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bellshells · 8 days ago

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A Promise of Grim Death, Chapter Two

First, Hi. This is has been five months in the making and I would like to thank everybody for their kind words for Chapter one.

Second, this one is a little bit longer than the first part, so strap in, grab a snack and relax.

Third, please pay attention to the trigger warnings; although if you’re fucking with Terrifier- I’m sure you’ll be alright.

TW: Smoking, Obscene language, sex, masturbation, gratuitous (and I mean gratuitous) violence, death, gore, stalking, voyeurism, mentions of sexual assault, mentions of animal death (honestly it’s fine blink and you miss it), murder, and finally Art himself baby.

Dear Sienna,

It read.

This is a slightly unconventional way of contacting you, but you know me, when has anything we’ve done been conventional?

He didn’t like it. It sounded like they were friends. He mulled it over for a second or so, dissatisfied but at a loss for how else to start it. He gripped the pen tightly, he knew he shouldn’t have left it until the last minute. But the Little Pale Girl visited him this week, and he was tired. Which was in fact, the exact opposite of how he wished to be this Thursday evening, but needs must. And that girl needed blood.

So Sienna,

Art continued.

I need you to understand that I still want you dead, as I’m sure you want me. Dead that is. But I am requesting a small parlay. Just for the holidays. I have something I need to do, and I would rather you not get in my way. In turn, I will stay out of yours too. You will not see me, hear from me and you need not fear me until the new year. I give you my word. Which, I understand may not mean much. But as a voiceless clown, it’s all I have. I know, the irony is not lost on me either.

Art laughed at that, he wiped an imaginary tear from his eye. God, he killed himself.

That notwithstanding, if you meddle in my business I will not hesitate to make you suffer. So please just do us both a favor and chill the fuck out.

That’s it.

Happy holidays!

-ART xo

Finally satisfied with his work, he licked the envelope, making sure to spit inside of it before he sealed it shut. He wrote Sienna’s name as neatly as he could on the front and slipped it into his black bag.

The chill of a moonless night had descended as he pulled up outside of Sienna’s apartment. Art checked the clock in the van, it was 22:36, that left him just enough time to finish his business here and hot-foot it across town to catch Daphne at the bar. He wanted to get there early, but not too early. He wanted a good enough seat, but he didn’t want to be distracting. He felt very conflicted about it all indeed. This, coupled with the fact that he had left the house without his usual attire had him feeling so unlike himself. He pulled the mirror down over the passenger side of the windscreen and studied his appearance. He wore a baseball cap over the top of his mask, which in turn covered a smattering of salt and pepper hair which interestingly enough, he didn’t know he had. The last time he remembered having hair, it was a chocolate brown. Blue eyes stared back at him, it felt almost wrong to see them without the dark black rim, choosing to forgo his usual dramatic paint. He pulled his cloth face mask higher on his nose, Art felt content with hiding the rest of his face. He couldn’t risk being recognised.

It wasn’t easy getting ahold of his outfit either. He scoured for hours with the Pale Girl for someone of his size and stature. She seemed to sense that something was up, or amiss more like. She was skittish and moody, and downright belligerent sometimes. Art wasn’t a particularly patient man, if you could call him a man, but he had to really try with her this week. The man he had ultimately found had been a sex worker in the end, roundabout Art’s age too. He toyed with the idea of getting a service before he mutilated him, but decided against it. Jack the Ripper was indeed an idol of his, but Art was anything but a pastiche.

After he had made the man strip, he pulled out his intestines and the Pale Girl had used them as a jump rope. The more he thought about it, it was actually rather fun. He thoroughly enjoyed the way they kept slipping out of his hands as the dying man flailed and twisted.

He found the face mask in a trash can behind The Speakeasy, he’d scouted the outside a couple of nights ago, checking for all the ways in and out. He’d bumped in to Sienna too, all patched up and ship shape after their little têt-a-têt the previous week. She shoved a broom handle so far into his mouth and down his throat, it nearly came out the back of his head. He got her back though, a pair of scissors to the eye was a nice touch on his part. It was an improvement actually, he thought.

The worst part about this though, was that he knew she’d be fine. He was going to have to become creative with his plan to dispose of her. Whilst that wasn’t a tedious task by any stretch of the imagination, in fact he devoted a lot of time thinking about ways he would hurt Sienna, he had intended on spending his time stalking Daphne. He was upset by how little of that he’d been able to do. He hadn’t even been able to find out where she lived, and at this point in the day, the day of her next gig that is, he was severely behind schedule.

Art fiddled with his baseball cap. He found that in the trash too, and pulled it low over his eyes. He brushed his hands nervously down his chest, the unfamiliar cotton of a Walmart T-shirt was setting him on edge. He refused to even acknowledge the denim on his lower half. Awkwardly getting out of the van, he fished the letter out of his black bag and made his way up the steps to the list of tenants in this particular building. He walked uncomfortably in the dead man’s shoes; they probably were a half a size too small for Art, but needs absolutely must. Plus, he was so used to his oversized badboys that anything smaller than a yard and a half simply wouldn’t cut it.

Art scoured the list of names until he found 7- Shaw/Davies. Interesting, Art thought, roommate? Boyfriend? Either way, he added a mental note to come back and kill them later. He flexed his index finger twice and then pressed the buzzer. He hadn’t anticipated Sienna living in a nice place, but it definitely wasn’t a shitbox either. The top of the buzzers had a camera and he stood expectantly with the envelope clear in its sight. He waited a little while before pressing the buzzer again.

Nothing.

Art rolled his eyes, but before he could press the buzzer a third time, the front door of the property opened and Art nearly fell backwards over the railing.

“Hi! Sorry, I was on my way out when I heard the buzz! Figured I’d just meet you down here,”

Art blinked twice in sheer disbelief as Daphne Loveday stared at him expectantly. Her smile didn’t waver as Art’s stomach did backflip after backflip, his whole body trembled. She was just so…she was just so, indeed. “Is that for me?” Daphne enquired pointing at the letter in Art’s hand. She offered to take it, and Art passed it over carefully ensuring not to touch her in any way. He knew he wouldn’t be able to handle it. Daphne inspected the outside and Art cringed at the visible stain from his spit inside the envelope. Daphne either didn’t notice, or was too kind to mention it. “I’ll uh, see her in about 25 minutes so I’ll pass it on to her, okay?”

Art nodded slowly, desperately trying to regulate his breathing. In and out, he thought, in and out. “Sorry,” Daphne said, flicking her wrist out from under her green coat. “I’m sort of in a little bit of a rush, so I better jet.” She offered him an apologetic smile, and he pressed his back up against the wall to give her enough space to pass. She made it a good four steps down before she exclaimed in frustration and turned back on her heel, up the way she came. “Every fucking time,” she muttered, pushing her keys into the front door and disappearing from view. Art stood frozen in his spot, his nose thick with the scent of her as she breezed past him. It was inebriating.

Outside of the building, a cab appeared. It slowed to a stop, but its engine continued to run. The driver honked the horn twice, and Art looked to see if anyone was coming to claim it. Just as Daphne reappeared in the doorway, this time pulling the same heavy black suitcase she had struggled with the last time he saw her- the cab pulled out away from the sidewalk.

“No no no no!” Daphne exclaimed, doing her best to rush down to the cab. She took one step onto the stairs and lost her footing, it was slippery out and the little heels she wore were no match for the November slick. Without thinking, Art reached out for her. He thrust his hand out under her armpit, stopping her from careering down the stairs, pulling her close to his chest. “Fuck-”

Daphne’s forhead collided with Art’s bicep, as with momentum she was forced to face him, her hands instinctively coming up to grasp onto the fabric of Art‘s shirt, her fingers bunching around the material. Her eyes flew up to meet Art’s, her face was a picture of shock. “Holy shit,” she breathed, Art blinked as her breath fluttered across his face. He hadn’t noticed his face mask had slipped in his exertion, she smelled sweet. “It’s you.”

Art spent a full half second in confusion before realising that Daphne’s eyes explored his face.

“The clown,” Daphne breathed. Art’s mouth fell open slightly, a tiny breath escaped his lips as his heart began to thud against his chest; with how close she was to him, he was sure she could hear it. “Well aren’t you going to say anything?”

Art didn’t particularly like her tone, there was a bite to it that instantly irritated him. He felt the all too familiar heat behind his temples, a precursor to bloodbath. Daphne’s furrowed brow faltered slightly, transforming into a softened, yet equally suspicious look. “No?” She questioned, an eyebrow slightly raised. Art struggled to shake his head amid the sound of the blood in his ears. He imagined pushing his fingers deftly into her throat, further and further until they broke the skin. The blood would gargle and splatter, he thought. It would drench him. He wondered if he’d be able to get ahold of her oesophagus. Whether he’d be able to rip it from her body before her heart stopped beating.

“Are you…unable to talk?” Daphne’s question split through his fantasy like a knife. His hand had already closed the gap between them, she noticed him jerk it away and Art began to panic. He shook his head and placed his hand against his throat and then made an X with his arms. He wasn’t lying either, because he couldn’t. He used to be able to, he could right the way up until Halloween of 2016. Something about putting a bullet in your skull to be resurrected by a dark entity fucked with his vocal chords, or some shit along those lines. What used to be a schtick, a gimmick even, was his reality, and it had never bothered him before. Until now. “I see,” Daphne said after a while. “I’ll make sure Sienna gets the letter. But I really have to go, I’m running super late.” She turned away from him once more and carefully made her way down the stairs, her heavy suitcase weighing her down with each step. Art remained frozen in place, he couldn’t believe that after a week of trying he had finally found her, and not only found her, she’d been under his nose all along. He watched as she stood on the very edge of the sidewalk, trying and failing to hail and cab. Against his better judgement, and probably hers; he trudged back down to the van and honked the horn. Daphne turned in the direction of the sound and Art waved. Why the fuck did he wave? He went around to the back of the van and opened up one of the doors, showing Daphne there was room for the case if she wanted to use it. Please want to use it, thought Art. Please.

She was hesitant. He didn’t blame her either. Daphne eyed him warily before checking the time on a dainty gold watch at her wrist.

“Fuck,” she muttered. “I have my location settings turned on if you try and murder me, you won’t get far.” Art blew out a sigh, the irony not lost on him for a moment. He nodded and loaded her suitcase into the back of the van as quickly as he could. Daphne was already climbing into passenger seat by the time Art had finished, he clambered to gently close her door before getting into the driver’s side. He noticed as he hurriedly pushed his seatbelt into place, that Daphne had squeezed herself as close to the window as she could, she cleared her throat as Art surveyed her- her eyes meeting his for a fleeting second.

“Could you uh, drop me off on Maple and third? It’s the old bookstore, it’s a bar now.” Art nodded his head as if he hadn’t already input the address into the van’s gps a week ago. Daphne rooted around in her pocket and pulled out Sienna’s note, she flicked it over in her hands and cast a sideways glance at Art. “Sienna never mentioned she knew…a clown.” Daphne stated and Art shrugged his shoulders, his grip tightened slightly on the steering wheel. “She never really talks about anything.” Art wet his lips, half of him wanted to be able to converse with her- and yet, he didn’t know what he would say even if he could. It was a kind of cosmic punishment he thought, he had spent hours of his time talking to Sister Anne. He remembered how she would stare at his mouth, how he would over enunciate his words just to keep her big brown eyes on his lips. Her face would darken as he spoke about all things; politics, the economy, how the way Sister Monica’s crucifix hung between her tits made his mouth water. Sister Anne lapped it up, every word. Then she would lap at him, like she had never had a drop and Art would let her.

“Hello?” Daphne said, her eyebrows raised high on her pale face. He noticed the little freckles littered there. He melted. Art smiled sheepishly, at least he hoped it was a sheepish smile. Daphne rolled her eyes. “I asked how long you’ve known Sienna.” Art counted in his head, three, four years? Nearly half a decade of hatred at least. God how time flies when you’re having fun. He held up his left hand with four fingers extended. “Four months?” Daphne asked. Art shook his head, he moved his finger in a circular motion. “Years?!” She exclaimed, Art nodded eagerly at her understanding. Daphne sat back with a satisfied smirk, relaxing into her seat. She seemed to mull over this information before barking a laugh and shaking her head. “You think you know somebody.” She said, more to herself than to Art- but he nodded nonetheless.

He tried to concentrate on his breathing and not the sound of Daphne’s tiny hums as she gazed absently out of the window. He was sure she didn’t know she was doing it, but she filled the space with a lilting melody and his heart thundered in his chest. She was so close, so dangerously close. He could touch her if he wanted, and fuck, he wanted. He remembered driving the Reverend Mother’s car one Easter, he was taking clothes to the poor house in town and Sister Anne had been his chaperone. She had let him drive which had been so exciting, especially when she had pulled her skirt up and spread her legs-

Art shook his head.

Daphne cleared her throat and Art watched her closely, acutely aware that they had precious few moments left of the drive. She seemed aware of this too, she pulled her purse from the footwell and placed it on her lap, Sienna’s letter sat neatly on top.

“I’m Daphne, by the way.”

Art looked directly at her, she offered him a soft smile. He returned it immediately, his cheeks warmed under her gaze. “I’m Sienna’s roommate if you hadn’t already guessed. Thanks for the ride and saving my life back there,”

Art’s breath hitched as he remembered the way her fingers grasped onto the fabric of his shirt. He shook his head and made a gesture as if to say “it’s nothing.”

“What’s your name?” A cold chill passed over Art’s body from his head to his toes. His name was in his mouth, his lips forming the word but with no fucking sound, it was entirely pointless. He rooted around in the side compartment feeling for a pen, for anything. He made a writing motion with his free hand and Daphne made an exclamation. She pulled her purse open and produced a lipstick, she then pulled out a crumpled poster- the same one that sat under Art’s pillow, only you could snap Art’s in half with how often he had painted it. She flipped it over and smoothed her hand over it, and using her thigh as a makeshift table; she handed Art the lipstick.

Pulling the van to a stop, Art took the lipstick with a hand that betrayed a slight tremble. His hands had never shaken. Not once. Not even the first time he had killed. His mother had stared with wide eyes at her little boy as Art held the lifeless kitten in his hands. She had wretched as Art had smiled, proudly swinging it from side to side by its black tail.

Art pulled the top from the lipstick and rolled the bottom up slowly, the red wax protruded like an obscene joke. It was the same colour that Daphne wore on her lips today, velvety and dark. It took everything within Art not to sink his teeth into it, that thing that Daphne had rolled across her lips, he wanted to feel it on his too.

He was hesitant in his pressure, the wax glided across the poster with ease, but it was impossible for him not to feel the heat of her body beneath his hand. Her thigh separated from his touch by a flimsy piece of paper, he squeezed his own thighs together in a thin attempt to assuage the ache that appeared in his crotch. Oh god, he thought, don’t forsake me. He fought with every fibre against the pressure, the strain against the tight denim around his groin. With each movement of his wrist, more of Daphne’s thigh came in contact with his forearm- she didn’t flinch, she didn’t shrink from him, she didn’t tremble, she was warm under his touch. Human.

When he’d finished, Daphne pulled the paper toward her. “Art,” she read aloud, “I like that.” She folded the paper neatly and popped it into her purse. Her gaze swept from Art’s face to the lipstick he still held, she plucked it gracefully from his hand and brought it to her already reddened lips. With a fluidity Art had only dreamed of, she swiped a line first across her bottom lip, then her top and sensually brought her lips together. “This is me.” Daphne stated, gesturing out of the window. Art had parked in the exact spot he had the week before, right up close to the minivan he had loaded Daphne’s gear into. She unwound the window and extended her arm, knocked on the window of the minivan, her body leaning away from Art giving him a heavenly view of her backside. He swallowed slowly.

“Make yourself useful will you?” Daphne said, she used her thumb to gesture to the trunk. A man, if you could call him that- Art thought, rolled his eyes and gave Daphne the finger. A sharp spike in Art’s head was the telltale sign of the burning rage that usually simmered right behind his eyes. He didn’t care that that was probably a totally normal thing for Daphne and this man. But some cretin had disrespected this woman. His woman.

Art flinched. He could taste the metallic sourness of blood and he realised he had bitten the inside of his cheek into a bloody mess. He released the pressure and used his tongue to investigate the wound, he’d live, obviously, but he hadn’t felt possessive over another person a day in his life. In fact, he was proud of his rigid indifference. You win some, you kill some. That’s it, that’s all his life had been for as long as he could remember. But he’d be a fool to admit that that just wasn’t the case here. Not with her. And that scared him.

The man grunted and swore as he pulled Daphne’s suitcase from out of the trunk. She giggled and gave herself a once over in the mirror above the windscreen. When satisfied, she turned to Art- he basked in her loveliness, content to watch her, to commit this to memory. He’d use this tonight. At home, he’d balled up a towel and tied it closed with a small opening just wide enough to fit his cock into. God, he could spend hours just lazily sliding himself in and out of it. He thought about her while he did it, thought about her gripping him the way she did a microphone. What it would be like to force himself into her mouth and have her sing. The man who flipped Daphne off, or Lucas as Art overheard, opened the passenger door of Art’s van. Art’s mouth fell open at the familiar way Daphne pressed her hand against his cheek in thanks. He felt his lungs burn. Every breath he inhaled was like ice against his throat. His mouth turned into a snarl, rotten teeth bared to this awful, pretty man. Fuck, he was so pretty. Lucas looked like every boy from every poster on every teenage girl’s bedroom wall. He had sandy hair that fell slightly into blue eyes, a wide mouth that parted into a dazzling white smile, dimpled cheeks and one on his chin. The fucker. Art breathed through his fury. His knuckles white against the steering wheel once again, his knee bobbed up and down rhythmically. Soothingly.

