#you know how black people may hang around white people so long that they begin to act like them. but they're still black

[fennthetalkingdog]

I feel like a dog that's been hanging around with housecats so long that I've grown up acting like them. I've always been a dog, and so I still have some of my own body language, but I've adopted so much catness that it feels almost just as much an intrinsic part of me. I still wag my tail according to dog rules, but I know when to switch; I slow blink to show my affection too; I've spent so long making myself small that I almost don't know how to accommodate my lanky body. In regards to my humanness, I draw cats better than I draw dogs; I've spent so much time in the Warrior cats fandom making characters and Clans and learning cat anatomy that when I try to draw a dog, my pencil makes them look short and fluffy with short legs and round stomachs. I can barely draw a dog from the side and have it look like one. I'm not just a dog—I identify almost as much with cats as I do with dogs. But I still am one. My jaws look a bit too big and my legs a bit too long. When I move without trying, I'm a bit too fast and graceless. I've spent my life hanging around cats, and it shows, but my dogness is just as undeniable.

I have a similar feeling about my humanness. Disregarding the fact that humanity has perks that I like too, I've just spent so long in this form that it's just as strong a part of me. I want to show my dogness, but not if it involves me throwing away my humanity. I can play with the other dogs, but at the end of the day, I stand back on two legs and go home to type on the computer and eat with a fork and spoon. I wouldn't throw away my grandmas' cooking, my lofted bed, or my bracelets and anklets. I wouldn't throw away all the memories I've made as a "human." So even when I'm not all human now, I don't want to leave that all behind.

[forhappysake]

Fluffy Surprise

Author's Note: Not proofread and the first fic I've written in like six months so read if you dareeee

Summary: Reader decides to give Spencer a present when he returns to their new home.

Warnings: People with cat allergies, beware! (?) Fluff ofc.

You moved into the new house two weeks ago.  Technically, you moved all your stuff into the new house two weeks ago. In boxes. Lots and lots of heavy boxes.

Spencer had come up with a system, labeling each box with the room it would go into at the new house. You had worked together to pack everything, label each box, and unload the boxes into your new home. 

And it seemed like the moment he set the last box down and you were ready to start setting the place up, his phone rang. 

Spencer had been gone for one week. 

The case was halfway across the country, somewhere in Santa Fe. You couldn’t exactly be mad at him for being gone, but unpacking and trying to organize everything without his input was a nightmare. You were finishing the last box in your shared bedroom, carefully placing his clothes on wooden hangers and organizing them in the closet, when your phone rang. 

Spencer’s name lit up the screen. You answered quickly. 

“Hi, Spence,” you said, plopping down on the freshly made bed.

You could tell how tired he was from the long pause he took before responding. “Hey, honey. How’s the unpacking?” he asked with a small sigh. 

You frowned to yourself, worried about how tired he sounded. “Oh, it’s alright. I’d like you to look through all the rooms when you get home, just to make sure everything is where it should be.” You let out a soft laugh, “I also had a hard time hanging up all the pictures and paintings without you, so we may have to straighten some of them up when you get back.” 

Another pause followed, though this time you could envision him nodding to himself. “We can do that,” he said. “I’m sorry you had to do it all by yourself. I promise I’ll find a way to make it up to you.” 

You rolled your eyes. “It was fine, Spencer. Besides, I’m pretty sure chasing a serial killer or something gives you an excuse.” 

He sighed on the other end of the line. “That’s what I wanted to talk about. We caught the unsub this evening. I’m hoping to be home late this evening, but it probably won’t be until after you go to bed.”

You smiled, content with the thought of him coming home to your freshly decorated home. “Oh, I’ll be staying up. I want to see your reaction to the place.”

“Alright,” he said, clearly too tired to urge you to go to bed instead with a list of facts about the health benefits of a good night’s sleep. 

You sighed. “As much as I'd love to stay and chat, I’ve got about fifteen more boxes to go.” 

“I understand. I should probably get some work done, too. Files, reports, you know how it is,” his voice was barely a whisper now, the exhaustion beginning to get the better of him. 

“Don’t work too hard, Spence,” you cautioned. “I’ll see you tomorrow night. I love you.”

“I won’t. I love you too,” he answered. The end of his line promptly went dead.

You looked around the bedroom, discarding your phone on the bed. You couldn’t help but wonder if there was something you could do to make Spencer’s return home a bit more special. 

You sat up and leaned over, furrowing your brow and resting your head in the palm of your hand as you tried to think of things Spencer liked. Of course, Spencer liked a lot of things. He liked sweet coffee, puzzles, and a classic novel in some foreign language you couldn’t comprehend. 

None of those things were overly special, in your mind. As you sat and wracked your brain, a thought finally came to you. 

One month ago, walking by a local cat cafe, Spencer spotted the most beautiful calico. She had fluffy hair, one black ear, one orange. Her little paws were white and she was so well mannered. Spencer and yourself had gone in immediately and he had spent your time inside doting on the calico, whose name, you learned, was Calypso. 

You bolted up from the bed and out into the living room, finding your purse sitting among the unpacked boxes. You shot out to the car, and without a second thought, drove the ten minutes to the cat cafe. 

You said a silent prayer that the cat was still available as you pulled into a parking space across the street. As if on cue, you looked up to see the same cat lounging lazily in the window sill, green eyes poised on you. 

The adoption process was quick, quicker than you anticipated. Fifty dollars later, you were on the road with Calypso in the passenger seat, sitting demurely in the carrier the shelter had provided you with to take her home in. 

On the way home you had to stop at PetSmart to pick up a litter box, a few toys, and a scratching post with the hope that your new furry friend would not decimate your new furniture. Calypso remained in the carrier, watching quietly from the shopping cart as you agonized over which treats to get. 

Soon enough, you were on your way home. The moment you walked through the front door, you set the carrier down and allowed Calypso to wander free. She was tentative at first, gently sniffing the floor and getting the feel for her new surroundings. However, after ten minutes, she perched herself on the kitchen counter, looking quite like the queen of her own castle. 

You took this chance to open her new toys and scatter them about the house, as well as find a secluded corner for her litterbox.

For the rest of the day, the cat watched you unpack boxes. Beady green eyes noting your movements until you disappeared from her sight. Occasionally, if you left the room for too long, you would turn to find that she had followed you. In these moments, you would stop to offer her a gentle petting and giggle as she flopped down on the floor, furry belly up to the sky. 

It was six hours after his phone call that Spencer arrived at home. 

2:19 a.m. was the time on your watch when you heard the lock turn and rose to greet him at the door. Calypso, seated in the corner of the room on a side table, perked her ears up at the new noise coming from the entrance. 

Spencer locked the door behind him and turned to face you, reaching out and pulling you in for a long hug. 

You rubbed your hands up and down his back. “Are you happy to be home?” you asked, your voice muffled by his shoulder. 

“You have no idea,” he said. He pulled away only to examine the living room. Spencer nodded in approval. “It looks really good in here. You did a great job.”

You smiled warmly, nerves settling in your stomach as you realized he’d not yet noticed the cat in the corner of the room, who was still watching him with suspicious eyes. 

“Spencer, I have to tell you something,” you said, wanting to explain yourself for doing something as impulsive as adopting a cat while he was away. 

His face suddenly became very serious. “What is it? Did something happen while I was gone? Are you alright?” 

The questions came quickly and you shook your head to reassure him. “No, Spencer, it’s nothing bad. Here, come look.” You grabbed his hand and pulled him forward until the two of you were standing behind your couch in the middle of the living room. 

“Look around,” you said. 

Spencer’s tired eyes traversed the room. You watched as they landed on paintings, the television, the clock, and nearly everything but the cat who sat entirely still in the corner. 

“I don’t understand,” he said, brow furrowed. “Did you make some major change I don’t know about? If you did, I’m sure that it’s f-”

At that moment Calypso jumped off the side table. The soft thump that accompanied her landing on the floor was enough to stop Spencer in his tracks. Finally, you watched as the feline caught his eye. 

“You didn’t,” Spencer said, his voice barely above a whisper. His reaction wasn’t telling you much, and you were afraid that he was not pleased. 

You started trying to explain yourself. “Well, I knew that you had a long week. I wanted to do something special. I know how much you enjoyed spending time with her at the cafe and now that we have the space I figured…”

You trailed off. In the time you had spoken, Calypso had crossed the room, climbed the couch, and began butting her head up against Spencer’s hand. Panic was setting in. Why wasn’t he reacting? 

Just when you were about to push him to say something, you looked up to see a large grin plastered on his face. Spencer gently wrapped his arms around the cat and picked her up, holding her close and petting in between her ears. 

“This is the most thoughtful present ever. I love her,” he said. His excitement reminded you of a little child and pulled at your heartstrings in a way that could have made you cry. 

You sighed in relief. “I’m so glad.” 

With Calypso still draped over one arm, Spencer reached out for you, pulling you to his side. He planted a soft kiss on the top of your head. “Thank you so much. I love her. I love you,” he said, smile still evident on his face. 

“I love you too,” you said, turning to face Calypso, who looked all too content to be wrapped up in Spencer’s arms. 

“I think she’s trying to steal my man,” you joked, nudging Spencer on the side. 

Spencer laughed. “I don’t think you have to worry too much about that. My heart has room for two lovely ladies.”

[jazzthatonewriterchick]

Hit ‘Em Up! (18+ Fic)

Pairing: Cowboy!Gojo Satoru x Cowboy!Geto Suguru x Black!Cowgirl!Reader (Slow Burn/Enemies to Lovers)

Synopsis: You get to meet Geto & Gojo the Gunslingers, the notorious outlaws that have every town and law enforcement in a twist, when your bum-ass BF offers you as payment to avoid going to prison. Little do they know that this is only a part of your plan to get what you desire. But when you realize that the infamous gun-slinging, smooth-talking cowboys could be everything you want and more when they offer you a deal to team up with them, will you successfully be able to go through with it? 

Warnings: Smutty Smut; 18+ (MINOS GTFO); poly!SatouSugu; Reader is Black & Fem; Mention of other JJK characters; Porn with Plot; Tragic Backstories; T/W for Childhood Trauma, Parental Death, Violence, Panic Attacks & Torture; Angst/Hurt/Comfort; Hand Kink; Masturbation; Voyeurism; Gay Sex; Polyamorous; Double Deepthroat; Mutual Oral; Fingering; CMNF; Spitroast; Riding; Unprotected PiV Sex; Creampies; Outside/Public Sex; Shotgunning; Multiple Positions; Spit Kink; Facials; MDom/fsub Undertones; Aftercare

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters mentioned in this fic. However, as this is my writing, I do not give permission for my work to be reposted on any other sites that are not from my own accounts. Thank you!

Chapters: One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen PT I & II. Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-One. Twenty-Two. Twenty-Three. Twenty-Four. Epilogue + Soundtrack.

********

TWO: G & G.

You know that there are those in the world who strike fear into people’s hearts and souls.

But you’ve never seen anyone react to a single human being the way they do the duo that struts into the bar in their leather cowboy boots. 

You’ve never seen the saloon so quiet and still before then when the duo steps into the scene. A tumbleweed could blow by with how silent it is.

Everyone’s eyes stay planted on the tall, handsome men oozing with confidence and intimidation standing among the swinging doors, appearing like sexy phantoms in the night.

There stands Geto Suguru, the 6’4 long-haired gunslinger with the perfect, black locks that cascade down his broad shoulders and back, seductive eyes, and skillful hands that he hides behind two riding gloves.

He usually is seen riding a black Bronco that is just as big as him and sporting a black cape with black riding pants, boots, and a low-brim cowboy hat. Black fits him so damn well. The only thing that isn’t black on him is the red vest that is so low-cut that you can see the outline of his pecs. 

Beside him is his partner (and lover as it’s rumored) Gojo Satoru, the lean, confident, cocky, blindfolded bandit standing at 6’3 with snow-white hair, a sly smile, leather gloves that hide some skillful and deadly hands, and a blindfold covering his eyes that have never been seen but are said to make a man go cold with fear where he stands.

In contrast to Geto, the white-haired cowboy is doused in colors: a denim jacket that matches his slacks where a star-shaped belt buckle hangs from his crotch; brown boots with spurs; a red bandana wrapped around his neck; and a white cowboy hat sits low on his head. He, too, has his own horse: a brown Bronco that is recognizable from its hooves clicking across the ground.  

They are a match made in heaven and hell. Handsome, skillful, and deadly. They are known for their impressive yet terrifying speed when it comes to cocking and shooting their pistols. You’ve heard of them killing all kinds of wanted criminals and even other gunslingers in other counties.

Everyone knows them and so do you. 

If a record was playing, the damn thing would be scratching by now with the way the saloon reacts to seeing the gunslingers in the flesh. Whispers begin to rise from the silence, including from Yuki, Mai, and Maki who have wandered over. “Oh, my God,” Mai gasps. “It’s the Gunslingers!” 

“What the hell are they doin’ here?” Maki wonders aloud, peering at them from behind her spectacles. “Are they lookin’ for someone? I thought they had been arrested!” 

And they did, last year. At some point, the articles of gunslingers, corporation owners, and high rollers found dead with bullets in them and a note from “G & G” left at the scene stopped when they were arrested after that train heist. And you know it has everything to do with their connection to your boss. 

“Who cares?” Yuki dreamily sighs as she stares at the gunslingers with heart eyes. “I get to admire them in person now! Aren’t they delicious?” 

“Keep it in your pants, Yuki,” Choso grumbles, tugging on a lock of the blonde’s hair as she giggles. “They ain’t even all that.” 

“Of course not,” Yuki purrs, making Choso blush. “Not above you, Chosi, but a cowboy hat would do you so well!”

Even you will admit that the “wanted dead or alive” posters don’t do them justice: they are fine as all hell, straight out of a woman’s wet dreams. But they are also outlaws. And you despise outlaws…for personal reasons. 

The duo begins to look around the silent saloon, Gojo’s head slowly turning despite his blindfold. When his head turns toward you, you feel as if the air has been stolen from your very lungs. Despite the fabric covering his eyes, you feel as if he sees you. All of you. 

Gojo nudges Geto with his elbow before waltzing over to the bar, his boots thudding across the hardwood floor. Geto follows, ignoring the whispers and stares in their wake. The piano has begun to pick up again, but it does nothing to ease the tension swimming in the air. Quickly, you turn to face your drink while the girls scatter to work, leaving you to fend for yourself. 

Geto sits on the stool beside you while Gojo takes the one beside him. You feel the air around you become stiff and tense as the cowboys settle into their seats. “So what’s a cowboy gotta do to get a drink round here?” Gojo asks with a smirk. “Can ya help a guy out, miss?”

He gives Shoko a flirty look, not knowing that this girl is gay as hell. “I could damn sure try,” she replies, barely giving him a smile. “What will you fellas have?” 

“I’ll take a Long Island iced tea,” Gojo says then laughs. “Just kiddin’! A beer, please.”

Geto takes a moment to examine the shelves of alcohol behind Shoko. He then looks at your pretty drink. “I’ll take what the lady is havin’,” he answers. “Actually, what is that you got there, miss?” 

His dark, enchanting eyes meet yours and you ignore the butterflies they invoke inside of you. “Whiskey smash,” you blandly reply.

He hums thoughtfully at the name. “Hm…is it good?” You tick your eyes at him briefly, secretly admiring his features. “If you like your whiskey with some sweetness to it, sure.”

A slow smirk appears on his face. “Oh, I definitely do,” he drawls. “I like sweetness with my everything.” 

You swallow hard, so sure you have a cherry pit in your throat. Gojo chuckles from beside his partner, flashing you a white-toothed smile. “Oooh, me too. I’ll third that order, ma’am!” Shoko nods and shoots you a look before wandering off to fix the drinks. 

You do your best to keep calm and act normal, sipping your drink and trying to relax. At some point, the silence becomes thicker, prompting one of the gunslingers to speak on it. “Welcomin’ place,” Gojo sniggers. “I feel so at home.”

Geto quietly chuckles from between you and Gojo. “Let’s just settle, Satoru. We won’t be here long.” 

‘Settle what?’ you wonder, but you know that they are here for Kento. Shoko comes back with the frothy, red drinks, lowering them in front of the gunslingers. 

“Thank you kindly,” Gojo chirps before taking a sip. Geto nods his thanks but doesn’t drink his right away. Instead, he goes into his pocket and retrieves a folded piece of paper. He unfolds it and slides it across the bar to Shoko. “I don’t suppose you know who this guy is,” he says. 

You peek down at the paper, finding it to be a “Wanted” poster with your BF and boss looking back at you. Kenzo aka “Valentine” looks much different than when you met him. On the poster, he is clean and shaven, has longer, shaggier hair, and has a distinguished scar on his left eye.

But of course, this is the gunslinger who robbed people blind and just pulled a train heist and massacre in the town of Cherrywood a year before with his crew, Geto, and Gojo. The man who takes his place now is Kenzo, a humble saloon owner who sometimes dabbles in illegal activity to fund his saloon.  

Valentine, a criminal on the lamb and your outlaw boyfriend, is known for using his looks, charm, and violence to get what he wants. He is a man who loves money, women, and jewels. As a notorious criminal and outlaw, he has bounced from place to place, county to county, robbing folks and then laying low before starting again. 

He was arrested for robbing the Cherrywood regional train and having his crew massacre all of its employees and riders before you met him. Originally, he was given a fifty-year sentence but escaped after serving five weeks just by seducing a male prison guard and then knocking him out to steal the cell keys. 

You were hot on his trails when he showed up Blackwater a year later and met you in a whorehouse that you purposely took a job in since he frequented those. He took one look at you and immediately fell in love with you (and your body), proposing you a job at his saloon. “You could be mine,” he told you. “My girl.” You agreed and the rest is history. 

“I’ve heard of him, yes,” Shoko replies as she cleans a glass. 

“Is it possible you’ve seen him around?” Geto ponders aloud. “I don’t know if you’re aware, but he escaped Cherrywood a year ago after robbin’ a train and massacrin’ everyone in it. He’s wanted in about nine different counties.”

Shoko takes another brief look at the poster before someone flags her down from down at the bar. Saved by the bell. “I can’t say I have seen him, fellas,” she apologetically says. “‘Scuse me.” 

She hurries off, leaving you with the two cowboys. “How about you, ma’am?” Geto asks, passing the poster to you. “You recognize this face by any chance?” You look down, studying Valentine��s face.

You have, but first, you need to read these guys. “I’ve seen him in the posters, but not in person. May I ask why you two are here?” 

You keep it casual and curious, making sure you don’t sound too suspicious. “We were paid by a private source to track down Valentine for his crimes,” Geto vaguely explains. 

“And for personal business,” Gojo adds with a smirk. “You see, we were in, uh…business with Valentine some time ago and never got our cut.”

He doesn’t need to go any more into detail than that. You know exactly what he’s talking about. “We don’t like bein’ played with,” he says, his voice dipping an octave, sending a chill down your spine. “Or when someone’s money is funny, so we came here to exchange words with him.” 

‘Words or bullet?’ you want to ask, but you instead bite your tongue and sip your drink. 

“We’ve been told he was last seen in this town,” Geto explains. “We figured everyone comes to saloons so why not check here?” He slides the poster away from you, a kind yet flirty smile crossing his beautiful face. “But even if he isn’t, we can still enjoy a drink with a pretty lady.” 

You roll your eyes, having heard that line before. “Does that line work with all the girls?” you scoff. Gojo coughs up his whiskey as he laughs, but Geto doesn’t take it to heart. In fact, he chuckles.  “I see not with you,” he replies. 

“I like that,” Gojo states once he’s recovered, his blindfolded eyes set dead on you. “You’ve gotta be the first person who isn’t scared of us or tryin’ to jump in bed with us.”

You passively shrug, twirling your tongue around the rim of the glass. “I’ve been around gunslingers in my time.” 

At this, the duo share a look unbeknownst to you, quite interested in the pretty thing sitting with them at the bar. “Oh, really?” Gojo drawls and you realize your mistake. “Any of these encounters you’d care to share, little lady? I’m quite interested.”

Geto nods, his gaze like molten fire. “I am too.” 

You suddenly feel your mouth grow dry and your cheeks become hot. Your body reacts in a way it never has with any man you’ve been with, not even your first love! The way they continue to stare at you, giving you their undivided and unwanted attention, is even worse.

What is wrong with you?

Luckily, your boss comes to the rescue, barreling up to the bar like he wasn’t watching the duo from afar and shaking in his boots. 

“Oh, gentlemen!” he shouts, giving them both a hard, eager handshake. “Welcome, welcome! Can I offer you two another drink or a dance free of charge?”

Gojo ignores him like he isn’t even talking, leaving Geto to handle this. “Thanks, but no thanks,” he says, plastering on a kind smile. “We’re here for some information about him.” 

He passes Kenzo the poster and you watch in real time as the color in your boyfriend’s face drains. “Have you seen this guy anywhere?” Geto asks, squinting at him.

Gojo peers at him from under his hat, his stare intense even with the blindfold covering his eyes. Kenzo clears his throat and leans in to whisper to Geto. You pretend to ignore them though you secretly strain to hear. “Let’s talk in private,” he whispers. “Even the walls have ears, I’m afraid.” 

Geto nods and nudges to Gojo who sighs and downs the rest of his drink. To your shock, Geto puts a hand out to you for a shake. Though hesitantly, you take his hand and feel the room grow hotter than a sauna when he places a gentle kiss on your knuckles. “It was a pleasure meetin’ you, ma’am,” he softly says. “Hopefully, we’ll cross paths again.” 

His eyes gleam as he tips his hat at you, leaving Gojo to follow Kenzo upstairs. Gojo doesn’t follow right away, instead digging into his pocket for some coins and placing them on the bar in front of you. “For your drinks and yours,” he says with a crooked smile. “Have a good night, little miss.” 

Then, just like Geto, he leaves as if he didn’t just steal the air you breathe with it. It takes a moment to get your head back, but once you do, you down the rest of your drink and get up from your seat. Shoko catches your eye and gives you a look, her eyes telling you a message: 

“Don’t get caught,” she warns you. “And don’t get killed.” 

You nod, blowing her a kiss, before following your boss and the duo upstairs.

[multimilfs]

Agatha Harkness x Fem!Reader: The Reigning Game, Chapter (7/?)

Chapter 7 - Stone's Embrace

Summary: Traveling into the Eastern Pass brings old friends and with them, new fears.

AO3

Words: 11.8k

A/N: This chapter was the hardest for me to get written, but it is hands down my favorite so far. It also contains my favorite scene I've ever written for this story.

I have a LOT more to say but I threw it into the end-note on AO3! So if you'd like to read that, you'll find it all there. Enjoy :)

Tag List: @escapetodreamworld @multifandomfix @ghostsunderstoodmysoul @imtrashinflames @thatmacrameisnotgonnahitchitself @thoroughly--confused @white--lillies @h-doodles @vii-v @anxiousgoldengirl @shinkomiii @danvers97

Warning(s): Blood, Mild body-horror, Self-harming behavior, Knives

Previous Chapters

“How can I begin anything new with all of yesterday in me?”  L. Cohen 

Stones warmed by the sun wait, but for what is undivined. The citadel paths are absent of any traffic save for the movements of one witch. As she wanders the length of the eastern wall, she closes her eyes, savoring the light and heat sinking into her skin. 

Her feet traverse the distance, the divots and grooves in the path like silent beacons guiding her forward. Then, she feels it—the missing stone, the one that tries her right ankle.

Beside a window-like gap in the wall, she opens her eyes.

No crowds fill the streets of The Cradle today. Below, there are a few stragglers—wanderers, like her—but they don’t tarry long, not when there is warmth to be found indoors. All is quiet.

The only bit of noise is visual; the proud, gray castle on the horizon, standing with its tattered banner still just hanging on. Most have fallen by now, the once-blue fabric collected and dropped on the citadel steps to be burned. Yet the last still remains clinging to the lowermost spire.

“Maiden Calderu.”

It is not the title that prompts her flinch—though it will always sting—but the voice, belonging to one such witch that Lilia had prayed to never again see. Yet, Chaos has a funny sense of humor.

She turns, ever the picture of poise, “Mother Elara.”

The witch has not changed a day. Still with her wide, sharp jaw and gray eyes, mouth pinched in a scowl so fierce Lilia’s not sure she has ever smiled. Her navy robes, near black even in the sun, cast a sickly look over her skin.

She could have been identical to her sister, had she possessed even half of her grace.

“Fair meeting. I did not expect any to linger today.”

The words are even, monotone.

“Fair meeting. There is work that requires my eye, I’m afraid.” Lilia says.

A mean upturn of her lips, “Greater than the joy of Light’s day, Maiden Calderu?”

Lilia cannot help it, but she sticks out her chin, unwilling to stoop an inch. She folds her hands behind herself to hide the flares of yellow.

“I work so others may know peace on such days.”

“Ever the nimble servant of the people.”

“Such is my duty.”

“Duty.” Elara chuckles.

The weight of the castle looms at Lilia’s back, casting an impossible shadow. Elara eyes her like she can see how it stains Lilia’s soul.

A shift in stance sees the light catching on the pendant around Elara’s neck; that damning silver sword. Sighting it alone turns her stomach. Its weight has always pressed against her neck, but now she feels how it threatens to pierce through the heart of her.

That would no doubt please Elara to see.

“Might I be of any service to you?” Lilia offers.

Any trace of amusement is wiped from the witch’s face. Her eyes are hard as stone—harder.

“No. You’ve done enough.”

Lilia does not tremble, but it is a near thing, “Good day, then, Mother Elara.”

“Good day, Maiden Calderu.”

Retracing her steps away from the spot and back to the citadel center, she holds her shoulders taught, head high. Yet she deflates the second she reaches the winding staircase taking her down. Once safely inside her lonely office, she slumps against the door.

There’s an ache in her chest she can never fully forget. A deep, gnawing wound that won’t heal. Her legs tremble.

A beating of wings and the click of talons on stone draw her from the feeling. Tight, greying curls are pushed back and away from her face. She pales.

“No.”

Yet Aquila flutters into the room regardless. She settles on the edge of Lilia’s desk, leg baring her letter held out. Lilia flinches. She pushes off from the door, but doesn’t approach the desk, choosing to walk around it.

“Beat it.”

No movement beyond the tilt of the raven’s head. Then, a warble.

Lilia’s hands are fists at her side, “Tell her I could not be found. Tell her anything. There are some things time cannot erase.”

The response that earns her is scolding. Aquila shakes her leg until the ribbon unravels, the letter sliding over the desk to rest atop the papers there.

Lilia stares, eyes missing nothing. Magic clings to the letter and she tilts her head; Agatha’s magic, yet unlike what she remembers.

Aquila ruffles her wings, impatient.

Throwing her hands up, a muttered complaint is issued to the Divine Mother. She searches for anything to offer the raven that will satisfy and send her on her way.

She comes to an abrupt stop, eyes closing. Aquila waits. Lilia’s hand snaps toward a drawer she’s sure hasn’t been touched in ages. It opens to reveal no small amount of dust and old parchment, among it all a large beetle scuttling for cover—the second Aquila sights it, she pounces. The exoskeleton cracks in her beak.

As the raven enjoys the fruits of her nagging, Lilia is frozen, stuck and staring at the hand that moved. The old wisp of magic that’s eluded her for centuries is… real, tangible. She grasped it as if it had always been so clear.

She shakes her head. Curls bob around her face, the movement grounding, yet her mind still wanders. Light help her, she cannot be considering this.

Eyes follow every movement.

Lilia shoves down the wayward desires of her past and schools her features, “I will not see her.”

Aquila bows her head. A beat, a flash, and she is gone.

--

“We await your order on when to march, Your Majesty.”

For all the snarking and teasing she does, Agatha does pay attention. Her gaze is sharp. So when your eyes glaze over at Captain Thena’s words, she notices; just as she had noticed you could barely stomach part of breakfast, and the sallow pallor of your skin.

“On the hour.” Agatha answers in your stead.

She senses the flare of suspicion in the Captain’s mind. True to her training, she only nods and bows, walking off to relay the order.

You sigh and relax back into your seat.

“I’ve been told I’m excellent in bed,” Agatha drawls, eyes alight with mischief, “but rendering a woman speechless even days later is new. I’m flattered.”

She braces for the snap of your eyes to hers, that delicious fury that she can taste in the air. She welcomes the twist of your beautiful face into something like a sneer.

Will you rattle off some small insult for her to twist, or level her with your wit, forcing her onto the back foot? Her magic itches in her skin at the anticipation.

