did not like the sound of that. Nonetheless she bit her tongue and instead of fighting him she focused on the soft feeling of her husband’s breath dancing against her sensitive skin as his hands stroked her stomach, slowly inching themselves upwards towards her breasts.

“… or I give you what you need. Right here, right now.”

There was a moment of silence where Amy considered whether she should actually answer or let him make a choice for her. Did he want her to speak up or was it a trap?

“Tell me, Amy,” he scowled at the exact same moment as his hands reached her chest and latched themselves onto her still lace-clad breasts. “Tell me what you need. I’m not gonna ask again.”

“N-now, p-please” her stutters were weak, but they were there and she could only hope it was enough. They held so much desperation and honesty.

Meanwhile Jake feverously caressed her breasts, pinching her nipples through the thin, lacy material. Then, quickly running out of patience, he basically ripped the straps and cups down as to finally gain full access to this part of her he loved so much.

“Okay,” he pecked the back of her neck. “Can’t believe you’re so desperate that I get to fuck you right here on the counter.”

Jake definitely sounded smug, pleased with the situation, and Amy would’ve been be lying if she’d said she didn’t feel the same way… even though she couldn’t say it. They’d had sexcapades in the kitchen before but never like this and Amy was filled to the brim with excitement.

“God, I wanna see you on your knees with your lips stretched around me so bad but you’re just so ready for me, Ames… It’s too good to put off for much longer. Can you feel how ready I am for you?”

In case she hadn’t already noticed his hard on pressed against her bare ass Jake grinded into her and Amy very quicky came to hate his boxers even more, wishing she could just rip them off of him, and definitely let out a whimper at the needed touch. The full control he had over her was both everything she wanted and everything she dreaded; all she could do was hope that he’d fulfill her wishes for her.

Finally, as if a shooting had crossed the sky and heard her wishes, she felt one of his hands move away from her breast and relocate to push down the cursed material that kept her from being able to feel him properly. An outline trapped behind fabric was always promising but nothing could ever beat the feeling of Jake’s freed length.

“So ready…” he mumbled under his breath as he, impressively so, used one hand to fiddle open the clasp of her bra while the other was busy stroking his length. Given their current position there were things he had to take care of himself – many things, apparently. With both of his hands being busy paying attention to something that wasn’t her, Amy honestly wasn’t too pleased with the situation even though she knew it would pay off; she could already imagine, almost feel, the cool surface of their marbled countertop pressed against her torso causing goosebumps to rise across her entire body.

Thud. Finally, the strain around her chest disappeared as her bra joined the rest of their (limited) garments on the kitchen floor, soon to be forgotten by both Jake and Amy. Jake did still have his flannel on, barely hanging on by one closed button, but the parts of them that mattered were free and ready for tonight’s purpose.

She felt him take a tiny step back, away from her, and she was just about to let out a whine when suddenly her entire body quaked in response to his right hand giving her ass a firm squeeze before allowing it to run all the way up her spine, slowly and with great intentions in mind.

“Bend over.”

If only Amy could tell herself from ten years ago that she would end up marrying a man whose words could make her body and world tremble… The perfect two words, said so bluntly, demanding, had her convinced the second they fell from his lips.

She obeyed, with his hand on her back guiding her forwards, and soon she found herself looking out at their living/dining room from her new position: bent over their kitchen counter.

Jake’s hand continued its journey up her back, all the way up to her shoulder where he gave it a tiny affectionate squeeze before leaning down and pecking the back of her neck.

“Okay, babe?”

“Y-yes, perfect,” she whimpered, impatient, struggling to retain her recklessness.

“You look so good.”

The unequivocal sound of his palm patting her full ass cheek echoed in the kitchen. Even when trying to convey the need to ask for more into grabbing onto the counter, to a point where her knuckles turned white, holding back a whimper was out of her hands.

“Soon, babe. I just can’t get over how fucking good you look bent over like this...”

Another pat, a strike more appropriately so, to her other ass cheek let Amy know that he was definitely testing her patience and willingness to stay silent. He loved the frustration he knew she was battling with inside; mainly because he knew she’d never break because Amy Santiago’s desire to please and obey was stronger than the feeling of despair and need.

“… Bent over and desperate for me to touch you.”

Jake’s low, rumbling voice, the way an almost animalistic side of him shone through his words, was enough to keep Amy going. Although she did quickly take a preference upon feeling a sudden overwhelming burst of warmth and stimulus shoot through her when his fingers switched their attention from her ass to her folds, slowly running two fingers back and forth through them as to assemble as much moisture as possible.