Lucas wrapped an arm around Daphne as she exited the van. She tossed her hair over her shoulder, the unfastened trestles reaching just above her ass. Art’s eyes followed the length and imagined what it would look like wound around his fist. She stood then on the sidewalk, one arm on the open van door; the other wrapped around Lucas’ midriff and smiled at Art. A glorious, beaming smile that made Art’s breath catch in his throat and his grip loosen.

“Thanks again for the ride,” she said softly and Art acknowledged her with a slow nod. She was breathtaking. “See you around, Art the clown.”

Art stayed in the van. He couldn’t move. He stared unblinkingly ahead, his gaze trained intently on the The Speakeasy. She was in there now, probably coming to the end of her set.

Daphne.

His lips moved around her name, savouring the way his teeth grazed against his lower lip. Art rubbed his face, his chest moved heavily with laboured breaths. He moved his hand slowly downwards and wrapped his fingers around his throat. Art squeezed, applying a delicious pressure that made his eyes flutter closed. He strained against his jeans, his cock pushed achingly against the zipper and he needed friction. Art sustained the pressure around his throat, and with his free hand cupped his groin tightly. A jolt of pressure immediately surged in the pit of his stomach, and he rolled his hips slowly. He considered his surroundings. It was late, the small parking lot barely lit and scarcely populated was quiet. It was cold too, he hadn’t seen a passerby in a while, more than likely tucked up in their beds out of the winter cold.

Art slowly unfastened the zip of his jeans, his swollen cock retracted against the release in pressure. He eyed it wistfully, it really was a pretty thing. He could hold it in two fists comfortably, with an upward arch he knew was built only to please. And please it did, all those girls with lips that spread for him with barely the gentlest of touches. They would drip for him, and he would exult in their offering- a tender kiss to the most sacred of shrines. Then he would ruin them. Of course he would, he would fuck them so hard, so rough, so thoroughly that he knew that there could never be anyone else for them. Every fuck they had after him would be but a pale imitation of Art, what he perhaps lacked in conversation he more than made up for elsewhere. Whether that be with his cock, or his fingers, or fuck it- his mouth. He would drink so completely it would run down his chin, he would drown in it if he could. Art was baffled that in his re-invented state, that he’d never once had the urge to devour a pussy, he was ever so good at it after all.

His movements were quick and desperate. He tugged relentlessly, each time pulling his foreskin over his tip, a breath of pleasure falling from his lips. Art watched the door to The Speakeasy, his eyes narrowed as he imagined Daphne on stage, her body wrapped in fabric that hugged each and every curve. He imagined her moving sensually with the music, her green eyes cast down until she could sense him. She would look at him with a piercing gaze that bore under his skin. She would look at him with a such a visible desire, it would be wet upon her lips; and he would beckon her to him. His arms outstretched to welcome her embrace, his hands ready to explore the planes of this woman soft and warm.

When he came, it was through gritted teeth. He covered himself with his seed, as it landed in great splatters over his stomach. Art’s head rolled back against the headrest, and his hands fell to his sides. He flexed his fingers and allowed his breathing to return to normal. A wave of sheepishness swept over Art. He regarded himself in the drivers side mirror and grimaced. There, covered in his own semen, Art looked even more rancid than usual. In this fleeting moment of clarity, he tucked himself back into his jeans and tried to smooth his hands over his shirt. It was then that he noticed movement from the alleyway. It was him. Lucas.

Art crept silently along the alleyway. His too-small shoes were tight around his feet, but still Art persisted. Lucas spoke into his phone, his voice was raised and his tone sharp. Art watched as the man wandered further into the darkness and followed dutifully, keeping close to the shadows.

“…and I’m telling you,” Lucas spat, “I’m not doing any of these bullshit gigs in the new year. We played Milkfest last year, you want us to stay barely breaking even forever?” Lucas stopped, his back to Art. With two steps Art was on him, the fury like ice in his veins. It exploded through him in a flurry, inching through each fibre of his being as if he were turning to stone. With a steady grip, Art plucked Lucas’ phone from his grasp and shoved it into the un-expecting man’s mouth. There was no resistance from Lucas, Art found this odd as he grasped him by the shoulders and turned him so he could meet his gaze. Lucas’ eyes were wide with shock, his phone still wedged into his mouth. With a sickening grin, Art pushed the phone further and further, exerting more and more pressure until he could hear the tendons in Lucas’ jaw begin to snap and break. Blood pooled through the slim openings of the man’s mouth and dripped down his chin. Still, Art pushed. He continued pushing until Lucas’ back met the brick wall behind him. Art pressed his cheek to his, the metallic tang of the rich crimson a welcome sight for his eyes. He traced one finger along Lucas’ cheek before plunging that finger into the musician’s eye.

Lucas began to fight then, his wails of agony the sweetest sound to Art. Lucas’ muffled and gargled pleas began to bubble into nothing in his mouth. Art curled his finger around the back of Lucas’ warm and soft eye, and with a jagged crook, popped it from its socket. Art laughed at this, the way it hung limply on Lucas’ face, swinging to-and-fro with Lucas’ pitiful flailing. It was then that Art used his mouth, wrapping his lips around Lucas’ detached eye and with his teeth- severed the nerve, blinding him. He spat it to the ground, and moved his mouth over to the other side. Art decided to forgo his fingers this time and sucked out Lucas’ other eye straight from the source. He debated on swallowing it. He’d tasted flesh before, but there was something about this that didn’t feel right to him. He wondered whether it was his civilian clothes, he didn’t really feel like himself. Art glanced down over his body and grimaced. To any unsuspecting witness, this was the work of a madman- not a skilled professional as Art esteemed himself to be. With a sigh of resignation to finish the job at least, Art wrapped his hands around Lucas’ throat and squeezed. Lucas fought well, he’d give him that. Now blind and mute, Lucas grappled with Art’s hands and tried to push the clown off. Lucas lunged forward in an attempt to free himself, and managed to create a foot of distance between himself and Art. He fell to the floor, desperately trying to right himself. Art could barely suppress his glee as he wrapped his arms around his midriff and threw his body forward in laughter. Great, body wracking laughs. Art was ecstatic, euphoric even.

Lucas stood upright, his hands outstretched and feeling for Art. Art dodged them and scoured his surroundings, and smiled when he found a discarded brick. Curling his fingers around it, he brought it up and smashed it against Lucas’ skull. The man went down in an instant, though he was still alive. Lucas rolled onto his back, and Art straddled him, bludgeoning him over and over again until what was left of Lucas’ pretty face was sinew and bone. Steam emanated from the mess that was now Lucas, and Art took an exaggerated bow over his creation. His adoring crowd giving him a standing ovation. Art felt a pounding in his temple, it was a roar in his ears and a rush of heat to his cheeks. The release of fury he felt as he surveyed Lucas’ mangled body was like reaching a state of ecstasy, he loosed a breath and grinned. Blood pooled grotesquely from his mouth and Art brought his tongue to his lips, savouring the taste of it.

Just inside his peripheral vision, he saw a figure at the mouth of the alley. A small framed figure with hair as wild as her eyes. The Pale Girl looked on with adoration at Art’s handiwork, and a chill crept up Art’s spine. He couldn’t place it, but a general sense of unease settled in the pit of his stomach. The Girl stalked towards Art with no real determination, her body and limbs seemed to move independently of her head- though her gaze remained fixed on Art. She held in her hand a grubby draw string bag, it dragged along the floor behind her with each slow step she took. Art’s eyes flickered between The Girl and the bag as his pulse quickened in response. The Girl cocked her head contemplatively as she reached Lucas’ mangled remains, and with swift fingers she plucked his phone from his bloodied maw. Swiping her finger along its screen, she seemingly searched the phone for a second before her eyes lit up and the sound of tinny music filled the space between them. The Girl flung the bag at Art and he caught it rather ungraciously, she hadn’t even looked in his direction. Her fingers tapped furiously on the screen, she’d found different game to keep her occupied.

Art opened the bag hesitantly, and if he could have, breathed a sigh of relief. Inside he found a clean costume, nicely pressed and fresh smelling. His hat lay on top of a little box full of black paint. Dutifully, he disrobed and donned his usual attire, following The Girl’s non-committal instruction to put his old clothes in the bag. With that, Art watched as The Girl returned the way she came; bag in one hand- Lucas’ phone in the other. She seemed to disappear into the darkness, no sight nor sound of her remained. Although Art wondered whether he had simply blinked as she’d turned a corner, this eased his discomfort a little but not wholly. Better not to think about it at all really. When he’d finished dressing, he turned to Lucas. He debated for a few moments what exactly he should do with the body. He usually didn’t really do anything with them once he’d finished playing, but his mind wandered back to Daphne. At any moment she’d be leaving the venue, probably looking for her band mate. Art chewed absently on his lip, before deciding to kick Lucas up close to the alley wall. The view obscured here by a large dumpster, then maybe he’d come back the following night and move him- all being well that was. He nodded in silent agreement with himself, satisfied that that man would never again pull his Daphne close to his chest. That was more than enough for Art.

The armoire in Daphne’s bedroom was large. Large enough to accommodate Art’s body comfortably. He nestled himself to the very back of it, the long plane of his back resting against the hard wood. His eyes scanned along the rack of her clothes, the scent of her was dizzying. Art took a deep inhale and closed his eyes. He waited for any signs of entry before he relaxed, he knew exactly what he was there to do. He wouldn’t cause a commotion, no of course not, he just wanted to watch her. Art didn’t see anything really wrong with it per se, but he didn’t fancy the idea of getting caught. He squared his shoulders slightly, settling in for a long night. It was then that he heard the front door slam shut, a woman’s voice- no two, the jangling of keys, a doorknob being turned.

“…totally not necessary.” That was Daphne, Art spied through the tiny crack in the door. Sienna marched straight into Daphne’s room and headed for the window. He held his breath as Sienna flung the curtains wide and lifted the window from its seal. “Sienna, stop it. There’s nobody out there.” Daphne followed Sienna into the room and kicked off a shoe. Art watched as Daphne removed her thick coat and flung it onto the bed, revealing a far skimpier dress than she wore the previous week. Oh, it would be a long night indeed.

Sienna looked both ways along the street before pulling the window back down with a slam.

“I know, I know,” Sienna said locking the window latch. She pulled the curtains together and faced Daphne with a tight smile.

“Honestly I don’t know what’s got into you! Has something happened?” Daphne said on one foot, she eased off the other shoe. She flopped onto the bed and pulled her purse onto her lap. She rooted around until she produced a packet of cigarettes and pulled one loose with her teeth. Art felt the same stirring of arousal in his core, he placed a hand on the inside of the door as if to touch her. To all that is holy, he wanted to touch her. Sienna sighed.

“No, nothing has happened,” Sienna replied, though she cast her eyes once more toward the window. Her gaze crossed over the room before settling on the armoire where Art hid. Art’s chin raised in defiance, as if he were willing Sienna to find him. Daring her to open the door. She cocked her head to the side as if she heard Art’s silent goading. How delightful it would be to see her again, but Art had already seen his letter poking out of the top of the back pocket of her jeans. He had an agreement with her, or so he assumed. Her eyes remained locked on the crack in the wood of the armoire. Her lip trembled slightly as her fingers flexed into fists. Sienna took a hesitant step, and then another, until finally her fingers grasped the handle and then- “Daph, you know you can’t smoke in here; the Super’ll go nuts.” Sienna whirled round to where Daphne sat on her bed, feet curled round under her ass and a now smouldering cigarette between her fingers.

“Oooh the Super!” Daphne mocked, she bent, and tapped her ash into a readily awaiting ashtray on her bedside table. “Hey,” she righted herself. “Did you see what happened to Lucas? He left right after we finished and didn’t come back. Left all of his gear in the venue, Toby was pretty pissed.” Sienna shook her head.

“No, I didn’t.” Sienna glanced once more at the armoire, her face a sickly shade of white.

“Weird. I knew he was a little pissy but still, I didn’t know he’d fly off the handle like that.”

“Well that’s why we shouldn’t get rides with strangers.” Sienna replied, casting her eyes over the room. She shuffled uneasily from foot to foot.

“You sound like my mom,” Daphne moaned, blowing a great plume of smoke into the room. “Now if there’s nothing else, kindly fuck off so I can get some sleep.” Sienna screwed her face up into a sarcastic smile.

“Anything for you, your majesty.” Sienna turned to the door but stopped just short of the threshold. “If you need anything just uh, just call.”

“You’re being super weird.” Daphne said, she reclined on the bed, supporting her weight on bent elbows. So at ease here, Art thought. Seeing Daphne in her own space was like seeing an artist at work, every movement of her body, her hands, was like it had been meticulously thought of to drive him mad. “Weirder than usual which is saying something, Sienna.”

Sienna simply shrugged and offered Daphne a small smile as she closed the bedroom door. Finally alone, Daphne exhaled and put out her cigarette. She flopped backwards on the bed and rolled her ankles in small circles. “Shit.” She hissed. She jumped up from the bed and rooted once more around her purse, she pulled out her phone and frantically tapped the screen, then pressed it to her ear. Daphne fidgeted while she waited for whoever to answer, pulling at invisible threads on her bedclothes.

“Hello?” She said after a while, she got to her feet and began pacing. “Did you get back ok?” Daphne listened intently. “And Lucas?….No, me either,” Art began to grow tired of hearing that fucker’s name mentioned over and over again. “Well if it’s in storage you can just send him a pin when he wants to stop acting like a pussy.” That’s my girl, he thought. “No it’s fine, you can drive us back in my car from Mom’s on Sunday and then get an Uber back to your place, that okay?…Well I don’t know either, you want to go halves on a cake?” Art tapped his fingers impatiently on the inside of the door. “Alright Toby, sounds good. Ok, gotcha. Cool, 4:30, got it. Ok. Goodnight, Tobes.”

Daphne plugged her phone in to charge and stretched her arms above her head with a great yawn. She turned her back to Art and he craned his neck to get a better view. When she turned to face him again, she held in her hand the poster which bore his name. Daphne looked at it, tracing her finger over the letters; A R T. She popped it onto the bed and grasped the hem of her thigh-length dress and pulled it over her head. Art inched closer to the crack in the door. Daphne tossed her dress to the floor, and stood in her underwear and pantyhose. She moved her hands across her stomach, her skin pale and flawless. He watched through gritted teeth as Daphne made her way to a chest of drawers and rummaged through, until she pulled out an oversized T-shirt. She removed her bra and Art hardened immediately. He cast his eyes over her breasts, they were blissfully large and he watched as her pink nipples stiffened in the cool air. They jiggled as she moved and Art subconsciously licked his lips. He watched as she removed her pantyhose, the way she rolled it down her legs, letting him see inch after glorious inch of her body. Art was beside himself with glee. She was there, she was right there, and Art began to palm himself over his costume. He began to think about what he would do to her first, what it would be like to kiss her. To run his fingers through her hair, to feel her mould herself around his touch. He would kiss her throat and make his way down until he could take one of those pretty pink nipples into his mouth. He would suck it, and lick it, and with his fingers trace a delicate line down to her panties. He would take a single finger and dip it below her waistband and instantly feel how wet she would be. She would have soaked herself in anticipation of him, and he wouldn’t deny her any longer.

Daphne pulled the shirt over her head and lay down on the bed. She pulled her phone out from its charger and began scrolling. Art’s lips twitched into a smile as the unmistakable sound of someone getting fucked emanated from Daphne’s phone. Art couldn’t see the video, but he felt like he was stood on a live wire. The woman in the video moaned and groaned as skin slapped upon skin, Art resumed his touching, as Daphne ran her fingers up and down her thigh. The same thigh that Art had touched only hours before. He shuddered. Daphne pushed her hand beneath her panties, he watched as her back arched against her fingers, her mouth open slightly. He watched as her movements increased in speed, how her brow knit together. The softest of moans fell from her lips as she fucked herself. Art was on the edge of his undoing, he could barely contain his orgasm, though all he was doing was rolling the tip of his clothed cock in his palm. He was astounded by her, by her effect on him. He let his forehead rest on the door as Daphne brought herself to completion, hips bucking up to meet her fingers. Art joined her, spilling his seed inside his costume, it was hot and abundant. He would have given anything to fill her with it, to keep his cock pushed into her while he emptied himself within her walls. She slowed then, closing the video and letting her phone fall against her chest.