When your eyes snap to her’s, her magic crows with delight. But your emotion is muted. You look at her as if looking through.

You wave a hand, “Is there anywhere you don’t find flattery?”

Agatha’s magic quails at the lack of fight.

“Of course not. I possess the advantage of being superior in all aspects of life, I’ve grown used to it.”

No change. No challenge. Something like fear grips her heart.

She reaches out with her magic, skimming your mind. It’s the same makeup of indecipherable color and shape that she’s unable to grasp. Though, it’s muted. Pulses of what should be emotion bring only waves of numbness.

If anger isn’t working, she has to pivot. The usual choice would be to prod your never-ending well of grief, but it seems that something already has. That leaves… care.

Agatha slips into the role. It’s a relief to find that it’s easier this time around.

“Dear,” she waits until you look at her, “talk to me.”

An opening, a lifeline. She doesn’t really want to hear a woe-is-me monologue, but if that’s what she has to endure to fix whatever this is then fine. Never let it be said she is incapable of doing the hard work.

Something shifts—a flicker, really. It’s enough to soothe her.

“I’m going to die.” You say, hollow.

She raises a brow, “Everyone dies eventually.”

You shake your head.

“After these fourteen days, She’s going to kill me.”

The words settle over Agatha like something comfortable; too comfortable, like an inescapable truth, and it chafes. It awakens something primal. She feels like an animal being backed into a corner.

She wracks her brain for the proper, wifely thing to say. Empty words displaying affection should do the trick—if she can pinpoint the right ones. Not without going through me would be the closest to the truth of the matter. I won’t allow it would also be truthful, even appeal to whatever skittish part of you is seeking reassurance of safety.

Instead, what comes out is;

“No one gets to kill you but me.”

Agatha’s statement cracks like a whip. Upon impact, she freezes. You’re going to fall to pieces in her hands and then she’s going to have more of a mess to deal with.

You freeze. Your eyes snap back to Agatha, full of fire.

Oh, good girl.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Don’t play coy, dear, it doesn’t suit you.”

“Coy?” You echo, lip curling deliciously, “We’ll see how coy I am when I bury a knife in your chest.”

“Promise?”

The first thing you can close your fist around, you grab, and aim. Agatha sidesteps the too-wide swing. Her magic purrs in her veins. God, you’re glowing with rage; it’s almost enough to make her eyes roll back in her head.

A dagger is eased from beneath your pillow and stops her up short. That hadn’t been there when she checked.

You advance on her in a few quick steps. Agatha’s eyes don’t leave the dagger, which is why she misses the kick until it lands against her knee, straightening her leg with a crack that reverberates and unsettles her footing. She snaps her fingers before she can fall and feels the weightlessness of travel.

Smugness of being poised for the kill settles in her as she reforms at your back. But it withers when your smoldering eyes are already there, locked on hers, with the tip of your dagger at her throat.

She should really stop underestimating you.

“Impressive,” her voice comes out more husky than she intends, “but you can’t kill me.”

“Not yet.”

“Not ever. Unless, you meet me at my level.”

Agatha leans into the tip of your dagger until she feels the warmth of her own blood. A small moan escapes.

She waits for realization to strike. Your eyes are so bright this close, thoughts passing behind them, searching her own. Agatha grins. You’re so close. Your brows furrow.

Come on.

Your eyes widen. She blinks, and the expression is gone; the knowing gone with it. You’re just as wary and confused as you’ve always been.

“I’m afraid I like being above you too much.”

The dagger is hidden in your skirts as you pull away and move to exit the tent, though not before snapping at her to pack everything away so you can leave on time. Agatha watches you go without a word.

Her purple rears its head. It itches inside her, begging to be free and aimed at your retreating back, to poke and prod until it brings forth and consumes what she knows you’re hiding. Just one little fight couldn’t hurt… could it? 

Agatha muzzles it.

She snarls and packs up the royal tent with a wave of her blackened hands as her mind works. Something is plaguing you enough to make you numb, near-negligent; a dangerous thing to be in these circumstances. And negligence is one thing Agatha can’t allow. Not when it comes to you.

--

The barrier ripples. The surface twists.

James grabs Darcy’s arm, pulling her back, though they already stand a fair distance away. The ravens shriek in their cage. He lunges forward and grabs that, too.

There is an odd, distorted cracking as the barrier ripples again, and a figure pushes through. Feminine in form. Short, though not disarmingly so.

Her face almost looks like Agatha’s, but it’s off. Wrong. There is a gaping, raw wound in the center of her throat. The features of her face are warped—stretched, pulled, as if trying to melt off.

She tilts her head and grins with a mouth full of too-white teeth. Her voice is raspy and distorted, changing volume rapidly as her vocal chords strain and snap.

“I need you to relay a message for me.”

--

The Eastern Pass is a long, winding path cut directly through the center of the mountains. And it is the coldest place you’ve ever known.

As far as the eye can fathom brings nothing but the same gray rock. In the warmer hours, there’s the shine of water running down the walls, but it has gradually hardened over the day as sunlight fades; the warmth fading with it.

Past the base of Nethys’ Peak there is said to be a large cut-out from the Pass, large and with space enough to hold nearly your entire host. If you push through in the night you should make it halfway to sunrise. Yet there is already a distinct bite to the wind in the fading hours of daylight—what damage will it do in the dark?

A flash of purple above your head draws your eye upward. In a cloud of black smoke, a raven appears. They play and twist in the wind before arcing down to Agatha at your side.

She intercepts the raven on her shoulder without flinching, “And?”

There’s a lengthy stream of song and sound. Agatha nods along like she understands every bit, face neutral.

“Well, we expected as much. Where?”

A low, hesitant reply.

Agatha laughs. It’s not her usual wild cackle, but something muted; bitter. You take in the angry set of her jaw with wary interest.

“Of course.” She says, resigned, “Well done.”

The raven cuddles into the offered hand. Agatha’s expression melts into one so tender you have to look away; the reminder that she does possess a heart twists unpleasantly in your chest.

How is it that she can be unapologetically wicked, yet still trick pure-hearted creatures into loving her?

Weight unsettles your balance, causing one shoulder to droop. Dark eyes look back from said shoulder. You know in an instant who the raven is and a small bolt of joy cracks through the numbness.

“Hello, Aquila.”

Aquila trills. She nuzzles the side of your face with her head, all soft feathers and warmth. Your Grandfather had been fond of dogs in your youth, bringing his around on his rare visits; they would show affection similarly. How lovely it’d be if humans also relied on action, rather than the emptiness of words.

Your shoulders straighten as you adjust to her presence. She continues to nuzzle at you, occasionally stopping to pick through pieces of your hair.

She pulls out one of your silver clips with a practiced yank. The piece of hair it’d been holding back falls forward into your eyes.

“Aquila.” Agatha scolds.

The raven only preens, prize held in her beak.

“You can have this one.” You say, meeting her eyes, pointedly ignoring Agatha, “The rest are mine.”

A tilt of her head. Then, she bows, as if nodding. You scratch at the soft plumage of her skull and carefully avoid knocking the clip from her hold.

“You shouldn’t encourage her.”

“Oh, so rewarding poor behavior is frowned upon, is it?”

Agatha’s eyes narrow, “Something you’d like to say, dear?”

“It’d fall on deaf ears if I did, I’m sure.”

Aquila’s head swivels between the two of you.

“Pot, kettle.”

You bark out a humorless laugh, “You love to hear yourself talk. It’s only natural I’d block you out after a time, dear.”

“Is it my fault I’m the only one worth listening to?” She snarls.

“Most fools think themselves philosophers in one form or another.”

“And you think yourself a God.”

“I do not—”

“Oh yes you do—”

The bickering is stopped as you both jolt in your saddles, coming to an abrupt stop. Aquila lets out a little noise of surprise and readjusts her footing.

Captain Thena has brought your host to a halt.

You twist to see the front line, but can’t see beyond the heads of those in front. The lines of your host are locked tight. 

Between those before you, the barest hint of Thena’s white-blonde hair finds its way to your eyes. Her head is turned, relaying something to the Knight on her left, before someone shifts and blocks you again. You go so far as to stand in the saddle but find yourself glued to it. Blinking, you spy the tell-tale wisps of black and violet curling around you.

With Aquila on your right shoulder, you have to turn your entire body to glare at Agatha, but she’s not looking at you. Her eyes are focused straight ahead.

“Aquila.” Her voice is sharp, commanding, “Bring me answers.”

Your right shoulder is much lighter as she takes off and aims for the front line. Faint though she may be, you can see her circling. You don’t have time for this.

Being stuck in the saddle may keep you from leaving it, but it doesn’t stop your mount from going anywhere.

“Are you incapable of doing anything yourself?” You throw at Agatha. Digging your heels into your mount’s sides, you call, “Let me through!”

A ripple goes through the interlocked forces. Like a wave, they part, allowing you to pass at a trot to where Thena leads. You’re intercepted by a Knight a few paces from the very front; the same you’d seen your Captain speak to.

It takes a moment before recognition dawns on you. She’s different than when you last saw her—no longer covered in a layer of soot, hair grown back in.

“Sir Maria, why have we stopped?”

The Knight glances behind you for a brief moment before focusing back on you, sitting taught in the saddle. Her armor gleams in the dying light of the day.

“The Captain is handling a complication, Your Majesty.”

“What kind of complication?”

“There are riders in the path. Captain Thena is attempting to speak with them, Your Majesty.”

“Attempting?”

“Their common is poor, it is taking some time.”

You nod, accepting and putting the information away when you see it; the Knight fidgets in the saddle. Suspicion takes root.

“What aren’t you telling me, Sir?”

She looks over your shoulder again. You don’t have to turn to know Agatha is coming up behind you, you feel it; the way her presence sucks out the air.

Agatha comes to reside on your right once again, face fixed in a scowl. Aquila no longer circles the skies, nor is she anywhere on Agatha’s person.

“Spit it out.” She demands.

Every rider around you shifts in their saddles.

“They’re demanding to speak with you, Your Majesty. They won’t speak with the Captain.”

“They’ve asked for me by name?” Your brows shoot up.

“Not quite.”

You resist the urge to pinch the bridge of your nose—only just. When did speaking plainly become so difficult?

“You’re trying my patience, Maria.”

The Knight has the decency to look chastised. Her eyes dart behind you and widen for a second before they return to you. You file the action away for later.

“They won’t speak to her because she isn’t the true commander. Without speaking to you, they won’t allow us to pass.”

That brings you pause. True as it may be that you’re the genuine source of power among the host, you’re unsure how anyone else would know. Your journey here wasn’t planned. There has been no word sent ahead of your impending arrival; a misstep on your part, but helpful from a tactical standpoint.

Daylight is fading and fast. Annoying as it may be, you need to handle this yourself, lest you lose anymore time.

“Let me pass, Sir.”

She looks to Agatha, as if searching for permission. Your lip curls. In your lap, you white-knuckle the reins.

You are not a child to be minded.

“It was not a request.” You strain to keep your voice civil.

At your side, Agatha nods. Maria steps back and out of your way. You offer your own terse nod, moving to the front. Those standing at the front line aren’t so open with their shifting at Agatha’s arrival but you can taste the unease.

Beyond the Captain, three riders stand in the Pass.

Sitting high on bone-white horses without saddles, they sit side-by-side in perfect rank. Pigment clings to different parts of their mounts, illustrating pictures you can’t quite grasp. Long, grey manes trail over the shoulder of each horse, of which the ends have been dyed green.

The riders themselves are tall and wide. Long, dark hair is tied above their heads in intricate styles, showing off the rich furs draped across each set of shoulders. Each wears a similar marking of paint; a stark yellow line horizontal across the bottom lip, with a vertical counterpart traveling from the cupids bow down the neck and out of view.

One on the right, whose additional paint boasts powerful blue lines and grey dots, leans over to the man in the center. The language you hear is familiar. You startle.

You’ve never met them, but you’ve heard enough of the Netueht to feel as if you have.

Russet-colored skin glowing with life and strong noses make them more enchanting than any story could tell. You find yourself compelled to stare at the proud image they make. But you’re keenly aware of the chill biting at your ears.

Long has it been since you’ve spoken their tongue, but you pull on your hours of study to call out as you step forward, “I am Queen of Lucia, daughter of Nethys and Daris. How might I be of service?”

Every head on your side of the path turns to regard you. Some wear shock, others interest. Even the Captain blinks before remembering herself. You pay them all no mind.

The man in the middle steps forward. He is by far the most painted; bearing a proud swatch of green on his forehead and filling in his bottom lip. A collection of blue dots align with the edges of the green on his forehead. But the most striking is the blue over one eye.

If he is impressed by your knowledge, he does not show it, “Chieftain Aly’Liwen bids you welcome, daughter of Nethys. What is your purpose in The Pass?”

His speaking is far smoother than your own. The syllables rumble forth from his throat as a deep, simmering note that swings up and back again. You could listen to him speak for ages.

“Passage. We’ve come from the West to return to Greymont.”

A swift incline from all three as they accept the information.

“We were not informed of your coming.”

“This was not our original path. I beg your pardon and that of your Chieftain.”

The two others murmur to the leader, swift and low enough that you cannot follow. His expression does not change as they speak.

“Should you and your people respect The Pass, we will trouble you no further. We bid you safe passage.”

His tone brims with finality. The three turn to return the way they came and something grips you—knowledge from lessons hammered in by your Mother, courtesy so be remembered, but above all the feeling of rightness in their presence. They alone have soothed the simmering anxiety that has chased you since the barrier.

That cannot be a coincidence.

You call at their retreating backs, “Should Chieftain Aly’Liwen have room, it would be my honor to fill the table.”

They turn. The leader does not show any visible surprise, but one of the others does, if only for a moment.

The Netueht do not observe Queens and Kings; to them, all but a few are sons and daughters of the grand scheme; and all children know hunger. Breaking bread, providing, assuaging that hunger—there is no greater act of respect.

A common man could have allowed them to leave, but for a leader—a Mother of the people—to do so would have been a slight. And while said slight would not have been punished, it also would not have been forgotten.

“Are you friend or foe, daughter of Nethys?”

You can’t help your grin, “Do foes often name themselves so easily?”

Then you see it; a crack, the beginnings of a smile on the man’s face.

“Only the foolish ones.”

A laugh leaves you, swallowed up and carried across the space on a cold wind. Despite it, you feel warmed.

“I am a friend.”

“Then you and your closest may follow. Friends are always welcome at the table.”

You turn to Captain Thena, whose gaze flickers between you and the Netueht with interest. Her expression is not quite wary, but on the brink of it.

“Captain, you’re to take the host and continue through the Pass. Half-way to sunrise you’ll reach a settlement large enough for all of you to rest.”

“Your Majesty—”

You hold up a hand, “Agatha, myself, and the Guard will remain to break bread with the Netueht. Continue on and make camp near the village at the base of the mountains. We will follow a day behind.”

Thena opens her mouth to speak, but pauses.

The world has frozen.

Behind you, Agatha snaps, “Are you out of your mind?”

You turn your destrier around to face her, “I think you’ll find I’m perfectly in control of my mind. Now put the world back, I wasn’t done.”

“You have less than fourteen days to see your kingdom protected and you’re running off with the locals.”

“The Netueht are an ally hard won.”

“You need witches to beat a witch.” Agatha explains like one would to a child, “The Netueht are not an ally that you can afford to waste time on.”

“They have to know something. They’ve been around since the First Men.”

“So have cockroaches.”

“You can commune with them while I speak with the Netueht, then. I’m sure you’ll enjoy seeing your family.” You respond, voice sickly sweet.

“Cute.” She rolls her eyes, “We’re continuing with the host.”

You can’t. There is something in these mountains, something connected to the Netueht that you need; you know it as intimately as you know breathing.

“There is something here, I can feel it.” You say in a tone just shy of begging.

“What does it feel like?”

“Like… like standing outside a library and knowing the answer you seek is inside.”

Agatha’s mouth twitches into her signature smirk. Her head tilts as she thinks, eyes roaming, fingers tapping idly at the horn of her saddle.

“I don’t trust them.”

“You don’t trust anyone.” You reply immediately, “But will you follow them?”

“No, but I will follow you.”

You blink, “You mean it?”

“Don’t get soft on me. Whether I like it or not, I’m your magically-bound shadow.”

“Fitting since you’re always in the way.”

Agatha waves off the comment, “We’ll delay no longer than a day. That’s all we can afford.”

“Alright.” You nod.

“Should we seal the deal with a kiss?”

Rolling your eyes, you offer a look the comment deserves. She laughs. You turn to face the Captain. Then, with a snap of her fingers and a wisp of violet, time resumes.

In however long you and Agatha existed outside of time, you’ve been distracted enough to forget you’re mid-conversation with Captain Thena.

“I do not think that would benefit, Your Majesty.”

You blink, fighting to recall what exactly the conversation had been and where it’d been going. Agatha snickers behind you. You want to throw something at her.

“It was not a suggestion, Captain. You’re to continue on as instructed.”

The Captain looks past you and you know she’s looking to Agatha for confirmation. This is the second person within the hour to do so. You fight to keep your face neutral.

“As you wish, Your Majesty. I bid you safe passage.”

“And you, Captain.”

The wind whips your cheeks as you advance, following a few paces behind the leading Netueht. Agatha settles into the space at your side comfortably while your Guard follows at your back.

The Netueht are swift riders. The Pass is a winding, singular road blurring around you in the fading light until it isn’t—until a second, slimmer carving through the rock appears, and they race inside without fear. It is only wide enough to ride two-wide, but the Netueht traverse it single-file, and you mimic them.

Agatha grumbles something behind you.

Were one to travel any slower through this new path, a normal individual might find themselves struck by the fear of the rock walls closing in; but you’re not normal, and you find yourself struck by said fear even as you ride fast enough to rival the wind.

All it would take is one misstep to send you careening into one of the walls, one step to deepen an unseen crack until it splinters and brings a mountain of rock down on you. You white-knuckle the reins in your grip.

If you make a mistake, even a small one, it could lead to an end, and you can’t die here—you don’t want to die here. Would anyone find you beneath the rock? Would anyone know if you were beneath it, clawing for freedom, desperate—

A path wider than The Pass is where the Netueht guide, and you feel the panic in your chest loosen.

Arched openings line the new passage. The walls are shorter, boasting tufts of grasses and plants atop them, the roots curling down on either side. Color clings to the walls in pictures you can’t decipher as you race by.

Cutting off the path ahead is a wall of stone.

Like traversing a long hallway, you gradually come to a stop at the end. You’re surrounded on three sides; and on each side, an identical arched doorway cut into the stone.

All three Netueht slide from their mounts and land on sure feet. The leader turns to you.

“We will return for you.”

He vanishes through the doorway ahead. His companions split, one going right, the other going left. Only their mounts remain as evidence of their presence.

With the heavy hoofbeats on stone silenced, quiet descends over your party. There’s little wind to be found in this tucked-away corner. It’s nice, even if the air does still possess a bite.

Agatha and her mount shift, restless, eyes darting across the landscape, “I don’t like this.”

“We’re not in any danger.”

“Dreykov, Belova, Romanov.” Agatha barks, ignoring you, barely turning to regard them lest she put her back to any of the doorways, “Moving Her Majesty to safety is to be your only priority.”

You don’t have to turn to know they all nod.

“That’s not necessary.”

“Your new friends tell you that?”

“We’re safer here than we were in The Pass.”

Agatha scowls, clearly skeptical. But something like joy has settled over your shoulders. There’s a tug in your abdomen as you run your fingers over the rock wall, not unlike what you felt in the river. For a moment you swear the stone hums beneath your touch.

Can you hear it, like you could the river? Does it, too, have a voice?

The Netueht leader steps from the same doorway he vanished through. Warmth dances in his eyes like that of the torch in his hand, “Come.”

He remains on foot, leading his mount by the bridle through the doorway. You’re the first to step down from the saddle and mimic his actions. The members of your Guard follow suit.

Agatha remains in the saddle.

You roll your eyes, “I hope you hit your head.”

“Though a kiss is capable of fixing many things, I don’t think that will extend to brain damage. You’re welcome to try.” She teases.

“With the brain damage you already possess, I’m of the hope that something will be knocked back into place.”

“What more could you desire from my personality, darling?”

“We don’t have nearly enough time for that.”

She presses a hand to her chest in faux-hurt. A grin pulls at the edges of her mouth. You shake your head at her antics.

Through the arch reveals a tunnel of stone.

You cannot see ahead; the tunnel winds, snake-like through the mountain. Your guide is sure of every step. He walks with a swiftness that he has to rein in every now and again, as if remembering that he’s leading guests.

The air is still. No movement can make it past the initial curves of the path, and it feels stifling. You grip the bridle of your horse in a shaking hand. Even as the path widens and grows taller you cannot raise your eyes from the floor.

It’s as if the stone is compressing, moving in toward you on all sides. Your breath comes in short bursts that you try fruitlessly to even out. They can’t see your weakness, any of them—they can’t see you fall to pieces over something so trivial.

They can’t see. Please, you beg, though unsure of who you’re begging, don’t let them see.

If it all comes crashing down there is no escape, no way out. You’ll be extinguished beneath the weight—

You dig your nails into your palm until you draw blood. It releases some of the tension in your chest, opening your lungs as breathlessness abates.

Darkness settles on your left side and your eyes dart to find the source. Agatha has settled into step at your side, her destrier walking to the left of her. They’re a striking pair. Agatha, all blue eyes and fair skin but with an aura of darkness clinging to her; her mount, deep black across every inch, as if he has siphoned the darkness licking at her fingertips.

Weight settles back on your chest. You focus on the ground before your feet, nails digging in deeper, but it doesn’t offer the same release as before.

You’re safe, you tell yourself. The Netueht walk these paths often and they’ve remained standing.

But what if this is the time—

You focus on Agatha again, blurting, “Have you named him?”

“Who?”

“Your horse.”

She frowns, “Is that a requirement of riding one?”

Her brows are pinched. She looks between you and her mount.

“Of course not. But he’s going to be with you for a long time, it seems silly to call him ‘horse.’”

Silly and disrespectful, though you keep the second thought firmly to yourself.

A long stretch of silence settles between you. Agatha regards her four-legged companion with the calculated gaze you’ve come to expect. Gently, she scratches at the side of his face with her free hand, pleased when he leans into the contact.

“Inanis.”

The purr of her voice sends a shiver down your spine. You ignore the warmth in your cheeks.

“What does it mean?”

Agatha grins, “Inanis was the horse Darkness rode into battle, a void given shape.”

You don’t have time to unpack that. You’re not even sure what it means. She mentioned Darkness during your time near the river, didn’t she? The reverence in her voice feels similar.

“He does look void-like.” You settle on.

A sidelong glance, “And yours?”

“Oh, I didn’t name her. She was my Mother’s.”

You run a fond hand down her face. She huffs against your palm, leaning into the contact. Her nose presses, searching, just like she did when you were a child, but you hold no treats in hand.

“I see.”

Something in her voice makes you stiffen.

“Do you?” You ask, defensive.

“Your Father’s throne. Your Mother’s horse. Their legacy. Is anything in Lucia yours?”

You balk. You have your home, the love of your people, your friends. You’ve earned it all on your own merit.

Right?

You recognize the lies as soon as you think them.

All the time you’ve spent nitpicking Agatha about her own lack, when in reality, you’re no better; at least the power she wields is her own, rather than that which you borrow under your title. Cold settles into your bones.

“What is her name?”

You blink, drawn from the maw of emptiness threatening to consume you. Agatha watches you expectantly.

“Pardon?”

“The horse, what is her name?”

“Sundrop.”

You run your hand over her nose again, admiring the buttery yellow of her color, though its flecked with patches of gray.

Agatha’s lips twitch.

Noise, bouncing off the tunnel walls and to your ears, beckons both of you to look forward. You round a final corner to find there is no tunnel left.

You’re led into a grand, cavernous space. Before you sits an expansive rock ledge teeming with people. Beyond that, two winding stone staircases lead down and out of sight. Walls curve around you in a great circle and boast countless doorways; though unlike those outside, they’re decorated—personal.

Curling overhead is an impressive overhang of rock that draws every sound into an echo. Amongst the cacophony of people you hear water and birdsong—life hidden away in this great cave.

Children race past, screaming with joy, not sparing you a glance. Some of the older Netueht regard the group of you with curiosity. None of them appear surprised to have company.

“These are our visitors?” A smooth, feminine voice asks.

Your eye is drawn to a tall woman with a diamond-shaped jaw and an elegant hooked nose. Long, dark hair flows around her, inlaid with tiny braids. The ends of her braids are dappled with green.

She examines you with keen chocolate eyes. Her lips are downturned at the edges.

“She certainly looks like a Queen.” She adds, seeming unimpressed.

You’re surprised, only just able to hide your grin.

“Pleased to meet your expectations.” You say.

Her eyes widen a fraction, darting to the man who led you. His shoulders shake with silent laughter. Cheeks flushed with a bit of pink, she hits him on the shoulder, hard, but he doesn’t seem phased.

“You could have told me they spoke our tongue!”

“And miss you making a fool of yourself?”

“Awful man!”

A third voice cuts in, “What an example you set, Mallinali.”

Coming up behind her is a tall, lithe man. He bears no paint besides that they all seem to share; the yellow marks across the mouth. His hair lays behind him in an undisturbed curtain, displaying the same hooked nose, but a sharper jaw.

It is not the set of said jaw that gives away who he is, nor the way he holds himself—but his eyes, kind yet ever-so detached; a look you’ve seen gazing back from the mirror often.

“I hope my sister has not offended you.” He says.

“Not at all.” You smile.

Holding out your arm palm up, you offer your name. He clasps your wrist, your arms rotating in unison, both of your hands feeling the pulse of the other through your veins before releasing.

“Pleased to welcome you. I am Aly’Liwen.” His gaze flickers over your shoulder, “And the sharp beauty at your back?”

“My wife, Agatha. And our Guards Yelena, Natalia, and Antonia. We are at your disposal.”

His gaze settles back on you, amusement lingering at the edges of his mouth, “Waman said you were formal, but I didn’t expect the old formalities.”

“Much of the new hasn’t reached our people in some time. If you’d like me to observe different courtesies, I would be pleased to do so.”

“I didn’t expect it, but it is not unpleasant. I haven’t heard them since my Mother was Chieftain.”

“She is likely the reason I know them.”

Aly’Liwen is thoughtful, before nodding, “She would have taught them to your Mother.”

“Yes. Aly’Ajei was held very dear to my Mother’s heart.”

Something softens in his eyes at that. The detached look lessens. You notice Mallinali perk up at the mention of their Mother’s name where moments before she’d been hissing at the other man—Waman.

Waman does not watch you, though—he watches Aly’Liwen with a knowing gaze and something else; a careful fondness. Ah.

They make a striking pair.

A small smile comes to your mouth. When you look back to Aly’Liwen, an unexpected fondness lingers in the way he regards you.

“You are Little Sun.”

The name slams into you like a battering ram, but you nod. You try to hide the flinch that has Agatha’s hand pressing to your lower back.

“I am.”

His face splits into the most wonderful smile. Were you not otherwise inclined, you could find yourself falling at the mere sight of it, and the deep sound of his laugh.

“My Mother used to read the letters to me. You were more of a handful than my sister.”

“This I must hear.” Waman grins.

You flush, “Oh Gods.”

“I was not that difficult.” Mallinali defends, “Even if I was, I’m far better now.”

“Barely.”

“Waman, on my Mother I will see you silenced.”

“He is Hawk, Malli, his tongue is spoken for.” Aly’Liwen pinches the bridge of his nose, shaking his head, “But forgive our manners, you and yours must be tired. There is time to rest before we eat.”

The additional doorways along the walls, as it turns out, are rooms. Chambers. Your Guard are led to one just to the right of the one you and Agatha are offered. Agatha inclines her head politely before strutting inside as if she owns it.

Even the thought of entering the chamber makes you tremble. Despite how tired you may be, you’ll handle that problem later.

“Would you mind terribly if I shadowed you?”

Aly’Liwen looks surprised, but shakes his head, “Of course not. I want to know the full story behind the worm sandwiches you served to Lady Valentina.”

You groan. He laughs, the sound echoing beautifully in the cavern.

An arm is held out and you accept it with a smile. Belova falls into step behind you.

“Waman expressed my intent to hunt for your people?” You ask.