Pleased with himself at the sound of a high-pitched and dragged out Oh there was no stopping him. Slowly torturing them both, mostly her, he kept working her open with his fingers as small moans and squeals dropped from her lips. His other hand kept a firm hold of her hip. Amy was off in another world, trembling at the feeling of his fingers finally doing to her what she’d been craving for for so long now. Her hands slowly turned sore from holding on so tightly to the counter under her, but she didn’t care. Everything felt so good and she’d die if it were to stop if she disobeyed or accidentally disregarded Jake’s wishes and plans.

All of the sudden, ready to whine at the loss of his fingers but quickly interrupted, Amy felt a strong hold of her hips from both of his hands and then, even better, herself being stretched around her husband’s cock. To hell with the consequences, Amy let out the loudest “quiet” moan she dared. The sensation washing over her was too much, too good, to keep quiet about however it helped that she expressed herself cheek pressed down into the cool kitchen counter.

“Yes,” Jake hissed pushing himself all the way in. “Fuck, you’re the best thing, babe.”

She felt a hand, once again, run up the length of her back as he shuffled on the spot to adjust himself inside of her. The stretch ceased for a brief second but immediately came back, this time for good, repeating itself in a steady pattern that had the entire front of Amy’s body, from her knees hitting the lower kitchen cupboards to the face rubbing up against the cool marble, following the given rhythm. The sound of their bodies slapping together, Amy’s skin drumming against their counter to the beat of his repetitive thrusting as well, came together like an obscene symphony. Only one thing was missing, and he knew why: she was waiting for permission like the good girl she was.

Bending over her so far that his chest ran parallel with her back, almost skin against skin, Jake made a makeshift ponytail with his wife’s soft, dark hair and, keeping in mind to stay careful, forced Amy’s head off the counter and back. Amy hissed, the pain and pleasure coming together, and she was finally in the perfect position for him to whisper into her ear.

“I know for a fact that you can be a hell of a lot louder than that.”

The observation, rather the implicit demand, went straight to her already extensive drive and with her head held up by his hand in her hair, Amy allowed her sounds of pleasure to fall freely from her lips and accompany the repetitive sound their body’s coming together, over and over, skin to skin, skin to wood, skin to stone.

“Oh- oh- ohmygod yes,” came tumbling out of her like the world was collapsing inside of her and having straightened back up, still with a hold of Amy’s hair, Jake could only admire the scene before him as he felt the stressful case and immense pressure melting away. After this he would definitely have to apologize for being so absent lately but for now, they probably needed this more than anything else.

“Y-yes, baby. Feel so good around me.”

Every word, every sound, every move was punctuated by a thrust, one after the othert, speed and force slowly increasing as a momentum built and both parties fell into and drowned in an endless pool of longing and passion.

“Was this what you wanted when you decided you were going to act like a fucking brat?”

A tug on the makeshift ponytail demanded that Amy listen even though she knew he might not necessarily want an answer from her - at least not a vocal one.

“Was is worth it? Tell me.”

Another tug on her hair, definitely demanding an answer, and his fingers digging into her fleshy hips earned him a small cry of submission that almost had him coming right there on the spot. Alas he stayed focused and steady. He wasn’t ready to let go yet, and neither was she. Just the way he wanted it and the way she loved it.

“Y-yes,” she just barely managed to stutter between thrusts, too far gone to make out a longer sentence, even though she was dying to tell him just how good he made her feel and how she’d missed him inside of her.

“Can’t believe all it takes to shut you up is a good fuck,” he accused her, but she could tell he was not so secretly loving it, simply saying it, making it sound filthy, because he had needed it just as badly as her. “So desperate you’ll take it anywhere…”

He trailed off, out of breath from snapping his hips back and forth into her with hefty momentum that had both his and her legs shaking. Although, he knew, he wasn’t quite done with her yet. There might’ve been beads of sweat running down her arched back, red marks on her arms from the rubbing of the counter and beginning knots where he held onto her hair, but it couldn’t be over yet.

Using the last surge of energy, he had left in him, Jake decided to let go of his wife’s hair and used the now freed hand to give her ass one last spank, one whose loud snap and following whine bounced off the kitchen walls. Besides that, nothing was said and Jake was pleased.

“No complaining, huh? You just know that you always look so much better when I mark you up.”