It didn’t take long for her to fall asleep. She lay completely still on her back, but her soft snores filled the room. Art waited what he felt may have been an hour before he pushed the armoire door open and silently crept from it. He made his way to the foot of her bed and watched her. He watched the slow rise and fall of her chest as she entered into a deep sleep. Even in the dim light, he could make out the perfect planes of her face, the small peppering of freckles and her lips ever so slightly parted. Art stayed there for a while just watching her, taking in every inch of her body and desperately trying to remember it all. How her hair fell onto the pillow behind her like a halo of fire, her dusky eyelashes that brushed against her cheek. How she’d fallen asleep without even removing her make up, in all of this, she was perfect to him. A perfect soul that needed to be protected. But did he need to protect her? Was he in a position to be protecting anyone? Art cocked his head to the side and breathed in deeply. He could smell her desire hot and thick in the air. His eyes lingered on her panties which he knew covered the answer to all of his problems. Then, she stirred. She rolled onto her side away from him and lifted her legs up into the foetal position. Her phone fell over her shoulder and Art paused. Just underneath her shoulder was the poster where he had written his name. He smiled widely, a sense of pride bursting in his chest. She did that, that wonderful show on his name, on top of him himself essentially. He took her phone and pressed the screen, it didn’t recognise his face- go figure, but three smiling faces looked him dead in the eye. Daphne was on the left, a man he recognised from Daphne’s band on the right, and in the middle a blonde girl, younger than the pair either side of her;- she had Daphne’s green eyes and the man’s strong mouth. They were dressed for the sun, a sprawling garden lay behind them. The man wore a name badge: Toby. Siblings? Art carefully plugged her phone back into charge and laid it gently on the side table. He contemplated getting back into the armoire but ultimately decided against it, he couldn’t bear the thought of her finding him in the morning half cocked and sleepy eyed. Because with a yawn, that’s exactly what he felt. He’d had a long day and his little cot bed was calling him. It felt rather nostalgic feeling this wave of tiredness, he wasn’t sure if he felt human or perhaps had convinced himself he was beginning to. All of this stuff with Daphne had reminded him that perhaps there was more to the afterlife than just senseless killing; there could be senseless fucking, kissing too. Maybe even a soft embrace if one took the fancy. Even in the time before, Art had truly never been one for “love”, whatever it was that that meant. He loved people for a while, until they gave him a reason not to- which they always did. The funny thing was, which Art had recently found himself pondering, was did he love Sienna? Not in a romantic way, oh fuck no. Not even in a platonic or familial way, but did he love to hate her? To loathe her? He found himself thinking of the twisted relationship they shared and wondered…was that in fact a version of love? Art scoffed and shook his head.

In his dream he was happy. Mom was in the kitchen and he could smell whatever it was she was cooking, and it smelled good. The sun was low in the sky, and Art had his window open to the soft summer breeze. His stomach grumbled so he dutifully packed away his pencils back into the box ready for dinner. Art loved school. He loved math and science, but he especially loved reading. He’d written a poem for his teacher that he couldn’t wait to show her in the morning;

“Miss Fitton won’t believe I’ve written this.” Art said to nobody, “She’ll be super impressed.” Art grinned and double checked his backpack to make sure he was ready for the morning.

Following the hallway of the small trailer, he made his way into the kitchen. Mom had her back to him and was leaning over the sink, scrubbing hard at something. “Mommy!” Art said, she didn’t look up. “Mom I can’t wait to read you my poem, I worked really hard on it and I think I might win that prize after all-“

Art’s jaw snapped shut as Mom turned from the sink. In her hands she held up a girls dress, it was blue and white and had little daisy’s laced onto the hem. It was also torn and soaked in blood. Art instinctively put his hands behind his back.

“Why did I find this under your bed?” Mom asked, her face was still, calm even. But her voice wavered. Art didn’t say anything, he just shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. Mom’s lips turned into a frown, he hated it when she frowned. “This says Lissie Fielder on the inside collar.” Mom waited for Art to say something, instead he just stared at her blankly. “Lissie. Fielder.” Mom repeated, still Art remained silent. “Her mother called me this morning, said Lissie never arrived home yesterday, asked me if I’d seen her.” The silence was heavy, Art knew exactly what Mom wanted him to say, but he couldn’t. “You said you wouldn’t do this again, honey. I can’t afford to move us again. I’m gonna have to tell them what you’ve done. You need help, honey. I can’t hide this for you again.”

Art felt a heavy rumble in his chest. This was a pain he’d never felt before, but Mom didn’t look scared for long. He’d made it quick, and he was sure Mom didn’t feel any pain, but she sure was surprised to see the knife sticking out of her chest. He tried not to cry as he poured the canister of gasoline around the trailer. He sat down at the table one last time, with a big bowl of the pasta Mom had made for dinner. He ate it in silence and tried not to look over to where Mom lay on the kitchen floor, the linoleum turning red underneath her. As he put his backpack on his shoulders and lit the match, that’s when he allowed himself to cry.

Art had never been a morning person. This had continued on after his death. He just couldn’t seem to make himself function right in the mornings. He supposed a lifetime’s worth of fatal injuries will do that to a person. But in the two weeks since Art had been hiding in Daphne’s armoire at night, he found himself like the walking dead. On the fourth night of ‘accidentally’ being in the same place at the same time, Daphne asked how he always ended up driving past The Speakeasy. Art had slowly typed out on her phone that he had a nearby nightly gig on a low budget, public-access TV show and that it didn’t pay well, had no viewers but at least it got him out of the house. It was a lie, of course it was. But Daphne seemed to understand completely. She understood the plight of the starving artist because she was one.

“Have you always been a clown?” She had asked him.

“In one way or another.” Art had written down.

On the ninth occasion, Art fumbled with the cellphone he’d taken from a woman on the subway. She was stupid enough to stand close enough to the edge that she didn’t even notice he’d taken it from her hand before he’d pushed her in front of that train. He’d written down on a note taking app that he’d be happy to drive Daphne home if she was playing at The Speakeasy, as he was driving that way after all.

“Art,” Daphne had blushed, “You really don’t have to do that. You must be tired after work.”

“Well why don’t you just text me if you need a ride, and if I’m around, I’ll pick you up?” He wrote.

So she did. They texted an awful lot, actually.

Art was careful never to initiate conversation, instead he used this woman’s social media to keep tabs on Daphne. He couldn’t exactly add her as a friend from a dead woman’s Facebook account, but he could watch her videos and wait for the next text.

Sometimes Daphne would just check in, other times she would send him pictures of videos that she found funny. Art never really understood the humour- but he would indulge her and send back laughing faces. Oh, Art had got into emojis in a big way. He’d managed to get Sienna’s number from Daphne’s phone one night while she was sleeping, and every now and again he would anonymously inundate Sienna with countless emojis and gifs. Just to keep her on her toes.

Daphne

What are your plans for New Years? We’re playing a full evening at The Speakeasy. Would you want to come?

Art

I don’t know yet, I might be out of town for New Years.

That was an out-and-out lie, but she didn’t need to know that. His heart swelled in his chest at the idea of her wanting to see him, even though he was playing the long game.

Daphne

Bummer.

Art stared at the message for a while deliberating what to type. He ultimately decided a gif of a sad clown would be apt, but he saw the three dots appear, indicating that she was about to write again.

Daphne

Doing anything nice out of town? With nice people?

Art

I’m undecided if they’re nice yet. We’ll have to wait I see I guess.

A no doubt fruitless attempt to make her jealous. These imaginary people that Art had created must be super fucking nice. Art bit his lip.

Daphne

Well have fun, I’ll be thinking of you.

Art

You need a ride tonight? I remember you saying your brother had the car.

Daphne had since told him that she had been sharing a car with her brother, Toby. It was actually a relief that he wasn’t going to have to murder another one of Daphne’s band mates. Toby, as it turned out, was going through a terrible break up and was using Daphne’s car to move his stuff back to their parent’s house. Art lived for the minutiae of Daphne’s life. In the tidbits of information she fed him, it was like he was a part of it. There were no questions asked of him, she never gave his state of dress a second look and she indulged his fantasies which kept him afloat. It kept him going. It kept the rage away, if only a little.

Daphne

Nah, I have plans tonight. Thanks though!

Hm. Art frowned. What plans did she have? She’d mentioned nothing about having plans this evening, Art resigned himself to another night in the armoire.

Art

Have fun.

Daphne didn’t reply to that, and Art scowled into the phone. He strummed his fingers across the screen and pursed his lips. God forbid he have a quiet day.

Art pulled up into the parking lot outside of The Speakeasy a little after midnight. He parked way to the back almost out of sight, far away from where Daphne and her entourage had parked. His view was obscured but he didn’t care, he could still feel her there.

Art remembered how often he used to sit and wait outside of bars. Sister Anne had taken a liking to a man named Jerry who tended at the local dive bar. The orphanage absolute forbid any of the kids going out after dark, but Sister Anne had the Reverend Mother wrapped around her finger and could near enough do as she pleased. So, Art found himself in the Reverend Mother’s car parked up outside Iron Steel, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. Sister Anne had been in there for hours and Art fretted over the state she would be in when she left. Last time she’d made him pull over on the interstate because she wanted him, which in theory was terribly exciting, but in practice- Art couldn’t shake the idea that he could be flattened by an artic wagon at any moment. Then there was Jerry to contend with. Art wasn’t jealous, at least he didn’t think he was; but he didn’t like the way Sister Anne fawned over him. There was something about him that rubbed Art the wrong way.

“Hey!” Sister Anne banged on his window. “Are you ready? It’s fucking cold out here.” Sister Anne stood wearing clothes she’d taken from the pile for the poor. She looked like a slut Art thought, and it made him uneasy. “Can you drop me and Jerry off and wait for us outside his place? We need to…have a conversation.” Jerry’s hand snaked around Sister Anne’s stomach and she leant into his touch giggling. Jerry kissed Sister Anne’s neck and grazed his teeth along it. Art’s stomach turned but he nodded his head anyway.

“You’re the best, kid.” Jerry pointed his finger like a gun at Art and pretended to shoot. Art just stared grimly back at him, he was old, well, older than his eighteen years anyway. Jerry was a portly man in his fifties, with a belly that stuck out from under his t-shirt. But he had shoulder length black hair and a lip ring, things that he knew that Sister Anne found attractive. He’d been a kind-of rock star back in the day, Sister Anne had said, he’d wondered whether she thought this would impress him. Instead it just made him laugh. Sister Anne didn’t like that.

Art waited as the pair climbed into the back seat. They were all over each other and Art scowled into the rearview mirror. Not that he wanted to trade places with him, honestly he wasn’t sure if he felt anything for her; or if it was convenience that brought him back to her bed. But he was tired, he had school in the morning and Father Michael would strike him with a switch if he was late again. Sister Anne’s squeals of pleasure were the soundtrack of his ride. Jerry huffed and puffed his way around fingering her with no concern for other present company and it made Art feel sick.

“So kid,” Jerry said after Sister Anne had finished. She rubbed his cock slowly over his jeans, and Art grimaced. “You work up at that orphanage or what?”

Art shook his head whilst he decided how he wanted to speak to him. Sister Anne beat him to it.

“God no, he’s been with us since he was twelve. Dead mom apparently.”

Art shot a shocked look at Sister Anne’s reflection, she hadn’t even looked up from kissing Jerry’s neck.

“Shit, kid. How old are you now?”

“Eighteen.” Art said through gritted teeth.

“Yeah,” Sister Anne sighed, “He’ll be leaving us at the end of next semester. Catholic charity only lasts until a kid finishes high school apparently.” Jerry laughed at that and pulled Sister Anne in for a kiss. Art could see it was all tongue and teeth. Christ. “Don’t feel sorry for him though,” Sister Anne continued once they’d finished, “This one’s got a hell of a mean streak. Father Michael has tried everything short of an exorcism to get the devil out of him.”

“Is that right?” Jerry asked bemused. Sister Anne pushed herself forward onto the seat and wrapped her arms around Art’s shoulders.

“Mhmm,” she confirmed. “I know for a fact that he’ll fuck anything that moves.” She nibbled at Art’s ear. Art’s breath caught in his throat, he struggled to keep his attention on the road.

“Good for you, son.” Jerry quipped, his hands on Sister Anne’s ass.

“Don’t call me son.” Art spat, though Jerry didn’t hear. He was too busy slapping and jigging the nun’s backside. She giggled, and moaned lightly right into Art’s ear.

“And I heard the Reverend Mother talking to Father Michael once, there’s people out there that think he killed his mom. Isn’t that crazy? It was in the news at the time.” Another moan. Art felt a fury build in his blood, it spread to every inch of his body. It was white hot and singed every sinew as it went. It blinded him, it deafened him, it rendered him unable to speak. “I always thought that he did it, he looks like the type, don’t you think?”

“Shit, I don’t know.” Jerry replied, he eyed Art warily. Art just stared blankly ahead, he was silently being consumed by this fury.

“What I’m saying is, do you not think that if a kid looked like he would kill his mom, he would look exactly like this?” Daphne stuck her tongue into Art’s ear, and brushed her hands down his chest.

“Leave the kid alone, Annie. He’s try’na drive.” Jerry levelled, he wore a look of concern that Art had seen once before. Lissie Fielder.

“Oh he’s fine,” Sister Anne said, “He knows what he is. What he’s good for.” She placed her hand around Art’s throat and squeezed. “Don’t you?”

Art slammed the breaks of the car and it came to a violent stop. Sister Anne was nearly thrown into his lap, but Jerry caught her just in time. Art threw open his door and flew around to the back, his hand in his back pocket and a look of grim determination set hard into his face. He pulled on the handle to the back passenger door, and was met with the alarmed faces of Sister Anne and Jerry. In his right hand he aimed the pistol he had taken from Father Michael’s desk drawer.

“Kid, no-!” Were Jerry’s last words as Art shot him between the eyes. Sister Anne screamed and ducked, but Art was faster. He fired every last round of the magazine into her. One after the other, unwaveringly, unflinchingly calm. His blood felt hot and there was a ringing in his ears he wasn’t sure was from the gunshots or the adrenaline. He dropped the gun on the ground and turned his back to the car and made off walking towards the orphanage. It wasn’t that he couldn’t bear to look at them, it wasn’t. He just couldn’t face another moment in that woman’s company. He was finished being there for her entertainment. He wasn’t a dancing clown.

“Are you stalking me?” Her bright voice carried over the din of his fury. Art turned his head slowly and was met by Daphne’s devastating smile. Her eyes were brilliant in the dimness of the light, with the wrinkles of a pure smile. She was smiling for him. He returned a polite smile of his own, and shook his head. “Oh,” Daphne replied clutching her coat around her chest. “Could have fooled me.” She giggled at her comment and looked past the van down the street. He wondered if she’d been drinking, as she swayed ever so slightly from foot to foot. Art followed her line of sight and then looked back to her. Who was she waiting for? “I don’t suppose you’ve seen my bassist? Lucas? He skipped out on us a while back, but text to ask to meet here tonight."

Art's face was blank. Blank whilst he processed the words, and blank with confusion. Lucas was most definitely dead, Art had seen to it. Unless ghosts could suddenly get a good deal with Verizon how-

Of course.

The Little Pale Girl had taken Lucas' phone. That slippery thing, what was she trying to orchestrate? A pit of unease once again bloomed in his chest. Art again shook his head and Daphne hummed in acknowledgment. He wet his lips and turned off the ignition. Reaching over to the passenger side door, he unlocked it and pushed it open. Daphne’s eyebrows raised in surprise as Art gestured for her to get in.

“No no,” she said, “I said I’d meet him here. Thanks though.”

Art rolled his eyes and mimed being cold, and then once again gestured for her to sit. He couldn’t have her dying of hypothermia. Not until he’d had a chance to fuck her anyway. No, that was brash. Not until he’d fucked her twice. Daphne looked back down the street in front, and then behind her. When she saw no sign of Lucas, she sighed and climbed into the van. Art turned the key and put the heating on max, he turned all of the directional blowers on to Daphne and grabbed her hand. It was like ice, her small hand. It wasn’t until he was holding the other that he realised exactly what he’d done. Art slowed in his rubbing, a purely innocent and slightly innocuous attempt to warm her hands, but he instantly cringed. He met her gaze slowly, but Daphne just looked bemused. “Thanks Mom.” She said with a wink. Art poked his tongue out at her, and placed his hands onto the steering wheel. It was this action that stopped him touching her again. He could still feel her on every part of his hands. Every cell that had connected with hers felt alive, like they sizzled under the surface of his skin. A banging on the hood sliced through Art’s thought with gusto. Three men hollered outside and banged their fists along the front of Art’s van. He screwed his face up in confusion and glanced at Daphne, she too looked concerned. He wound the window down a fraction.

“Hey look! It’s Pennywise!” One of the men said, he thrust his fingers into the gap Art had created and tried to push the window down. The other two men laughed and circled the van. “God, you are one ugly motherfucker. Can’t see you getting booked for many kiddie parties, ya sick fuck.” Art remained still. His eyes following the men outside. He had his black bag in the footwell behind him, he could get it and shoot these fuckers down in maybe twenty seconds flat, but what would he do with Daphne? “Alright Krusty, out of the van, empty your pockets. I want wallets, phones and jewellery.” When Art didn’t move, the man laughed and kicked his door. “What’s the matter? Got nothing to say? Balloon cat got your tongue?” Art’s eyes narrowed into slits.

“Art…” Daphne’s voice was barely a whisper. Her fingers reached out and she pulled gently on the thigh of Art’s costume. He barely felt it, barely even knew she was there as the fury built in his temples.