“It’s why you were allowed here.” He leads you across the main space and toward the downward-sloping staircases you noted earlier, “We will have to wait out the darkness. Tonight, you and yours are at our hospitality, and at first light we will be at yours.”

Nearing the edge, the scene below draws a gasp. At the bottom of the stone staircases sits the true mouth of the cave, teeming with life on all sides; flowers and herbs and even trees. The Netueht have cut all the way through the mountain to the forest on the other side.

Inside the cave mouth, the life is more uniform—cultivated in rows and warmed by the few careful fires some of the Netueht sit around.

Birds linger on rock ledges clinging to the ceiling. Most are nestled down in their nests, silent. A few are trilling their final song of the evening. They’re common birds, sparrows and crows and larks… except one; a large, solitary hawk.

He notices you just as you notice him. He blinks, his head tilting.

Aly’Liwen guides you toward the staircase and down. You focus on every step, careful not to stumble, but find yourself distracted by the warmth of his arm in your own.

Upon reaching the bottom step, the space rumbles, and you tense. Panic flares. You were right, this place is unstable, its going to collapse inward and what will come of you then—

Two massive stone wheels are rolled from the edges of the cave, pushed by a few men each. They roll until they meet and close off the cave mouth from the forest lying just outside. The rumbling ceases.

You offer Aly’Liwen a questioning glance.

“The predators in these mountains would ravage us in the night.”

“There are many?” You ask, racking your brain for what wildlife they have.

“Bears and large cats and wolves. Not overwhelming to us, but we do not tempt them.”

“Greymont only has wolves.”

“Direwolves, so I hear.”

You’re not sure how valuable a distinction it is, but nod.

“They’re more scarce than they once were, but yes.”

He shivers, “I cannot imagine sharing a home with direwolves.”

“You have bears!” You say, unable to help your laugh.

“Bears are more reasonable and easier fought.” He defends.

Waman appears, a sly grin on his lips as he passes, “For you, maybe, but only because I’m the one doing the fighting.”

The noise the Chieftain lets out can only be described as indignant. It comes out in a squawk that has you covering your smile to preserve politeness. Waman only throws a smug look over his shoulder as he moves along.

“Do not listen to a word he says.”

You’re guided to the small fires in this space, introduced to all the people lingering and working. Aly’Liwen is a courteous host. What startles you is that he doesn’t introduce you by name, but as Daughter of Nethys. Hearing her name said so casually is blow and balm both.

Something of her lingers here; perhaps it is the fondness she had for these people, maybe it is the ease with which you find yourself falling into joy with them like you once did with her.

Each person greets you with the same clasping of hands. You don’t know the last time you’ve been touched by so many. It’s overwhelming.

Awareness prods your senses. You’re being watched.

You glance around in a quiet moment and spot it; the only solitary bird besides the hawk is a raven. Aquila.

--

The Netueht gather on the upper rock ledge, surrounding a great fire on benches. You hand a stack of woven bowls off to Isi—Mallinali’s daughter—who darts off to pass them out.

Mallinali comes from the fire carrying roasted meats. She sets them on the table where you’ve come to stand, arranging them to the side of all the roasted roots and greens.

“You’ll never be rid of her now.” She comments.

“Who would ever want to be?”

The corner of her mouth turns up in a sly smile, “You may not feel that way after she’s had sweetleaf.”

You shake your head. Isi, while precocious, is a delight. She’s eager and sweet and has no shortage of interests; many of which she has regaled you with details of.

Like moths to a flame, Waman appears over Mallinali’s shoulder with Quidel, her husband. Both make sly attempts for pieces of the meat near her hands while she’s focused on you. She doesn’t bat an eyelash as she slaps the hands viciously.

Quidel says nothing, seeming unfazed. Waman cradles his hand dramatically.

The latter exaggerates, “You’ve broken it.”

She shakes her head and turns to regard them, arms crossed over her chest. You stifle a laugh.

“Would serve you right.”

“Is this anyway to treat your Hawk?”

“No, but it is how I treat my brother’s bonded.”

“No mercy for your family. You see how we are treated, Little Sun?”

The nickname seems to have been well known to most you’ve come into contact with; and they’ve taken to using it like your true name. You’ve become used to it enough that you don’t flinch, but it does still hurt to hear.

“The consequences of your own actions.” You shrug.

“Another ally lost to Mallinali. I’m beginning to wonder if I should change sides.” Quidel muses, face unchanging from its stoic look.

Mallinali pats his cheek, “If you know what is best for you.”

A tug on your skirts draws your attention from the interaction. Isi has returned and is holding out her arms with a grin.

“More bowls, please!”

“Coming right up, your greatness.” You tease.

She giggles, showing off a great big grin. The offered bowls are near-snatched from your hands as she bounds away again.

When you look away from where Isi has gone, you see her.

Agatha has appeared on the other side of the fire, closest to the chambers you were given. She’s changed out of the ornate dress she traveled in to one that is more understated. It softens her edges.

Romanov stands at her back, taking in the scene. Agatha’s eyes are searching, darting over the faces of those in the space. When they land on you, they do not stray. The dress hasn’t softened the electric blue of her eyes.

She weaves through benches and bodies to come stand before you.

“You have kept busy.”

You blush as you remember the state of your appearance.

Somewhere in the midst of pulling roots for dinner, you shed your outer jacket, haphazardly rolling up your dress sleeves. Dirt still lingers under your nails despite scrubbing at your hands. You unpinned your hair, too, opting to tie it up with a braid of sweet grass someone had offered. A far cry from your usual look.

“Many hands make light work.” You offer.

Agatha smirks, “That’s not the only thing they do.”

You roll your eyes, swatting at her lightly.

“Behave.”

“I always behave. Just not for you.”

Ignoring the comment and the infuriating amusement paired with it, you hold some of the bowls between you, “Make yourself useful.”

She purrs, looking you up and down, “Where do you want me, darling?”

Despite doing everything you can to keep it from happening, you feel the hot flush in your face.

“Go.” You grit out.

Agatha throws her head back in a laugh. She wanders off to hand out the bowls, a rare mercy, and you relax against the table. You hate the things she is capable of doing to you.

The purr in her voice has gone straight between your thighs. The rasp, the barely-restrained desire hidden under the teasing… it feels all too similar to a few nights past, when she’d taunted you to your breaking point. Now that you’ve gotten a taste, your body aches for it, but you can’t have it; the moment in the river had been a one-time indulgence you won’t risk again.

You’re drawn from your thoughts by more meat, fresh from the fire. Waman and Quidel have since given up on their crusade for taste-tests, leaving you behind with Aly’Liwen and Mallinali. The three of you make quick work of any lingering preparations.

Silence descends over the three of you as you work. It’s so unlike the stifling silences in Greymont, where it brings the feeling of a million eyes. This silence is freeing, comfortable. You find yourself lost in the work until the two push you to go sit.

You spy the familiar, unruly head of hair around the fire. She’s chosen a bench that is back away from the flames; not quite secluded, but not front and center, either. None of the Guard linger near her.

Agatha watches the room as she watches everything else; with intense, unwavering focus. It allows you to slide in next to her almost unnoticed.

“Where are the Guard?” You ask without thinking.

“I don’t need them, dear.” She drawls, then her demeanor takes on something more pointed, teasing, “After all, someone was rather adamant that we were in no danger.”

Your opinion on that hasn’t changed; you feel safe here, but powerful as Agatha may be, you don’t like the thought of anyone being without extra protection.

“The Guard is here for a reason.”

“Don’t tell me you’re worried about little old me?”

“I like having the extra layer of defense between my hands and your neck. It helps to curb the urges.”

Agatha leans closer to you, voice dropping to a heated murmur, “Tell me more about these urges of yours.”

You’ve pivoted in the past, made threats, attacked her, even. Anything other than acknowledging her more risque taunts. Now you want to see her surprised. You lean closer, mind conjuring all the filthy things you could whisper to catch her off guard, when movement catches your eye.

Aly’Liwen has come around with a grin, bowl in hand, “For all your assistance, you forgot one for yourself.”

You blush and back out of Agatha’s space. With a grateful nod, you accept the offering. He wanders away.

The charged feeling has dropped, leaving you uncomfortable with her proximity. But you don’t move out of her space, unwilling to give even a hint that you’re backing down. Her interest lingers in the air, in the way she regards you from the corner of her vision.

Whether it is the emotion of the moment or the still-present draft, you shiver.

Agatha sighs, long-suffering, and snaps. A flash of violet brings a weight that settles over your shoulders. You sit up straighter, looking down at yourself; Agatha has summoned a warm fur and draped it over you.

A gasp sounds from your right.

Isi stands steps away, cradling a food-laden bowl. Her eyes are wide, mouth dropped open, looking between you and Agatha. You bristle and stand to do damage control. She drops her food onto the bench and turns, running off.

But it isn’t fear that colors her voice, it’s delight, “She’s magic! She’s magic!”

A gaggle of children follow behind Isi as she comes racing back. They surround Agatha—and you by extension—staring up at her in awe. Only Isi is brave enough to venture into her personal space and grab her hands, jostling them for emphasis.

“Make magic!”

You laugh, hiding it behind your hand. You sit forward to translate when she poises her hands before her. A crackling beam of power extends between her palms, held like rope. Little sparks fly from the display before she pulls it back.

Netueht rolls from her tongue like honey from the comb, “What is the magic word?”

That earns her half a dozen voices crying out ‘please!’ and her smirk deepens. You’re staring at her in astonishment.

Her hands twist and the rope of magic unravels into a hundred bolts of lightning, dancing and lashing. When they sneak from between her palms they erupt into puffs of smoke. Said smoke curls at the faces of the children, making them erupt into giggles.

Agatha’s just as smug as ever, but the set of her posture is softer; she’s taut with awareness, holding her power steady, yet she grins as she leans forward to acknowledge every child who shows interest.

The children have opted to make Isi their spokeswoman, whispering questions for her to ask. Agatha answers every one as if she were holding court in Greymont. For some of the more complicated questions, she’ll conjure items or images with magic.

The rest of the Netueht watch. A few crowd around, displaying the same interest as their children.

She is totally in her element with an audience. And when she turns and catches your eye in the midst of it all, she winks.

Something in you stops. You’re seized by an emotion you can’t name. You need to move—anything to work out this feeling in your veins making it hard to breathe.

You go to offer her a smile and find you’ve been smiling.

Rising gracefully, you pick Isi up and plop her in your seat. She squeals with delight.

“Keep her out of trouble for me.” You whisper conspiratorially.

Isi glances at Agatha briefly and says with utter seriousness, “I will.”

It takes longer than you expect to weave through the gathered crowd, and it feels even longer before you reach the table laden with food. You feel you can breathe the second you reach it.

What was that?

You’re not alone at the table; Quidel standing near, focused on you. His expression is just as stony as always but his eyes hold an interest.

“Not fond of crowds, Little Sun?”

Understanding dawns. The odd feeling in your chest, the need to move—it was fear. You’d felt the Netueht pressing in like stone walls and your body had registered what your brain couldn’t; too distracted you were by Agatha’s display.

“Not especially.” You say.

“Your bonded handles them well for the both of you.”

“Yes, she does.”

A glance finds her still entertaining the group, lips moving to explain something you can’t hear to one of the children. Your eyes fall on the empty bowl in her lap.

Has she eaten?

She had breakfast with you, but you were too caught in your own mind to notice her behavior. She touched nothing on the journey here. And when you wandered with Aly’Liwen she likely took the time to rest.

You load your own with double the food. You eye the roseberries with desire, but ultimately avoid them; Agatha’s face always twists at their flavor.

Every step back toward her makes that feeling inside you grow. You can veer off course and leave her to handle herself, she hasn’t noticed you yet; but the idea of how ravenous she must be drives you forward. Is it not your place to assuage the hunger of those here?

Agatha catches your eye. Concern softens her features and you quickly school your own.

Mallinali clears away the crowd of onlookers and admirers. Your place on the bench is once again wide open as you slide next to her, careful to maintain a healthy distance. You set the bowl between you. 

Agatha hesitates, then begins to pick at it. You avoid her eyes. 

--

You groan, “I was a child.”

“That only makes it all the more damning, darling.” Agatha grins, “Children are the truest form of being.”

“Oh, please. And what were you like as a child, then?”

“A delight, naturally.”

“Delightful terror is probably closer to the truth.” You muse.

“Says you, young overlord. You know what they say about casting stones, dear.”

Aly’Liwen and his people are natural storytellers; and there is no better excuse for storytelling than to entertain visitors. Over the course of the evening you’d even been prompted to share a few of your own. A mistake, it seems—at least in relation to Agatha.

Your bickering with the witch has brought you to your chamber door. Agatha waltzes right in, utterly unafraid. You stop in the opening.

Amusement is quashed beneath the weight settling on your chest. Drawing breath feels impossible. Your hands come to clutch the arch of the doorway. If you can just take one step inside, you’ll be fine. The fear will fall away.

You put one foot through the door and can’t move any further. The step has made it worse. Oh Gods.

The opening inside is snake-like to protect from any wind, but it only makes it worse. You can’t assess the room from here. Though it’s a positive that Agatha can’t see you fall apart.

Briefly you consider not entering at all and finding a place within the cavern to sleep; but you’re not a commoner. Finding a way to enter the chamber is inevitable.

You pull one hand from the doorway and sink your nails into your flesh, hoping for the sweet reprieve the pain can bring. Nothing. The fear doesn’t ebb—if anything, it grows worse. Gods, you just need to step into the chamber.

You have no choice.

“H-Harkness.” You call into the chamber, cursing the break in your voice.

Shuffling, feet on stone. The wild, dark mane of her hair comes around the curve, blue eyes curious. The sight of her is a comfort.

She raises a brow.

“I…I can’t…” You whisper.

You don’t know how to put it into words—the lack of breath, the impossible weight on your chest, how you tremble like a child. Every fear in your mind is alive and whispering terrible things in your ear. You don’t know how to tell her that you can’t silence them.

Your eyes are glassy, casting a blurry haze, but you still see the cruel smile that forms. It feels like a twisting knife in your chest.

Agatha coos, mocking, “Something wrong, dear?”

The knife pierces deeper. You can’t do this. This isn’t a fight you can rise to—you can’t even breathe.

You flinch back. One of your hands leaves the doorway as you prepare to retreat, to find anywhere to bide your time until the morning, logic be damned.

Humor drops from Agatha’s expression. Worry stains her proud features and she crosses the distance in a blink. She comes to stand before you, hands held between your persons.

You hardly see them through your blurred vision.

“Give me your hands.” Agatha orders.

The order drums up annoyance. It’s comforting—the heat of your defiance, low as the temperature may be.

If only you had more of it, perhaps you wouldn’t need her.

Finger by clenched finger, you peel your grip from the doorway. They ache from the force at which you held on. Blood rushes back to the appendages, but you still feel cold.

You’re forced to take a step forward to grab her hands. They’re warm and dry. You’d flush at the sweat on your palms if you weren’t otherwise distracted.

Her blackened hands grasp your own tight.

She takes several steps back into the pathway until you’re forced to take more to follow. It’s a slow, terrifying dance. One step for you, several for Agatha, and so on. You stare at your joined hands.

In your periphery, you can see the walls on either side, and you can see exactly when they widen into what is the dedicated chamber.

You’re rooted to the spot.

There is a great woven rug over the floor, tapestries and painted scenes covering the walls, a modest bed in the center of the room. It’s beautiful, but the walls are too close, the ceiling is too low—

Agatha has stepped away far enough that continuing to clutch her makes you lean forward at an odd angle. You need to move forward, but you can’t. You won’t.

You can’t stay in this room.

She leverages your uneven footing and yanks, hard. You stumble a few steps forward and feel a shriek clawing up your throat. It’d escape—if you could catch enough air to make it so.

You only manage to whimper.

She pauses, then steps close. Too close. You can’t push her back; the overwhelm of having all of her so near blocks out the vision of the room—the too small room with all the shadows with all the weight—

One hand is extracted from your own. You cry out, clawing at it, trying to catch it with your own. She can’t let you go. She can’t.

The words leave you without your consent, “Agatha, please.”

Her hand settles in the center of your chest, over where your heart beats. Agatha’s gaze traces your features; over the pleading look for safety, for her to fix this one thing you can’t face. Carefully, she pulls her other hand from yours, and instinctively you latch onto fistfuls of her dress, desperate to anchor yourself.

“Close your eyes.” Her breath is warm over your skin.

You’re helpless to do anything but obey.

It helps when your eyes fall closed; you can’t see the shadows crawling over every corner of the room. All you feel is the heat of Agatha so close, the firm press of her hand over your heart.

Then, frisson. A bolt of electricity.

“Feel her.” Agatha says.

Her voice echoes, carrying a depth just like it did in the center of the river.

And then, you do.

Your senses expand outward. The gentle hum you felt through the stone is alive and real, something closer to a steady breath. You feel the tug of every root clinging to the stone, the reverberations of every step taken upon it. Despite so much weight and movement there is no yield. No give. She does not budge even an inch.

“She won’t hurt you.”

Caught up her instruction, in the feel of the mountain coursing through you, the whispering fears in your mind go silent. You’re safe.

Tension melts from your limbs. You slump forward, a shaking breath escaping. Your front is pressed fully against Agatha’s. The warmth exuding from her helps calm the shaking in your limbs. You’re grounded by the pressure of her. It’s nice to be held.

A hesitant hand comes to hold your waist. Two of her fingers trace careful patterns.

“Thank you.” You whisper.

Agatha hums.

“This isn’t what I expected from you.” She admits.

“It’s my place to keep you on your toes, isn’t it?” You laugh, a bit of bitterness creeping in.

You shouldn’t be showing her this weakness. Of all the people to see you at your lowest, she should be the very last. This weakness shouldn’t exist, let alone have seized you enough to override your faculties.

His words echo in your mind; a Queen never loses control.

The weight of the dagger under your skirts is a promise; control is just within reach. You release a fistful of Agatha’s dress and reach for it.

You press the tip of the blade into her side.

Her hand releases your waist and two fingers crook under your chin. You meet her eyes, defiant.

“You’re getting predictable.” Agatha murmurs.

You smile, but you don’t feel any joy. You need to regain what you’ve lost.

You need control.

“If I’m predictable, why let me so close?” You whisper.

Agatha leans in, barely a breath between the two of you, “Because it’s your place, angel.”

The dagger is extracted from your hold faster than you can blink. She doesn’t turn it on you. Rather, with a grand flourish, she sinks to one knee, and pushes up your skirts.

You watch, frozen. Her flesh is warm against your own. The length of the blade is cold where she slides it back into your garter.

She chuckles low. As she stands in a fluid motion, she winks. One of her hands pats your thigh.

“Sleep well, darling.”

Your prior fear feels miles away, now. As you tuck in for the evening you burn with the lingering feeling of her flesh on your own.

--

The slant of light tells you you’re dreaming. You sit beneath a tree, back pressed against it. Above you the branches sway in the wind. Yet, the sunlight doesn’t change; unmoved despite the jostled branches.

You hold a book in your hands and a heavy weight in your lap. The weight is familiar—comforting, even, like you’ve always carried it with you.

“Mother?” The weight asks, voice high and youthful.

The book is lowered to reveal wild hair and blue eyes one could drown in. Her face is serene, but she’s aware; eyes a whirlpool of thought. You smooth a hand over her cheek.

Since when do I have a child?

“Yes, my beloved?” You murmur.

“Where are my sisters?”

She leans into your touch like a starved animal, even as she delivers the question. For some reason it feels like a blow to the chest.

Sisters? No, there is only her… my baby. My only baby. Right?

“You don’t have sisters.”

“Yes, I do. You’ve just forgotten. You always forget.” She sits up, “Remember. You have to.”

“My beloved, there are no sisters to remember.”

The words settle something incorrect in your chest. You claw at it absentmindedly.

“Yes there are! She’ll help you find them again.”

Your thumb had been stroking little circles on her cheek. It freezes. Tilting your head, you regard her closely.

“Who?”

Her weight vanishes. She’s gone from beneath your hand, round youthful cheeks and all. The slant of light dims, the shadows lengthen, and the sky is painted from golden to crimson. Beneath you the earth is charred, dead—just like…

“Turning the water against me was clever.”

You turn and stop. She stands a few feet away, hands folded in front of herself, waiting. The skin of her face is as if someone grabbed and pulled. No bone is revealed in the wake of it, but void; endless nothingness.

The light, golden and sweet, drips from the branches overhead like rain. It sizzles upon meeting the blackened earth.

Her voice… like pulling a thread too thin, an auditory example of pure anticipation and fear. It bobs up and down but always too tight. The sound is almost impossible to bear.

“It wasn’t my idea.” You say.

She looks as if she means to smile, but the melting flesh on her features doesn’t move to accommodate the action.

“But it was your intent.” She says, slowly advancing on you. You resist the urge to back away, “Do you think Agatha could do this?”

You see it, then. The carnage wrought upon her throat. A gaping wound through, the edges black and festering. Snapped chords hang limp through the opening, but a few remain; you watch them tighten as she speaks, itching with the knowledge that it could snap before your eyes.

Gripping your middle, you feel light-headed. You’re going to be sick.

“How are you even here?” You ask, eyes averted to the ground.

Agatha had told you that your mind was guarded after everything at the barrier; she’d handled it herself, meticulously weaving magic and latin around you. And you had felt Her fall away from your mind. You know you had.

“We’re cut from the same cloth, you and I—woven of the same thread. Agatha cannot fathom us so she cannot keep us apart.”

“We are nothing alike.”

She shakes her head, sighs. The sound is strangely human; out of place coming from the horror of this witch.

“I don’t want to be your villain.”

You feel a pull to believe her. You shove it down.

“You have an odd way of showing it.”

“I’ve been kind, haven’t I? Haven’t I been merciful? I didn’t touch your people when you came to me. I offered you a way to free yourself and your kingdom.” She surges forward, hands outstretched as if to grab your own and make you see. She stops when you flinch back, “I even tried to give you what you wanted.”

Your prize under the deal you could have made; freedom from Agatha. Despite you spitting in the face of her deal, she’d gone ahead and given it to you anyway—or attempted to.

Something in you is pulled toward her beyond logic and reason. A part of you—the part you share—wants to believe her. It begs you to just trust.

You stare at the golden-stained spots on the charred ground.

“Why?”

Why do any of it? Why appear now? Why does she want Agatha gone?

“I loved something. Someone.” The grief staining her is palpable, overriding the tension created by her vocal horror, “I…I want him back.”

Love of the romantic sort is not a privilege you’ve ever known. Still, you feel the lack she experiences. It threatens to drown you. How has she been carrying this so long?

“Why not tell me this to start?”

She sighs again. Her eyes close, like she herself is fighting to stay above the grief washing over her. When she opens them, she’s steady again.

“Please… please, will you help me?” She whispers.

One of her hands reaches out, palm up. The edges of her hands match the earth. Her eyes, empty and dark as they may be, hold a pleading glint.

You reach back.

[noellerain]

Antithetical ♡ [suguru x afab!reader]

noe: this man is living rent-free in my mind for days now so you can consider this fic a brainrot/love letter to this gorgeous son of a bitch.

Warnings: [ DEAD DOVE! ] dark smut, noncon/rape (reader to Suguru), somnophilia (reader to Suguru), femdom, babytrapping (reader to Suguru), profanities (vulgar words), intoxication, spitting, implied that Suguru is drugged but not by the reader, obsessive behavior (reader to Suguru), proofread once, Gojo has a cameo lol, just over all madness. [LET ME KNOW IF I MISSED SOMETHING! THANK YOU!]

+ BLOCK, DON'T REPORT!

[If you read the warnings then proceed to click/press the cut button, you consent on reading the dark material below.]

Suguru Geto is midnight personified. His jet-black hair reminds you of the night sky when it's void of the moon and the stars. His eyes are blackholes that can consume your entirety if you look hard and long enough. His scent smells like the Earth after rain: a unique, addicting scent that makes your stomach flip yet still brings you a sense of warm melancholia.

Suguru Geto is way out of your league. You know that. But while everyone is fawning over his annoying best friend, Satoru, your love-struck eyes are fixated on that enigma of a man. Just one look, whether it's intentional or in passing, can shake and blow you away like the flimsy petals of dandelions.

Tonight, as you stand in the dark corner of Satoru's living room while everyone else drinks and dances to the rhythm of the song booming from the speakers, the walls seem to close in on you. 

There he is, sitting on the couch with his arm around a girl. His hair is up in its usual bun; tresses hanging on the side of his face. He's wearing a simple white shirt and black cargo pants. The simplicity amplifies his good looks.

They say that he and Satoru are two different sides of the same coin. Satoru's boisterous personality is on the face; one look at him and your alarm immediately goes off. Meanwhile, Suguru's serenity is the reason why he catches people off-guard when his true colors show.

He is a fucking mastermind. He plays the good guy role; carefully making the bed and patiently inviting his victim to lay down on it. Perhaps that's their difference: Satoru's always in a rush, his thirst never quenches. Suguru, on the other hand, takes his time. You conclude that it makes the game more enjoyable to him. That sweet, sweet reward of fucking someone dumb after all the efforts you exert may be Suguru's personal brand of drugs.

He leans closer to the girl, whispering something in her ear. She laughs and the bubbling jealousy in your chest tastes more bitter than the liquor you're currently drinking in a red cup.

It's a vicious cycle of his. For two years now, you've been nothing but a bystander. Always in the corners, watching. You've seen him lay out an elaborate plan, working his way down to different women's panties. When he finally gets what he wants, he puts his pants up and throws them away like ragdolls. Then he puts his façade— back to square one again and again and again.

Your face contorts into a frown when he smoothly puts his hand on the girl's knee. From your perspective, it looks unintentional; like his hand just happens to be there. She smirks at him, obviously enjoying the situation she's in. Your eyes narrow on his long, slender fingers, now gently rubbing her skin. It's fucking funny how life slaps you in the face over and over; there he is, the object of your obsession, sitting next to someone else, to anyone else, to everyone else but you.

His fingers slide up her thigh and give them a squeeze; the hem of her miniskirt bunches up on her lap. Your mind is beginning to go into overdrive. It's so unfair. So fucking unfair. What do others have that you don't? You take a big gulp on your drink.

"Oh? What a pleasant surprise!" Satoru's loud voice snaps your mind to sanity; your soul back to the dark corner where you're standing.

You look up at him as he strides lazily over to you, a red cup in his hand as well. He's wearing a tight black shirt and jeans that hang loosely around his waist. "I don't usually see you at my parties. What's a pretty girl doin' here in the dark?"

He leans against the wall and takes a big gulp on his drink. You don't humor his attempt for a chat. You can still feel your simmering envy as you look down on the brownish liquid in your cup.

"Not gonna entertain me, huh?" He laughs; an annoying sound that grinds your ears. "I understand, though. After all, I have a better vision than my best friend over there."

You whip your head to him, confusion all over your face. Heart beating loudly in your chest at the mention of Suguru, his one and only friend. Your lips are pursed and your brows are deeply furrowed. "What do you mean?"

He drinks again, his electric blue eyes glimmering with malice. When he puts down his cup on his side, he gives you an impish smirk. "Heh. Watch."

He pushes himself off of the wall and begins to walk away. But before he's beyond your earshot, he yells: "Second floor, last room on the West wing!"

You roll your eyes. As usual, Satoru is a menace. A baffling menace. You do not get a single word he says and you have no plans on trying. After all, guys like him are meant to be heard, not to be listened to.

Your eyes go back to Suguru. He's still on the couch but fortunately, his hands are now off the girls' body. Instead, he's pressing his forehead with his thumb while his eyes are shut tight as the girl next to him continues to babble away. The sight strikes some chords in your heart. You notice the creased skin between his forehead. It only goes away temporarily when Satoru appears and hands him a red cup.

You gnaw on your bottom lip as he taps on his forehead again with the pad of his thumb. You glare at the girl whose red lips continue to move. What is she even saying to him?

Your mind begins to wander. If it's you who's next to him right now, you're fairly certain that you won't be talking at all. You'll stare at him and listen to everything he says; hang on to every word. But Suguru is not selfish like Satoru. You know that it will be a conversation between the two of you; not just him yapping away like Satoru does.

Your heart skips a beat just by imagining how he'll look at you while you talk. He will nod, smile... Laugh. Gives you pennies for your thoughts. You pray to a higher power for the chance though you're certain that you won't be able to mutter anything coherent.