It was hard to tell since her entire body jerked every time he reentered her however Jake was sure: she nodded. He stroked the fresh redness of her ass before hunching over her still very much bent over figure. The new curve of his body to ran along hers, his chest to his back, and gave him the opportunity to take a hold of her hands where they were still clinging onto the kitchen counter’s edge for dear life. Now he could help his thrusts by pulling into her.

“I’m so close, Ames. So fucking close.”

He readjusted as to be able to whisper directly into her ear.

“You look so good bent over like this… All for me…”

“O-only for you,” she managed to stutter.

“But I want to be able to see your face when you cum.. So hard like never before,” he marked his point by gathering some extra force to thrust just a bit deeper and the small scream it derived was worth it. Although he had already (kind of) warned her Amy felt like dying the second he so brutally pulled out of her completely. It was all soon forgotten though; the second he pulled her back up straight, spun her around and lifted her, almost entirely by himself, up to sit on the counter. Before Amy could fully comprehend what was happening, he had her face cupped in his hand and their eyes locked.

Amy could’ve sworn what he did and said next was the sexiest thing he’d ever done to her: without letting go of her face, neither her eyes, he used his free hand to push her thighs apart and around him.

“Now don’t you dare look away.”

Without further explanation he grabbed his cock and guided it back into her, once more appeasing her with the feeling of being filled to the brim by him. It was far from as easy or smooth as their previous position, but they fell back into a enjoyable pattern of movements. Before they knew it Amy was back to whimpering at every thrust, her magic spot struck over and over again. She was shrieking her pleas as he kept their eyes locked and there was no escaping it. The hand holding her face snuck a thumb across her dry lips, furthermore, causing them to part and welcome his finger past the edge and into the mouth he was dying to kiss.

“Do you have any idea how fucking hot you look like this?” he praised enjoying the wet sensation around his thumb and the muffled effect on her whimpers it had before removing his hand, to her disappointment, only to then please when he put it to better use down between her legs. “And you’re going to look even hotter when you fall apart around me, understood?”

“Y-yes,” she croaked with eyes slowly beginning to flutter closed. “I- I’m so close, baby.”

“Me too,” he breathed heavily as he saw her eyes shut as his fingers played with her clit, wishing and yearning to take her where they both wanted to be. “Now look at me,” he demanded using his free hand to once again grab her jaw and reposition her face as to be sure she was looking directly into his eyes as he felt himself come closer to his climax.

He picked up the pace, the slaps of their skin becoming louder, and Amy immediately reacted by grinding harder onto both his cock and fingers meanwhile her mouth let every deep, sinful emotion pour out of her as a messy ode to her own climax.

“R-right there, ugh- yes! Faster, harder-“

“I’m gonna cum, babe. Right now,” he exclaimed.

“Y- yes, inside of me. Keep going,” she begged afraid that his climax would interrupt God’s work he was doing on her.

“Ye-“ he was cut off by his own climax which caused his head to shoot back and a groan from the deep of his gut. Although Amy had nothing to fear: even through his climax Jake kept up his pace, mostly with his fingers, and not too long after he had Amy writhing and gasping for on the counter.

“Come for me, babe. All over me.”

He was slowly coming down from his own climax and passionately coaxed his unravelling wife through their shared euphoria, listening and staring into her eyes as she crumbled around him.

After a few moments of aftershock in the shape of shuttering, gasping and whimpering, the room fell silent and time seemed to stand still. By then Amy had slumped forward, completely drained, leaning her head onto his shoulder meanwhile the cool night temperature of the room started to get to her. Small goosebumps danced all over her body.

For a bit they just let it be, let the moment stand on its own, giving Jake the time to run his hands all over his wife’s shaky, beautiful body that he loved oh so much.

“I’m sorry I’ve been so absent lately. I hope you know that it has nothing to do with you.”

Although it was a statement and a fact rather than a question, Jake definitely wanted and needed to know if she knew that it was so.

“I know.”

He could feel and hear her smile because that’s how stupid well he knew her.

“Good. Still want to say I’m sorry though,” he smiled into the top of her head before pecking it and getting a small taste of the sweat they’d both built up. “…And I promise that I won’t let work control me like this again.”

Silence. A beat.

“I really appreciate you saying that. Thank you…”

She turned her head so that she could kiss his lips and, just an hour ago, Amy might’ve thought he was the most annoying, stubborn human on earth and maybe he was… But now she was also once again sure of the fact that no one could or ever would love her like her husband does.

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