“I said out of the fucking van!” The man had managed to push the window down far enough to grab Art by the chest and pull him harshly until his face was mere inches from his own. Without losing a second, Art sunk his teeth into the man’s cheek. The man recoiled in horror, desperately trying to put pressure onto his cheek which now spurted with blood. The other two men froze for a moment before they raced to Art’s door. Art plunged his hand behind him and into his black bag, with a glance over to Daphne’s look of sheer terror; pushed open his door. The men were on him instantly, one had Art in a headlock while the other delivered two swift kicks to his groin. Art felt his body go rigid, as if to stave off the pain. He needed a moment, an opening; and just before he felt the third kick land, he acted. Pulling the trigger, he fired one shot into the foot of the man who restrained him and another into the thigh of the man who beat him. They fell to the ground like dominoes, one into the other. Art panted and aimed his gun at the pair, unable to decide who he would execute first.

“Art,”

Nothing. He would enjoy watching them try and crawl to safety, he would enjoy watching them lose strength with each passing second as they bled out.

“Art,” He felt a warmth around his midriff, he glanced down to see Daphne had wrapped both of her arms around him. She pressed her body into his and held on to him tightly. Art’s breath caught in his throat, as he closed his eyes against the sensation. He felt for her fingers and grasped them in his own, she squeezed hard and whispered again; “Art. Come on.” His right hand still full with his pistol lowered slowly, and the two men stilled. They watched as Art turned to face Daphne, his head lowered to hers. She held him in her embrace, her face lifted to meet his though her eyes betrayed a concern where Art expected to find fear. Her chest heaved with the exertion, and Art looked at her with adoration. No one had gotten this close to him in a long time, no one had held him in a long fucking time. Art gently placed his cheek onto the top of Daphne’s head and returned her embrace. His arms wound their way around her frame and he held her, as she held him.

“I want to go home.” Came her muffled voice after a while. Art wasn’t sure how long they had stayed joined, but the would-be-assailants had long gone, leaving nothing but a trail of blood behind them. He pulled away from her slightly to survey her face, her eyes were bloodshot and her lip trembled. Art’s brow furrowed, but he nodded nonetheless. Taking her by the hand, he led her back to the van.

“My sister is non verbal too,” Daphne said quietly. She looked down at her hands, fiddling with a lighter. They’d driven in silence, which wasn’t out of the ordinary for him- but Daphne had merely chainsmoked the entire way back to her appartement. She didn’t utter a word, just stared out of the window and fought back tears. Art had a troubled feeling in his chest. It wasn’t guilt, at least he didn’t think so- but he had a foul taste in his mouth seeing her like this. When he pulled up outside, Daphne made no attempt to get out of the van, just lit another cigarette instead. Art didn’t dare to move, he continued to stare straight ahead. “In like, the 25 years she’s been alive, I think I’ve heard her say six words. Two of those being ‘fuck’ and ‘off’,” she chuckled sadly. Art chanced a glance at her, his resolve softening. The blonde girl from the picture. “She’s super intense,” she said, looking directly into his face, and he wondered whether maybe she wasn’t just talking about her sister. “But she’s the best. Nobody on the planet makes me laugh like she does. I love her so goddamn much,” Daphne paused again, eyeing Art’s costume. “And back in the city, I used to work at this centre that like, supported kids with additional needs. And there was this kid who was obsessed with Anne Boleyn. And he made this almost button replica of her coronation outfit from all these letters and diary entries that survived, right? And he puts like, a 100 hours into this thing, and I’m thinking it’s got to be for a school project or something, but it turns out, he just wanted to wear it. And he would wear it when I’d take him to Target, or like, to the park. And I just thought that was bitchin’. You know? He didn’t care what anybody thought of him.” She raked a hand through her hair, Art noticed her hand still trembled. “I used to feel so fucking proud of this kid, just doing whatever he wanted, expressing himself however he wanted. I used to wish that I could be like that.” It seemed that Daphne was talking more to herself than to Art, she wore a look that Art couldn’t place. Fear, he was used to. Disgust? Got it. Lust even, he could recognise. But with this thousand yard stare she had unsettled him. He longed to say something to her, to reassure her. He wondered whether maybe she was simply in shock and felt like she needed to fill the silence. Or if she really needed to tell him about this kid. It saddened him.

Suddenly, she reached over and grasped hold of his hand.

“What I’m saying is Art, I see you. And I hear you. And I’m thankful you were here tonight.” Art’s heart thundered in his chest. His mouth was dry, his palms were sweaty. She laced her fingers with his and stroked her thumb over his knuckles. Art shuddered at the touch, so innocent and yet so intimate. She brought their hands to her mouth and placed a gentle kiss to his fingers, before releasing them. Daphne collected her things and opened the van door, but Art lunged forward and grasped her by the shoulder. He couldn’t let her leave, not like this, no, he had to do something, he had to-

Daphne whirled around at the touch, and Art placed his palms up imploring her to wait. He pulled his hat from his head, and tugged at the fabric headpiece. It came away and Art began to claw at his mask, he peeled it from his skin in sections and winced as particularly tight bits pulled away. He couldn’t explain this feeling in his chest, she said she saw him, that she heard him, but what did that mean? She saw a clown, a clown that just shot two people and took a literal bite out of another. What the fuck is she thinking? What is he thinking? Art’s fingers trembled and faltered with the pieces of latex. Daphne placed her hands over Art’s face, covering up the pieces of exposed skin.

“Shh, stop.” She whispered. “No, you don’t have to.” Art struggled to get purchase on the latex, his fingers felt numb. “Art, stop it. You don’t- you don’t have to do that.” Art ignored her still, until he managed to pull the largest piece from his chin. Daphne dropped her hands and looked at him, truly looked at him. She traced a finger from his ear, along his jaw to just under his mouth. Art closed his eyes.

“You’re beautiful.” Was all she said. Art couldn’t look at her. It seemed absurd to him that she, of all people was calling him beautiful. Instead, he placed a hand just behind her ear and deftly turned her head to the side. Art could hear nothing but his heartbeat in his ears as he leaned forward and gave her cheek a chaste kiss. He hoped she understood how important that was. How he couldn’t articulate himself in any other way. How he wanted to kiss her everywhere but he would settle for her cheek. He hoped she noticed how his hands trembled and his breath was uneven, how he couldn’t physically tell her how he felt but he was so desperate for her to know. How he didn’t kill those men tonight, for her. She asked him not to and he listened. No one had ever been able to get through to him, not once. But she did. She needed to know that.

“Goodnight, Art.” She was impossibly close, he could taste her. Art nodded and settled back into his seat, watching as Daphne walked up the steps to her apartment. She didn’t look back, she didn’t need to- but Art watched. He watched her bedroom window and waited for the light to flick on. Then he watched and waited for it to go off again. Only after an hour of sitting in this affected silence did he turn the key in the ignition. He slowly pulled out into the road and made his way home. He was tired.

#art the clown x oc #art the clown #art the clown x sienna #art the clown x reader #art the clown x you #terrifier #art the clown fanfic #terrifier fanfiction

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bellshells · 14 days ago

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Papa V Perpetua London O2, 19th April 2025

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bellshells · 15 days ago

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bellshells · 15 days ago

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I’ll be crying in a corner if anyone needs me

HELLO

Just wanted to pop in and say how very fucking dare you write the most incredible, filthy, obscene SUPERB Art alphabet.

My jaw? dropped.

My wig? snatched.

I am genuinely in awe of your storytelling, you’ve captured such an absurd human-yet-inhuman in Art and I just had to tell you how much I loved it.

Please tell me there is more to come because I cannot and will not cope if there isn’t.

Okay thank you bye xox

OH. MY. GOD.

You’re not gonna believe this… but you are my FAVOURITE Art fanfictioner... I mean it.

This is the equivalent of me talking to Shakespeare right now HAHAHA.

When I saw that you not only liked my post, but followed me and reblogged me on your blog… that blog I’ve visited SO many times out of pure need… I nearly cried. (My eyes definitely got shiny.)

And then when I saw you messaged me… wow. This is every fanfictioner’s dream come true HAHAHA.

“A Promise of Grim Death” is my all-time favorite Art fanfic. I’ve read so many—all kinds (except non-con)—and I can confidently say yours is the best...

It’s only one chapter (TRAGICALLY), but it has everything, absolutely everything I love.

Let me take this chance to say all the things I never put in the comments:

I adore how you portrayed Art. His way of interacting with Sienna, how he approached the singer, his thoughts, his actions, the way he looked at her… it was perfect. Exactly the kind of Art I’m obsessed with.

And those glimpses into his past? Absolutely brilliant. So intriguing. I was dying to know more.

And that ending… hehehe. Normally, I roll my eyes when fanfictioners throw in a random nsfw scene right at the end (you can tell it’s there just to please the crowd). But with yours, it felt completely natural. It wasn’t forced at all… it was human, it made sense, and it was so in-character. On top of that, the way you explored Art’s doubts and insecurities in his mind? Chills. Literal chills.

As for my alphabet, well... it makes total sense that you loved it HAHAHA. Because there’s SO MUCH OF YOU in me. You were a huge inspiration for me.

This alphabet wouldn’t exist without you… This is literally your fault HAHAHA. You created me—you created this monster I’ve become HAHAHA.

*My other reference—for the curious souls who want to know more about my writing style… is the series “The Sweetest Vice” by “The Queen of Mean” on fanfiction.net. It’s a Joker trilogy (from the Joker to Art… clearly I have a type and I’m not getting any better hahaha). It’s a fanfic from 2010. That writer will probably never know how much I loved her trilogy or how deeply it inspired my current work. It’s absolutely fascinating; and if you read it, you’ll find a lot of her in me. That’s the kind of writing I aspire to follow.*

And I don’t know if you were asking whether there will be more alphabet content or just more Art content in general. In either case… the answer is YES.

I might do a sfw alphabet at some point (though I need to rest from the whole alphabet grind).

And actually, I’m currently working on a reader request and… oh my god… it’s becoming the most erotic, bloody, lustful and evil thing I’ve ever written. I’m 5,000 words deep into pure fire and gasoline—and you know that can only lead to an explosion.

Now, to wrap this up… let me finally ask the question I’ve been carrying with me ever since I read “A Promise of Grim Death”…

Will there be a part 2? 👀

And no pressure at all...

(I’ve seen you’re writing ACOTAR stuff—I haven’t read ACOTAR, but I highly encourage you to keep blessing the world with your masterful writing.)

...but nothing would make me happier.

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bellshells · 18 days ago

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Lads go back and read this from A-I if you haven’t already. Honestly treat yourselves.

NSFW ARTphabet Headcanon: The Sacred Clown Porn Manuscript (R-Z)

Greetings, sinners and scholars!

This is the final part of the NSFW ARTphabet and I bring it to you with the reverence it truly deserves.

It's my absolute favorite. It includes my favorite letter (W), the lines I had the most fun writing, plus gore, lots of unhinged humor, romantic nonsense (essential, obviously)… and sex—he kind that makes you scream to the heavens and foam at the mouth.

In this final chapter we’ve got: homemade porn videos, the FBI, perpetual erection curses, sleep paralysis, first-hand ARTisanal milk, gumm pass (I’ll just say it could’ve been worse—and you do not want the extended cut), virginity, scorpion-tail dicks, and an ending so blasphemously tender you’ll forget just how much degeneracy you consumed and enjoyed (because that's just how it is with Art ).

*And give me some credit—yes, I made the gif myself because I needed that exact movie scene and none of the existing ones captured the vision.*

Part 1 (A-I):

https://www.tumblr.com/lrithill/780285284765089792/nsfw-artphabet-headcanon-the-sacred-clown-porn?source=share

Part 2 (J-Q):

https://www.tumblr.com/lrithill/780916090799783936/nsfw-artphabet-headcanon-the-sacred-clown-porn?source=share

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Absolutely.

Art is more than willing to explore the limits of pleasure—to him, anything goes, as long as it brings satisfaction. To him or to his partner.

I think this entire ARTphabet has made it painfully clear what kinds of risks Art is willing to take:

Sex in public? Yes.

Toys? Yes.

Kinks? Yes.

BDSM? Yes.

Morally questionable practices? Absolutely.

Role changing? He wants to— but you’ll have to get him drunk to admit it. (Though he might let it slip eventually.)

Piss play? Yes.

Cannibalism? Yes.

Necrophilia? Yes.

But here’s a particularly hilarious kind of risk Art would totally be down for: Considering he’s not just a killer, but one of the most dangerous men on Earth, and the electric chair is practically waiting for him with open arms…

There’s one risk that really gets his blood pumping.

Recording himself.

On video.

While fucking you.

And uploading it to every porn site in existence.

He’s obsessed with the idea that the only clue Miles County authorities have to work with is a three-hour porno (minimum) where he does the filthiest shit imaginable to you.

Art’s addicted to risk—but not just any risk.

What turns him on is the idea of being seen, but never caught.

Even more than that—he gets off on playing with the people trying to catch him.

That’s why filming himself fucking you—a tape where he breaks you, devours you, fills you, worships you, degrades you, loves you, ruins you—drives him insane.

Almost as insane as Interpol’s about to get.

He imagines his sex tape projected inside every precinct in Miles.

On big screens.

In PowerPoint presentations.

In university lectures on criminal profiling.

All in a desperate attempt to find anything.

They’d have to swallow—literally—a freakshow of relentless, brutal, romantic porn, analyzing it frame by frame…FOR NOTHING.

Because Art would make sure your identity is perfectly censored.

Your voice? Distorted.

The setting? Unrecognizable.

No sign of your home—just some dark, Deep Web-style basement.

He wants every sexual forensic analyst watching it, screenshotting, zooming, taking notes, frowning in frustration (or maybe… arousal).

He wants them to study it like it’s the Holy Grail of underground porn.

And if any of his enemies get hard watching it? Even better.

Let them jerk off knowing they’ll never catch him.

Let them know he’s a killer—but also the best fuck of their lives, without even touching them.

(And yes, he would definitely reply to every comment on the video.)

LOCATION: Underground Office of the Special Tracking Unit (S.T.U.), 02:41 AM.

The room is dim, lit only by the cold blue glow of the giant screen where the footage plays on loop.

There’s stale coffee, half-smoked cigarettes, and an air thick with shared trauma.

Minute 38:07

“I swear, if I see one more POV shot of that guy eating that girl’s ass like he’s searching for a secret passage, I quit.” The chief’s smoking half a cigarette—his third in a row. His eyes are glassy, and his left eyebrow’s twitching.

“Should I skip ahead?” says another agent—rookie. Nervous.

His finger hovers dangerously close to the “skip 10 sec” button.

“No, wait. He might change angles.” says the agent closest to the screen, his face like he hasn’t blinked in all 38 minutes. He clears his throat, trying to justify himself. “There could be something written on the wall, I dunno...” He sips his coffee with shaky hands.

Minute 56:45

“You think that’s his girlfriend or a hostage?” the rookie asks, trying to sound professional.

“Has to be the girlfriend. She’s sucking him off like she owes him rent and driving points.”

Suddenly, the angle shifts.

Art moves the camera away from his partner and straps it to her head.

Now we see it all from your point of view: an upward shot of him moaning, licking his lips, looking like a Greek god with a praise kink and zero shame—obscene, erotic, powerful.

“He’s looking straight at us like he’s saying, ‘Are you connecting the dots, detectives?’” someone murmurs.

“What I’m connecting is that this guy’s narcissism has more layers than a Chernobyl onion.”

Art strokes the camera—slowly. Like it’s a puppy. He smiles, tenderly.

“He’s making us his bitches,” says a voice—raspy, almost defeated.

“Yeah. And the worst part is… it’s working,” adds another, sitting down cross-legged on the chair.

Art keeps moaning, loving every second of the blowjob.

Then, without warning, he lifts the camera and points it directly at his face.

He smiles. Winks.

And starts making out with the lens.

His tongue drags across the glass, fogging it up.

They hear everything.

The kisses. Your moans. The wet sounds. Life falling apart—in HD.

A heavy silence falls over the room.

“I’ve been married 15 years, and no one’s ever kissed me like that,” whispers the lead agent.

“I can see all his molars…”

“Quick, someone get forensics to make a mold of his teeth!” shouts another, jumping to his feet.

“Might match the bite marks.”

“We’ve got enough bite marks from this guy to host a dental exhibition…and he knows it. At this point, we know his mouth well enough to get him custom braces ”.

Minute 1:34:24

“There! There!” shouts one agent, freezing the image and pointing with a laser pointer.

The camera is focused on Art’s ass.

Zoom.

A tattoo.

“What does that say…?” someone leans closer.

“Fuck the police.”

Silence.

“Either he did that with a fork, or he Sharpied it during an orgasm.”

“You think it has a double meaning?”

“There’s a triple meaning. And that is illegal in five countries.”

Minute 2:49:12

The screen now shows Art pissing directly onto the camera. A golden stream hits the lens dead-on.

“I don’t get paid enough for this…” one agent facepalms and sips his cold coffee.

“We’re gonna have to rewatch it… just in case.”

“I’m docking your pay.”

Memory Log

File 69 — Classified Evidence

Viewed 37 times by agents. No useful leads.

One agent requested a copy of the analyzed footage: He was terminated.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Art must be under some kind of perpetual erection curse, because dear God…

For him, exhaustion is a kink.