A few minutes pass by and the girl leaves. Suguru also leaves and a part of you dies inside again and again every time you see him with another girl. Where are they going? Is he going to sleep with her? Kiss her, touch her, claim her in places your mind does not dare to imagine? You finish your drink in one gulp before storming to the kitchen to grab more.

Your childishness tells you that your anger and envy are valid. After all, you've been pining over Suguru for two years now. Every time you try to move on, there is a pang of guilt in your heart. You never had him but he lives in the trenches of your heart, his name emblazoned in your mind.

But the rational part that's left of your intoxicated brain tells you that it's wrong. That you have no right to feel this way. Suguru doesn't even know you. How can you let him put a chain in your limbs and control you this way?

You wipe the liquor that dribbles down your chin. You look up and see through your hazy eyes that there are less people in the living room now. What time is it? You look down on the bottle of alcohol that you're cradling in your arms. Hiccuping, you realize that you drank half of its contents.

You stand up and the world around you begins to spin rapidly. Your knees feel like boiled noodles, unable to keep themselves upright. But still, you persevered. You leave the living room, determined to see Suguru. You decide that the madness has to stop once and for all. You can't live your life—

"Second floor, last room on the West wing!"

"Fuck you." you mutter beneath your breath as you hit your head with your fist repeatedly. For some reason, Satoru's voice decides to pop up out of nowhere.

You hiccup and begin your search to find Suguru. You look for him outside, trying to spot him in smaller crowds. At the pool area, staring at the people fucking on the water, the bathrooms… he's nowhere to be found.

You crawl your way upstairs, opening the rooms but either they're locked, empty or some people are fucking like rabbits inside.

You squint your eyes as you peek through the crevice of another door you opened. Another couple is fuck— wait. The jeans pooling on his ankles, the tight black shirt and the messy mop of white hair...

"Satoru," you drawl, inserting your head through the space between the door and the doorframe.

He whips his head, bullets of sweat dripping down his face as he smirks. "Hey. Anything I can do for ya?"

His breath is labored as he speaks; his hips continuously drilling against the girl's cunt. You can't see her from the angle but knowing Satoru, he's into beautiful girls. Beautiful, whiny girls. Her moans sound pretty, too.

"Where's Suguru?" You ask, blinking slowly.

"Told ya," he laughs. "Second floor, last room on the west wing."

"K," you sigh. You close the door and pray for the poor girl. You've never seen Satoru in action before but gods, are the rumors right. He is merciless and bursting with vigour.

You drag yourself to the last room on the West wing. Frankly, you don't even know what you're going to say to him. Does he even know you? Is he going to even hear you out?

Dread fills you to the brim when you stop in front of the door. What if he's not even here and Satoru is just messing with you? Worse, what if you see him fucking someone else inside? Gods.

You slap your cheeks to try and get a hold of what's left of yourself. It's a good thing that you're still somewhat sober despite drinking half of that bottle. You thought the liquor will make you forget but here you are, about to make the most stupid choice you've possibly ever done in your life.

Staring hard at the door, you take a sharp breath in. Your shaking fingers close around the cold knob before slowly turning it. The door finally opens and you feel your heart throb in your chest.

You peek inside then gasp in surprise.

"Su... Guru?" You whisper, pupils blown wide from the sight sprawled in front of you.

He's laying down on the mattress with his luscious long black hair spilling on the pillows. His eyes are closed and his chest is heaving erratically. Bullets of sweat drip down his forehead and there is a deep frown on his face. He seems asleep but he looks far from being peaceful.

You enter the room; your eyes languidly take in the curves of his shoulders, the muscles on his arms and his chiseled torso that are illuminated by the shaft ray of moonlight pouring through the window. Suguru always opts for loose clothing; his naked image that you've sculpted in your mind is a drastic comparison to the real thing. You thought he's going to be built like the gods but... He isn't. There is still softness; a mix of godhood and humanity in his features and your fingers twitch with the desire to touch and hold him.

Your eyes travel down his black sweatpants. The poor garment is hanging on for its dear life on his prominent v-line. His lower abdomen has a pathway of light black bush that leads to his...

You swallow thickly. There is an indentation of his dick against the fabric. You know it's wrong but your body begins to feel that familiar warmth. Here he is, the source of your mirth. The destination of your late night adventures when deep-seated desires stir. The subject of your dreams, of your fantasies, the muse of your high as thick hot cum dribbles down your inner thighs while you gasp for air; reality settles and you feel pathetic with your fingers knuckle-deep inside your cunt.

You should leave. But then what? Remain on the sidelines, longing for him, envying other girls and touching yourself to the idea of him? Here he is, served with his walls down. If you can have him once, just once…

You close the door. The sharp sound of the lock's bolt sends tingles all over your body. Slowly, you approach him. Shame burns your gut and makes your cheeks flushed. But you're here. You're here now. What matters is right now.

Slowly, you kneel in the space between his spread legs. The mattress shifts and you eye him nervously. But Suguru is still in deep sleep even when you pull down the waistband of his sweatpants and his cock springs free.

"Ah..." You breathe out, calming your heart. It's beating in your ears now as you stare at his length that's resting on his lower stomach.

The picture of his dick that you've crafted in your head is similar to the real deal and that makes you uncharacteristically giddy. It's on the longer side and its bulbous crown is pinkish in color.

With shaking fingers, you reach for it. He stays still even as your hand closes in around the base and gives him a few pumps.

"Suguru…" you whisper. The normalcy of you whispering his name like a prayer is true only in your bedroom as you touch yourself. But right now…

You continue your ministries as you stare at him anxiously. Is he going to wake up? A part of you wishes he does. Hoping that you will get to experience the stories you've heard from the women he fucked before. For him to watch you as you serve him, the memory ingraining in his mind. Your chest burns with envy again but you get a grip of yourself.

Who cares? The pad of your thumb caresses his tip. Your experience will be different. Exclusive.

You lean your entire torso down, your ass hanging in the air. You purse your lips and gather a blob of saliva before spitting it out on his dick. You use your own fluid as lube, pumping him a little bit faster now.

"So pretty, Suguru," you giggle when he breathes deeply. His cock is smooth and it's now starting to take a rigid stance. "I'm sure you taste pretty, too."

You descend your lips and pepper his length with feathery kisses. Lolling your tongue, you give him a few kitten licks, particularly the tip that you find endearingly charming.

He smells so good, too. Sweet like warm vanilla. You open your mouth and shove his length in. He's a bit longer than what you can take so your hands wrap around what's left of his dick, pumping it simultaneously as you bob your head.

He moans in his sleep, tossing a bit. Tears prick your eyes when his length hits the back of your throat. Your hands instinctively squeeze his hips, putting him in one place. You hollow your cheeks and pick up your pace, tongue swirling and licking the tip that's now leaking with precum.

"Haaa…" he gasps and you freeze.

You look at him; your eyes widen when you meet his dilating pupils. "W-what…"

He seems at loss but he doesn't push you away. Suguru blinks a few times at you as he heaves. You can almost see the cogs in his brain turn as he takes it all in.

You quickly release his dick with a loud pop before straddling him by the waist. "Shhh… It's okay."

You cup his face as panic settles in your nerves. You stare deeply into his eyes but notice that they're… absent. It's as if they are somewhere else even though they're looking at you.

"It's fine," you whisper. "It's fine. You're good. Trust me."

His head falls back on the pillows and he winces. You take the chance to finally kiss him, your legs pressing against his sides. He lays motionless, his eyes now closed. Panic dissipates from your nerves… now replaced by the thrill of it all.

You cup his cheeks and forcefully slither your tongue in. You shut your eyes and moan into his lips; he tastes like peppermint. Hollowing your cheeks again, you suck on his tongue.

When you pull away, a string of saliva keeps your lips connected. He opens his eyes, whispering something along the lines of "Who are you?"

You don't answer. Instead, you kiss and lick his skin. Worship every nook and cranny of his flesh, marking him. Your hands are all over the place too, touching him, staining his body with your shameless, scorching affection that you can no longer contain.

Your mouth envelops around his nipple as your other hand kneads on the other. You look up at him while you suck like a starved baby. He groans, his weak body trembling a bit.

"You like it?" You ask, swirling your tongue on his perked nipple. "You like being sucked like this, Suguru?"

He mumbles something that you didn't catch and do not honestly care about. Your lips go south, reaching his happy trail and his cock again.

"S-sto…p," he sighs when you press your face against his dick. "Stop… it…"

"But it makes you feel good, though…" you reply. "See? You like it. You're hard."

You shove it in your mouth again. Suguru groans like an angel as his hips buck upwards; his dick reaching the back of your throat again. He says he wants you to stop but his entire body's reaction does not match his words.

"Stop!" He screams, trying to pull away. But you keep your head in place, gripping his hips. Greedily, you suck him off until his cock trembles and spurts hot ropes of milky cum in your throat.

You pull away and swallow hard— he tastes salty. You smirk at him. He's frowning while gasping for breath.

"Wh…"

"Shhh," you shush him, leaning down and kissing his cheek. "It's alright. You taste so good, Suguru."

The words spilling out of your mouth, as well as the desire that is overtaking your body are beyond the heavens now. Your mind is in a haze and your pussy pulsates with need. You want him. You want him so bad it hurts.

"You seem weak," you whisper. "What happened to you?"

"I…" he mumbles.

You coo and kiss him again. "Shhh. It's okay. You're safe with me. I love you so much, Suguru. I love you so, so much."

You sit up on his stomach and take off your top. Your breasts spill out of the garment and Suguru can only watch with droopy eyes.

"I've always wanted you…" you mutter as you lift your hips. You take his hand and bring his fingers to your mouth to suck them.

When they're wet enough, you guide them to your aching cunt. You hold onto his index finger and use it to rub your warm clit. You keep your eyes on him as he remains still, letting you do whatever you want. He looks confused and it makes your heart ache. What's going on with him?

"Gonna put 'em in…" you whisper and slowly ease in two of his fingers inside you. 

A moan rips out of your lips when his slender fingers fit snug inside your walls. You move your hips— up and down, up and down until his entire fingers are coated with your cum.

You take them off, licking the middle finger before you align the index in his mouth. He whips his head to the side— a stubborn act of defiance that makes you annoyed.

"What the fuck? You did this with other girls, I bet. Other girls that don't fucking care about you," you angrily snap, cupping his jaw. "And you can't do it for the one who loves you? How dare you?!"

You squeeze his cheeks until his lips form a small opening. You shove his index finger in, coated with your cum. With a maniacal smile on your lips, you watch as he struggles.

"I taste good, right?"  You laugh and kiss him on the lips, tasting your own essence on his tongue. "I taste so good."

"S…sto—"

"Sh," you hush him. "Don't say anything. I don't want to hear you talk. I only want to hear you whine and moan. Understood? Such a good boy, Suguru."

You get off of him. Hastily taking off your jeans and underwear, Suguru's eyes widen in panic. Before he can move away, you position yourself on his waist, straddling him again into place.

"I was so fucking envious of the girls you fucked," you laugh. "They say you're good in bed. I'm a bit sad that you're too weak to show me but don't worry, okay? I love you. I love you so much, I'm going to make you feel good."

Suguru shakes his head when he sees you lift your hips. He winces when he feels you drag his dick along your clit, using your cum as lube. You spit on the crown before finally shoving him in.

You hiss in pain as his bulbous tip bullies its way inside you. Suguru thrashes for a bit before you finally take him all in. Eyes rolling to the back of your head, you quickly move to ease the pain; bouncing your hips on his cock.

You look down and see him completely helpless. He's too intoxicated to even think straight, moreso move. It delights you to see him like this; beneath you as you use him like your personal toy.

"Suguru," you gasp for breath, leaning closer to him. "Does it feel good? I feel so good."

He whips his head to the side again but you don't care this time. You're too lost in the feeling of his dick sliding in and out of you; caressing your gummy walls perfectly.

You anchor your hands on his chest and pick up the pace of your hips. It's starting to strain your legs and thighs but you're determined to reach the highest of highs. Strings of whimpers and groans escape his lips. You laugh upon realizing that he doesn't have a condom on and you're not taking any pills.

"Hey, Suguru—" your breath hitches in your throat when he hits that particularly sweet spot inside you. "You're gonna be so mad at me when you wake up tomorrow. Might as well get my fill, huh?"

It's all getting in your head. You arch your back as you put your hands on his knees to anchor yourself. You throw your head back, sliding in and out of him with ease. The squelching sounds of your skins are music to your ears.

Your mind wanders as your legs begin to tremble. God. What happens if you get pregnant? Just the thought of carrying Suguru's baby makes your entire body tingle and the knot in your lower belly tighten. You look down at him and smirk.

If by chance, you get the privilege of carrying his child, will he stay in your life? That's uncertain. But one thing's for sure and that is you will have a piece of him with you forever. A laughter slips out of your lips as the knot in your belly loosens and turns into a mess— hot cum gushes out of you and sprinkles his lower abdomen.

But you continue to move despite your shaking body. You need him to reach that high. You need him to cum deep inside you and fill your womb. Suguru's hips stutter as he lets out a guttural growl. You laugh once again when you pull out and see his sticky cum drip down your inner thighs. Quickly, you gather the fluid and shove your fingers inside you, not letting a drop go to waste.

The reality sets in, akin to the times you spent alone in your bed. But this time, it's different. You don't feel pathetic. Matter-of-fact, you feel happy. Your dream is now fulfilled. This experience is yours and yours alone. And even if Suguru fucks other girls, it doesn't matter anymore. You have a piece of him in you now. You're certain that no girls had their ways with him until you. You were in charge and that made you feel powerful.

Suguru's eyes flutter until they finally close. Sweat drips down his forehead as his chest begins to heave deeply. His face does not look like he's in pain anymore and that makes you smile.

You lean towards him and kiss him for the last time on the lips before you get dressed. You pull up his sweatpants, his cock now flaccid. You don't bother wiping him clean. Even just for tonight, you want him all over you.

You leave the house with your head above the clouds; your throbbing cunt misses him already.

[sweetdreamsjeff]

Jeff Buckley: "It's Never Over"

Jim Irvin, MOJO, August 1997

JUST BEFORE 9PM ON THE EVENING of Thursday, May 29, Jeff Buckley and his friend Keith Foti realised they were lost.

They'd just left a Memphis restaurant and were on their way to a nearby rehearsal studio. Work was about to commence on Jeff's long-delayed second album. Band members Mick Grondahl and Michael Tighe were arriving at Memphis airport and tour manager Gary Bowen had gone to meet their plane. Jeff was looking forward to jamming with his band again. But he couldn't remember where the studio was. Neither could Keith. They'd been there once before and knew it was round here somewhere...

But what the hell, it was a nice night and they were both in good spirits. They had an acoustic guitar and a ghettoblaster. Jeff suggested they go down to the riverbank to hang out and play a little music while they pondered their next move.

A few yards downriver from a bridge that takes tourists on the Memphis monorail across to a peninsular known as Mud Island (attractions include a miniature Mississippi in concrete), was a spot where Jeff had swum before. It wasn't exactly picturesque – the shore of the wide commercial channel turns into slimy mud, dotted with sharp rock, broken bottles and twisted junk – but Jeff decided to go in. He didn't bother to take off his jeans or the black and white T-shirt with the crossed rifles and the word "Altamont" printed upon it. Because of all the debris, he didn't even remove his heavy boots. He simply waded into the muddy water up to his knees. Keith tried to dissuade him. But the headstrong Buckley kept on walking – laughing and singing as he went. Staying at the water's edge, Keith strummed the guitar while Jeff kicked back in the shallows.

They struck up one of Jeff's favourite songs: "You need cooling, honey I'm not fooling/I'm gonna send ya back to schooling" – Led Zeppelin's ‘Whole Lotta Love’. Jeff joked about how like Robert Plant his voice sounded echoing around the harbour. Enjoying the water, he lay on his back and began to swim further out, singing as he went. Some small boats went by in both directions.

By this time, dusk had faded. Only the glow of the city illuminated the water. Jeff had been in the river for about a quarter of an hour when Keith spotted a large tugboat passing. He saw Jeff begin to head back towards the shore as the tug's heavy wake approached. When the wash threatened to surge up the bank, Keith turned around to move the stereo so it wouldn't get wet. When he turned back Jeff had gone.

For a moment, Keith thought Jeff was messing around. He began to call out for him. The heavy undertow must have dragged the singer beneath the water where the riverbed drops. His waterlogged clothes and boots would have kept him there. Keith thought about going in after him, but didn't know where to start. He began to shout for help. A passer-by heard him and alerted the Memphis police at 9.22pm.

Within half an hour a full-scale search was in place. A patrol scoured the bank, scuba divers went into the water, and a helicopter fitted with heat-imaging equipment and a searchlight circled overhead. The Mississippi's spring tides are famously treacherous. Sergeant Dale Simms of the Memphis Police (Homicide) told MOJO that this stretch of river is not a recognised accident black spot for swimmers, simply because no-one who lives there would dare go in. Local lore has it that, at certain times, if you were to heave a heavy log into the water it would not only sink but would be as likely to reappear upriver, travelling against the current, as downriver. After three hours, the police had found no trace of the singer. At 1am the search was abandoned.

The following morning Buckley was pronounced missing presumed drowned. Jeff's mother Mary Guibert later issued a statement: "It has become apparent to me that my son will not be walking out of the river. It is now time to make plans to celebrate a life that was golden. I ask people who cared about Jeff to please be honourable and faithful to his memory, to send their best wishes to Jeff and to all of us who are mourning his passing."

IT WAS JUST ANOTHER REFERRAL FOR MUSIC BUSINESS attorney George Stein on a New York spring morning in 1992. The kid had a development deal with a small record company and he wanted a lawyer to give it a look. "I just kind of rubber-stamped it for him, another client among hundreds, but it wasn't a good deal and I had to tell him that." It might have been a routine meeting, but Stein was intrigued enough to go and see the young man play at a club called Tramps on a bill with guitarist Gary Lucas.

"I was blown away"

Stein's epiphany is typical of a first sighting of Jeff Buckley. Everyone who spoke to MOJO for this article described their initial experience of his incredible voice in similar terms. Particularly if they saw him in the intimate spaces he loved to play.

Simon Raymonde of The Cocteau Twins remembers Jeff being introduced to them as Tim Buckley's son while they were touring America in 1991. Having recorded an ineffably beautiful version of Tim's ‘Song For The Siren’ (as This Mortal Coil) they were pleased to meet the young man, who was in turn awestruck by their music, especially the spectral voice of Elizabeth Fraser. Three years later it was their turn to see him perform. Simon and Liz went together to a small bar in Atlanta. "It was just Jeff and his little Fender guitar and amp. He sang for two hours and he knocked me sideways. Liz and I spent some time with him over the next few days. He had tremendous energy and was completely into music. He carried this ghettoblaster every where to play all his favourite CDs: mostly by people with amazing voices, Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, Aretha Franklin, Dylan. And he could mimic them all. He could do Liz too. I loved him. He was an energising sort of person; if it was a choice between being infected by his zest or a night on the tour bus, well, you didn't want to go to bed."

JEFF BUCKLEY, A BEAUTIFUL, UNFAILINGLY CHARMING MAN, with a heaven-sent voice, could identify the emotional core of any kind of song – from Led Zeppelin to Benjamin Britten, from Mahalia Jackson to Mahler – bring it to an ambitious, eclectic repertoire and sing it full of soul.

There was hardly any precedent for a rock performer of his potential, perhaps only Jimi Hendrix had such velocity of promise, maybe only Marvin Gaye brought such a daring voice to pop. But, unlike Marvin's, or that of Tim Buckley, Jeff's story was not one of a gifted young man leaning on the self-destruct button. Though he often sang about sorrow or death – almost every song on Grace alludes to it – Jeff Buckley loved life. His approach to it bore no resemblance to his father's and, when he finally stepped into the spotlight in his mid-twenties, he wanted to avoid any comparisons.

Yet the first time he came to public attention was in a New York tribute to his father, Greetings From Tim Buckley, organised by Hal Wilner and staged at St Anne's Church in Brooklyn on April 26, 1991. Wilner asked local guitar luminary Gary Lucas, an alumnus of Captain Beefheart's band, to accompany Jeff that night.

Lucas recalls his first sighting of Jeff at rehearsals: "He had an electric presence and a look on his face like he was about to burst out of his skin. We were immediately simpatico musically, both big fans of Led Zeppelin, The Doors and The Smiths. I invited him to my flat and we worked out one of his father's songs, ‘The King's Chain’, from Sefronia, which Hal Wilner had suggested. I had an arrangement where I created a loop with an Eastern sound and played some chords behind it. Jeff just started singing over this and it was overwhelming."

SCOTT MOORHEAD HAD A NOMADIC UPBRINGING AROUND Orange County, California. He was born on November 17, 1966, a few months after his estranged father, a folk singer, had released his debut album. His Panamanian mother, a pianist, remarried, to a motor mechanic. For a few years the family was stable; but when mother and stepfather split, Scott got used to a life being bundled between trailer parks and cramped houses. Aged eight, he went to stay with his dad for a week. It was the first and last time they met. Two months later his 28-year-old father was dead from an accidental overdose.

In a young life full of flux, one constant was music. West Side Story, Joni Mitchell, Hendrix, Nat King Cole, The Beatles – when the TV wasn't blaring, music of all kinds was playing wherever the family settled. When he was 12, Scott's stepfather bought him a copy of Led Zeppelin's Physical Graffiti. The album inspired him to play the guitar and harmonica. When his mother and stepfather finally divorced, he opted to take the name on his birth certificate: Jeffrey Scott Buckley

Jeff's friend Roy introduced him to Benjamin Britten and opera in his mid-teens. In the '80s he became bewitched by punk and the new British bands, including The Smiths and, bizarrely, The Toy Dolls. After high school, rather than attend college, he studied for a while at the LA Musicians Institute. Though this, he'd declare later, was "the biggest waste of time".

At about this time, Buckley demoed a batch of his own compositions. Among them were nascent versions of ‘Last Goodbye’ and ‘Eternal Life’, highlights of Grace. They weren't enthusiastically received in LA: "I was around an environment that thought they were loser songs," Buckley told college radio interviewer Gayle Kelemen when Grace appeared. "I put them on the album to prove to the songs that they weren't losers. Sort of like finding kids that have been told all their lives that they're pieces of shit, and finally [showing] them they're worth knowing and loving."

Jeff thought he might get more attention in New York.

ON THE NIGHT OF THE TIM BUCKLEY TRIBUTE, JEFF WAS first on after the interval. "He came out and sang ‘I Never Asked To Be Your Mountain’," recalls Lucas. "It was electrifying." For the encore he sang ‘Once I Was’, a song he remembered his mother playing him as a five-year-old, while his stepfather was out. On the last verse he broke a guitar string and finished the song a cappella. "It destroyed everybody," says Lucas. Jeff described this performance as paying his last respects to his father. From then on he'd avoid the subject.

Gary Lucas soon asked Jeff to front his band Gods And Monsters, an amorphous, occasional outfit which Lucas envisaged becoming something permanent with a Led Zeppelin feel. Buckley accepted. While Jeff took a summer trip home, Lucas sent him demos of guitar pieces called ‘And You Will’ and ‘Rise Up And Be’. Jeff arrived back in New York and extracted lyrics from a large notebook that he carried everywhere. He re-christened the songs ‘Mojo Pin’ and ‘Grace’.

On August 17, 1991, Lucas went into Krypton studios in New York's SoHo district with the Gods And Monsters rhythm section, Jared Nickerson and Tony Lewis, to cut demos of the songs. Buckley came down in the early evening to add vocals, having been reluctant to reveal in rehearsals exactly what he was going to sing. But when the hour came, he shone. "I just heard magic happen," says Lucas, still moved by the memory. "He'd worked up a sinuous vocal arrangement, all these intricate parts with Eastern influences. He surpassed my wildest expectations. We were playing rough mixes as we were packing up, and some jazz musicians came in for the next session. I remember the look on their faces: Wow, what is this stuff?!"

Lucas decided this was the most stunning music he'd ever worked on. "I felt it could shake the world." He got his lawyer to send round tapes. A scout came to see the two play in Gary's flat, and a development deal was quickly drawn up. On November 1, Lucas took Jeff with him to the CMJ New Music Festival. "This was effectively the debut of the new band. John Cale was in the audience, Nick Cave. We did three numbers, ‘Grace’, ‘Mojo Pin’, opening with another song we wrote called ‘Bluebird Blues’. The first line of that was, 'I have an angel, her eyes are the ocean blue.' But when Jeff came on, the first thing he sang 'I am a stone cold loner.' A little thing went off in my head. That was Jeff's first statement of intent appearing with the group!"

In the new year, Jeff planned to move permanently to New York (where he now had a steady girlfriend, artist Rebecca Moore). He and Lucas were to work on new material and showcase the group at St Anne's Church on Friday, March 13. New songs – now arranged to include Jeff playing guitar too – came thick and fast: ‘Cruel’, ‘In The Cantina’, ‘Malign Fiesta’, ‘The Harem Man’, ‘Story Without Words’, ‘No One Must Find You Here’ and ‘She Is Free’. They also worked up covers of an old ska tune – ‘How Long Will It Take’, Van Morrison's ‘Sweet Thing’ and Dylan's ‘Farewell Angelina’. But Jeff became unhappy during rehearsals and told Lucas he couldn't work with Nickerson and Lewis. His vision of the group in tatters, Lucas "reluctantly let them go". Ten days before the gig they hired Anton Fier and Tony Maimone. "In fact, the show was really good," conceded Lucas. "Jeff was magnificent. The next day I said to my wife, He did it again. He sang his ass off. This is as good as any music out there...I was elated, jumping up and down. And then I got a call from Jeff saying he was leaving."

Lucas was devastated, but realised that Jeff was determined to control his own future. The nomadic Buckley may also have remained uneasy about permanence. Later he'd admit as much to Rolling Stone, talking of "ways I've grown up with: moving from place to place, grabbing on to people, making fast friends and letting them go." Lucas had a few more bookings to honour and Jeff guested. Their final date together was at Tramps. This was the show George Stein caught.

Stein was soon encouraging record companies to check out his new find. They were reluctant: Jeff was singing mostly covers, and weird ones at that. Stein persevered. "You've just gotta see him, trust me, you'll get it."

EAST VILLAGE SINGER TOM CLARK WAS PISSED OFF WHEN he noticed that his regular Monday night slot at The Sin-e Cafe on St Mark's Place had been moved. And for a guy he'd never heard of, some Jeff Buckley. "I found out who he was soon enough," Clark laughs. "I went to see him and it was like seeing someone going out with your girlfriend. He was doing 98 per cent covers – though in his own way – and as a musician I knew who did every song, but there were a billion girls there who thought he wrote them all!" Buckley became a regular and Clark became a friend.

"He got on with everybody," recalls former Sin-e proprietor, Shane Doyle. "I gave him the gig without knowing anything about him. Sin-e was this laid-back place where musicians just showed up and played, and he liked that atmosphere." Jeff would sing all night, from nine at night until two in the morning, with a few breaks, trying everything he knew and honing his own style.

Stein's persistence paid off and A&R men began to frequent Sin-e. Jeff wouldn't allow them to reserve seats. They had to get there early and sit with the Village eccentrics Jeff encouraged, people such as Tree Man, a tramp who festooned himself with twigs. "He had a kind of disregard for the idea of being 'on' for certain people," confirms Doyle. "He didn't like pressure. There'd be days when there were only 15 or 20 people in the room, yet he'd be at his best. All the major labels showed up. Steve Berkowitz at Columbia was the guy I got to know, and he was very mindful of Jeff's attitude – that it wasn't about pushing him or getting everything out of him."

The Sin-e shows developed Jeff's desire to take risks. His confidence in his singing grew. He left mimicry behind and sculpted a vast repertoire – Edith Piaf ballads, MC5 songs, Asian laments, classical lieder – into something unique. (Friends testify that Jeff had only to hear a song once to memorise it completely. He could also uncannily mimic sounds and old TV shows.) You can hear him stirring the vocal crucible on the subsequent Live At Sin-e EP when he stretches Van Morrison's ‘The Way Young Lovers Do’ over 10 minutes, moving from lovelorn moan to soulful croon to an impossible scat segment that climbs into a Robert Plant-on-helium climax. All Buckley's future shows would be marked by their unpredictability as he went in search of these extended episodes of rapture.