He sees you trembling, gasping, on the verge of passing out—and gets excited like a kid opening his Christmas present.

“Look what we did. One more round?” he thinks, already licking his lips.

And of course, you say no—you can’t take any more. But he’s already on top of you.

Again.

He’ll fuck you until you fall asleep from pure exhaustion—until your brain taps out and sends you straight into the "Brothel Coma", as he lovingly calls it—where he becomes your personal sexy sleep paralysis demon.

Art is insatiable.

Excessive.

Intense.

Playful.

When you finally go to bed to sleep—ha. That’s cute.

There are many, many stages to get through before sleep even dares to show up.

He crawls over you, kisses you like a starved man. He can’t help himself. He grinds his erection against you without shame— his way of saying, ‘I need you’, while holding you tight, devouring your mouth.

And when you’re done—he cuddles you.

Tries to be sweet, so you can drift off after the orgasm… But he can’t resist.

He tries to hold back—but the craving devours him.

His soft caresses turn possessive.

His affectionate kisses shift into hungry bites—his tongue claims your mouth, your neck, your ears…

He loves eating your ears. He knows it drives you wild, so he never misses the chance to leave you with not a drop of earwax left.

It’s not his fault—you turn him on too much.

Those gentle rocking motions meant to lull you like a baby? Yeah. They end in thrusts.

And you... can’t stop this train.

There’s no point in trying.

Soon enough, he’s got you right where he wants you. And he fucks you like his life depends on it.

He adores seeing you wrecked: Hair a mess, drool dripping from the corner of your mouth, eyes rolled back, tits bouncing with every thrust—it makes his mouth water.

And if you pass out at some point? He doesn’t care.

He’ll keep going like you’re his own sex doll.

And that? That turns him on even more.

Having you at his mercy all night, knowing you won’t even be able to walk in the morning…

You make him the happiest man on the planet.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Art loves toys.

He doesn’t just buy them—that would be far too normal. He customizes them to his image.

He builds them. They’re part of his personal collection of instruments…and oh, what a collection.

One of his favorites is a retractable drill.

Originally, he made it as a weapon—and yes, he used it as such. It was hilarious turning that poor guy into SpongeBob.

But then he realized something glorious: he could attach all kinds of things to the drill bit. Wicked things like… dildos.

He’ll put you on the bed, tied up—of course—and load up the drill with a monster cock, or whichever dildo you like best—Art always wants to see you enjoy yourself.

And then he’ll literally drill your pussy.

That bit spins at inhuman speeds, without getting tired, without complaining—because the one doing the complaining is you, sweetheart.

Art loves watching you become a screaming mess under that delicious torment.

The speed creates an optical illusion—it looks like the dildo’s not moving, but it’s going full throttle.

The vibrations ripple through your body—like he plugged you into a high-voltage power line.

And he’s just there, all comfy, holding the drill like he’s mounting a shelf.

Sometimes he goes further: slides a vibrator deep into your ass. Or presses a Hitachi wand against your clit, giving you triple stimulation with zero mercy.

And when you cum? Oh lord.

You’re a fountain.

“Squirter: Hydro Pump!” as Ash Ketchup would say.

You leave Art—who’s behind you—soaked like he just went down a waterslide, like he came straight out of the Amazon, like he rehearsed Singing in the Rain with actual stormwater.

He’s gonna need a canoe to exit the room.

And still—he won’t remove a single toy until you’re on the verge of death by dehydration.

You’ll pee the bed more than once from the overstimulation, and Art’s face will be nothing but euphoria.

He adores you.

You’re his masterpiece.

No doubt.

But not all the toys are for you… no no.

Though Art’s a bit reserved about it, every now and then—he treats himself to a little fun.

Once, on a farm, he found a cow milking machine.

And oh… that thing had too much potential to ignore.

He took it.

Cleaned it.

Added speed settings and a stop command.

And then he went on an adventure.

He loves being your little cow—being milked until he’s completely dry.

All his milk, straight into your mouth…or wherever you want it.

He approaches you, acting all cocky—biting his lip, pretending not to beg… but leaking like a faucet.

The only thing missing is a moo.

“I won’t stop ‘til I get cream, my deluxe dairy cow,” you whisper as the machine sucks the demons out of him by the dick. “Maybe we can make cheese out of you. I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing it for science.”

And he nods.

Of course he nods.

For science.

For love.

For cheese.

He’s already visualizing the insane business you’re about to start. The branding. The jars with his face on them: “Art’s Premium Milk – Straight from the Source.”

You know him.

He’s gonna patent it.

Slogan: “You can’t make clown café… without clown.”

Brand: ARTesanak Milk & Cheese S.O.S. Hand-milked. Machine-milked. Fully blessed.

Ad campaign: Art riding a cow like a sensual rodeo star, wearing a cow-print apron, ass out, sweating like he… just got off a long, hard shift.

100% Organic.

0% Shame.

“Perfect to pair with a juicy steak. Which is, definitely… not a cow steak”

Fine print: Nothing is from cow.

This is his golden goose—Wait. WAIT. Don’t give him more ideas, please.

Customer Reviews:

James (45, frequent buyer, also frequent victim):⭐⭐⭐

"I had sleep paralysis for 36 hours.

I rode the side effects—I didn’t think the ‘Brothel Coma’ was meant literally. They did things to me during those 36 hours… I think I almost found the secret formula.

My wife left me days later—after I bought 3 batches of cheese.

The worst part isn’t that she left… it’s that she took the cheese."

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He drives you insane.

He’s a certified bastard.

It doesn’t matter how much you’re trembling, begging, whimpering, falling apart… Art just does whatever the fuck he wants.

Always.

You’ve been lying there for minutes—hours? Years?—naked, soaked, legs wide open, muscles twitching on the verge of collapse.

And he’s between your thighs, admiring you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen—which you are—but the hatred in your eyes only makes you more charming to him.

He leans close to your clit… and breathes on it.

Warm.

Like he’s fogging up glasses.

He slides his tongue near it—so close…too close. Every nerve screams to push your hips into his face—but you know better. If you move without permission…he’ll make you regret it.

He laughs at you, lifting his head, resting his chin on his interlaced fingers like a sweet little schoolboy—as if what he’s doing is perfectly reasonable, and not simultaneously physical and psychological torture.

He kisses your tits—not as eager as usual, but just enough to give you hope.

Then he trails kisses down your belly, carving a path down your trembling skin.

He’s getting closer.

Closer to your aching, desperate center.

You shut your eyes, bracing for those kisses to finally land where you need them most—

And just when it seems like he’s going to do it…

He fakes you out.

His kisses pass right by your clit, almost waving goodbye to it mid-flight—like it’s a stranger to him...

So disrespectful.

And he keeps going…all the way down…to your knee.

And he makes out with your knee.

Your. Fucking. Knee.

He kisses your knee exactly the way you want him to eat your pussy.

He even massages your calf with one hand—like he suddenly has a master’s degree in erogenous zones of latex balloons.

You feel him smile against your knee.

That bastard.

“You want me to beg, don’t you?” you growl through your teeth. “It’s not enough to see me writhing, arched, teary-eyed, huh?”

Art makes puppy eyes, then gives you the “just a little” finger gesture—index and thumb close together—inviting your best performance. A fast-track humiliation.

“I’ve been such a good girl… I earned it… please, Art… I need you inside me…” you plead, voice soaked in desperate, filthy sweetness.

He nods, satisfied. Delighted by your prayer. He does the little Spider-Man finger move—he knows that drives you wild.

And he gives you exactly what you asked for.

He puts two fingers inside you.

And leaves them there.

Like he’s taking your fucking temperature.

He looks at you with that smug grin, as if to say:

“You like that? You think you’re gonna cum now?”

You grunt.

Groan.

Pray.

You know you’re gonna be here a long time.

Sometimes, he uses other forms of torture—on days when he’s feeling especially cruel.

Like fucking you agonizingly slow—like a grandpa who just rose from his wheelchair—from the grave, even—just to have one last fuck.

Or when he turns into a statue right at your climax.

Two seconds away from touching the sky…

He stops.

Stops.

And stares at you.

Like he’s just seen the Virgin Mary appear in front of him.

Like he’s witnessing a miracle.

He watches the smile fade from your lips.

Watches the light leave your eyes.

Feels your walls stop contracting.

And then… he kisses you. Deep. Slow. Damned.

Like he doesn’t know your whole body is about to detonate.

He kisses you with genuine love. Because he’s in love. Not with you…

But with your suffering.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Uhh… he’s mute.

But that doesn’t mean he’s quiet.

He breathes.

And with every thrust, his breathing changes: he sighs , exhales , sucks air through his teeth, pants with a heaving chest, sweating.

Every sound his body makes escapes him like he just can’t hold it in.

He’s incredibly expressive. He doesn’t need words. His body says everything.

Mouth parted.

Eyes rolling back.

Lips bitten in desperation.

Brows furrowed—knit together with pleasure.

You may not hear him moan… but you know he’s screaming on the inside.

And he doesn’t try to hide it.

Quite the opposite—he wants you to know.

He wants you to see how good you make him feel. To understand that you’re driving him mad, too.

He kisses you.

And in that kiss, two moans collide—soundless, but overwhelming.

Silence and hunger crash together.

He pulls back just enough, lips still brushing yours—breathing into your mouth, both of you trembling, tongues timidly seeking one another, sliding forward to taste, to tangle.

A frenzy of passion.

A symphony of bodies that don’t need to speak to say everything.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Back in his teenage years, Art never had much luck with girls—or boys. He didn’t know how to flirt. He didn’t understand the rules.

And people found him… off.

Even though he was far from the creature he is now, he already felt like a misfit.

Often—on the schoolyard, or just walking down the street—he’d stop and stare at young couples kissing, discovering each other for the first time.

And there was one kind of kiss that fascinated him in particular: the gum pass.

There was something about it that stirred something deep in his chest. Watching two wet, eager tongues share a piece of sweet gum—a mix of lust and innocence that left him entranced.

Of course, he grew up… and never got to try it.

Until now.

But his tastes have changed.

Gum doesn’t do it for him anymore. He needs something more… intense.

If you’re with him—and you happen to witness a murder up close—you’ll see him approach the poor bastard.

He plucks out an eye—preferably while they’re still breathing. Right at the end.

He slips it into his mouth. Rolls it on his tongue.

It’s already slippery, but he soaks it in saliva, savors it like it’s a candy.

And then he kisses you.

And he passes you the eye.

You take it in—half disgusted, half laughing. It’s soft. Fibrous. Mucousy. With a hint of metal.

You try to pass it back, but he refuses —slowly pushing it back… deeper into your mouth, like it belongs there… using nothing but his tongue. He wants it to melt into you.

To swim in your warmth.

It turns him on beyond belief.

The optic nerve brushes your tongue, tickles between your teeth, leaves a little twitch of nerves behind.

You make him feel like a teenager again—but better in every possible way.

This is his version of a first kiss. And for so long, it’s what he wanted.

Art doesn’t make a sound, but his breath says everything. He’s fully turned on. He can’t stop.

You feel it in the way he bites your lower lip.

In his closed eyes, losing himself in the moment.

In the hard length already pressing between your legs.

A chill runs down your spine—a pull so visceral you don’t know if it’s from disgust or desire, but it blends perfectly with the heat burning between your thighs.

Art feels it too.

You can see it in the way he grinds against you—hard, pulsing, lost in this sick , perfect moment.

He doesn’t need words—his hands tell you everything.

He grabs your jaw with blood-stained fingers—fresh blood still dripping down his forearms—holding you close, like he never wants this kiss to end.

His tongue keeps searching for yours, never stopping its dance around the eye still sliding between your mouths.

It’s repulsive.

It’s delicious.

It’s perfect.

It’s so intimate—you feel like virgins.

Without warning, he slams you against the wall—his weight crushing you, his hands gripping your hips, tracing every curve like he’s discovering you for the first time.

He hikes your skirt up, quick and clumsy from how wrecked with need he is.

He doesn’t take your panties off. Just pushes them aside. That’s all he needs.

And when he enters you—it’s all at once.

With the kind of force that screams: “I needed this.”

He fucks you like he’s been waiting years.

And maybe… he has.

He moans silently, and you feel him vibrate inside you.

Your walls tighten, and you both know this won’t last long.

You’re melting into a kiss that feels like your first—like the first time either of you ever knew what it meant to burn for someone.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

His cock is just as dangerous as the rest of him.

About eight inches of mass destruction.

Twenty centimeters of punishment and reward.

And here’s something you should know: he doesn’t wear underwear.

Ever.

Nobody knows what he has against briefs…but there he goes, ding-a-linging around, balls swinging, heavy and unrestrained.

Sometimes you wonder how he manages to go "full commando" under that suit. He’s risking someone grabbing his balls and squeezing.

Maybe that turns him on. Nobody knows for sure.

(He probably does. And he enjoys the risk.)

As for color?

Same as the rest of him—snow-white.

Also, he's Team shower.

Which means he’s always on full display—he doesn’t need to get hard to intimidate. That thing hangs like it’s ready for war 24/7.

Art loves to brag about his big dick.

And of course, he adores nudity.

When you first met him, you nearly fell backward the first time you saw him naked.

There he was—completely, unapologetically bare-assed —watching TV like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Legs spread wide, his arms thrown over the backrest, cock dangling with absolute impunity.

So casual. So chill. So offensively at ease with himself.

And you just stood there, staring—not sure whether to scream, scold him, kick him out, embrace his nudist lifestyle, sit beside him…

Sit on him?

And it’s not just the size.

Thick. Curved. Veiny. Intimidating.

Built to hit all the right spots—and the wrong ones.

Especially the wrong ones. The ones you feel the most. The ones he loves the most.

Made—whether he likes it or not—to give pleasure.

Sometimes, it actually pisses him off.

“Why can’t I have a venomous scorpion tail for a cock?” he’s thought more than once.

That would be fun, he thinks—using it to stab people. He’s spent plenty of time fantasizing about it, laughing to himself at the possibilities.

But then he remembers how good it feels to impale you.

He loves watching you open up for him, watching himself disappear inside you, inch by inch, slowly.

He knows how deep he goes—all the way to your navel.

Like he’s rearranging your guts to make space, or like they move aside just for him.

And what obsesses him most is that moment he’s inside you…watching you struggle to take it.

He feels your body adjust—your pussy clenching, trying to accommodate that massive, unmovable object.

The look on your face.

Brows furrowed.

Eyes squeezed shut.

Lip between your teeth.

Hands gripping the sheets.

Your breath hitching.

He watches you with drool on his chin—dying to fuck you into heaven… or hell.

“Wait, Art…” you beg, trembling. “I’m trying to fit you in…”

And just when it seems like you’re managing—when you finally take a breath—

BAM.

He thrusts the rest in.

All the way.

Until you feel his balls smack your ass.

The bastard was holding back the last few inches for the end.

And he laughs when you freeze—mouth open, eyes unfocused—like you’re genuinely afraid he might… fuck your heart.

(He already fucked your brain, that much is certain.)

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

In his teenage years and early youth, he was… normal.

Or at least, what you’d expect from someone his age. He had a sex drive, fantasies, curiosity (he was a weirdo tough).

But as he grew older, and started to understand his true feelings toward people, all of that began to dim.

And once he became a killer, his sexual desire nearly vanished altogether.

Only a few fetishes remained—dark, extreme ones—like necrophilia, piquerism... But sex with a living human being? The idea of a relationship? That felt alien.

He was beyond that.

The only thing that truly gave him pleasure… was killing.

Still, he always knew how to have fun with his victims.

He understood how uncomfortable it is when a stranger tries to flirt with you—and he learned to weaponize that.

He didn’t mind kissing someone, holding hands, even dancing.

But it was never about desire.

It was about amusement. Mockery. Control. A twisted little manipulation game.

He’d play nice—just enough to lower your guard—right before showing you how deep the horror really goes.

Until you came into his life.

He was in a weakened state, vulnerable.

So he figured he’d use you—crash at your place, eat, recover…

You weren’t annoying.

You didn’t run.

You didn’t hide.

You didn’t question him.

He tried to fit you into the role of a tool, a toy, a service—but for some reason, you didn’t quite belong in any of those boxes.

And that cracked something open inside his mind—Uncomfortable. Rotten. Irresistible.

He’d stare at you, trying to figure you out…and you’d stare right back.

He wanted to see fear in your eyes—but what he found instead was… humanity?

He saw his own reflection in your pupils. And suddenly, he looked like… someone?

You didn’t see him as a monster.

You looked at him like he was your friend, or something.

It was unbearable.

Unacceptable.

A waking nightmare.

Until one night, he had a real one.

You, touching him with gentleness.

You, holding his dirty hands.

You, kissing his bloodied mouth.

You, moaning his name while he fucked you—not as punishment, not as part of the game. As if you wanted him.

He woke up tense, panting, sweating like a pig.

And hard. Like an idiot.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, he touched himself thinking of a real woman—not for fun.

Not for mockery.

But because he actually needed it.

And he imagined you watching him.

Slipping under the sheets, brushing his hand away to touch him yourself.

And worse—he wanted you to touch yourself thinking of him.

For days, he hated himself for it.

He thought about killing you. Torturing you. Burning you. Tearing you apart.