As summer warmed up, so did the bidding war. "Everybody wanted to sign him," says Stein. "But he was fearful of the industry, afraid of being chewed up and spat out. He had to work out whether it was possible to work with a major label and keep his integrity. Sometimes he and I would go out to City Island, a little boating community outside New York, to cool out by the water and talk. Driving out there I'd try and start the conversation about his future, his goals and his thoughts – you know, the deep stuff – and all he wanted to do was hunch over the car radio. He was like a primitive that had discovered a new device for making magic, he would jump from pop to reggae to rock to classical, humming along and so involved, like he'd never had a chance to hear music before and if he didn't listen to it now, in this half hour, he was going to miss something."

Stein also recalls a revealing moment when they were talking to record companies: "We were sitting there with one label president and he was asking Jeff what he was looking for from them and Jeff said, 'Well, if I went with...' and he paused. He couldn't remember which label it was! Everybody knows which label you're at because it's so important. But Jeff just looked at me and said, 'Where are we?' And it was guileless. He wasn't being disingenuous. The label president shrugged and loved Jeff even more because he realised that the kid just didn't care about that stuff."

Finally, in October 1992, Jeff signed with Columbia. The deal allowed him time to write without rushing anything out. Everyone was happy. The brass went down to Sin-e to checkout their new boy. Stein laughs at the memory; "Jeff asked the audience, What do you want to hear? And someone in the crowd shouted 'Nusrat!' Jeff proceeded to play, not a riff, not a minute, not two, but about a quarter an hour of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan. I thought I was having an acid nip – I couldn't believe that my artist, just signed, was singing a 15 minute Pakistani cover song. That was Jeff. He didn't pander. It was just about the music he loved."

Andy Wallace, who'd mixed Nirvana's Nevermind, was hired to produce the debut album. Jeff decided to hire a band to toughen his sound and expand his options. His method of finding the perfect players being simply to try and attract like-minded souls rather than advertise for virtuosi. "Who wants to tour with a bunch of muso pricks you can't stand?" notes Tom Clark. "Jeff went for people he liked."

He'd met Mick Grondahl at an after-show party in March 1993. Grondahl, an increasingly disillusioned member of various New York bands, was impressed with Jeff's musical daring, and shared his vision of a band that could mix great songs with freefalling improvisation. "Here was a person who wanted to just fall into the abyss and trust that he'd land on his two feet," Grondahl told Gayle Keleman in 1995. A bass and 12-string jam in Jeff's flat that summer cemented the relationship. Six weeks later, after they'd found drummer Matt Johnson, Grondahl found himself heading up a mountain in upstate New York to record.

To keep Jeff out of the city, Andy Wallace had suggested the residential Bearsville studios in Woodstock. "Jeff had quite a crew of fans and friends hanging around. While he was very driven, he was not the most organised person and easily distracted." Pre-production had revolved around jamming while the band became comfortable with each other, so knocking the material into shape was slow, exacerbated by Jeff's constant desire to improve everything. "Jeff never stood still," Wallace recollects. "Whatever he was working on, he was torn between finishing it so he could move on or not finishing it shoe could update it. He'd never sing a song the same way twice. Or even close. We'd go in to fix a line and he'd sing a whole new verse." Experiment became the norm as they tried numerous routes to the best performances. Wallace would also get Jeff to do hour-long, after-dinner Sin-e style solo sets in the studio. "We recorded four or five of those. He did a lot of covers and a couple of very funny things, a take off of old Delta blues that had us cracking up."

Gary Lucas was invited to Bearsville to add guitar to ‘Grace’ and ‘Mojo Pin’, and witnessed Jeff laying down the startling vocals to the album's title song. "He came out of the booth with this sheepish, little boy look, like, Did I do it good? He knew it was fucking great."

AS WORK ON GRACE WOUND DOWN AND LIVE AT SIN-E WAS being released, Dave Lory, former manager of Greg Allman, came on board as co-manager with Stein. His first sighting of Jeff on-stage was when he took the singer on a two-week solo tour of tiny North American venues, early in 1994. "Just him and me puffing into bad truck stops and buying bad cassettes and talking about music," he remembers. "The first couple of nights in Vancouver were kinda rough. He could do anything he wanted in New York at that point, but now we were getting into the general public who didn't know who he was, but this was how he wanted to learn his craft."

The solo dates brought Buckley to Europe for the first time. His British premier was on March 11, 1994 at Ratners, a tiny bar in Sheffield. After three London dates that week, he was the talk of the town. This writer won't ever forget seeing Jeff Buckley sing ‘Hallelujah’ at the Borderline club and hearing a stunned hush descend over the usually clamorous music-biz crowd. It was the start of a mutual love affair with European audiences. The French fell hard for him, eventually awarding Grace the Grand Prix Internationale Du Disque, a prestigious gong previously handed to the likes of Edith Piaf, Bob Dylan and Joni Mitchell. A French EP, Live At The Bataclan caught the controlled hysteria of his Parisian shows (Jeff advised friends not to buy "that fucking record", however). British publicist Jacquie Rice recalls a large, enthralled, almost entirely male Italian audience singing along to ‘Lilac Wine’ like some love-struck football crowd.

A second guitarist Michael Tighe, who'd never played in a band before, was recruited for a pre-Grace tour. During rehearsals he came up with a guitar line that transfixed Jeff. They quickly wrote the haunting ‘So Real’. Excited by the new composition, Jeff insisted they cut it live in an LA studio, initially to use as a B-side. The results were so good the song was added to Grace, usurping one called ‘Forget Her’ which, according to Wallace, was "a simple, three chord thing with a great bluesy vocal, recorded in one take. He felt it didn't say much about him as a songwriter, which I certainly don't agree with. A wonderful song."

Grace (finally issued in August 1994) received ecstatic reviews but didn't ignite any charts or garner much airplay. Buckley was happy, however, to tour behind the album for the next 18 months and let his following grow naturally. Audiences all over the world began to swell. With only one official single, ‘Last Goodbye’, and hardly any interviews, word of mouth was doing the bulk of the promotional work.

"Jeff was the type of artist whose instincts you trusted," states Dave Lory. "We used to laugh about it. He would call up and want to do something unconventional, and the joke was, 'We're gonna jump off the cliff and the parachute always opens.' Whether it was setting up his mic on one side of the stage – other managers would be all, 'Oh no, you gotta be right in the centre' – to when he first started with the band, they didn't rehearse, just jammed, and didn't play the songs until the first night. And they were great. And ‘Kanga-Roo’ [Buckley's wild, super-extended version of the Big Star song] – others would say, 'He's playing that song too long.' But I saw it as the only way the band could really grow together, so I'd fight to let 'em do it. That was the fun of managing Jeff Buckley, jumping off that cliff."

The gigs veered between delicate acoustic sets and full-scale sonic onslaughts; Jeff becoming increasingly interested in the harder end of the sound and the power of a band. But in spring '96 in Sydney, Australia, drummer Matt Johnson announced his intention to leave, finally enforcing a hiatus in which Jeff could start writing the follow-up to Grace. But the rigours of touring and the pressure he felt to improve upon his debut initiated a long spell of writer's block. "Columbia wanted the second album out faster," notes Stein. "But if the record company had a timetable and Jeff Buckley had a timetable, Jeff's won out. He wouldn't put something out if it wasn't ready."

Slowly, the songs came, many of them dark and strange.

On October 26, 1996, Jeff posted a rambling message on his website telling fans that his next album, due in the spring of '97, would be called My Sweetheart The Drunk. Wallace remembers the title being discussed: "He described the album to me as a guidebook for losers in love." Tom Clark heard some of the demos: "The new stuff sounded pretty rocking, but he also had some incredibly beautiful things. One song was a hit record, I swear."

In December, Buckley decided to develop his new material by airing the work-in-progress on a string of solo dates, appearing under pseudonyms such as The Crackrobats, Possessed By Elves, Topless America and A Puppet Show Named Julio. When fans complained that they hadn't known about these shows, Buckley replied via the Internet, in January this year: "[The shows] are simply my own way of survival, self-assessment and recreation. If they don't happen...nothing else can. I can be all alone with nothing to help me save myself.

"I'm in the middle of some wild shit right now," he continued, "but I'm coming soon to a cardboard display case near you, and I'll come out of my hole and we'll make bonfires out of ticket stubs come the summer."

A new drummer, Parker Kindred, debuted on February 9 at Arlene's Grocery in New York before the band relocated to Memphis at the invitation of The Grifters, a band Jeff had befriended who were based at nearby Easley Studios. Buckley rented a house on North Rembert Street and work started at Easley with Tom Verlaine as a guest player and co-producer. A few songs were recorded but the sessions fell apart, though Buckley and Verlaine remained friendly. The band returned to New York and Andy Wallace was asked to produce again. Work was due to begin on June 30.

Jeff elected to stay in Memphis. He even made enquiries with his managers about buying the house on Rembert Street. Every Monday night, in an echo of the Sin-e days, he'd perform in a bar called Barristers. MOJO writer Robert Gordon witnessed some of these sets: "It was very informal and as much about working stuff out as playing complete songs. He'd talk a lot between songs, saying funny stuff and just having a good time."

On May 27, Jeff called his old Sin-e buddy Tom Clark, who was recuperating after a bad fall. "I'd not heard from him for ages so it was great to talk to him. We talked about the usual things: girls, guitars and music. And he spoke about his frustration making this record. He'd got over the writer's block. Bam. He had about 30 songs ready."

DAVE LORY CALLED GEORGE STEIN AT TWO IN THE MORN-ing on May 30. "Jeff's missing."

"I was groggy but I thought, He'll show up. He's gone underground before," says Stein. "But then Dave said he was in the Mississippi and there were divers. My heart sank. I knew he was gone."

On the afternoon of June 4, passengers on the American Queen riverboat sighted something caught in branches floating in the Mississippi. It was the body of a young man in an Altamont T-shirt.

Two weeks later, medical examiner Tammy Ruth declared that Jeff Buckley had tested negative for drugs and that his blood alcohol level was less than half that required for a person to be declared drunk. "The official cause of death is accidental drowning," she concluded. "We're not investigating anything," confirmed Lieutenant Richard True of the Memphis Police.

"HE WAS A COMPLICATED PERSON," DECIDES GEORGE Stein, when asked to sum up his charge and friend. "He had a lot of sides to him. But he had a musical soul. He was a musical soul."

September 1, 1994, The Garage in London's Finsbury Park. Jeff Buckley removes his shirt. The first three rows – entirely comprised, it seems, of smitten women – swoon en masse. The room ripples with sweat and electricity throughout the heady song which follows. As it finishes, one girl yells in a desperate, yearning tone, "Have my babies!" "And mine!" shouts another. Jeff laughs. "Hey, I gotta show to do."

"He didn't let too many people in. Even his good friends," concludes Tom Clark. "No-one really knows what his private life was like. But he was great to be with and so funny. The minute Jeff walked into a bar he'd be singing, the theme song to The Jeffersons, anything. I feel bad for his band. They're really hurting right now I am too. I really miss that fucking guy."

[pumpkinmagekupo]

For the Pumpkin Service, I request:

Emmanellain

Museum

Treat. If I may?

Thank you anon for your request!! I hope you enjoy it (´｡• ᵕ •｡`) ♡

Stories of Lost Souls

Emmanellain -Museum-Treat

Emmanellain was excited to visit places outside of Ishgard. Serious situations aside, he was given free time to wander. So he set off exploring around Sharlayan. He located a building that was fancier than most buildings here. Marble floors and walls and well illuminated with wall hanging crystals. The walls were decorated with pieces of art. Emmanellain wandered around. The building was broken up into different areas of Eorzea. Things had been brought from various ruins and dungeons and the items that were deemed too big were replicated by the talented craftsmen of Sharlayan. He was quite impressed.

Soon after wandering the halls he found a little spot for Ishgard. Since Ishgard too had been closed off, all that was present were handmade items by the scholars. As he looked at a large painting of the Holy See from afar, he noticed an odd frame beside it. The frame contained a blank white canvas and the plaque beneath it read: disappointment. 

“That’s odd.” Emmanellain frowned, folding his arms and inspecting the piece tilting his head as though a different perspective might illuminate this strange piece of art. A few moments passed and he shrugged, “I never had much of an eye for art anyway.” he hummed and carried on his way. 

“Where are you going?” 

Emmanellain tensed and slowly looked over his shoulder. There was nothing. Swallowing his fear, he turned back around “Just an echo-'' he took another step and there was a clatter behind him. As he turned, he spotted the metal wall plaque had fallen to the floor. Sighing deeply, he moved to pick it up and rising to his feet he hooked the plaque back on. 

The painting looked different. There was a singular black spot about the size of a coin on the left hand side. 

“Was that there before?” he thought out loud trying to figure out if by some strange chance he had missed it. 

“Don’t go.”

Emmanellain jumped as a voice whispered in his ear. Whirling around he was completely on edge. The open space behind him was now a wall and as he looked around, he was in a long corridor which was met with an inky blackness. 

Turning back to the painting. The single black spot had become two splatters. “I must have sunstroke..like that time in Costa del Sol..” he rambled, though he let out a loud squeak of terror as the splatters grew larger and twisted into long thin finger-like spines. Emmanellain curiously leant forward “How odd- they look like hands.” as those words left his mouth the splatters lunged out of the painting, grabbing hold of his face. He cried out in alarm and planted his feet firmly on the ground to stop him sliding, his hands pressed against the wall. 

“Why do you struggle?” black paint bleeds out from the white parts of the and it begins to bubble like boiling water. Emmanellain tried his best to pull away but it only served to make the hands grip tighten. 

“Is this not what you wanted?” the voice asked, Emmanellain squirmed as the bugling bubbles grew closer to his face. “To be revered like your dear brother?” this voice…why did it sound like his?

“What?! No! He..no…”

“Here people will see you. Notice you. Appreciate you.” the bubbles burst and the thick gooey paint that sprung forth had taken the form of Emmanellain but mirrored. “What can you do?”

Emmanellain put his foot on the wall and pushed and pushed. “I know I’ll never be him but..I can aspire to be worthy of him and my family.” His last push managed to sever one of the creatures' grasp “I won’t let anyone down again!” IT made one more attempt to pull him closer but Emmanellain refused to pushed, the creature lost it’s grasp and he tumbled backwards with a loud clatter.

“What are ya doin’?” a familiar voice asked, still laid confused on the floor, Emmanellain looked up to see Sicard walking towards him with his trademark smirk on his face. 

Emmanellain turned back to the painting but it was gone, even the frame and plaque had vanished. “Appreciating art.” Emmanellain replied, clambering clumsily to his feet. 

Sicard snorted a laugh “Right- well break is over.” he added “come on little lordling.” he teased and walked off.

“Do not call me that.” he hissed and gave chase. “I was looking at the art- it’s good to get different perspectives.” Emmanellain argued, trying to redeem himself.

[nokingsonlyfooles]

Gods Are Up!

I am being very irresponsible about using Tumblr for updates like I promised! Well, my stylus tips aren't here yet, and the spouse is working on a paper, but I don't have the grey matter to do a real deep dive like I was gonna do on days beginning with T. So, here's an update! I got the list of Invisibles up on the site a few days ago and forgot to tell anyone.

I'm highlighting Lame Anthony [above] because I happen to have a full figure image of him. I gave all of them cute little representative graphics like this:

...which is probably more appropriate for a load of invisible creatures who can only tell mere mortals what they look like and what to call them.

Here are Anthony's stats!

Description: A thin man with a crooked stance and light-coloured hair. Either depicted in Medieval peasant garb or frayed jeans and a T-shirt — with varying accuracy as ���jeans” and “T-shirts” took quite some time to appear in their modern incarnation. He does not wear shoes.

Personality: Hyperfocused Space Cadet.

Speciality: Protector of Broken Things. Uncertain how much he’s actually able to do.

Wants: To Admire Anything Broken. The best offerings to Lame Anthony are still in use and have a unique new function due to their brokenness.

Power Level: +/- 0 — he is an Invisible, but there is something wrong with him which may or may not make it impossible for him to do anything. At the very least it is hard for him to do things.

Difficulty Level: 11 — damn near impossible to hold, unable to stay long enough to take any action in a human body, beyond speaking a few words.

AKA: Anton the Broken (Prokovia), Ikswotangi (a museum piece, crayon on cardboard, purported to be the work of an art student who held him long enough to let him sign his own name. It also includes a mysterious sigil, forked lines resembling the track of a bird with a wobbly circle drawn around them, considered a poor attempt at a human figure by most.)

Notes

Even the gods aren’t perfect. Lame Anthony is here to raise questions about just what the hell it means to exist as an Invisible. If they’re not defined by their ability to do things, then what are they? In any case, he seems to be a happy transcendental being and Hyacinth’s house is basically his church.

He is protective of Erik, but he may not be able to do much to help anyone.

He got his own tarot card because he's always hanging around and he's thematically appropriate. I put him in Hyacinth's kitchen - which is a background I finished recently for Hyacinth's tarot card. He's made himself some paper dolls/shadow puppets, two of which are missing pieces of their heads (Erik and Hyacinth) and one of which has a chunk out of its heart (Mordecai). He's holding the broken wooden spoon he likes in between his teeth, as if it's a rose and he's about to do a tango. The scissors and paper scraps are all over the floor around his bare feet. I don't think he can really move physical objects like that, but he would if if could.

This is my take on Judgement, which has similar figures in similar positions with a totally different context.

That's a divine being (an angel) with an object in its mouth (a trumpet) above smaller human figures (man, child, and woman) with their arms raised. That's the wakeup call for Judgement Day, though. Lame Anthony is much more uncritical and accepting!

Since my eyes aren't working right and I adopted this new, simplified style, people and things are in black, and stuff that you can't see is in pure light - sometimes coloured, but the Invisibles are always plain white. (Unless I come up with a thematic reason to make an exception!)

Note music (which is heard and not seen) in white, and pink and aqua halo indicating Milo is enjoying his steampunk DDR experience. As I was putting this one together, I was about to put a smile on Milo's face (he does manage one occasionally, when he's not overthinking it) then I thought, "Milo should not be obligated to smile for the audience to know he is happy." In text, he doesn't have to, so I came up with a way to do that for him in pictures.

Lame Anthony is based mostly on this guy:

...at least in function and personality. Reverend Jim was definitely the least functional cabbie of the group, but everyone put up with him because you knew he couldn't help it and he was so damn nice. But I don't think Anthony sounds like him. Too excitable and focused. Jim is more liable to say, "Okay," and follow you if you tell him to quit doing something. Anthony will smile at you, wave, and wander right into traffic. Which will blow right through him, as he doesn't have a body and no one's managed to hold him for more than a minute, so it's fine.

If you're not reading Tin Soldier and Soldier On... You have no idea what I'm talking about. But, Invisibles mess with people and reality itself, some of them call themselves saints, angels, or fairies, and people call them gods. You can never get a consistent story out of them about anything. Maybe they made people, maybe people made them, maybe they are people, maybe they were never people... And none of that really matters because if you keep them happy they'll do things for you, and that's all people want from them.

...Except Lame Anthony. He can't really do anything. But maybe that doesn't matter either. He's living his best, uh, whatever-it-is.

I think all the gods I've featured in-story so far have an entry, and there are a few in there you'll meet later. All this stuff is Creative Commons and Share Alike, so if you like any of this god business, you can take it and run with it. Probably there's typos and formatting errors, and I want to do one more illustration for the music, but it's all legible and I made it and I think it's fun.

Yes, my few readers, David (or whatever that is) has an entry too!

In other news: I can't do any more art until I fix my stylus, and I'm going to donate to Whole Women's Health for April, kicking off at least four months of spite donations to women's healthcare providers, but I haven't yet. I've managed to get an appointment with a specialist after a year of begging my family doctor, and I'm anxious and exhausted, not yet knowing if I'm gonna go through another uphill slog to get any actual help. Or if they'll help me at all, I guess. That's taking up a lot of my headspace, so I"m gonna be all over the place this week.

I apologize in advance if I over-or-under-correct my weird behaviour over the next few days.

[tempest-toss]

Tempest Little Mister blurbs #3 (21-30)

Mr. Hunt The first of the new generation, Mr. Hunt was made for an action-packed beginning. Love of cryptids exploded when he was made, and so he was designed to help track down and hunt these creatures of urban legend, from bigfoot to the chupacabra to Mothman. He has recently suffered an attack that has left him unable to use an eye and has filled him with a massive mistrust towards people, especially if they were patches with a red white and black circular pattern.

Ms. Lake Ms. Lake is one of the more tragic Little Misters. Originally, she was made for edutainment. She had nice blue clothes, and her long hair swooped around and formed a small pond to house smaller aquatic specimens. Unfortunately while in service she stumbled upon a murderous couple dumping a body. Even though she didn’t know this, the couple lured her to the water edge and proceeded to drown and attack her, leaving her body seemingly permanently disfigured. *

Mr. Shadow  There exists a sign that is periodically found around the Factory floor. “Feeling a bit drained? Don’t forget to check for lurkers in your shadow!” This was made to remind workers of Mr. Shadow. Mr. Shadow is one of the few Little Misters to have an almost/complete lack of human features, and that is because he is 2D. Mr. Shadow is his namesake, and can travel from shadow to shadow. Can’t find him but still feel fine? Maybe keep an ear out for his low, sinister laughter.

Little Mr. Bone When Three left Little Mr. Halloween was feeling very lonely, for there was no one that could celebrate the spooky season with him. Enter Little Mr. Bone, A small skeleton that likes to play and receive lots of sweets! He is oddly well-versed in first aid, and will always be up for a fun game. Just don’t play hide and seek in a haunted house attraction, since he can dim his golden hues to blend in with the props.

Little Ms. Ghost  Scared of spectres? Phobia of phantoms? Little Ms. Ghost is right for you if you wish to get over that fear of yours. Despite her small appearance and her translucent nature, she was created as a personal guardian, and she will do whatever it takes to make sure you are protected by everything that may go bump in the night. Just make sure you never extinguish her lantern.

Mx. Clockwork  According to rumors, a human worked the clocktower of the old factory and got crushed. Since they were such a key worker, Dr. Wondertainment made them into Mx. Clockwork. Dr. Wondertainment has gone on record to deny this, and does not tolerate the spreading of this rumor. Mx. Clockwork bears a unique design, with a human “shell” that houses a wide assortment of gears inside that are constantly turning. It appears they are the inspiration of the Troupe of Shadow’s sideshow member “Gears”

Mx. Helium Lighter than air, the floaty Mx. Helium is always up for a good time. Usually not seen without their three large heart balloons or a weight strapped to their waist, you should normally find Mx. Helium hanging around the factory’s hangar space or Party Practice Room. They’re the most ditzy out of the Little Misters, and is often found stuck to the ceiling for misplacing their weights. Considering how much they bump into the ceiling, it’s amazing how their pristine white clothing is not dirtied up.

Mr. Silent  Sometimes one needs some time to vent to others about all their troubles in the world, and Mr. Silent would love to help you. Plain dressed, friendly body language and the inability to speak in any regard. Rumors of the workers say that his permanent silence is to hide a sonic scream that can absolutely shatter walls. This has by no means been proven, but it does seem like an interesting thing to think about, no?

Ms. Mouse Did you know that fleas are actually what spread the plague, and they rode on the rats? Well, not a lot of people know this, and blame the scampering squeakers. Not only that, but mice are viewed as vermin anyway, so how must this problem be solved? How about a person that has mouse ears? Ms. Mouse will be here to save the day! With a quick song you’ll see the mice follow after her like the Pied Piper. There’s totally nothing else about her…right?

10. Mr. Nurse War is constantly happening. People suffer from the outside world, and people take their anger or selfishness out on the Little Misters. Mr. Nurse was made to help both. With tired eyes and an equally tired expression, Mr. Nurse is often bustling around, tending to wounds on battlefields, civil unrest, and various other tragedies. He has endured much more than the average person or Little Mister. Scratch his messy grey hair, he needs some relax time.

[alyjojo]

September 🏋🏽‍♂️ 2024 Monthly - Aquarius

Preshuffle: You’ve got some family drama coming to light, up to five people battling it out this month and 10 Cups describes them, so you love these people. There are apologies and healing of a conflict - but one person in particular feels locked out, pushed away, or unappreciated…you? Or you’re the one that’s locked them out.

Meditation: The Lollipop song…a tv show in black and white, in super old-style bathing suits, several women (five or six) twirling giant lollipops around like a baton and singing the song - the first three women fumbled the twirling bits but it went largely unnoticed; and the last one, the littlest, a child of maybe 5-6, did the best of anyone…but received the most criticism - as if they hadn’t.

Main energy: The Hanged Man

What’s going on in September:

2 Swords, Knight of Wands rev, The Devil rev, Knight of Cups rev, Ace of Wands rev

You know you need some perspective on a matter close to home, Home at the bottom of the oracles. Right Track shows you’re right where you need to be, Green Acorn shows you pointing the finger outwards and blaming others, Ivory Tower shows logic and intelligence 🧐 but also a fear of being ignored or “unused”, and every card here shows you don’t know if you’re seeing things realistically or if someone is pulling the wool over your eyes; and as such there is no motivation to make any iron-clad decisions. You feel powerless, but is that true? At the beginning of the month, the not knowing is genuine, pure confusion and getting stuck in your head over things. Or this can be a case where you definitely have been manipulated, it’s known, but now what?

Knight of Wands rev doesn’t feel like you but rather someone else, and at the bottom shows you in a very quiet, watchful (stalking?) energy. You’re very perceptive of what’s going on around you, trying to get information and clarity in this way…why, I don’t know. This Knight may act recklessly, impulsively, you never know what’s coming, when, or how long it’ll last, it’s unreliable and sporadic. This is what you want to leave behind with The Devil rev., you’re restraining yourself from participating in this immature in/out dynamic. I don’t see you being in this Green Acorn energy for too long, you’d rather heal and let shit go, I’m seeing an energy of “it is what it is.” Especially if it’s not even your doing - wtf are you supposed to do about it? 🤷‍♀️ If you’re dealing with a fkboy/girl type that’s in and out, here then gone, it looks like you could be ghosting this person or just moving away from it, not responding, not engaging. I don’t get this being romance for most of you, there could be a family member you’re not talking to for the same reason. Most feels like family.

Knight of Cups rev can feel like love bombing, where this is romantic, or over-idealistic glass-half-full sort of energy, again you’re not sure about this with Ace of Swords rev. Is this person lying to you? You feel bamboozled by something they’ve done, idk why, it’s probably a history thing with you. If they’re in and out then there’s been a cycle of this before. You think they’re full of shit until they show you otherwise. King of Pentacles shows either you or your expectations, unless this person is someone who genuinely has their shit together and can be relied upon - you’re sticking close to your initial impression of them and playing your cards close to your chest. You don’t trust them. I don’t see any reason to think you’re right or wrong, either/or, more that it’s up to them to do exactly what you want - show who they are. You’re watching 😌 You could be giving someone just enough rope to watch what they do with it, and The Hanged Man is your point, the person in this card is hanging from ropes. Right Track 💯 Some of you fear someone using you because you feel they have before - but have they?

Outside of that situation, generally, I don’t see you making a single move in any direction you aren’t totally sure you want to go down, and you’re definitely not going to be talked into anything either - you rely on your own mind… will other people? Do you really care? Pay close attention to the signs you receive, Omens show there will be plenty of them 🦅

Signs you may be dealing with:

Aquarius, Virgo, Pisces & Capricorn

Oracle: ✨

31 Omens 🐦

Hawks are messengers. This majestic bird flies high and reaches the realms of the spirit. They bring back messages from both the seem and unseen. Drawing this card speaks of focus and intuition. Pay attention to the coincidences in your life right now. Focus on where you want to go - how high do you want to fly? When you see a hawk, someone is trying to get your attention. Pay attention to serendipity in your life. Be glad, for this is a reminder that you are living in the flow of energy. Things will soon shift for you.

River of Release 🌊

Drift along River of Release, where waters carry away burdens, guiding towards renewal.

Right Track 🚂

You are going in the right direction, so just keep moving forward.

We enter into September as:

The Green Acorn 🌰

“I am not a victim! I chose to be doing what I am doing!”

It is time to take a good hard look at something you may be in denial about. In order to move forward, you must make an honest assessment of your present situation. Remember the old adage that there are three sides to any given situation? Yours, theirs, and the truth. Are you putting blame on a situation or a person that doesn’t call for it? Acorn reminds us to come back down to earth.

It is important that you not use anything as an excuse to avoid seeing your own role clearly. Look at any experience as an opportunity to know yourself better, not something to hide behind. The time will come when the situation will no longer be there, and you will have to face yourself. Do it now. The Green Acorn asks that you see things as they are, and not to use anything as an excuse anymore. Don’t forget to see the lighter side is whatever situation you are in, humor and levity can serve you well.