But he couldn’t.

For reasons that terrified him more than anything—he never could.

And his sex drive began to grow. Day by day.

Every time he saw you. Every accidental touch, every shared meal, every nap, every smile…

He wanted you.

And he hated himself for it.

And when he finally took you—when he trembled inside you—he made sure that your thirst for him matched his own.

He’d like to think it did.

But deep down, he knows it’s impossible.

No one could ever want anything as much as he wants you.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Art doesn’t need much sleep. He’s restless. Hyperactive. He needs to stay in motion—keep his mind occupied.

Thinking. Creating. Destroying.

But after sex… It’s like flipping a switch inside his brain.

Blackout.

His eyes start to close. He tries to fight it, but he can’t.

His body craves a break—just a moment of peace, a pause from the chaos that consumes him.

A little refuge.

So he curls up next to you. He finds you. He settles in—and kisses you…until he falls asleep.

He needs your naked body against his, your warmth, your fingers tracing him softly.

Sometimes it’s spooning—he doesn’t care who’s big spoon.

Sometimes it’s him on his back, with your head on his chest.

And sometimes, he’s completely sprawled over you—using you as a mattress.

His forehead rests against the crook of your neck, arms and legs wrapped around you like a serpent, refusing to let go.

But then there are times he doesn’t sleep.

He just lies there, staring at you.

Not in a psychotic way—well… maybe a little—but more like adoration.

You, so full of him—so filled with his cum, his venom, his madness—, so his. And yet… at peace.

And in that moment, he knows—without a doubt:

He didn’t regret not killing you. Not for a second.

He wants you by his side. Forever.

Even fully aware of what that entails

But when he does fall asleep beside you, you can't help but whisper all the things you love about him.

You know he adores your voice. And even more, he adores hearing what you have to say.

“Have I ever told you all the things I like about you?”

“You’re funny. You always make me laugh with those hand gestures and faces only you can make.”

“You’re clever. You always find a solution when I feel overwhelmed—even if… sometimes they’re a little drastic.”

“You’re delicate. You do horrible things… but you touch me like you’re afraid to break me.”

“You’re patient. You fight so hard to hold yourself back, even when it tears you apart.”

“You’re innocent. When you tilt your head, like you're trying to understand something you can only feel.”

“You’re attentive. You don’t say anything… but somehow, you always let me know everything.”

“You’re sweet. When you hold me like you never want to let go.”

“You’re naughty. You get turned on by things no one else would.”

“You’re honest. You've never sent me mixed signals.”

“You’re romantic. In your own bizarre, beautiful way.”

“You’re poetic. A blend of art and chaos.”

“You’re weird. But so am I.”

“You're one of a kind.”

You pause. He breathes deeply, slower—as if your words are caressing him.

“I like you, Art. All of you. Exactly as you are. You make me happy.”

Thank you for reading all the way to the end.

If you’ve made it through all three parts… you must be a true masochist and honestly, I fear you.

And if you liked, commented or rebloged—you're in my heart forever (no escape).

I’ve seen those wholesome SFW alphabets going around… NO.

I won’t do it…

(…unless?)

After this unhinged amount of porn, please expect my next fanfic to be soft, emotional, cute, gentle, pretty, with fireworks and music...

I need to detox, please… I...

I NEED THERAPY, FOR GOD'S SAKE.

Part 1 (A-I):

https://www.tumblr.com/lrithill/780285284765089792/nsfw-artphabet-headcanon-the-sacred-clown-porn?source=share

Part 2 (J-Q):

https://www.tumblr.com/lrithill/780916090799783936/nsfw-artphabet-headcanon-the-sacred-clown-porn?source=share

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bellshells · 18 days ago

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TERRIFIER 2 damien leone, 2022

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bellshells · 18 days ago

Text

Terrifier (2016) (Art The Clown)

David Howard Thornton as Art The Clown

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bellshells · 20 days ago

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(sighing dreamily) so there's this old man

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bellshells · 1 month ago

Note

I just finished ‘From Grace’ and normally I’m too shy to come and send asks or comment but I absolutely had to tell you that it was the most beautifully written fic I’ve ever read. Seriously, the pacing, the flow of the plot, the characterizations, the details. The way I hung onto every word. I was so captivated with this fic and I can’t wait to dive into your blog.

This was actually the first time I’ve stumbled across you and I’m just enamored and needed to tell you how blown away I was. Have a good day!! 💕

Morning!

I don’t think I can properly articulate how lovely it was to read this. You have no idea what it’s meant- truly.

Thank you so much for THE kindest words I think anyone has said to me. I have read and reread them and get a bit sniffly each time.

I hope YOU have the best day, drop by any time 🖤🖤🖤

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bellshells · 2 months ago

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From Grace

HELLO! I’ve written this absolute piece of drivel on my phone (times are hard and friends are few what can I say), set between ACOFAS and ACOSF. It jumps straight in because that’s where I started writing and I HAVE to put this out there before it destroys me. So, Reader has a mysterious visitor and all hell breaks loose.

Pairing: Tamlin x Reader (also Lucien x Reader but go with me I promise it’s chill)

TW: language, violence, sex, Tamlin apologists (I am one I won’t apologise), mentions of abuse, mentions of disfigurement

Jump in, she’s a big one

“High Lord,”

The words slipped from your lips in barely a whisper, they floated the minuscule distance, feeling his lips flicker into an impossibly small smirk.

“Hm?” He countered, his hands slid slowly down to your backside, the fabric bunching between his long fingers. A breath escaped you, his hair danced with it. You wondered how it had taken you so long to realise how this golden haired man could be anyone other than- “Tamlin,” he said finally, “My name is Tamlin.”

His words vibrated against the base of your throat, his teeth ever so gently grazed against the sensitive skin there and it felt like a burst of fire. The sizzle of his power that remained from his touch was intoxicating, it lingered on your skin where his hands continued their exploration. The High Lord- Tamlin, pulled your skirts up, higher and higher still until the night air kissed the back of your thighs. His hands were warm in comparison, though you could feel the calluses on his palms, on his fingers. They were surely a result of half a millennia of holding a weapon-

You scrunched your eyes shut. You didn’t want to think about that now. About war. About what Tamlin had done during the war. If you had known it was him, if you’d have known this man who had come into your home night after night for weeks had been…him- would that have changed anything? Would that have changed how you felt?

Tamlin pressed his lips to your throat again and again, working his way to your lips. He placed a kiss to the side of your mouth, his breath sweet and intoxicating, it reminded you of the wine you had been delivered in the care package from the Summer Court, from home. Those were dark times indeed, but the begrudging Summer ally had delivered in abundance for the people that remained in Spring. For the people that came back, and like you, the people who took a chance. If Tamlin had indeed supped on some Summer wine, would it explain how forward he had been tonight? Had he not, you would still be none the wiser of his identity. Nobody in Spring had seen Tamlin for nearly a year, you had never seen him at all. Your eyes searched his face for any sign of the broken man the villagers bemoaned. For the man that sold out his lover, for the man who played double agent against Hybern, for the man that destroyed the house and lands that had sat proudly for a thousand years. For the man that had burnt almost every bridge with his people, so much so that they whispered of rebellion in the streets. But no, all you could see in his face was desire. His eyes half closed, lazily sweeping your face from your eyes to your lips and back again. His chest heaved in time with yours, his fingers pressing in to the soft flesh of your thighs.

It was a spell, it had to be. That had you as butter in his grasp. You melted into him, your body moulding around his, filling the gaps as he brought his lips to you again.

“I’d like to kiss you now,” Tamlin breathed, he waited for you to allow him in. You hesitated, the things you had seen during the war. After, even. Your home in Adriata levelled, your family gone, because of him-

And yet, you didn’t see any of that. All you saw was a male. A beautiful male, with sunlight in his hair even in the candlelit din. In theory, he was hope personified, the promise of warmer days, of yielding crops, of flowers in bloom. But here, as he held you in his arms, he was starlit nights, a scented breeze against your skin, a pleasure untold just rippling under the surface.

Tamlin’s brow furrowed for a split second, as if he could hear the cogs whirring in your head. He stroked a gentle finger across your cheek, your skin sizzled under his touch. And then; “So kiss me,”

Tamlin waited no time before engulfing you in a searing kiss. It seemed there wasn’t a crevice of your body that wasn’t being consumed by Tamlin. He was everywhere; in your hair, in your mouth, on your body. Oh, your body. It yielded to him entirely, you desired him so completely and yet you weren’t satisfied with what he was giving you. You needed more. A groan fell from your lips as Tamlin grasped your breasts, his touch rough and needy, full of want and yet, you couldn’t help but feel he was restrained some. Like he wasn’t fully present. You could see it in his face, how his once lustful green eyes had glazed slightly, his brow furrowed again. “Please,” Tamlin stopped at your plea, again searching your face. “Please Tamlin, I want…I want,”

“I- I’m sorry, I just…haven’t…not since-”

Feyre.

She was a legend. Feyre Cursebreaker, High Lady of the Night Court, the Made Queen, Cauldron-Keeper- the list was endless. But there was a time when Feyre had just been his. Tamlin had brought Prythian to the brink of extinction for her, but in doing so had made her a martyr, all while sullying his own name. He had loved her, that much was obvious. He still loved her, that was obvious too. But she was an entire realm away, she was a lifetime ago. Feyre Cursebreaker had moved on.

You pressed a gentle hand to Tamlin’s cheek, his skin was soft and warm, bar the touch of stubble that grew there. His eyes fluttered closed at the touch and you wondered if this was the first time in a very long time anyone had touched him like this. With any sort of kindness. Was it kindness though? You hated him for what he had done, you truly did. Hybern’s attack was inevitable, but it was expedited by Tamlin’s bullishness. Aided by Tamlin’s blindness, his selfishness.

He looked like an entirely different creature now. The suave, confident male of a few moments ago was replaced by the very thing the Spring villagers spat over. This broken husk, empty and rotten. He deserved it, you told yourself, he deserved to feel like that, you repeated- but still as you desperately tried to remind yourself, scream at yourself that Tamlin wasn’t good; you comforted him. You pulled his head to your chest, allowing him to rest there. Gently, you began to stroke his hair and he wept. Wept great, mournful sobs, clinging onto your frame. His body racked with the effort and you couldn’t help the tears that you loosed too, tears for Adriata, tears for your family, tears for him.

Tamlin quieted after a while. You had held him in complete silence, save for his sobbing but that lessened over time. It wasn’t until you heard his breathing deepen that you realised he was asleep. Excruciatingly slowly, you extracted yourself from Tamlin’s grasp and silently crept from the room. You pushed open the front door of your cottage desperate to feel the night air, and felt your blood run cold as you came face to face with a beautiful High Fae.

“Don’t scream,” he whispered, “I won’t hurt you,” Your eyes adjusted to the darkness, and the whirring of a mechanical eye claimed your attention.

“Lucien Vanserra,” you guessed, he nodded with a forced smile. It was true then, no doubt about it. The High Lord of the Spring Court was indeed asleep in your bed if the disgraced son of Autumn was creeping around outside. You wondered what this meant, what Tamlin had told him, what Tamlin had told him about you.

“Is he inside?” Lucien asked, his mechanical eye looking past you into your cottage. You raised your chin slightly and squared your shoulders.

“He’s asleep.”

“Ah,” Lucien said, “That…may complicate things,” You waited for Lucien to continue, to offer an explanation as to what is now complicated but he didn’t. Instead he slumped his shoulders, “Better to let him sleep, he doesn’t do that very often.” Lucien pulled the hood of his cloak over his head, allowing you a glance at the sleeve of his garb. Strange black leathers adorned his forearm, you recognised them, the Illyrian warriors had worn them as they filled the sky in Adriata that day. You blanched against the memory.

“If he wakes up I’ll tell him you were looking for him.” You levelled, trying to disguise your surprise that Lucien Vanserra was looking for him at all. The villagers whispered about him too; the sad little lap dog kicked too many times by his master.

“No need, Madame. Let him rest,” Lucien waved has he made his way back down the cobbled path.

“Lucien Vanserra,” you called out to him. He stopped dead, turning a slow head in his direction. “Am I in danger?” Lucien considered your words, wetting his lips before replying a short;

“Let’s hope not.”

Tamlin didn’t wake until the morning. You had managed to get some sleep curled up on the soft backed chair, though your joints groaned with the effort. You could hear the sound of boots on the ground before you opened your eyes, the sound of buckles being buckled. Squinting against the bright light of morning, you could make out Tamlin’s frame upright on the bed not even a foot in front of you.

“Morning,” you managed a small smile. Tamlin fussed with a loose thread on the sheets.

“Why didn’t you sleep in the bed?” He asked without looking up, his hand shook.

“I didn’t want to disturb you. I wanted you to get some proper rest.” Tamlin nodded once in acknowledgment.

“I woke up and couldn’t feel you, I thought I’d imagined you.” Tamlin said quietly, still refusing to look in your direction.

“Ah, I’m all real I’m afraid,” you noticed the dark circles under his eyes, he still looked tired.

“Yes you are,” Tamlin’s eyes flew to yours as his words hung heavily in the air. Your heart thundered in your chest. You would be surprised if he couldn’t hear it. “Are you hungry? Thirsty? I could find us some breakfast.”

“Hm, breakfast sounds good. Although I need to stretch out, I feel like my legs will fall off.” You grumbled as you straightened up, forcing your way out of the chair.

He looked sheepish as he said, “I noticed your cupboards aren’t that full and I would like to feed you. I would offer to winnow us into town, but…” he trailed off. It didn’t take an academic to understand that he felt too weak to do so.

“I’d love a walk into town. It’s a nice day, be a shame to waste it.”

You walked in silence into the forest outside of town. The path was clearly marked, and even with the High Lord at your side, you still clutched your father’s dagger hard in your hand. Tamlin noticed this and offered a wolfish grin as he offered you his arm. Tentatively, you took it, placing your hand in the crook of his arm and offering a small smile in thanks. It wasn’t a long walk by any stretch of the imagination, but naga had been spotted nearby in recent weeks, and who knows what monsters were displaced after the war. What rage they had to quench.

“What do High Lords eat for breakfast?” You asked, it was the first thing that either of you had said since you left the cottage. Tamlin mulled over the question, as if he genuinely didn’t know the answer.

“We used to have grand meals at the manor,” he said after a while, “Our kitchen was always well stocked full of things I didn’t even know I desired to eat until it was in front of me,” Tamlin smiled wistfully, obviously lost in a memory. “It was always a quiet affair;- me and Lucien or me, Lucien and-”

But he didn’t get to finish that sentence, he didn’t get to say her name as he pulled you to the forest floor. Fear crept through your body as Tamlin pressed a finger to his lips, as a pack of three children ran laughing through the trees. You glanced confusedly from the children where they danced and sang to each other, to Tamlin who had not moved an inch. His hand still pressed against your chest, a silent instruction to remain still.

It wasn’t until the children got close enough that you could see the manipulated limbs. Their arms and legs were bent and protruding at odd angles, something that would make Fae or Mortal scream in agony; but these children continued their progress as if nothing were amiss. The sun shone over the face of a child with hair as dark as the night sky, it flowed down her back in an inky pool and as she turned her head, you could see the gaping mass where her mouth should be. Tamlin’s warning hand became a fist against the fabric of your dress, hauling you over so he covered your body with his own. Your heart thundered in your ears and you had to swallow the vomit that threatened its way up your throat. These children, these creatures were something of a myth. Something a mother would tell her young fae about to keep them out of the forest at night. The Umbra weren’t children at all, but made entirely of sinew, fear and teeth. The things they would do to your body, to your mind- the bile rose again. You’d heard the stories, of mangled bodies with their throats ripped out. Barely alive, but with an enough sentience to know they had been defiled and would beg for death. You could feel Tamlin’s body tremble behind you, as you battled to stay as quiet as you could. The children, or the Umbra as it was, passed through the clearing unaware they had been spotted, laughing and singing as they went. You had assumed that The Umbra had been a legend, or if not, had long since left Prythian. Their presence was a reminder that nothing was ever wholly good, never really safe, there was no such thing as peace.

You stayed silent a long while after the Umbra had left. Tamlin too, as if he were frozen to the ground. You turned to face him, his body still largely over yours and grasped his face in your hands.

“Thank you,” you whispered, Tamlin’s eyes stayed fixed on the spot in the trees where the Umbra were. “Look at me,” you whispered urgently, “Look at me,” he did. “Thank you, thank you High Lord. Thank you.” Tamlin regarded your face, seemed to register your touch as his green eyes bore into yours.

“Tamlin,” he rasped, “please call me Tamlin.”

“Thank you, Tamlin.” You pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek and his eyes fluttered closed. You could feel his body cease in its trembling slightly, and a warmth grew in your stomach.

“I’m so tired,” Tamlin’s voice broke as he buried his face in your shoulder. He wept again, clutching you near to him. You clutched him just as tightly, he had saved your life just a moment ago. This broken man, your heart ached for him.