What is to be learned in September:

Ivory Tower 👨‍🎨 :

“They won’t use me.”

Ivory Tower reflects the way we function in a world with values that are different from our own. While we might not fit into the world as it is, we are aware of it and accept the differences, for those differences also benefit us on some level. If you are considering moving away from “the norm” you will not be unhappy. Like the artist that chooses to express himself with paint, you too must express yourself, even if it means “they” won’t use you. Rejection is Spirit’s way of protecting us. Whether or not you are accepted, you must do it anyway. This card can also represent a teacher or mentor being sent to you by Spirit, they may not be who you would’ve thought, or even picked, but they will teach you a lot. Hold your judgement.

Ivory may be a lucky color ��

[miriael-the-cozy-witch]

Fear the Reaper, Part 3

This is part 3 of how my WoL made their pact with their voidsent, and became a reaper! I hope you enjoy it! Click here for Part 1! Click here for Part 2! Click here for Part 4! The scythe should've been heavy.

It was a huge chunk of metal, weighty and thick, at the end of a heavy oak handle almost as tall as I was. I should've had to use leverage to wield it, much like I'd done with farming and harvesting in my botanist work.

But no. That wasn't... right.

It felt natural in my grip, light as a feather. Almost lighter than my sword, which should've been impossible.

My sword had been at my side for over two years... and now it felt foreign in my grip, it's weight unfamiliar as it dangled on my hip. It felt... unthinkable that the weapon that felled Zenos, then again as Shinryu, felt like holding a writhing snake.

How it'd become this... thing that I hated to touch... I didn't know.

The moment I got back to Gridania from Ul'dah, I wanted to toss it aside. Hang it up, give it the rest I so desperately wanted. Gods knew it deserved it. 

As much as the scythe on my back felt amazing to use, I was still more familiar with my blade. I would not give up on it so easily. 

I would keep both weapons at the ready.

For now.

I walked back through Gridania's mossy paths, my boots putting soft steps onto it's grass covered streets. I wanted to look at the people, my friends and neighbours, look to them for hope... But I was barely able to notice anything other than the tug, pulling me towards... Something.

The faces Gridania's citizens eyed me warily as I marched past, a few examining the weapon on my back with fear and awe.

It wasn't the first time I'd been seen in my home city with strange new weapons, in fact it was seen as almost to be expected. An Astrologian's globe, a white mage's cane, a warrior's axe, a black mage's staff. All these and more I had mastered.

But always, always there was a sword at my hip.

But never before, experimenting with new soul crystals and weapons and combat styles... did my blade feel like a broken limb.

It felt like...

My lance.

I imagined the most elder of Gridania's citizens, who remembered the first time I'd been seen without a spear or lance on my back. The panic on their faces.

At least then then there'd been a very obvious reason for the change.

The bandages over my eye.

Little did they know that I'd suffered similar damage. It just wasn't to my body, it was to my soul.

Alone with my thoughts as I strode quietly through Gridania, heading out Blue Badger Gate for the wilds of the Shroud, I latched onto the feeling of of the pull in the core of my being, using it to avoid remembering Zenos and his voidsent in the snows.

I'm here. I have this feeling. This urge. I need to follow it. Then I will never again be vulnerable. My strength will not falter.

Concentrating on breathing, I avoided the stares of the Wood Wailers at the gate, beginning my journey through the Jadeite Thick.

If this were any other day, it'd almost be a pleasant journey. But uneasiness seemed to simmer in the forest. The very trees irked with worry and anxiety. I could tell that the Final Days were wearing upon the Elementals, my training under E-Sumi-Yan had long taught me the method of listening to their moods. I could never hear what they said, that was left to the Padjal, but their displeasure on worry was as easy to translate as breathing.

Despite the Final Days and the displeasure of the Elementals, the sun was daring to gleam through the leafy canopy above, showering the forest floor in glorious beams of light, dying everything a warm orange glow. A breeze shuffled the branches, a ruffling of leaves audible for malms, as birdsong echoed all around.

It was peaceful. Lovely even.

Part of me wanted to sit and let it's beauty fill my weary soul.

But then who would save it? Who will fight the horrors so that every other soul who walks this same path may continue to do so?

I closed my one good eye, stopped, and listened to the balm of the forest. For any of my gods to tell me that I could lay down my arms. That I'd done enough already for the world. 

But there was nothing. No voice in my head telling me I was free to enjoy life.

Not yet.

I breathed in this glorious moment for just a few more breaths, and then with a heavy sigh, squared my shoulders and marched forward.

The Soul Crystal's pull guided my way.

Through Jadeite Thick, over Bentbranch, and into the Southern Shroud, I met the swampy marsh of Rootslake, it's waters smelling of rotting wood and life. Morbils, Orobons and all sorts of creatures thrived in these pools. 

I walked along it's shores, seeing Camp Tranquil rise out of the centre, with the ruins of Amdapor beyond it. The Elementals had long since hidden the lost city away, but had given me access to clear a void cult before. But we weren't going to the city.

Where the pull was leading me now fairly obvious, as I turned north from Rootslake into Snakemolt, the stone ruins rising out of the woods, the stone skeleton of a lost civilization presenting my destination.

Amdapor Keep.

The great stone doors had long since been opened, first by yet another void cult, followed shortly by my own efforts half a lifetime ago, and then again months later when it turned out a stronger void monster had orchestrated it all.

The monsters I slayed in this hall were the very reason I thought Voidsent to be mindless creatures, only capable of grasping hunger, the screeches of the terrorized starving.

Never had I seen them hold back like the spirit in the passage had. A moment of stomping through the undergrowth made me realized that very passage was likely below my feet right this moment.

And now... I held a void-touched Soul Crystal In my hand, used by generations of Reapers, in search of... What?

What was I even looking for?

How do I find a Voidsent that won't attack me on sight?

Without a better plan, I passed into the Keep, with only the tugging feeling as my guide.

The halls of the Keep were still as they were the last time I was here, years ago. Greenery overtaking the stone, the keep disappearing into the forest one brick at a time. It would be an effort of ages, but one day, this keep would be nothing but dirt under the ground.

The only evidence of it's recent occupation was the remains of my battles through it's halls. The scaring of blades and magic against the walls, a pile of bones from a long decayed corpse here, a dark splotch of blood-stained floor there.

It was gruesome, but not the worst I'd seen. I remembered the cultists here, and how they'd sacrificed their bodies and pets, summoning voidsent with their dying breaths, putting them in statues to throw at us. Cursing our names with the invocation of their fake god, the moon that served as Bahamut's prison.

I shook my head in pity as I stalked through the halls, the beginnings of a rainstorm pitter-pattering on the stone ceiling above, making waterfalls in miniature cascade through long failed roof tiles, became a calming balm in my own anxiousness.

I was close to my goal. Or at least, assumed I was. It was obvious where I was being led, and like a dutiful canine hound, I followed it's leash knowing my reward was close at hand. 

Stepping over rubble and jumping gaps between failed overhangs, I found myself mounting the stairs to what passed for Amdapor Keep's throne room. If I remember correctly, the Amdaporians called it a 'The Presence Chamber'. I didn't care then about what 'presence' it denoted then, and I didn't know if I did now. I knew it only as the chamber in which I'd murdered Anantaboga. 

As I neared the doors, the tug cutting through the fog in my mind grew in strength, the feeling undeniable. I mounted the last step, taking in the great carved entryway, I shoved aside the great doors...

And felt a jolt of the tug, pulling me inside.

I all but stumbled into the room, catching my feet in a rush before standing up to see what had pulled me with such force.

And saw nothing.

The room was empty, almost just as I'd left it, years ago.

Rubble in every corner, the ruin of statues that had been possessed by voidsent, the throne sitting almost pristine, only a few chunks of stone missing from it's plinth.

Cracked and broken glass windows in the dome above and behind it, letting in more of the forest, eager for the keep's removal.

Yet there was nothing, no one here.

As I stepped into the middle of the chamber, the exact spot where Anantaboga died... Even the tug disappeared.

Feeling suddenly untethered, I seethed, twisting my head towards every corner, looking in vain for the creature that had called me here.

"Where are you?" I asked through gritted teeth, my hand straying to my sword.

The only sound that answered me was the echoing fall of rain, running in a rivulet through a hole in the roof above.

"Answer me!" I screeched. Twisting in a circle, searching.

My eye scanned every rock, every stone, every chair. But there was nothing here.

Wherever the creature was... It was gone. 

There was nothing, no one, waiting for me here.

And I...

I'm not strong enough.

My breath caught in my throat, as my eye landed on the plinth of the throne. My heart began to rage in my chest, and my anger fizzled out for something worse.

Defeat.

Failing here... Meant I would never be stronger than Zenos. He would cut me down, just as he had then. If Fandaniel didn't wrench my soul out of my body-

No. No no no no. I'm not there, I won't die, he wouldn't-

But I will. It's inevitable.

My legs fell out from underneath me, as I sank to my knees in the middle of the chamber, the rain a dull roar overhead. 

"Please..." I murmured, the beginning of sobs clenching in my throat, as I grasped the loose dirt before me in some vain hope of... something here to change my fate.

"I just need... " I pleaded, still unsure what I was even asking. "Please."

"Oh. Just say it... Say 'please', just, one more time darling."

I jumped to my feet, a serviceable backward dash, my reflexes expecting an attack. Mid-air, drawing my blade out, lifting it into a Meikyo Shisui guard stance as my instincts took over.

Once I landed solidly on my feet, my eye focused, my head twirled, my ears perked, all searching for the speaker.

"Show yourself." I demanded, my voice steady, yet still with a hint of the broken sob I'd just silenced.

"Now where would be the fun in that, darling?" The voice replied. Sultry, smooth, delicious to listen to.

But also, right there.

Duskwight Elezen ears never failed. We had to listen for the tiniest reverberations through tunnel walls when we lived in Gelmorra. The instinct to listen had only intensified once I'd lost half my vision.

The voice was speaking from the throne. And once my eye knew to look there... A dull shimmer hovered around it. An illusion magic of some kind.

I shifted my stance ever so slightly... 

And sliced through the air, upwards with enough force and charged aether, to cut through the distance, a sharp angry blade of energy angling towards my unseen foe.

A textbook Enpi slash.

In less than a second, the cut crashed into the throne, separating stone from rubble, a loud crash of blade on rock as if I'd cut it myself from a foot away.

I'd expected a direct hit, a gruff of pain.

But all I heard was laughter.

It was... I didn't know how to describe it. Like if laughter had a taste. It was sweet and sticky... warm even. Like hot apple cider, fresh from an orchard.

"My darling, you are perfect."

"Show yourself." I demanded of the unseen voice, my eye locked onto the shimmer around the throne. "If I have to ask again, it'll be with my boot on your neck."

The voice intoned a disappointed sigh, before the shimmer dissipated in a slow wave, revealing a humanoid figure, covered in wrappings and swirling shadow.

Deep red eyes, staring out from the inscrutable darkness, a solid figure somehow sitting in that void of light.

The same eyes I'd seen in the passage below.

How did I miss them?

They stood from the throne, almost floating to their feet. It was hard to make out details of their person, but I could only assume they were a voidsent of some kind. They had to be for those glowing red eyes. And slowly, as if sauntering, they began to step over the rubble.

"You've been, such a pleasure to watch over the years, Miriael Vess."

My entire body shifted taut as I heard my name on their lips. My stomach dropped, as if i was falling from a great height. Somehow... Someway... it felt... right.

 "You know my name?" I asked, shifting my weight ever so slightly with each step she took to get the best angle of attack. My hands wanted to lurch the scythe on my back free, but this was no time to test new weapons with an unknown threat.

Especially one that had gotten so under my skin.

The creature laughed, it's silent steps getting closer with each passing second, my grip tightening around the handle of my blade.

"Know you? Ha." A small breathless laugh. As light as air, somehow robbing the room of all the noise from the rainstorm above. There was nothing else in my focus but the blade in my hand and her approaching figure.

"I would think that a joke. You are, without a doubt, the most famous woman in the world, Miriael Vess." they outstretched a hand to point towards me- No.

That's not a hand.

That's a claw.

It resembled a hand at first, a delicate wrist bound in crisscrossing grey wrappings, a smattering of smooth pale skin underneath. But as the wrist widened into their palm, their fingers elongated into talons, shifting from pale looking human skin to almost black needlepoints, dipped in the colour of blood.

That thing, that claw, was only meant for slaughter.

They stopped in their advance, as if seeing their claw for the first time.

"Ah yes. I do forget the Source's obsession with... appearances." They intoned, and with a flex of their fingers, the talons retreated into her palm in an instant, shifting into long nailed fingers wiggling in a wave, the nails painted black and red.

The eyes in the mass of hidden wrappings and shadows flashed, somehow looking amused. "Should I do the whole outfit as well? I do want us to get off on the best foot after all."

And with a snap of those pale fingers, the shadows melted into nothing, showingfor the briefest of moments a tall muscular woman covered in those wrappings from neck to foot, criss-crossing every inch of her body, hints of skin here there pockmarked everywhere. I barely got a flash of white hair around her head before the wrappings around their frame glowed in red hued magic... Shifting her whole frame shifted from shadow-clad creature of the void, to...

The most beautiful woman I'd ever seen.

My eye widened in surprise as heat rushed to my cheeks.

She stepped forward out of the transformation, the only hint of the creature she glowed red in the irises of her eyes. 

She looked at me with a painted smile set into a knowing smirk, with a pale face and dark lashes. A mane of black hair down her back, covering what almost looked to be an oddly designed duster, covering a flimsy looking dress shirt of some kind with a generous plunging neckline. 

Looking at her now, there was almost no way to tell she was of the 13th.

"What do you want creature?" I muttered through gritted teeth, nearly spitting the words as my fingers tightened around my blade's hilt. I would not let her appearance dissuade the danger I knew she posed.

She paused, just a step away. I could cut her down right this moment. But as she pouted her lips at me, the sight stirred a rumble of longing in the pit of my stomach as she tapped her chin.

I didn't cut her down.

"Dearest, really. We can get to that after." She suggested. "Because we both know you're here because you want something."

I wanted to deny her. To tell her she was wrong in a million and one ways.

But I couldn't. It would be a lie.

She began walking again, but not towards me. She began to circle, looking at nothing in particular, continuing to tap her chin with a dainty fingernail.

I slowly twisted in place with her as she circled, always keeping the threat in front of me. My eye glued to her hands, watching for threats from those claws, and not the sway of her hips. 

"But to.. exactly answer your question, I've been keeping track of you ever since you murdered my mother." Her eyes flashed towards me, either appreciative, or angry. I wasn't sure which.

My nose flared as I let out a surprised huff, but didn't shift in my stance. She could attack at any moment.

"Your mother?" I asked, every muscle tense for the inevitable aggression that I expected of her kind.

Her nod was slow as she paced, the click of her boots seeming to be the only noise I could hear with how concentrated I was on her every move.

"Before you get the wrong idea, I was glad you dethroned her. I hated the old hag. It stirred up everything back home, players long waiting made their moves the moment you dissipated her to reconstitute herself."

Her eyes took in the walls of the keep, the draining holes from the storm above, before she laughed quietly to herself.

The way she explained it, there could only be one. The only time I'd ever slain a voidsent in the 13th... The only place where Voidsent could regenerate...

"The Cloud of Darkness." I murmured under my breath.

Her eyes flashed with recognition.

"You catch on quick." she said with a pleased smile that left me wanting to do nothing but see it again. "But yes. I've been watching you grow, becoming stronger and stronger ever since." 

She closed the distance in a blink of my eye, suddenly her face inches from mine, the point of her fingers at my throat.

I didn't dare move. Not with her blades for fingers at my throat.

Her mouth opened ever so slightly, as if she was debating to bite donw on my neck... 

But instead, she closed her eyes, and inhaled.

"And for your efforts... You are delicious." She whispered, her breath not hot like a person's would be, but cold. As it shuddered against my ear lobe it forced my skin to rise in goosebumps. 

Yet another blink of my eye, she disappeared, the point of her nail at my throat gone.

Instincts took over as I stabbed at the place she'd been.

If she was the daughter of the Cloud of Darkness... 

She was powerful.

So why isn't she attacking?

My eye caught a flicker of movement on the throne where she'd reappeared. 

She settled back onto it, crossing her legs over the arm of one side, leaning onto her hand on the other.

"Which brings us to the moment of truth, my darling." She murmured, beckoning me with an outstretched finger.

I didn't want to move. But if it meant I got answers... about Zenos. About Fandaniel. About becoming stronger then them both...

I took a single step forward.

"You've plateaued."

Her words, while still tasting of warmth and welcome, cut like ice dripping down the back of my spine.

"You are as powerful as you will ever be. Blessed by the Echo, by the Twelve, you've absorbed the eyes of dragons, and you've even merged your soul with of one of your reflections." She listed these details of my life as if ordering from a menu. 

"You are, the most powerful being on the planet." She said longingly, licking her painted lips.

I took another step, a grimace on my face as she listed my truth to the gallery of silent stone and forest.

"And yet."

The bite of her tone was cold in it's knowing. "Your opponents are not of this world. They've made their own bargains and transcended limits, possess abilities long forgotten to history. They, are stronger."

The stones shifted under my feet as I stepped onto the dias of the throne, now just a few steps from where she sat with all the grace of a entertained queen.

"So, what, do you want Miriael Vess?" She asked as she sat up, as if she hadn't just outlined why I'd sought her out in the first place.

She leaned forward towards me with outstretched hand, making me feel a supplicant to the crown, begging for scraps. "What, can I," She pulled back her hand, patting her chest with the faintest of taps. "daughter of the void, do for you?"

This is it, isn't it? This is what I must do.

With a exhale of breath I was sure I'd been holding ever since I stepped inside this ruined keep, I finally dropped my guard, the sword now hanging loosely in my grip.

I almost didn't care anymore. 

I closed my eye to her, letting my head fall back in silent defeat.

The memory biting in my mind's eye was enough for me to admit it. Grasping through the cold snow and the biting frost with long dead hands, crawling back to my friends where Zenos used my own body to murder them...

If this is what it takes to save them...

"I... I need..." I stuttered out, almost unable to admit it to the world. I opened my eye, staring at the ceiling, almost feeling the burning in it at the beginning of tears.

"I need to be stronger. Stronger than anything. I need... to have enough strength to save them all."

I shuddered, gripping the blade in my hand, cursing my next words with fire and fury as I lowered my gaze towards the voidsent smiling in the throne before me.

"Because... I'm not... strong enough." I had to force the words through gritted teeth. the blade shaking in my hand.

A softer expression grew on her face, as she let out her own sigh.

She began to stand, and while my instincts told me that she was a threat, a monster, a voidsent, I did nothing. I didn't raise my blade to her.

Instead, as I stood there, facing my own admission of weakness, she reached forward, her delicate fingers just barely tracing along my jaw, a thumb rubbing my cheek just under my eyepatch.

It wasn't... unpleasant.

Gods. If I'm thrilled at getting touched like this by a fucking voidsent, then it's been too long since I've been laid.

"My dearest. I'm so sorry that you've held this weight. But I'm so glad, so so glad, that I have an answer for you."

She smiled, a full smile, as I brought my gaze to look her in the eyes, as her expression mixed from pity to excitement to joy. This, was the moment of her ascension, I was sure.

How long had she'd been waiting in the wings for me to seek her bargain? How many years? She'd said just as much. Watching me ever since I'd killed her mother. That was... a lifetime ago.

And now, here she was, offering me the very thing I needed most.

And with this... They'll all be safe.

"Make the fucking offer then." I muttered, a demand as solid as the stone beneath our feet.

She lowered her hand, but didn't pull it back all the way. Now it was there as an outstretched handshake.

"Make a Pact with me Miriael Vess, and I will make you not just the strongest woman in all of the Source and it's Reflections..." She said with a sharp toothed smile, her voice tasting like a drop of honey after decades of drowning in salt water.

"I'll make you the stronger than the gods."

[buckyscombatboots]

Monstertober Day 7:

Shrine built of lies

Pairing: Occultist!Stucky x Victim!/captured!Reader

Warnings: Non con!!!, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Death, reader is a sacrifice, knife play?, mentions of blood, public sex, voyeurism, humiliation, implied cult, mystery demon, choking, blood kink, Dark!Stucky, p in v, oral (male receiving) , spitting in readers mouth, dacryphilia, manipulation, betrayal of trust

Nicknames: Doll, Dove

Word count: 2.6k

A/N: Who do you guys think the mysterious demon is? It’ll be revealed tomorrow 😏 and I may make a sequel of this featuring the aftermath and this particular demon 😈

༻𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐓𝐚𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐌𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫༺

From behind your eyelids you can feel a blaring light on your face, your body is uncomfortably warm; sweat rolling down your temple, your clothes damp—sticking to your body almost as if it was a summer afternoon, but it was October. Your mouth feels as if it’s stuffed with cotton wool—you move your tongue around and swallow to generate saliva, but a painful ache radiates in your throat as you do. There’s a mass of indistinct mumbling, so intune that it’s like the thrumming of a hive of bees. You keep your eyes closed, moving your hand across the cool stone feeling a smooth, waxy residue as you soak up the coolness. You don’t remember falling asleep and you definitely weren’t in your house, you think you must have fallen asleep during your lunch break.

Sluggishly you open your heavy eyelids, squinting as the light dominates your vision. Slowly you adjust, opening your eyes fully and you let your eyes wander around you. You’re surrounded by people in black robes, they’re hanging over you; they’re black hoods covering their face as they chant. You’re surrounded by heaps of long, white pillar candles, the hot wax dripping onto the stone slab you were laid on. You try to move your arm but the jangle of a chain pauses your movements, the copper scent of your own blood reaches your nose; your wrists are rubbed raw from you moving in your sleep. The people stop chanting and begin to shuffle away from you, moving as if they are all sewed together—so synchronised that it’s horrifying. As they move away you can see more of your surroundings. Intricately carved, Chalky, white pillars decorated with crooked crosses and dripping taper candles. You were in a cathedral, facing the massive wooden doors. The people at your feet began to part, allowing you to see two men approaching briskly. Their black robes more ornate than the others; decorated with silver and red embroidery, jewels and rosaries. At the bottom of the altar they split, one going to your left, the other going to your right. They pushback their hoods allowing you to see their faces, your eyes go wide.

“Hiya, Doll.” Bucky’s familiar smooth Brooklyn accent reaches your ears, and even though you’re chained to an altar, in clothes that are not your own and he and Steve are more than likely responsible. Your face burns and you begin to tingle, your hole fluttering in response to his voice.

“Did you have a nice nap, Dove? You made our coffees just how we like them, you were so preoccupied that you didn’t even notice Buck slipping something into your own drink.”

They were responsible.

You knew they were, but hearing Steve confess made the betrayal sting just a bit more. As if they were twisting the knives they’d both stabbed in your back. You had made these two coffee everyday for almost two months straight, you got to know about their childhoods; how Bucky used to protect Steve when he was scrawny and used to get into street fights, you learnt they joined the military together and now they lived together. You trusted them. They were the favourite part of your shift and now they've betrayed you. The guilt took the form of a lump in your throat as tears brimmed your eyes. You thought they liked you, you thought they were flirting with you—that they wanted you to be a part of their lives. Tears rolled down your burning cheeks “Don’t cry, Doll, you’re safe. You’re with us Steve and Bucky, history professor and personal trainer. That’s the lie we told you wasn’t it? Or was that the last one?”

“Aw Buck, look at her. Her whole world’s fallin’ apart. Be gentle with her, or don’t it’ll be more fun if you’re not.” This Steve was completely different from the bashful, kind man who frequented the coffee shop you worked at. They both were, they were completely different, the dichotomy was terrifying. The fact they had both been so deceitful and created completely alternate personalities just to be able to kidnap and kill you for some freaky cult made the anguish inside you boil into indignation.

“What the fuck is going on!?” You screeched the venom left from their treachery laced in your words.

Bucky slaps you harshly across the face “Don’t use that type of language. Doll. It’s not ladylike, and it’s especially inappropriate in this place of worship. This is a sacred place for the Holy Army of Hydra. We didn’t lie completely, after all we were in the army and now we’re in a different kind of army.”

One of the cloaked followers breaks from the line and scuttles over to Steve, whispering into his ear “Bucky, it’s almost time. We need to start the ceremony soon, or it’ll be too late.”

“What ceremony?”

“That's why you’re here, Doll, you’re our virgin sacrifice that we’re going to corrupt and then offer to our Lord.” Your mouth hung open as you stared at him wide eyed in disbelief. Bucky stroked his rough knuckles against your soft cheek as he shushed you “Shhh, there’s no need to be scared, Doll. You’re gonna be helping us and you’ll feel so much pleasure before we end your pathetic, meaningless little life. All you did with your life was make coffees for minimum wage, you won’t miss livin’ much.” His honeyed words only made your eyes leak more, he gave you a twisted smile as you began to sniffle your tears turning into full on sobs “Keep going you're makin me harder. I love it when they cry.”

“You’re so pretty when you cry, little Dove. I just wanna hit you more. Maybe strangle you, watch you choke on your own congealed spit and tears.” You shied away from his touch as he reached for your neck, but you couldn’t go far thanks to your restraints “Just one of my hands fits around your entire neck” he gave a little squeeze, smirking as you coughed and then he flashed the warm smile he gave you when he first entered the coffee shop two month prior. The smile that made you instantly fall in love with him, the smile you saw in your dream when you imagined your future with them both. He gave you that smile and tightened his grip, they both laughed as you flailed your arms about—trying to reach him to get him to stop, as you began to choke feeling all the oxygen quickly drain from your lungs. You were gasping for air like a fish out of water and then he let go “Breathe. You’re gonna need it, Dove.”

“And Now loyal followers! We will begin the ritual, close the circle around us. Don’t let go of each other's hands or you’ll make our Lord angry, so no matter what you must hold hands and not break the chant. Begin.”

Bucky ran his hand across the smooth surface of the altar as strode to where your feet were. He climbed on to it, using his strength to bend your legs at the knee, even despite your resistance, and positioned himself between your legs. The white chemise bunch at your hips leaving your bare pussy on display for all to see. “You’re dripping for us, Doll. Do you like being watched? Do you like being captured and held against your will? Does the prospect of being released from the painful existence of this mortal coil excite you?” You furiously shook your head, biting on your lip to suppress a whimper as he ran a hot finger through your folds “Your body is honest, why aren’t you?” He held out his slick covered fingers to Steve and he gladly took them into his mouth.

“So tasty, Dove.” He praised, turning your head on its side to face him “Open your mouth, suck me off. No teeth.” Hesitantly you opened your mouth, Steve slapped his dick against your cheek leaving sticky precum on your in it’s wake before shoving his full length down your throat. You gaged around him, making your throat restrict around him; you could feel every single vein on his shaft and you felt it twitch as you gagged again. Steve groaned in response, taking a handful of your hair as leverage as he abused your throat.

The pain in your jaw was overridden by the blistering ache of Bucky’s thick dick splitting you open. You choked as you tried to scream, digging your nails into Steve’s thigh till you drew blood. The action only made him quicken his thrusts.

“Fuckkk. She feels like silk, Stevie”

Steve swiftly pulled his member out of your mouth and walked over to the end of the altar behind Bucky, his throbbing, wet dick bobbing against his pelvis as he walked. “Change position, I want to feel you around me.” Steve orders, the dominance in his words making the man tearing you apart bite his lip. He complied, shifting his position of being crouched on his knees, to him placing one hand next to your head and using the other to drag your legs around his hips; so he could still thrust into you whilst presenting himself to the approaching blonde. Steve crawled behind him kneeling down, he spat on his fingers and smeared it on Bucky’s clenching rosebud, giving Bucky the care and gentleness that the brunette had skipped over before he shoved himself inside you. “That’s it, open up for me Buck. You’re always so tight when I fuck whilst you’re getting your cock squeezed.” Bucky choked out a moan as Steve scissored his fingers, his thrusts stopped momentarily when Steve slipped inside.

His fist next to your head pounded into the hard stone of the altar as he let out a low moan “God, Steve…F-feels great. She’s really squeezing now, do you like watching Steve fuck me, you little pervert?” His tittering was cut short as Steve began to thrust, making his hips involuntarily move in tandem. The chant of the cultist faded to white noise as pain eventually became pleasure. Bucky’s thrust became less brutal and more loving as Steve thrusted into him slowly and rhythmically, his hands caressing Bucky’s body over the robe. A pleasurable heat swept through you, your clit tingling as Bucky puffed warm breathes down onto you “Get lost in the pleasure, it’s not so bad after all is it.”

“I-I h-hate you.” You whined as the head of Bucky’s cock nudge against the sweet spot inside you. Your mouth opened in a silent wail and Bucky spat into your open mouth.

“Swallow my spit. Be- ah Be grateful.” He scowled at you as he waited expectantly, you did as he said swallowing down his spit “Such a good Doll.” He cooed, his praise made you keen and tighten. Bucky slammed into you brutally, chuckling at your yelp. You were so embarrassed, but God if it didn’t feel good. You had completely forgotten about the circle of chanting people surrounding you. The only thing that existed right now was Bucky, Steve and the pleasure they were drawing from you.

“cummming! Gonna cum!” You exclaimed feeling the heated tingle in your lower belly becoming unbearable.

“Cum. Do it. Make Buck cum, so he can make me cum.” Steve’s deep commanding voice was the final push you needed for your eyes to roll back into your head and your pussy to constrict around Bucky making him cum with a whimpered fuck, pouring so much of his hot cum into you that it began to leak from adding to the puddle of your juices below your hips. Steve wasn’t far behind; forcing Bucky back into his hips with such force you thought he’d dislocate his hip as he came.

Your vision slowly returned, and just as you were no longer seeing only white, from seemingly nowhere Bucky pulled out a highly decorated, sharp dagger and carved a heart into your chest. You yanked at your restraints screaming like a banshee as the knife cut through your flesh, the agony only intensified when Bucky dipped his head and sucked at the fresh wound. He pulled away, licking the blood from his lips, as if it were simply red wine. Steve leaned over towards Bucky, capturing his blood stained lips in a passionate kiss. Moaning as the metallic taste of your blood entered his mouth, his scar littered hands take hold of the dark fabric of Bucky’s robe pulling him closer so he can devour Bucky’s lips; his tongue searching for traces of your blood whilst entangled with Bucky’s. Steve breaks the kiss, leaving Buck a panting mess on top of you, and he dips his head down to the incision Bucky made over your heart sucking blood from the leaking wound like a starved animal making you scream as he pulls at the damaged skin with his teeth. Bucky cards his fingers through Steve’s golden hair as he feasts “That’s it Stevie drink your fill, she tastes so delectable doesn’t she?” Steve hums in response sending vibrations through the throbbing cut making you squeal “You need to stop so she doesn’t pass out before the ritual is complete.” He tries to remove Steve but he growls at Bucky giving him a dark, animalistic scowl as he digs his nails into the skin of your arm “Punk. I said let go.” Bucky yanks his hair making Steve stop and come up from your chest, his face smeared with your blood.

“I’m hungry, Buck. Her blood is so fucking good. I’m hard again.” He mumbles, taking his hard cock into his hand and pumping it.

Bucky slips off the altar and pulls Steve close, running his tongue across Steve’s bloodied cheek and then starts sucking your blood out of his beard; whilst rubbing the pad of his thumb across the slit of Steve’s dick. “They’ll be time to feast on her more later…and take care of other things, but right now we need to complete the ritual. Practice patience, like the Lord commands.” They parted ways again, both returning to their respective places—Bucky on your left, Steve on your right. They both took hold of the dagger, raising it high so the warm light of the candles cast fragments of light around the cathedral

“Please! No! Please!” You cry, whimpering as you try to curl your body away from the path of the knife.

“May our Lord receive our offering.” They both chant, plunge the knife into your throat. Steve immediately lets go, but Bucky pulls out the knife and makes a slit horizontally across your neck. Blood spurts in streams from your neck, like an elegant fountain in a town plaza. The men chanting raise their heads and push back their hoods—moving in unison. They all collect some of your blood onto their fingers and draw a symbol on their foreheads “May our lord receive our offering.” They drone simultaneously. A cold rush of air blows through the cathedral, all the candles blow out leaving them in utter darkness.

“James. What’s going on?” Steve’s voice quivers as he asks, turning his face towards Bucky to try and look into his eyes from comfort. It was impossible to see.

“I don’t know. Steven. None of this shit is meant to be real.” He spat, nerves sending a wave of goosebumps across his skin. His hand sought for Steve’s, entwining his fingers with his for some security. He knew Steve was going to be pissed at him, he thought it was all real after all. It was meant to be fake and only Bucky was meant to know that.

Steve opened his mouth to speak but a booming voice began “Your Lord has arrived. I thank you for the gifts, but I think I want a few more. Maybe all of your souls will suffice.”

Tag list: @phildunphyisadilf @alina02 @winterslove1917 @unabashed-lover-of-fictional-men @petesey @getwellsoontana @feyfantome @alexxavicry @ashenc-blog @floral-recs @renster05 @redbloodedgurl @shrekwreck @sweetwrathoflilith @cjand10 @flamefoxxrecs @addie5587483 @little-bunny0523 @sojuxxi @adoreyouusugar @teambarnes72 @wintasssoldier @gryffindorqueensworld @aerangi @itwillgetbetter @cevansgurl @bval-1 @taramaria @inlovewithremusjohnlupin @anniellacinamon

[wrenreid]

Not So Innocent

mature topics such as violence, death, and trauma discussed in this story. all chapters in masterlist

Chapter Fourteen

You fall asleep, knowing this will be the last time you do so with Spencer, the man you love. He's been asleep for a while now, but finally you join him in the slumber. Your heart breaks at the sight of his sad face when you say goodbye in your dreams.

They say love is pain, well darling let's hurt tonight.

You finally stir up, seeing Spencer slipping on his black and white shoes. He's dressed in work clothes. There must be a case.

You fight to keep your eyes open, but it's difficult. He leaves the room softly, not wanting to wake you up. After a minute, your brain finally wakes up and you run to the kitchen where Spencer is.

You wrap your arms around him before he can open the door. He returns the hug, chuckling and asking what was wrong.

"I'm just going to miss you." You sigh into his chest.

"I probably won't be gone long."

You nod your head, still on his chest. "I love you." You didn't really mean to say it. It just came out. Like a truth bomb after someone takes a serum in those weird sci-fi movies.

He seems taken aback. "I- I love you too."

Spencer said it back. He had to have meant it because you don't think he'd say something he didn't mean. Oh no. This really has gone too far. Shit.

You look up at him, still in the hug. He grabs your face and plants a kiss on your lips. "I've got to go," Spencer says with a frown.

You nod your head again, releasing him. He leaves out of the apartment door, and you sigh. Don't cry don't cry don't cry.

You lean with your back against the door, hands rubbing your temples. Shit. You really don't want to fucking hurt him, but you know leaving will hurt too. None of the outcomes of this situation end well. Either you leave, and you both lose the one you love, or you stay and lie to him every single day. Every option ends with both of you getting hurt. And it's all your fault.

Your phone rings around eleven AM. "What do you want now, Aiden?"

"Hello, kiddo."

Holy fucking shit. It's not Aiden...

"Pops?" You swallow.

"Yes it's me. I'm calling you from prison," his tone is sarcastically calm.

The trial must've passed, and you didn't hear about it because you hadn't asked Spencer anything important.

"I..."

"Save it. You didn't do your job. You know how that ends. I will get my guys to track you down, and you and whoever the hell you're staying with will pay."

"I'm not staying with anybody."

"Oh please. I know you can't be by yourself. You may think you’re so tough, but you're really just a big baby. Does this person know you're a murderer?"

"You made me,” your voice shakes.

"That doesn't make you innocent, baby girl."

You hang up, throwing your phone on the ground. It cracks a bit, but you couldn't give any less of a shit. Tears burn at your eyes. You have to leave soon. If they find you now, they'll find Spencer. Yes, he's an FBI agent and can fend for himself and has a team, but you can't put him in danger. That'd make you even worse of a person than you already are… if that’s possible.

You hop into the shower, trying to calm the tears running down your face. Instead, the salty tears mix with the water. You yell, pounding your fist against the shower wall.

You change into jeans, boots, and a sweater and pack everything back into your bag. Your knife is put into your boots.

You rip a piece of paper out of a journal of Spencer's and grab a pen. You begin writing.

When you're done, you sit on his bed. Your head rests in your hands. You've just ruined a perfectly good man's life.

You walk out of Spencer Reid's bed room, everything with you and ready to leave. Your not so brilliant plan is to take a bunch of urbers until you get far enough away. Then you can find your way to another state and start a new life, alone.

The door bursts open several feet in front of you. You drop the handle of your suitcase.

"Y/n Y/l/n, you are under arrest for the murders of 23 people and gang association.”

An authoritative and attractive dark headed agent you've seen before handcuffs your hands behind your back. She makes them tight.

You cooperate, letting her push you toward the door.

"So you're not even going to defend yourself," Spencer comes into the apartment, facing directly at you.

"Spencer," you breathe.

"Why the hell would you bring me into this? If you're going to be criminal, don't fucking flirt with a federal agent."

"I'm so..."

"Your first mistake was thinking I wouldn't eventually figure it out. My stupid mistake was not figuring it out soon enough. You're a really good fuckin' liar." His face is angry and sad mixed in one.

"I didn't want you find out this way," your eyes burn with tears again.

"So what? You pretend you love me, then you were going to leave? What do you gain from this?”

"I needed to leave to protect you… and I-I wasn't pretending."

"I have a hard time believing that's true,” he rolls his eyes.

"I'm so sorry, Spencer."

"Get her out of here,” he commands. Your heart shatters with just five words.

Tears stream down your face as he won't even look at you while you're being taken out of the apartment. You're pushed into the back of a car and driven to the interrogation room at Quantico. Flashbacks begin to swim in your mind of the last time you were in one of these rooms.

You admit to everything you've done, barely giving an explanation as to why. You were a killer, there's no use in telling them you couldn't get out of it. It's not like they'd believe you anyway. You tell them what you did for the gang, they listened in shock.

"How'd you get into a gang like that?"

"It was either that or be an orphan,” you answer honestly.

"Why Spencer?" the pretty blonde agent asks. She stops leaning on the wall and crosses her arms.

"He was kind, and I needed someone like him. I didn't realize what I was doing. I mean I did, but," you shake your head, "it wasn't supposed to end like that….How is he?"

"I don't think you have a right to ask that."

You nod your head as another tear rolls down your face. You look down at your handcuffed hands on the table, feeling sick.

Where there is love, there is pain.

—

Spencer lays down on his bed in silence. He hasn't been a work for a few days, and he hasn't really felt like doing anything.

People aren't lying when they say love is blind; he was too caught up in her to realize he was being tricked. A genius with amazing profiling skills didn't realize he was being lied to every single day.

She did it with such ease- the way she talked about her old life with her parents, college, the kidnapping, the way she said "I love you" . He couldn't believe any of that was real now. She said it and seemed like she meant it, but there’s no way in hell she did. How could someone say they loved someone else and not mean it? And how did she lie so easily?

When grabbing a pair of sweats, he finds a piece of paper folded up. He unfolds it and begins to read it.

"Spencer, I'm so sorry. For everything. When you're reading this, I'm hopefully long gone. You're doing your job right now, making people safe, and I have to go. I wish I didn't have to hurt you. I just want you to know that you helped me so much. With more than you'll ever comprehend even with that brilliant mind of yours. Thank you for saving me. Thank you for caring. And thank you for giving me what felt like a home for the first time in a long time. I've lied about so many things, and for that I cannot express how much guilt I will carry with me as I leave you behind. I love you. - Y/n."

A few tears falls from Spencer's eyes. He crumbles the note up, but puts it in his jean pocket.

Spencer was angry when he first found out. Angry at Y/n for lying and using him, but mostly angry at himself for not seeing it. He was angry for days and days, until now when he runs his hand through his hair and tries not to cry more.

Spencer releases a sigh from his mouth, and leaves his room. In the car, he makes a call to Hotch. He says he won't be coming in today either, that he needs some more time. His boss feels bad for him, so he allows this.

The team had been checking on his since the day of her arrest. JJ came by every day she could after work to see how he was doing. He didn't say much on the subject of her at all. No one knew how much this affected him, but they knew it hurt.

He pulls up to the prison hours later. He stares it down, taking in a deep breath.

"I'm Dr Spencer Reid with the FBI, I need to interview an inmate.” He flashes them his badge. They let him in, only because of his job.

After a moment, Spencer walks into the room where Y/n is handcuffed to the table.

—

You stare down at the handcuffs binding you to the table. Who could want to talk to you? When the door opens again, your heart drops. Spencer Reid stands in front of you with a stone face. He's beautiful even when he's angry and full of pain.

"Now I want an explanation. I think I deserve that,” he says sternly.

You nod, "You do deserve one."

"Why did you say you loved me?!"

You take in a breath. "I do love you. I didn't lie about that."

He flinches. “If you've lied about everything else, how can I believe that?”

"My feelings for you... What I feel for you is real, Spencer. I couldn't fake that."

"Just stop. Stop. Tell me why you lied about everything…Tell me everything."

You take a deep breath. "When I was sixteen, my parents died, and there was no family members that wanted to deal with a grieving brother and sister. So we were shipped off to some lovely family, and turns out they were leaders of some gang. And if we wanted a home, we had to join. If we didn't... well we were just collateral damage. So I became some type of precious hitwoman for them to force to do their bidding... and I couldn't stop..." you take another breath, fighting tears back. "I tried. I tried to get out, I tried to leave... but I saw second hand what happened when someone tried to leave them... I was 20, I didn't want to die. So I stayed. And I became used to it. It was like a second nature to me, which is horrible. I know how bad that sounds, but it's true.

"The day of the bust, when I saw you, when you stood over me, I knew that was my chance to get out. That was my chance to be free. Free from everything that I've done, everything that I've seen. So yeah, I lied about almost everything. And I'm not trying to make it seem like it was okay, but I didn't want to go to prison. I didn't want to be with people who loved doing what they did, who didn't feel any remorse for it. Because of course I felt bad. Of course I carry that guilt with me every single day. But I know how to hide that shit. So I'm sorry.. but I didn't lie when I said that I loved you."

Spencer Reid is shocked, wordless. You’d never seen him like this. His hazel, honey eyes well up with tear, but he pushes them back. He messes with his fingers, squeezing them. "I don't even know what to say... I- I'm sorry."

"Please don't be, I'm still a monster."

"You were threatened to do those things… you’re not a monster.”

"I wasn't threatened to lie to FBI agents about why I was there,” you say.

"It could get your sentenced lessened if you would speak up about how they made you,” he offers.

"Spencer, no. I deserve this."

"What if they have you executed?"

Your stomach turns, it seems like his does too.

"Then I die."

"Y/n, no. Look, as much as I'm pissed and upset about this and as much as I kind of hate you right now, you don't deserve all of this punishment. You were a kid."

"I can't ask of you to help me at all,” you shake your head.

"You didn't ask."

Tears spill from your eyes. The man you love, who you lied to, who is the opposite of everything you've done, walks out of the room ready to help. You don't deserve his help. You don't deserve him.

You were a monster in the arms of an angel you made you feel less broken and more free. He saved you in every way possible. He broke your chains and released you from your cage.

chapter fifteen

tags: @reidsprettygirl @reidsmilf @reidslovely @awhoreforspencerreid @sexualityisajoke @nomajdetective @kenreadsfanfics @calicocatty @hotchandspencearedilfs @kodiakwhiskey @rory-cakes @444verse @kbakery @crynroom <3

[sukirichi]

wine: ingredient 44 + sugar 7 + spice 12 for gojo satoru *slams table* thank you for feeding us kind maam

for sukirichi’s milestone event: 

the meal order : 🍷 + 44 (hate sex au) + 7 (forbidden relationship) + 12 (praising kink) your dinner has been served! also bruh LOL you’re a choso simp this is hilarious spspsps

— who are you to deny him when he only wants to worship you?

gojo satoru x fem! reader

contents/warnings: nsfw, slight angst, reader is hot girl shit, gojo long schlong, hate sex, car sex, spanking, riding gojo, slight angst, praising kink taken to a DIFFERENT LEVEL (i want to make people question the extent of their praising kink), body marking, rough sex lol it’s always rough in my stories, unedited

Your friends pushed you out of the club, all of you laughing, hands clutched around your waists as loud, drunken giggles fill in the night air. It was a wild night; your friends invited you to the club to take your mind off your stupid boyfriend. You thought you’d end up moping around, too much of a buzzkill to ever let loose because it wasn’t that easy to stop thinking about him, but even you were surprised when you started grinding with people on the dance floor just three drinks later.

The gals were more than delighted to see you enjoying your night, only dragging you out the club when you nearly shoved your tongue down another man’s throat.

Scratch that – your friends called you to hang out because you lied about having a shitty day at work. You’ve had your fair share of shitty days, but you were one of the most prominent lawyers in your firm, no one dared gave you a bad day. Your subordinates knew that if they even looked your way without your permission, you wouldn’t hesitate to dump paperwork on them, or assign them to the nastiest cases just to piss them off.

Yeah, you were sort of a bitch, but you didn’t care.

It took a lot to get where you were now. It wasn’t easy to be a woman in a male-dominated workplace and you were forced to strip your softness off, replacing it with hard armor and sharp tongue concealed under bold red lips, a tight pencil skirt that accentuated your curves, and a pair of black suede pumps.

You deserved all your success. You were smart, stunning, confident, powerful – so then why did you feel like shit around your shitty boyfriend?

The answer was loud and clear. It bothered you to no end that he wanted to keep your relationship a secret because his family was too different from yours, coming up with a shitty excuse that you were just “too different.” He never bothered explaining, and every time you confronted him about, he’d only wave his hand, distract you with those delicious and soft lips of his until you forget it over and over again.

You were okay with it at first. It wasn’t a really serious relationship; you only started dating him because you saw yourself a lot in him – confident, self-assured, maybe even a little cocky – plus, he was extremely attractive.

But the longer you spent time with him, you were beginning to fall in love.

Yes, you, the ice princess of one of the most respected law firms all over the city was beginning to soften up at a certain blue-eyed man who had magical hands.

But tonight – tonight you’d forget about him.

Your stomach was heavy with expensive liquor and you were nearly staggering on your knees, the only thing preventing you from falling were your more sober friends. The others were holding you close to keep you upright, while one of your friends moved to a quieter part of the block to call an Uber for you. Your friends were all happily married, some with children, so they couldn’t really stay out too late at night and chaperone you all the way back home.

You were well-aware you were being a bother, but fuck, couldn’t you lean on someone for just once? Sighing, you leaned closer to your warm friend, mumbling something about wanting to forget about everything you’ve been through.

“There, there,” she patted your head comfortingly, “You’ll be fine, babe, you’re a strong woman. I know you’ll get through this.”

“But I hate it,” you drunkenly admitted, lips trembling the more you thought about him, every stupid little thing about him – his soft white hair, those pretty blue eyes he always hid under shades even at night, his large, calloused hands that always felt so rough when keeping your legs open for him and you couldn’t even start talking about his cock, he was just so blessed and perfect in every little thing that you hated it. You hated him. “I don’t like this feeling,” you sniffled, “I feel like I’m being looked down on, that I’m being pushed to the side. I feel unimportant, like I’m not good enough.”

“Who said you aren’t?”

You froze in your friend’s arms, eyes meeting with those blue ones you could never get enough of. As if noticing your silence, your friend immediately covers you with her arm, glaring at your boyfriend. “Do we know you or something?”

“No,” Satoru replies coolly, brows furrowed in the state you were in. You turned away from him with a scoff, arms crossed on your chest. Why did he have to be here out of all places? Wasn’t he busy with work or whatever family shit he apparently couldn’t tell you about even though you’ve both been dating for a year and a half now? He just wasn’t giving you a break, and the hairs on your arm stood up when he said, “Not that you have to, but may I please drive Y/N home?”

“She’s not going anywhere—”

“She’s a friend of mine,” he insisted, turning to you with a pleading look in his eyes. You almost melted. Almost. “I need to talk to her about something.”

You rolled your eyes and stepped forward, your friend’s arm latching onto yours. You could tell she was worried from the way her gaze darted back and forth between you two. Satoru was, after all, clearly uninvited, and he didn’t seem like your type either. You always insisted you preferred refined man, men like his friend Nanami Kento, but alas, you were stuck dating this one instead.

“It’s fine,” you told her with a fake smile, “I’ll call you later when I get home.”

You never got to call her – simply because you didn’t make it home. The moment Satoru closed the car doors behind you, you both got into a heated argument. Satoru hated silences and always made sure the car was filled with music, but this time, he didn’t notice there weren’t any songs when you opened your mouth.

Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was the anger and pent-up tension of not being able to hold him and kiss him in public like normal couples did, in addition to the fact Satoru never explained why he insisted on keeping you a secret – whatever it was, you just snapped.

“I don’t even understand why I’m still dating you!” you huffed, legs crossed on top of the other as you gazed out the window. Lips trembling, you tried so hard to not cry, especially not in front of the man who was breaking your heart. “This is hardly a relationship when I’m not free to call or text you as you please, when I can’t go out with you on dates and we’re always hanging in my apartment. I’m your girlfriend, Satoru, we’ve been together for a long time but I honestly don’t even feel like it. What the hell are we dating for then?”

Satoru clenched his teeth, his grip on the steering wheel tightening. “How many times do I have to tell you that I love you,” he said coolly, acting unbothered and unaffected as ever, but the clench in his jaw said otherwise. “If that’s not enough—”

“Of course it’s not enough!”

“I’m trying here too, okay?” Satoru slammed on the brakes and parked on a desolated spot, hands running through his hair while he breathed heavily. Once he’d calmed down, he shook his head, refusing to look you in the eye like a man. “I’m trying my best. It’s just hard. It isn’t as easy as it looks.”

“What isn’t easy as it looks? Dating me? Letting the whole world know I’m yours?” when Satoru didn’t respond, you scoffed, patience running low and thin. “You’re pathetic, Satoru. Dating you was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, and I thought I was a smart woman.”

With a shake of your head, you slung your purse over your shoulder and reached for the car door. You were about to leave when Satoru suddenly pulled you towards him, his lips slamming into yours.  Like always, you fell into his trap, into the blissful pleasure that was his lips and his hands, and you hated it, hated him, hated him so fucking much because you were so tired of his entire existence.

You wanted to let him know he was insufferable.

You wanted him to feel the pain and misery he put you through.

“I fucking hate you,” you snarled as Satoru kept fucking into you, the entire car windows fogged and the vehicle shaking. “I wish I never met you, you asshole,” Satoru, displeased, only buries himself deeper into you, as if they would erase his mistakes and shortcomings.

Satoru’s large hands snake to your waist and onto your breasts, expertly tweaking them between his fingers. Your head fell back to the crook of his shoulder, your back pressed against his hard chest as Satoru trapped you in his strong arms, impaling you on his cock over and over again. “You’re lying,” he whispered into your neck, tongue and teeth playfully sucking at the tender flesh. His grip on your hip was bruising and possessive, and your breasts bounced fervently at how he snapped his hips upwards to feel your walls coat him and hug him tightly and warmly. “Why would you hate me, sweet girl? Don’t I always make you feel good? Don’t I remind you enough that you’re the best fucking thing ever?”

You didn’t respond right away, your breath taken away with how you could never get enough of this, of him. He was right no matter how much you denied it. Despite being terrible in everything else, Satoru knew and respected you, even admired your dominance and intelligence when other men were intimidated by it.

No, he worshipped you. He made you feel like you were a divine goddess when he tugged at your hair to tilt your cheek to him, his tongue slithering to your lips to taste himself on his tongue from when you previously busted his nut with just your mouth.

Lipsticks smeared on his cheeks and crescent moons on his pale thigh from your nails, Satoru looked wonderful beneath you like this.

He was beautiful, so damn beautiful, but it didn’t change the fact he’d put you through hell these past few weeks. 

No, it wasn’t just the past few weeks. Things were always complicated with him. He was perfect in everything else but when it came to you, he made it a mission to hide you and your relationship, changing your contact name to a totally random one “just in case.”

Your mind was confuzzled and you felt like you were on the urge of breaking apart from both his ministrations and his confusing treatment over you. Before you knew it, you were kissing him back fervently with the intensity of your hatred over this man.

Your hand reached his to guide it to rub at your clit, and Satoru, eager to make you feel good as always, happily obliged. Satoru kept bouncing you on his cock until you were too overwhelmed to speak, crying and mumbling incomprehensible words. 

Him, only him, would ever have the ability to let the sharp-tongued and intelligent woman who never bat an eye in court lose her wide vocabulary, falling apart in his arms while his long length abused your puffy lips.

“You made me feel like shit,” you finally admitted, tugging at his hair until Satoru is lowly groaning at the slight sting. But did you care? Of course you didn’t. You wanted to hurt him too.

“How so, sweet girl?”

“I can never have you the way I want,” you answered through gritted teeth, moaning out when Satoru suddenly thrusted too deep, hitting your most sensitive spot that had you quivering in his hold. “You don’t—” you gasped, “You don’t understand what I feel, how you make me feel like I’m never good enough for you. That’s the reason why you don’t want anyone else knowing, right? ‘Cause I’m not good enough for you, never gonna be good—”

Satoru didn’t let you finish your words, shutting you up with his cock instead. The vehicle shook uncontrollably with your mating sessions, and Satoru silences you by pulling at your leg to press it on his chest instead.

The sudden switch in positions had your muscles tensing and stretching, adding only to both your pleasures with the new thrown in factor of slight pain. You felt Satoru kiss your neck down to your shoulders, scraping his canines until you were absolutely lost. You gave in, you gave up, head lolling back next to his loving lips that murmured sweet nothings.

“Not true, sweet girl,” he reminded you, flattening you on his cock and making you roll your hips while you slid up and down his pole sensually. Unlike the previous pace, the slow sensation of your pussy hugging his cock with your arousal letting him slide in easily allowed you to feel every part of him, almost mind-wrecking at how good he’s able to make you feel even after such a long time of having him already.

“You’re the sexiest and most intelligent woman I’ve ever met, the best, the absolute blessing of my life, and I just want to protect you, sweet girl. You’re too precious for me to lose,” Satoru kept mumbling over and over again.

You could no longer process his words functionally, not when he’s slamming you down his length like that and burying himself in you as if he didn’t want to be anywhere else.

Satoru’s hands were still curious, appreciative and gentle as he runs his hands, dipping into all your curves and pressing into your most sensitive spots the way you liked it.

“You’re always so good for me so no, sweet girl, never gonna let you go, not when you’re so perfect for me,” Satoru eased your worries – temporarily – with his words, and you’d believe his lie, you’d fall into the same mistakes over and over again because you were just that weak and powerless when it came to him. “You’re made just for me, sweet girl, you’re the prettiest and your pussy is the prettiest – I worship you, I adore you. You’re so divine.”

You blamed it all on your ego.

He praised you so well, made you feel so good and always placed you on top of the world when he’s inside you like this. Even if you knew he’d knock you down the pedestal just hours later, you opened your doors for him all over again.

Satoru knew this too, because he rammed inside your walls and ruined everything that you held firm beliefs in, his large hands smacking your ass to urge you to bounce on him like you weren’t made for any other purpose than to be the woman he adored.

You lied to yourself – you always did – but did you care? So what if you couldn’t be the one he really loved? What did it all matter when you were the one he worshipped?

For the sake of the praise and the compliments, you’d let him fuck you and play with your heart over and over again. It was a toxic routine you’d never get tired of, and you no longer complained, forgetting about everything he’d done and every heartbreak he caused you because he was there, whispering into your ears how good you made him feel and how you were the only one made to take him, and you didn’t care. Not anymore – not when you were worshipped.

[katsukikitten]

Part one. Master list for plus one can be found here.

Just a nice fic I decided to write for fun. Please enjoy!

Asshole!

He was nothing but a huge, giant fucking ASSHOLE for the entire two years the two of you were dating and he decides NOW is a good time to break up with you?

Two days before your cousin's wedding and over TEXT MESSAGE?!

That fucking asshole.

He knew how you felt. Exactly how you felt about going alone to your cousin's wedding after your family begged to meet your boyfriend and teased you for "probably making him up." Which hell, he may as well have been made up considering how absent he was in the relationship. Using work as an excuse to come home late but forgetting to turn off his snap location when he showed up at the bar.

So you did what any rational woman in her upper twenties would do.