As you arrived into town you told him of Lucien’s visit. Tamlin’s brow raised in surprise at your words, and you wondered if you were correct in your assessment, that Lucien was still as estranged as people theorised. Tamlin’s surprised expression was a twin to the look that the villagers wore. It was strange here you thought, in the market squares of Adriata you could barely hear the merchants over the squawk of the gulls overhead or the rolling of the waves battering the ancient city walls. The whole place was alive, it buzzed with the thrum of life and you yearned to feel the warmth of the summer sun on your face. Instead, the now watery light of early spring cast shadows on the far few too many vendors and stalls along a pale gravel square. Tamlin forced a smile and a wave at his people as they began whispering to one another. None of them waved back. You couldn’t imagine a time where Lord Tarquin would walk through the streets and not be mobbed by well wishers. This was foreign to you. You made your way to Bronwen the seamstress, you wouldn’t exactly call her a friend- not yet, but she was friendly enough, and the biggest gossip you had ever met. The people needed to know The Umbra lurked in the woodland, to steer clear until the threat had passed. The lesser fae was bright eyed as you approached, she leant against the wooden door frame of her shop, her simple brown gown the same colour of the hair cropped short to her head. She gave you a passive smile, her pale skin sparkled slightly in the sun and it made you think of the sea. You missed the sea. Bronwen called for you, extending a hand in greeting. She pulled you to her, resting her lips to your ear and whispered

“Well I didn’t have you waltzing into town on the High Lord’s arm in my tea leaves this morning.” You could hear the mirth in her voice as she pressed a kiss to your cheek. “Hush,” you chided, though couldn’t stop the smile that spread across your lips. “I need to tell you something.”

“I bet you do,” Bronwen laughed, her eyes flitting between Tamlin and yourself. “Lord Tamlin.” She said with a slight nod. Curt, but still respectful.

“Good morning Bronwen, how is your sister?” Tamlin replied, he wore a bland smile that could almost be considered disinterested. You spied some tension here and made a mental note to ask Bronwen all about it.

“Better my lord, her strength grows everyday but I fear her mind is a different story.” Bronwen answered unflinchingly and Tamlin pursed his lips.

“That is…difficult to hear, but I imagine to be expected. If there’s anything I can do for you, please don’t hesitate.” The silence after Tamlin’s offer was uncomfortable, and you shifted your weight from foot to foot until Bronwen finally said;

“Thank you, Lord Tamlin.”

“We saw something in the woods on the walk here,” you said to Bronwen, piquing her interest almost immediately. “I need you to warn the others, if you can.”

Bronwen’s face twitched with confusion and also intrigue, she drew you closer and Tamlin took a step closer still.

“What did you see?” Bronwen whispered.

“The Umbra.” Tamlin said gravely, and Bronwen’s already pale face lost more of its colour.

“Impossible.” She breathed. Tamlin shook his head. He wet his lips before he continued.

“I thought so too, but no. Three of them, just as the myth says. In the woods about a mile from here.”

“I’ll tell as many as I can, keep them out of the woods,” Bronwen said, already closing the door of her shop. “Thank you, my lord.” Bronwen made her way past you, and towards the tavern, she moved swiftly and was soon out of sight.

“Bronwen used to work at the house. She crafted garments for myself and my…guests,” Tamlin said, he traced a finger down the green tunic he wore. “Her talent for gossip is second only to her skill with a needle and thread,” he turned his face to you, a glint of sadness in his eyes. “Her sister was injured during Hybern’s stay here. They were not kind to her.”

“Not kind?” You asked, although you could deduce what he meant.

“She is a beautiful young female, they- they like to spoil beautiful things.”

The High Lord of Spring enquired whether you would like to join him at the manor for breakfast. You wondered whether Tamlin had picked up on the less than lukewarm reception and decided to flee. But as far as you understood, the manor had seen better days. You had only seen it once, on a pilgrimage to where the wall had stood. It looked like it had once been a grand estate, but from where you stood on the hillside gazing down into the valley, the manor looked like it had been left to rot for centuries. Only the grumble of the beast within reverberating over the hills was any indication of life inside it.

“I have um, a small staff now. They’re helping me to make a…home, again.”

“I don’t want to impose, Tamlin. I know you wouldn’t have been expecting company.”

“‘Scuse me?” A small hand tugged on Tamlin’s sleeve. He almost recoiled until he saw the bright blue eyes of a young fae child. Her hair the colour of snow. She wore a plain blue dress and held in her hand a small posy of early spring flowers. “I picked these this morning.” The child began, looking down at the posy. “But mama said I can’t take them home.”

“Surelia!” A voice from behind where Tamlin and you stood, a female not that much older than you hurried over, her hand stretched out for the child. “Apologies Lord Tamlin, she’s such a handful,” the female sighed. Tamlin raised a hand gently to ease the female. You looked down into little Surelia’s pale face, she like you, wasn’t from here. The dress she wore bore Winter Court markings, her mother too, had the same ice like hair and startling blue eyes. A war widow, you assumed. Why come here of all places? Perhaps she too had heard of the cheap land and a nearly absent Lord. Tamlin looked from Surelia to the flowers and his hand once again began to shake. Instead, you lowered yourself until you were eye to eye with Surelia. She was a beautiful child, a gift.

“I think those flowers are beautiful,” you said with a warm smile, “where did you pick them?” Surelia excitedly pointed to a small flower patch close to the forest edge.

“I thought the colours matched his cloak, so I wanted to give them to him.” Surelia whispered to you, blushing slightly as she pointed covertly to Tamlin. You beamed at her and stood to your full height. Tamlin’s face was pale with unease, though he tried to cover it with a soft smile.

“Surelia?” Tamlin asked gently, his throat bobbed as he took her hand in his. “Are these for me?” The little girl nodded eagerly and pushed the posy out in front of her. He took the posy from her hands and lifted a daffodil gently and regarded it. He slipped it behind his ear and grinned at the girl. A crocus for Surelia, she giggled as Tamlin pushed the flower stem through her ice white hair, the vibrant purple of the petal a starker contrast as any. Tamlin then pulled out a pansy and offered it to Surelia’s mother, she eyed him warily as she took it, spinning the stem in her fingers, eyes never leaving Tamlin’s face. They bore into him. One flower remained in Tamlin’s hand, two hellebore flowers adjoined by one stem. He smiled a genuine smile and took the step to you, pushing your hair over your shoulder and gently placing the blooms at your temple. His fingers lingered on your cheek as he regarded his handiwork. “Beautiful.”

The Spring Manor had indeed seen better times. Though, what you expected wasn’t entirely what you saw. There was a lot of damage; a lot of damage. Rooms with the doors just barely cracked open, but allowing passers by a glimpse of felled bookcases, torn up curtains and dismembered pieces of furniture. But in what you assumed was Tamlin’s study, where he had dutifully pulled out a leather backed chair for you was laden with life. Papers strewn over his desk, books upon books on every surface. There seemed to be pieces of him everywhere, not in an overbearing way- homely. You imagined this is where he spent most of his time, and the furrowed brow that had settled across his features eased entirely as he drew his chair up to the table opposite yours. Light streamed in from the windows, it must be enchanted, you thought as it lit Tamlin’s frame in the most beautiful golden hue. If you were a painter, you would have thought he’d have made the most excellent subject. Sharp lines and soft planes alike. Alas, you had not a creative bone in your body, so you’d leave the art to the artists of the realm.

“Tea?” Offered Tamlin, a deft wave of his hand sent the papers into neat piles at the corner of the desk. You noticed in its neatness it was a rich oak, carved beautifully with spring flowers. You traced your finger over the pattern, feeling the grooves of the wood. It was delicate and intricate and you surprised yourself by finding a lump in your throat. How something so small and yet so beautiful had survived the war. Had survived what Tamlin had done. “This desk belonged to my mother,” Tamlin said, noticing the way you admired it. “When I became High Lord, I knew very well that I couldn’t face sitting at my father’s behemoth desk. But this,” he too began to trace the pattern, “I knew this would do very nicely.”

“It’s lovely. Your mother obviously had good taste,” you said with a smile. Tamlin hummed in agreement.

“That she did,” he paused, his eyes wandered to the far wall where a stone fireplace stood proudly between two large windows. You weren’t sure which was more beautiful; the sprawling greenery of the Sprinf Court gardens, or the heart aching portrait of a female you assumed to be Tamlin’s mother. She wore her golden hair down and it fell in perfect curls to her waist, atop her head a crown of white flowers. She had eyes of brilliant green, which matched the gown she wore. In one hand, a book, in the other a rose.

��Mother above,” you breathed. Tamlin’s mother was the most devastatingly beautiful female you had seen and Tamlin bore so much resemblance to her. Those eyes that seared into the room, you felt them on your skin, those were Tamlin’s eyes too. And they were perfect.

“She had that affect on people,” Tamlin smirked. “I miss her a great deal.”

You nodded, knowing all too well what that loss felt like. A momentary cringing of your toes, knowing Tamlin was part of the reason you knew that loss at all. “I don’t remember seeing you Under the Mountain.” You watched as he struggled to say those three words- Under the Mountain. His mouth moved strangely, as if he were over enunciating them.

“That’s because I wasn’t there,” you tried to sound cheery, but afraid it came across as smug. “My eldest brother was there though, I only got to meet him for the first time after it fell.”

“Oh,” Tamlin said, “Who is your brother?”

“Symon Bladewielder,”

“From Summer! Adriata-” The word died on Tamlin’s tongue as he realised, he had never asked where you were from, and you had never told him. A darkness passed his face that you wanted to assume was shame, though you weren’t entirely sure it was. “Your brother is a good male.”

“Was.” You said, “he died at the siege of Adriata. My father too. My other brother, Daryan fought alongside the Darkbringers in the Winter Court.”

“Oh.” Was all that Tamlin said.

“I miss them a great deal, too.”

Breakfast was a quiet affair. Tamlin served you a generous helping of eggs, meats and the softest bread you had ever seen. There was tea, and a little mead that sliced through the slight tension that had reared from your revelation. There would be no escaping it now, Tamlin knew. And you knew Tamlin. A part of you longed, as you sipped your tea, for the previous morning. Primping and preening yourself to welcome your mysterious wandering traveller. How you could have been so dense as to not piece together who he was, you’d never know. But still, you were here now, and there he was in his golden splendour, with flushed cheeks and a relaxed smile. Your mind drifted to the night before, what would have happened if Tamlin’s emotions hadn’t peaked. How you would have felt letting the High Lord bed you, without him knowing who you were, where you came from. It mattered little to you whether it happened now, now he was no more stranger than you- but it didn’t stop you thinking about it. What it would have felt like.

“Why did you come to the Spring Court?” Tamlin asked over the brim of his teacup. You mulled over your answer, carefully choosing your words so as to not upset or offend him.

“After the attack, and, after the war really, there was nothing left for me in Adriata. Our home was destroyed, and regardless of the fact it would have been too big for me to run on my own, I don’t think I could have stayed there- if I were to rebuild it, that is.” Tamlin watched you carefully, as if watching a rabbit enter a trap. “I’d heard from others leaving the Summer Court that there were empty homes and plots of land for cheap here in Spring, what was left of them after the Hybern pricks had left anyway. I needed somewhere cheap, and…far enough away that I could start again.” You paused, deciding whether or not to keep going. Tamlin offered you a nod, an invitation to continue. “That part of my life is over. That version of me is dead. Rather than dwelling on it, I gave myself the chance to mourn it here. Grieve and…move on.”

“You make that last part sound simple.”

“I assure you it isn’t. I have days where I think I’ve made a mistake. The Summer Court is my home, Adriata was where I was born and yet, after the war it felt as foreign to me as the Illyrian Steppes. I sometimes think I’m deluding myself here, that I’m just prolonging the inevitable breakdown that’s waiting just beyond the corner. Then a new day comes, and I feel the grass beneath my feet, smell the lilacs on the breeze and I tell myself that things will get better.” You paused, wiping a rogue tear from your eye. “I have to believe that they will. Because the alternative doesn’t bear thinking about.”

Tamlin took you on horseback back to your cottage, you had offered to make your own way back but he vehemently refused. He in turn invited you to stay for dinner, but you politely declined extending the same offer to him but he had only smirked, explaining he wouldn’t eat what little food you had. You rolled your eyes at him then, and jestingly scolded him for assuming you to be a pauper. You would have to find work soon though, you had decided. But the Spring Court had become such a tight knit community in the absence of the majority of the populous, they’d found they had enough to sustain themselves without relying on the newcomers. There was an us and them regard brewing amongst the villagers. You were very much in the them. You wondered if you could travel below the wall, or rather below where the wall once stood. You had been a healer in Adriata, surely healing a mortal couldn’t be much different from healing a faerie. Perhaps a mortal village would allow you in to tend to their sick and wounded. Maybe you were again deluding yourself. When the roof of your cottage came into sight, Tamlin’s body tensed under your arms. They were wrapped tight against his waist, horses had never been your preferred way to travel, and you didn’t want to embarrass him by revealing you could winnow. You peered over his shoulder to find the cause of his shift, and found the same hooded figure from the night before, sitting on an overturned log by the well.

Lucien waved as he heard the hooves on the cobblestone path. He wore a tight smile and large bags under his eyes.

“Thought I might find you here,” the Autumn son said, his tone was light, but his voice strained slightly. Tamlin almost threw himself down from the horse, extending a hand to you and gently lifting you down. You gave him a pat on the shoulder in thanks, a gesture that did not go unnoticed by Lucien who stifled a laugh behind a gloved hand.

“What’s the matter?” Tamlin said, rounding on his former emissary. “What’s happened?”

“Maybe we could take a ride? The orchard’s are particularly lovely-”

“Why are you looking for me all of a sudden, Lucien? Speak plainly, or has all your time in the north turned you into a word twister too?” Lucien didn’t flinch at Tamlin’s abrasiveness, but you certainly did.

“Why don’t we let the lady go inside, Tam. The night is drawing in.” Lucien levelled. In an instant Tamlin whirled to you, a hand on your shoulder.

“Sorry, I- of course. Please allow me to walk you to your door.” Tamlin’s hand was a weight on top of yours as it sat in the crook of his elbow.

“What does he want?” You asked him gently, you had no intention of earning Tamlin’s ire. In all the ways in which the High Lord was beautiful and alluring, his quick temper was a dampener, a balm for any delusions of attraction.

“I’m not sure,” Tamlin replied in a hushed tone, his head very close to yours. “This is twice he’s sought me out in as many nights, so it can’t be good.”

“I don’t want any trouble, Tamlin.” You were serious too. “I came here to get away from that.”

“You won’t have any trouble, I assure you. Whatever it is that Lucien needs from me is probably trivial. Maybe it will hurt my purse strings rather than my sword. Or worse yet, my ego,” Tamlin managed a half laugh and cast a look over his shoulder. “I have not always been…kind to him. But I am trying.”

“What are we going to do about The Umbra?” You asked quietly. Those creatures had occupied a large niggling part of your mind since the morning. You had often tried to open your mouth to ask him, but the image of him breaking his heart on the forest floor stopped you every time.

“I don’t know.” Tamlin sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“We should evacuate the villagers from that end of the forest. Maybe send word to Lord Tarquin as that forest runs right up to the border. My mother used to say The Umbra don’t like wide open spaces, so the valley should be fine. But along that strip of land there must be, three, or four villages? We can’t leave them, even with Bronwen spreading the word.”

“I don’t have enough boots on the ground for an evacuation. Where would I even send them?” He asked, a vein protruded in his temple. This time, you didn’t flinch.

“Well find some. You’re the High Lord of this court. You have to do something.”

He nodded solemnly at your words.

“Something.” He repeated. This was hard for him, you noted. It shouldn’t be. Tamlin’s eyes blazed with power, their usual green looked black. “Because I’ve done nothing.”

“Tamlin,” you whispered, “Do something now.” You placed a gentle hand to his cheek, brushing your thumb deftly across the skin there. Tamlin responded to your touch instantly, his eyes fluttered closed and that rumbling of power subsided to a small hum. He regarded you then, not as a High Lord but as a male. Broken, but determined. He placed a tender kiss to the centre of your palm and closed your fingers around it. You felt the thrum of his power in your hand. It was intoxicating. “To keep until we meet next.” Tamlin breathed. “Thank you for a lovely day. It was- long needed.”

You gave him a nod and the warmest smile you could muster, and watched as Tamlin strode back the way he’d came and offered Lucien his hand to shake.

Tamlin didn’t visit you for the rest of the week, or the week after. You wondered whether he had lost interest, or worried that perhaps what Lucien Vanserra had brought to your door had been more serious than you thought. It was only when Bronwen pounded her round fist on your cottage door that you’d spoken to another person in days. Carefully, you opened the door, squinting against the morning light.

“Mother save us, what are you doing?!” Bronwen exclaimed, she pushed past you and entered your cottage. Kicking off her muddy boots and leaving them by the door. She padded barefoot into the sitting room and slumped into a seat next to the fire.

“Good morning to you too,” you managed, eyeing her suspiciously. She flashed a brilliant grin, all white teeth and excitement as she beckoned you closer.

“Why do you have to live so far out of the village? I feel like I’ve been walking for a decade.” She wined, flexing her toes before the flame.

“I’m not sure if you realised Bron, but there wasn’t exactly a plethora of places to choose from after the war. And beggars can’t exactly be choosers, can they?” You replied, sliding into the chair opposite to where she sat. “What can I do for you?”

“Can’t I visit my friend?” She asked innocently, a hand on her chest. You rolled your eyes. “They’re lighting the bonfires”

“And?”