You drowned your sorrows in booze, tonight red wine as it was the only thing around, and you scrolled through your socials in hopes of distracting yourself from your suffering.

Alas the devil that is Instagram only amplified your sadness and irritation. Showing couple after couple, your friends on hikes kissing on the mountain top, kissing in the flickering light of candles at a fancy dinner or, worst yet, getting proposed to. The video showing her in hysterics screaming, "YES I DO I DO!"

And it feels terrible to feel this way. Especially about your friends, the people you love and want to support, still it stings. You hadn't told anyone about the breakup, you weren't even sure your friends even remembered that asshole's name.

A teardrop lands on your screen, magnifying all the magical lights of the led beneath the glad. You wipe away the tear and with that the feed refreshes. A new post has come in at the top, Res Riot's official account.

Kirishima stands with a fat white cat in his arms. He dwarfs the animal with his large stature that looks larger as he still has his Red Riot gear on. The caption reads something along the lines of "missed my precious baby."

Red wine is a dangerous thing as your body acts on its own. You go to his page to hit the little arrow to DM him. Typing out and backspacing your message as you struggle from the booze, you decide to say fuck it and use the voice memo feature. Before you know it your sniffling voice is playing back to you after you've hit send.

"My ex broke up with me before this stupid wedding. It's in two days and my family is going to roast me big time when I show up alone. They think I made that asshole up. I don't know why I'm even in your dms. Your account is probably run by some dick head who can't even capture your kindness. I guess I'm here cause my first thought seeing you on my timeline was Red Riot has always been my hero…"

Ugh totally fucking cringe.

There is no surprise as you see the three normally ominous dots pop up, probably his social media manager about to ask you to stop your "advances" as Kirishima is too busy to date and he'd hate to block you or some other bullshit.

But there it is a surprise to see a little bubble with the play button and some vertical lines in various heights. It takes your sluggish brain a moment to realize you've been sent a voice memo. Odd. Your thumb smashes the screen faster than you can think and a deep voice rumbles through the speakers of your phone.

"Actually I run my official and personal socials. And I'm sorry to hear about your ex doll. He sounds like a real ass. I'll be your hero, I'll go with you to the wedding."

Your heart stutters, no way, no way in HELL this was Red Riot. You had read about the horror stories before or pervy account managers taking advantage of women who so desperately wanted to talk to their hero.

Hell, it's happened to Dynamight plenty of times.

You swallow quickly but the bile rushes up your throat. Not just from the anxiety of a possible con but from drinking an entire bottle of wine with nothing on your stomach after months of sobriety. Quickly you stumble to the bathroom, abandoning your phone on your bed. You barely make it in time to praise the porcelain Gods before you fall onto your back. Looking up at the light in your cramped bathroom, the orb doubles and spins as you feel the Earth turning on its axis. You curl into your side using your bathmat as a pillow as you drift off into sleep, totally forgetting about the voice memo on your phone.

As you sleep peacefully on your memory foam bath rug, Kirishima settles into his nightly routine. One giant hand grabbing strands of long dark red hair into a towel while another sits snugly around his Adonis belt and the thick, black happy trail that follows up the center of his abs before spreading out onto his chest. He tosses the towel over the open door of the bathroom before sitting in his favorite armchair with phone in hand. Diamond, his beautiful white cat he rescued a few years ago, jumps onto the arm of the chair, purring loudly when Kirishima's free hand scratches her ears absentmindedly.

He chuckles to himself as he realizes exactly what he's done. Acting on a feeling instead of logic all because he heard a "damsel in distress." Starting off his rare vacation with spontaneity starting with an impromptu date with a stranger. He really isn't sure what you look like and it's obvious your handle doesn't have your real name in it, just PrincessPeach with some random numbers at the end. He takes the time to scroll through your profile. Seeing pictures of food, of many sunsets, a friend's dog that guest appears often, your own cat and plenty of strays.

It takes him a while before he sees a photo of you. His heart stutters in his chest as he looks you over. Laughing with a friend, soft lighting from strings over head that blur like little fireflies. Your smile is wide, half hidden by your hands as your eyes seem to smile with you. Sparkling as if they held stars.

For a moment Kirishima forgets how to breathe, it isn't until Diamond jumps down from the armchair does he inhale. He smiles softly to himself before he drops his towel, puts his phone on charge and promptly falls asleep in his bed.

Kirishima rises before the sun even has a chance to filter through his blinds. He sighs softly, getting up to a sitting position disturbing a fluffy white ball that lays beside him.

"Mmrow." Moon stone eyes blink slowly as they look at the mountainous man hogging the bed.

"I didn't mean to wake you sweet baby." He says softly, going to pet the soft white fur only for her to get up stretch and give him her butt before plopping back down.

"I know, mean ol' daddy woke you up too early again." He says softly, his hand falling onto her back before he rises from the bed. Fishing for his running shorts, socks, headphones and shoes. He makes his protein shake, leaning on the counter as he drinks it, looking at how you read, or better yet, listened to his message but still no reply. It was late and there was a small slurring of your words, he figures you've passed out. He just hopes you're okay.

His run goes as usual, up before anyone else unless they were the normal avid runner. Passing by the usual array of people. An old man holding onto his youth by jogging through his daily five mile morning run, Kirishima knows he runs another five in the evening while the sun is setting. He hopes he can embody some of this man's commitment when he is older. Then he passes a middle aged woman, who gives him the biggest smile as she pases, jogging backward to send him a wink before plowing ahead. Occasionally he'll see a running group or a few teens training to be heroes, they always ask if they can run his route. "It's long." He always warns in a kind, warm voice. They assure him they will be fine so far only one other person could handle his 12 mile morning run. A young woman in her second year of hero courses at UA. Since then Kirishima put in a word with his boss and so every time internships roll around she's in the office.

By the time Kirishima is rounding back towards his high rise apartment, the city begins to stir. Slowly waking as men and women in business suits rush towards the train, parents flinging open the doors or curtains fussing at their children who cling to an extra few minutes of sleep before school.

This was always his favorite part of the run, not because it was almost over, oh no it was because he had a chance to glimpse at everyday life. Of nine to fives, of school hours and after school hangs outs at snack bars or the library.

What most would call the mundane but Kirishima would never call it that. It's why he worked so hard to protect it.

Diamond greets his sweaty form at the door. Glaring angrily with her moon stone eyes. Tail swishing before she goes to the kitchen by her bowl. Waiting impatiently.

"I'm not late, sweet cheeks." He coos, and she glares, "I know I know. You're hungry now."

He opens the fridge, gets out the highest quality food there is and places it on her dish, sure to keep it all in the middle or she'll claim her bowl was empty. He added a splash of water too since the weather was starting to get hot.

He sucks down a water or two, demolishes a protein bar and then heads to the apartment gym.

A few hours roll by and without hearing from you yet his worry over your well being begins to cloud the forefront of his mind. He pauses his music, picks up his phone and talks out a voice memo.

A loud DING echoes from your room and around your skull as you rise with a throbbing headache.

"Fuck." You hiss to yourself grabbing at your head as you shakily rise to your feet. Yanking the handle of the faucet to drink from the stream before looking at yourself in the mirror.

"Ugh." You grunt ignoring your swollen face and eyes, yanking the mirror door open to snatch at the bottle of aspirin. Swallowing THREE extra strength pills before slamming the door shut and turning off the faucet. You make your way towards your bedroom, more than ready to sleep the rest of your day away. Grabbing at your phone to charge it you see the push notification of an Instagram message from Red Riot.

The fucking Red Riot.

Internally you scream before it bubbles up your throat and escapes. You fumble to unlock your phone before looking that it's a voice memo.

Mortified you realize you sent one too. And first at that.

"Fuck MEEE!" You plop onto the bed. Nervous this second voice memo is probably about how you're a weirdo or something as you relive the memory of asking him to be your plus one.

Hesitantly your thumb hovers over the play button before you find the strength to press the cool glass. A soft thunderous voice plays out.

"Good morning sleepy head. I haven't heard from you yet, I hope you're okay. Be sure to drink some water and eat something greasy. Trust me, late nights with Denki and Bakugou taught me something. Since the wedding is tomorrow I'll need a picture of your dress for the color and style so I can match you Sweet pea. Contact me soon so I can know where to pick you up."

Did he… did he just call you SWEET PEA? Your heart pounds in your chest before it registers he's asked for your dress color and lowkey asked for your address. This couldn't be real. It sounded like Kirishima, his voice familiar from interviews you've watched but it very well could be a prank. Defeated you hit the small microphone and reply.

Kirishima hears a sharp DING in his headphones over his music as he finishes his set. He wipes the sweat from his face on his shirt giving the few people in the gym a lovely view of his sweaty and thick torso. One woman trips on the treadmill but it goes unnoticed by Kirishima. He pauses his music and hits play on the little memo. Your beautiful yet groggy voice comes in through his ear buds causing Kirishima to bite his lip. It causes such a flutter of butterflies in his stomach he has to listen a second time to actually hear what you said. Although he understand, he cannot help but feel hurt by your reply.

"How do I know you're not just some pervy guy using Kirishima's Godly looks to prey on unsuspecting people."

Your phone chirps at you from the bed stand and you growl reaching for it. You had hoped your message would have been clear. An unspoken of you know they're a fucking creep taking advantage of their PR job.

"What can I do to prove it to you, Sweet Pea?"

You hate how that cute nickname sends your heart into a somersault and your stomach in delightful knots. Still your doubt pulls a harsh tut from your lips before you reply.

Kirishima doesn't need his phone to alert him that you've messaged him, he's been looking at his screen for far to long without having to restart his set. He listens to your voice as if it were music.

"Fine, you wanna prove it to me so bad. Take a picture of yourself shirtless with the word 'Sweet pea' you love so much and send it to me. No photoshop I know what my favorite hero looks like!"

For over an hour you don't hear back and you figure you showed that perv.

But now you can't sleep so you nurse a water, door dash a "greasy" breakfast all before cranking your shower as high as it can go. Your phone dings and you try to ignore it. You really do but as the saying goes curiosity killed the cat. Opening the message you see a classic guy mirror selfie. Kirishima is clear as day in the photo, his large hand pointing to his bare, hairy chest where sweat pea is scrawled in his adorable handwriting. He winks at the camera as his kissable lips wear a dangerous, almost cocky eyes travel down his bulk following his happy trail that dives under a pair of black shorts, the best part of the view getting cut off by the vanity. At first you try to rationalize that this was fake but damning evidence was sitting on the vanity. A fluffy white cat in a diamond and ruby encrusted collar sits on the counter giving her owner an odd look.

His cat Diamond that everyone knows he loves and adores. Slick begins to collect between your thighs and especially so after you listen to the voice memo that comes through shortly after. His normally friendly and soft voice comes out a bit dark, husky as he says in a playfully annoyed tone.

"Now send me a picture of that dress, Sweet Pea."

[seiyasabi]

Fixation

(This is a Yandere Yelena x Fem Reader story ;)) This takes place in a Modern AU outside of the anime, and I won’t justify my reasoning lmao 

TW: Coercion, !Drugging!, Manipulation, !Noncon!, !Dubcon!, Daddy kink (ehehe), spanking, she’s a straight up Dom w her tall ass, kinda a meanie, degradation!, handcuffs!, use of sex toys!, Overstim!, size kink!, dumbification?, unwanted filming!, etc.. 

Proceed with caution! Sorry if this is too self indulgent lmao, when women (lesbians) talk to me, I become the biggest idiot to ever exist :)) ) 

Today wasn’t the best day to wear a skirt. 

Begrudgingly smoothing down the lilac fabric of your skirt, you huff indignantly. All you wanted to do was look cute for your crush, Marco, but it seems that that was too much to ask for. 

Your white sweater, at least, keeps you somewhat warm from the harsh wind. It’s tucked into the waistband of your high waisted skirt, and your thigh high socks push the fat of your cute thighs out slightly. The sound of your white sneakers against the pavement is drowned out by your classmates’ loud voices, and you’re seemingly unaware of a certain black-eyed glare. 

Seeing your classroom come into view, you hurry inside, sliding into your lab assigned seat. Eyeing the dark haired male of your dreams, you can’t help but sigh pathetically at the fact that he hasn’t noticed you. Up until recently, the two of you were great friends-always hanging out and texting one another. But, the moment the both of you picked up this class, everything changed. 

Hearing the seat next to you slide open, you glance up at your seatmate. Smiling up at the tall woman, you greet her kindly, “Hi, Lena! How’re you today?” 

The Russian exchange student smirks down at you, as she plops onto the seat, “Good, now that you’re here.” 

Laughing at her gruff words, you wave her off, “You always say that,” Zipping open your backpack, you pull out your class notes, “What’re you going to do this weekend?”

Her smirk widens, dark eyes gleaming, “Why? Asking me on a date?” You laugh once more, completely oblivious to her hopeful tone. 

“You’re so funny, Lena,” Pulling out your pack of multicoloured pens, you start to set up for your class, “I just heard you speaking with Annie about ‘something big’ the other day, so I became curious.” 

Not one to acknowledge boundaries, the blonde woman starts to play with your (hair/sweater), “I’m throwing a party, one you should come to,” Her tone leaves no room to negotiate, but you don’t really notice. Nodding, you smile up at her. 

“Sounds fun! When is it and who’s going?” Her hand trails down to your thigh, fiddling with your sock. Brushing off your mild alarm at her ministrations, you justify her actions through your cultural differences. 

“Tonight at eight. Annie and her friends should be there, same with Marco and a few others,” She name dropped the kind man on purpose, knowing your misguided infatuation with him. If only you knew how much of a pussy he is. All she did was threaten him once, and suddenly he stayed clear of you. It made her life easier, sure, but it annoyed her that he dropped you like a gutted fish. You’re too good for that. 

Pulling out your phone, you pull up your calendar, showcasing that you have no plans this evening, “Okay, I can go!” 

Her smirk grows wider than before, “Great,” Yelena’s accent seemingly grows thicker, her r rolling more harshly than before. 

With that, class begins without a hitch; Yelena’s hand still glued to your perfect thigh. 

-

Stepping out of your car, you readjust your new outfit. Keeping the thigh highs from earlier, you changed your lilac skirt for a black, body con one, along with a cropped, black long sleeve shirt that accentuates your cleavage. 

Slamming your car door shut, you lock it with your key, before heading towards Yelena’s luxurious flat. You can hear low music and voices from her open top floor balcony, multiple shadows moving inside her home. 

With a fast beating heart, you can’t help but hope that Marco will speak with you tonight. With that hope deep in your chest, you step inside the fancy building’s lobby. Approaching the front desk, you go to show them your ID, but are met with brightly smiling faces. 

“Go on up to the tenth floor, (Your Name)! Yelena already told us that you’re coming!” Surprise overcomes your form. Why do they know you by appearance alone? You’ve never even been here before. 

“Oh, okay! Thank you,” Deciding to ignore the weird situation at hand, you head towards the lift. Pressing the button, you wait a few moments, before stepping into the open lift doors. The sleek metal walls reflect your appearance back at you, whilst you press the pristine ‘10’ button. With a small beep, the lift begins to move, practically flying at top speed to the top floor. 

Once at the tenth floor, the doors fly open, showing what looks to be a living room. You can’t help but gawk at the large flat displayed before you. Your classmate must be quite wealthy to afford a place like this. 

You awkwardly make your way inside, and are immediately greeted by the party’s host, “Hey, (Your Name), welcome!” You’re side hugged by a buff arm, practically slammed into Yelena’s torso. 

“Hey, thanks for having me!” You pat her back in an attempt to have her let you go, but instead, it seems to spur her on. She drags you towards a large L-shaped couch, which is filled by Annie, Reiner, and Bertholdt. A handful of others sit at her dining room table and kitchen counter, the open concept allowing everyone to see and speak to each other comfortably. 

Reiner glances up from the story he’s telling Historia and Ymir, a grin painting his handsome features, “Whoa, that’s a new look for you, (Your Name)!” 

Multiple eyes are suddenly glued to your now self conscious form, an uneasy smile on your face, “Hello, everyone.”

“Don’t get me wrong, you look great! It’s just really different from your normal, cute clothes,” People nod and agree with the large man, causing you to break out in a nervous sweat. 

“Well, I hope I don’t look too bad,” You joke halfheartedly, “I just wanted to try something new.” 

Yelena takes your appearance in, practically salivating. Whilst she does enjoy your usual clothing, this look fits you quite well. 

“You look very nice,” Bertholdt reassures soothingly, patting the spot by him, “You can sit next to me, if you’d like.”

The short haired woman glued to your side reacts immediately, “No, the girl needs a drink,” Annie shoots her a knowing look, which she nods to in response. You’re practically ragdolled to the kitchen bar, as the conversation starts up once more. Once at the marble countertop, the large woman releases you in favour of pouring you a cup of spiked punch, “This is very good. Made it myself.” 

You give her a bright smile, accepting the red solo cup, “Cool! I’m sure it’s delicious!” Bringing the cup to your (lipstick/chapstick/lipgloss) coated lips, you take a small sip. A burst of fruity goodness explodes on your tastebuds, making your eyes widen in surprise. You can’t taste a drop of alcohol in it, “Wow! This is really good!” 

A proud grin overtakes her lips, as she nods her thanks, “Of course it is. I knew you were coming, after all,” You laugh in response, and take another sip of the red liquid. 

“I see! Well, you have a very nice home!” The tall woman leans against the counter, holding herself up with an arm that goes behind your form. 

“Thank you. It’s very spacious. I find myself lonely at times,” Her large, black eyes stare down at you, trying to send you a message through them alone. 

“Oh, well, have you tried getting a roommate? Maybe the flat won’t be so empty,” She nods at your words. 

“Yes, that’s a good idea. Would you be my roommate?” You laugh, thinking that she’s joking. Not bothering to look up, as you take another swig of your drink, you don’t see the somewhat hurt look on her face. 

“That would be something! Not only are we seatmates, but we’re also roommates,” You giggle some more, taking more sips of your delicious drink, “But, your flat is a lot nicer than mine. I may take up on your offer.”

Looking up, you see her grin at you approvingly, “Yes, that would be nice,” What you don’t know is that her lease is almost up, making it so she has paperwork she needs to fill out. Paperwork that would look great with your co-sign on it. 

-

Three drinks in, and you’re feeling a bit woozy. Typically, you’re not a lightweight, but it seems that you are tonight. 

Leaning your upper body onto Yelena’s strong form, you laugh hysterically at something Reiner says, “Oh my God, you’re hilarious-” You cut yourself off with a snort, causing the entire room to laugh at your cute giggling. 

The short haired woman you’re currently using as a pillow holds you tenderly, a pleased smile on her face. The stuff Annie gave her works very well. 

“Man, if you weren’t Yelena’s girl, I would’ve cuffed you a semester ago!” Reiner roars wholeheartedly, slapping the leather couch below him. 

In your cloudy mind, you barely understand the words he just said, “Haha, wha-?” 

Pushing your head into her breasts, Yelena shushes you, “My poor baby is such a lightweight,” She and the others chuckle at that understatement, “I think it’s time to turn in for the night.”

Her civil way of kicking everyone out was enough, as everyone trickles out of her luxurious flat. Once the last person leaves, Yelena stands to her feet, scooping you up in her buff arms. She goes to her lift, pressing the lock input, she types in the lock code, not allowing anyone in or out of her home. Your high mind can barely comprehend what’s going on around you. 

She hums an unknown tune, as she goes up her steps to her master bedroom. Kicking open the door, she flips on her bedroom light with her elbow, before shutting the door with her foot. Sauntering to her California King sized bed, she lays your drugged out form on her light grey coloured sheets. 

“-Lena, wha-” Your head lulls to the side as you giggle uncontrollably, “-Are- are we dating?” She hums in response, starting to pull down your skirt. 

“Yes, my Darling Girl,” She smooches your forehead, “We’ve been together since I moved here,” Pulling your skirt’s fabric down and off of your legs, she tosses it on the floor, exposing your pink panties. 

“Bu-but, I like Marco,” You weakly attempt to push her grabby hands away from you, “I-I wan’ Marco!” 

The feelings of disgust, envy, and fury overwhelm her all at once. How dare you! She’s always treated you so well, that spineless fucker doesn’t deserve anything from you! He especially doesn’t deserve your wonderful heart! 

She says nothing, grabbing your blouse, and chucking it off of you. Your breasts jiggle at her ministrations, your bra just barely containing your tits. Seeing your almost bare, perfect body makes her pussy tingle, but her anger outweighs her arousal. 

Settling on the bed, she grasps your boneless body, and pulls you over her knees. You’re still muttering and questioning the validity of your relationship, all whilst saying that horrible boy’s name, causing her to cup the fat of your ass and squeeze harshly. 

“Baby, you know better than to say those horrible things. I love you very much, and it hurts to hear you say that.” 

Your breasts, arms, and head rest over her left knee, as you try to look up at her stern face, “But-”

“No buts, you know what happens when you act like a brat,” She slaps your ass experimentally, earning a pained yelp. A small smirk covers her lips, and she hits your ass as hard as she can. 

“‘M sorry! ‘M sorry! I didn’t mean it!” Your pleading is cute, so cute. 

“I know you didn’t, Princess. But I have to remind you of your place,” She slams her hand down once more, jolting your entire body. A shrill cry leaves your lips, as you try to move off of her lap, but seemingly can’t find the strength to do so. 

After five more smacks, the blonde pulls you onto her lap in a straddling position. One of her arms wraps around your top half, pushing your crying face into her neck. The other is wrapped around your waist, hand smoothing over your bruising ass, and playing with the hem of your panties. 

“Don’t cry, Princess. You know I had to set you straight,” She coos, “Your stupid, little brain is far too gone to understand at the moment, but you will once you sober up. So, for now, let your Daddy make you feel good.” 

You mutter nonsensical words in between your sobs, but the large woman isn’t put off. After she’s done with you, you’ll never think of that freckled fuck ever again. At least, you won’t unless you want him dead. 

Wrestling your pliant body to the mattress once more, she leaves you on the bed by yourself, before rolling onto the left side. Opening the top drawer of her nightstand, she pulls out a pair of handcuffs, a battery powered hitachi wand, duct tape, and a small bottle of lube. Setting them on the bed by your writhing form, she quickly makes her way back to you. 

“Shh, it’s alright, Princess. I’m right here,” Yelena reaches under you, fiddling with your bra’s hooks until it pops open, allowing her to slide your useless arms out of the garment. Tossing it aside, she sucks in a deep breath, enjoying the view of your plush chest. Experimentally, she pinches your right nipple, relishing the small moan you let out at the feeling. Gripping the handcuffs next to you, she feeds your dainty wrists through the opening, popping the pink, plush cuffs on tightly. Happy with the result, she continues her endeavour. 

Moving farther down your body, she leaves your socks on, loving how your thigh fat squishes up a bit. Grabbing the hem of your cute, pink panties, she pushes them off of you, exposing your pretty cunny. It separates from you with a small string of slick, filling Yel with a sense of satisfaction. You’re her perfect pain slut, aren’t you? 

Pushing on your pliant legs open, she smiles happily down at you, dark eyes blown wide open, “Awe, is your slutty pussy wet for me?” 

You shake your head rapidly, disorienting yourself more than before, “Nu-no! It’s not!” She clicks her tongue teasingly, her smile growing wider than before. 

“Don’t lie to me, Princess. Now I have to punish you once more,” Forcing your legs open, she holds them down with her own, straddling your waist. Her large form easily overpowers you, as she grabs the blue hitachi wand, and flips it on to the highest setting. Pushing it against your clit with a swift motion, your entire body jolts at the sudden stimulation. A loud whine leaves your lips, as you try to buck it off of your sensitive cunny. 

“Puh-please! Take it off! It’s too much!” Yelena snickers in delight, ignoring your pleading. Grabbing the duct tape from beside you, she rips off a few long strips, before smacking them onto your skin and the vibrator, effectively keeping it attached to you. 

Your moans and whimpers continue to grow louder and louder, as you try your best not to cum. You bite your lips in the hopes of stifling yourself, but it does little to help. If anything, it just spurs the large woman on. 

“Go on, cum for me, cum for Daddy,” You shake your head, a few keens falling from your mouth, as she watches in awe at the way your cunny leaks and clenches around nothing. 

Your toes curl in ecstasy as you cum, a loud whine escaping you. A gush of your orgasm flows from you, wetting the blonde woman and the mattress below. Two long, slender fingers prod at your slick pussy, forcing themselves inside your sensitive walls. 

“Good Girl, You’re so Good for me,” They Start to move in a ‘come hither’ motion, hitting your g-spot repeatedly with how long her fingers are.  

“Too much! Too much!” You cry, as she quickly brings you over the edge once more. 

More slick sprays from your cunny, as overstimulation begins to set in. Yelena captures your lips with hers, thrusting her tongue into your mouth. The kiss is wet and hot, as she grips at your plush chest. 

“No, no it’s not, Baby. It’s not enough,” Fumbling with her fly, she releases the strap she’s been wearing all night. In all honesty, she’s surprised that you hadn’t noticed the bulge or felt it underneath your ass earlier. It’s a good ten inches in length, and around 5.5 inches of girth. 

It is pretty intimidating for most, but due to your fucked out stupor, it should feel amazing for you. Grabbing the lube, she squeezes a small amount onto the silicone cock, smoothing it over the toy in sync with her fingers pumping inside of you. 

Deeming the toy and your cunny ready, she makes the next move. Sliding off of your numb legs, she stands to her feet, towering over you in all of her glory. Hefting you up and off of the mattress, she quickly punched your back against her pristine, white wall. Forcing your arms around the back of her head, she continues to kiss your drooly mouth vigorously. 

Wrapping your legs around her slender waist, her large leg muscles and arms work to hold you up. Guiding your dripping cunny over the tip of her strap, she slowly sinks you onto it. 

A keen of both surprise and pleasure rips out of your throat, as you grip onto her short, blonde locks. Giggling, she bucks her hips into yours sharply, causing you to orgasm on the spot. The vibrator and her strap on feels like heaven. 

Throwing your head back in bliss, you feel your arousal drip onto her dress pants, creating even more wet spots than before. Separating from your lips, she grins down at you. 

“Look at you, dirty Girl,” She spanks your ass harshly with one hand, as she continues a hardcore pace. The tip of the silicone cock batters against your cervix, causing you to cry out in both pleasure and pain, “You love it when Daddy ruins your pussy, don’t you?” 

Too fucked out to think properly, you nod your head vigorously, “Uh-huh! Uh-huh! I love Daddy’s cock!” She kisses your cheek tenderly, not stopping her thrusts for even a moment. Moving her lips down your vulnerable neck, she starts to suck the tender skin, leaving dark love marks on your pretty skin. 

“Mmm, good Princess! Since you’re such a good girl, I think you deserve a treat. Do you want a treat? Does your dumb little mind even understand what I’m saying?” You nod once again, eyes teary and pleading. 

“Yes! Yes! I want a treat, please, Daddy!” Smirking against your skin, she reaches into her pocket from around your thigh. 

“Since you asked so nicely-“ She presses the injector lever, shooting a large load of fake cum into your gummy, needy pussy. You cum almost immediately, this clearly being the biggest orgasm of the night, as you practically convulse and squirt a geyser of cum all over the place, “I think you deserve Daddy’s cum inside you.” 

You practically sob at the overstimulation and the feeling of being so full, “Thank you! Thank you, Daddy!” You kiss her of your own volition, surprising the large woman. Her heart warms, loving how you’ve become so submissive. 

Cradling you’re form to her muscular body, she saunters back towards the bed, pushing any other objects off and into the night side table. 

Placing you on the now dry sheets, she quickly flicks off the vibrator still taped to your clit, before placing it on the table beside her. Plucking off the duct tape, she then takes off your handcuffs, effectively freeing you. Instead of moving away from the woman, you lay there tiredly, no longer processing the situation. 

Sighing in content, Yelena grabs a hand towel from the drawer she keeps her sex toys in, and wrestles it under your hips. Smiling, she removes the strap from inside of you, enjoying the sight of the fake cum flooding out of you. 

Laying next to you, she pulls your head into her chest, curling around you as if she were a safety blanket. 

“You did well, Princess,” You don’t say anything, snuggling into her warmth, “Go to sleep, tomorrow we’ll announce our official status, okay?” 

An slurred ‘Okie’ is heard, before you slip into unconsciousness. Cupping your face in appreciation, her dark eyes glance in the direction of a small green light coming from her video camera. 

Now you’ll have to date her; after all, you wouldn’t want your sex tape to get out, would you?