“And…do you know what that means?” Bronwen inched toward you, excitement alighting her features. “It means Tamlin’s conducting Calanmai. Tamlin. For the first time in two years.”

“Fuck,” you cursed, “Is it time already?”

“Are you serious?” Bronwen’s jaw dropped, her face a picture of shock. “Is that all you have to say?”

“What else would I say?” You questioned, Bronwen’s shoulders shook with her laughter. Great laughs that seemed to shake the stone walls of the cottage. You couldn’t help the smile you wore, her laughter was infectious.

“What?!” You giggled.

“Oh my sweet, little idiot. You have no idea do you? Well of course you wouldn’t, nearly living beyond the wall.” Bronwen tutted, she was on her knees before you in an instant. All sign of mirth gone from her round face. “Tamlin has been in town these past few days, evacuating people into the Northern villages Stea and Gratil, to remove any threat of them being attacked by The Umbra. They’d…wandered into the square, brazen as you like four nights ago and Tamlin was able to take one down. The other two fled back into the woods, but Tamlin was furious! He and Lucien have been escorting people themselves and then patrolling the woodland at night. People are…impressed.”

You exhaled a shaky breath. Tamlin took down one of The Umbra. You had seen how frightened Tamlin had been at the sight of them, how he had wept after they had left. How he’d said how tired he was. Bronwen stared up into your face, her eyes the colour of molten amber.

“Tamlin is…familiar again. Visible for the first time in a long time.” She paused, “You have to attend Calanmai.” You considered Bronwen’s words. If indeed Tamlin had decided to be more present in his court, to be helpful rather than a hinderance that was indeed good news. But you struggled to find exactly why Bronwen was so insistent on your attendance at The Great Rite.

“What does all this have to do with Calanmai?” You asked softly, suddenly very interested in the thread-work of your armchair.

“You cannot be that stupid,” Bronwen boomed a laugh. “Tamlin is participating in Calanmai for the first time in two years. He is going to choose a maiden and take her into that cave. He is going to absolutely ravage one of the females here. He is going to bear the weight of the entire court’s expectations. And the person that people think he’s going to do all that with, is you.”

“Me?”

“You.” Bronwen stated, rising from her knees. “And the biggest question, and the Mother help me when I find out the answer, is what do you have to wear?”

Bronwen had ensured you looked resplendent on the night of Calanmai. Truly resplendent, it was the best you had ever looked. Your gown, if you could call it that, was made of a sheer lilac. The material was so soft it looked barely there, it caressed the tops of your breasts and fell delicately off of your shoulders. It flowed from your waist to the grass beneath your bare feet, your thighs exposed from twin slits in the fabric. She had fixed a circlet of flowers atop your head, the scent of them followed you as you made your way through the trees. Silently, you winnowed to the grounds of the Spring manor. The air was alive with the thrum of rhythmic drumming, bonfires lit for as far across the eye line and probably beyond. High Fae and faerie mingled alike, chatter and laughter and music cut above the evening din. It was hypnotic and pulled you inward, toward the centre of the celebration. You could taste the sweet fizz of power in the air. The culmination of many powerful Fae in one place, with one thing at the forefront of their minds. It appeared some couldn’t wait, you passed Faldar the bookkeeper, a tall handsome male with hair the colour of earth and a large scar from the centre of his forehead to the middle of his chin. He grasped a female you’d never seen before from behind, he brought his mouth to her neck hungrily as his hands explored beneath the bodice of her gown. You noticed the way this female’s head was thrown back in pleasure, Faldar’s studious hands exposing her breasts to the evening air. He rolled her nipples between his thumb and his forefinger, eliciting a long moan from his playmate.

It was difficult to draw your gaze from the pair, feeling that familiar warmth in the pit of your stomach. It had certainly been a long time since someone had taken you like that. You thought of Tamlin, of his kiss. Of his hands exploring oh so little of your body. A shudder ripped through you. You spied Bronwen across the clearing, she was standing with a male you understood to be her husband, Emyr. He was a brute of a male, or at least looked like one. He was hairless, with an eye of ice blue and an eye of earth brown. His stature was that of a dragon, muscle upon muscle with fearsome tattoos on top. There wasn’t an inch of his exposed skin that wasn’t covered in dazzling ink. His mouth was turned into a sneer as his wife whispered into his ear, then he threw his head back in a cackle. You offered a wave in her direction and she enthusiastically beckoned you over.

“Emyr! You must meet my new friend!” Bronwen introduced you with a true smile, and Emyr looked you over from head to toe, a lazy appreciation on his face.

“Well my dear, I can certainly see why he’s picked this one.” Emyr said, his accent wasn’t from here, he had a wide vowel sound that you hadn’t heard for a long time.

“Are you from the Day Court?” You asked, Emyr raised his would-be eyebrows.

“I am indeed, you’ve a good ear girl.” Emyr replied with a grin, his teeth had been sharpened into points. Mother above.

“My mother was from the Day Court, Elysia, in the north.” You said, pride bursting from your chest.

“I know it well- I hail from Tratar, just a few miles from there. Elysia is a beautiful city, have you visited?” Emyr’s eyes softened as he spoke and he folded his arms across his big chest. He was softer than he initially seemed, his striking (if not slightly frightening) appearance displayed nothing of the gentle and genuine interest he had in listening to you talk about familiar territory.

You adored talking about your mother, any chance you could shoehorn her into a conversation you took it. She was a free woman now, a Priestess. She had longed to serve the land long before she had met your father and had her children. After the war, she had asked your blessing to don the pale blue cloth of the sisters, and you had wept together. You weren’t naive enough to assume your parent’s marriage had been a happy one. Losing your brother Under the Mountain for all of those years had certainly strained them both. When you had come along, they hadn’t seen their eldest son in twenty years and had lost two more children before they took their first breaths. Rearing infants had always been a perilous task for Faekind; your parents had counted themselves lucky to have had the one child, yet Daryan had come along so swiftly after you had taken your first steps- they weren’t in a position to complain. Only wished for their family to be complete again. After Hybern’s witch died, and Symon returned home, you had thought that your parents would be happy. That was not to be the case. Your mother struggled to adjust to how Symon had been changed by what he had endured Under the Mountain. She blamed your father, and he in turn blamed her. She had made no secret of how she wished it all away, and there had been many a night where you had found her staring blankly up at the night sky with red rimmed eyes. Your mother was not suited to the life the Mother had crafted for her; and you would not begrudge her a small happiness. Just knowing she was safe and cared for was enough.

“Your mother isn’t Hala, is she?” Emyr drawled, “Mated to that Summer fellow, oh Cauldron, what was his name?”

“Roland?” You offered. Emyr clicked his fingers excitedly.

“Roland! That was it! Fought with him in the first war, very fine fellow. Is he well?” You swallowed instinctively, that was the first time you had said your father’s name aloud since he had died. Bronwen’s brow furrowed as she gently tapped Emyr on his arm.

“Honestly, he says I could chat for Prythian and here he is talking your head off. Be a love and fetch us some wine?” She said with a dazzling smile, Emyr rolled his eyes with a chuckle but conceded to his wife and clapped a great hand on your shoulder.

“I like this one!” Emyr said with a wink. Bronwen waited until Emyr was out of earshot before she drew you closer to her.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes, fine. You just don’t know when you’re going to have to talk about them. And you don’t know how much it will hurt when you do.” You answered honestly. Bronwen offered you a look you couldn’t quite read, but she squeezed your hand and promised to catch you before The Great Rite commenced.

You had managed to find a quiet seat. A bonfire lit a fair ways away from the cave, boasted none but a hearty crackle. The valley was as busy as you had ever seen it, and it was difficult to not be swept up in its mirth. There were still Umbra in these woods, you thought. Somewhere.

It was his boots you noticed first. Muddied soles on the otherwise pristine leather shine. They stopped just short of the hem of your gown, and you lifted your eyes slowly to greet him.

“Lucien Vanserra.”

“Why do you insist on full-naming me,” Lucien complained as he rather ungracefully plonked himself down next to you.

“It is your name, is it not?” You replied, a tug of amusement pulling at your lips. Lucien sighed.

“Yes but still. Makes you sound like my mother.” He grumbled, tossing a rogue twig onto the fire.

“Oh dear,” you said, “Am I sensing some issues?”

“Don’t even start,” Lucien retorted through a laugh. A comfortable silence settled between you two almost strangers. You had heard enough about Lucien to know he was largely a good male, so you relaxed into his company, quiet as it was.

You hadn’t anticipated Lucien would be the one to break the companionable silence.

“I heard you saw The Umbra with Tam.”

“Yeah, it was fucking awful.”

“I bet.” Lucien murmured. “Has he told you we’ve been able to recruit some numbers to guard the border around the forest? I’ve not seen him so passionate about something in a long time.”

“I actually haven’t seen him. Or heard from him. Since that day we saw The Umbra.” You answered, you tried your best to sound indifferent, unbothered. You weren’t sure Lucien bought it. “Is it safe to be out here?”

Lucien nodded.

“This is a sacred space, the wards around it are impenetrable- have been for centuries.”

“But I winnowed right here, nothing stopped me.”

“Ah,” said Lucien, “Because you are a part of this court. You are welcome to use these lands at your leisure. Those wards are to stop anything that may desecrate this spot.” He paused as if to consider what he may say next. “Well, I’m sure you’ll see him tonight anyway. Maybe see a bit…too much of him.” Lucien cleared his throat and you looked anywhere but the male’s face.

“You’re the third person who’s said that to me today. I’m not entirely sure why you’ve all placed your bets on me”

“Because Tamlin is Tamlin. When he wants something, he gets it.” Lucien said ruefully. You thought about the High Lady of the Night Court and wondered if she would say the same. “We should head back, it’s going to start soon.” Lucien pushed off the ground and extended a hand to you. “You should know that when- if he chooses you, it won’t be particularly pleasant.”

“I know how it works.” You stated, a warm blush crept to your cheeks. “The Great Rite is famous.”

“No, I mean-” Lucien faltered, “Tamlin becomes something else. I know because it happened to me.” You raised a quizzical eyebrow, but decided not to press him. Bronwen would surely know if you decided you wanted to know. “Are you nervous?” Lucien asked softly.

“I’m not sure why I’m even doing this.” You breathed.

“Yes you are.”

Lucien walked with you to a dip in the valley. It was full with Fae from each corner of Prythian, and yet still no sign of Tamlin. There seemed to be a little bit more order here as the “maidens” assembled themselves in two long lines from the mouth of the cave with a space in the middle allowing the growing crowd viewing access. You hadn’t realised there were so many free females in the Spring Court, or at least so many left. A quick head count made at least 60, possibly more as females emerged from the tree lines flanked by other Fae, drunk and merry. Lucien slapped a friendly hand on your shoulder.

“This is where I leave you.” He said, it was impossible not to see the concern that marred his otherwise relaxed expression.

“Thanks for walking me.” You said, Lucien shrugged.

“I told him I’d get you here.” Lucien pointed to the left hand line, and you got into position on the very end, the furthest away from the cave. The excitement was palpable amongst the females. They preened themselves, fiddling with gowns or fluffing their hair. You looked into the crowd for Bronwen, finding her at Emyr’s side, a flagon of something in her hand. You tried to get her attention, waving a hand discreetly. It was Emyr who noticed you first, and gave you an enthusiastic thumbs up. Bronwen looked to where he was looking and beamed at you. You gestured to your body and shrugged your shoulders in question. Bronwen caught on, and positioned herself upright and gestured for you to stand straight and lift your head up, she then pushed her imaginary long hair behind her shoulders, and pointed at her elongated neck. You dutifully followed her instructions, and stood patiently waiting for what, you weren’t quite sure.

The sound of the fae gathered chatting dulled to the sound of the distant drums and soon a hush descended on the valley. A collective intake of breath amongst the females as a High Priestess, enshroud in a sparkling blue cloth, her dark curls bobbed around her waist as she walked, eyes downcast along the long lines of females. In her hands, she carried a drinking horn. It was large, probably from a cow or some other ancient beast. It had a large band of gold as its mouth piece, and ornately carved words in a language long since dead. You knew of each Court possessing a relic like this from the time before, passed down from the first High Lords to their sons and so on. This piece of Prythian history was drenched in power, it seemed to cascade from it. Invisible waves of promise that cast over each of you as the Priestess passed. Behind the Priestess, was Tamlin. You loosed a breath as you saw him. He was like a sculpture. Marble-esque. His hair, loose around his face fell to the middle of his shoulder blades. His face betrayed nothing as he began his process toward the cave. He was painted, blue swirls and patterns all over his bare body. Before you knew Tamlin was well, Tamlin, you had imagined his body. Well built and strong but seeing it before you, kissed by the moonlight made your breath catch in your throat. His chest was broad and tanned, rippling muscles across his abdomen with the blue swirls pointed downward to his groin. His legs too, well shaped and painted. He wore a simple cloth over his genitals, and nothing else. You imagined what this must have been like before, before Tamlin had fallen into his despair. Before the Night Queen. How many females had lined up in front of this cave to be chosen by this golden prince. He was beautiful, perhaps more beautiful than any image you could muster. He looked every inch the High Lord and your mouth dried.

Tamlin walked towards the Priestess without offering a look to any of the maidens. His eyes were fixed straight ahead. You began to doubt yourself, the unwanted pang of insecurity crept from your toes to your head, and you cursed Bronwen for talking you into doing this at all. You risked a glance at the female stood next to you. She was stunning, as tall as any male with skin kissed by the night. Her black curls were peppered with flowers and she wore a gown not so dissimilar from yours, only hers was a deep purple. She noticed your gaze and offered you a weak smile, a hesitancy in her eyes.

“You look beautiful.” You whispered, her gaze softened.

“You too.” She whispered in reply. You both turned your attention to the cave, where Tamlin had reached the Priestess.

“Welcome,” The Priestess spoke, her voice reverberated across the valley. “To Calanmai.” An appreciative hum moved through the crowd. “The first in two years conducted by your High Lord.” The ground rumbled underfoot and a gust of wind whipped through the gathered crowd. The air cracked and fizzled with power, you could feel it dance across your skin. The untold pull in your chest urging you to succumb to it. You placed a hand there, and felt the palpable vibrations under the gauze of your gown. You stared down at your fingers and saw the almost not there glimmer, strands of the finest golden thread sparkling in the moonlight. They swirled around your fingers, and then they were gone. You looked up and saw Lucien’s face in the crowd, his stare was trained on you. His brow furrowed, his face severe. It made your breath catch with unease, a ripple of fear washed over you. For behind Lucien, the swirling of shadows sat behind his left shoulder. The shadows seemed to whisper to him, and Lucien was not amused. It was only the Priestess’ voice that drew you away from his face.

“I invoke the power of this land,” She began, holding the drinking horn high above her head. “Of earth, of, sea, of air, of sky.” You watched her, bewitched. “Of the four pointed compass, of dawn, of day, of night.” You chanced a glance at Tamlin, he remained unmoved. The wind increased in its severity, it rippled again through the valley. You exhaled a shaky breath. “Of summer, of autumn, of winter, of spring,” The Priestess moved in a circle, pointing the horn in each direction as she went. A pale light enveloped her, her features awash in a white glow, spellbinding. “All of you here bear witness to this Great Rite. I call upon the Mother to bind you in contract. May She who sees, and She who knows, bless you.” The Priestess invited Tamlin to her, she presented the horn to him. With steady hands, Tamlin took it and surveyed his people. You wished he would look at you, even for a second, but he didn’t. He gave you nothing.

“Tamlin, High Lord of Spring, Golden Prince and Beastbringer, I invite you to drink from the Ukjentstrømlevtid, and be full of its magic. Fill your body Spring Lord, and fill this land with abundance.”

You were thoroughly transfixed. Tamlin brought the horn or, the Ukjentstrømlevetid to his lips and drank deeply. Thunder clapped in the distance, and the rumble underground became a shattering in your ears. The beautiful Fae female stood next to you grasped your hand, she clutched it tightly and you gave it a squeeze. When Tamlin passed the Ukjentstrømlev back to the Priestess, he glowed with power. A gold light surrounded his very being and followed his every movement, his green eyes replaced with orbs of sunlight. Tamlin appeared like a god, the blue paint that covered his body swirled with the same golden threads that you had dance across your fingers. You held your breath.

Tamlin stepped onto the grass in front of the cave mouth. He was flanked on both sides by the lines of expectant maidens who each stared unwaveringly at him. Tamlin flexed his fingers and sniffed, his head arching high into the air as if he were trying to catch a scent. He prowled up and down the right line, every now and then stopping for a fleeting second if someone caught his eye. Then he made his way over to the left line, his movements fluid and so very un-fae like. He was like a lion patrolling the perimeter of his lands, his face turned up into a sneer. He continued along down the line of maidens until he got to you, he stopped and turned slowly, bringing his mouth to your throat. Tamlin breathed in your scent, his eyes closing in appreciation until he muttered a small;

“No.”

Blinking you barely had time to register what was happening, until the Priestess called for celebration as Tamlin led the beautiful female who had stood next to you merely seconds ago into the cave. You turned to Lucien whose eyes were wide with surprise, your own face a picture of shock. Had all of this been for nothing? Hot tears filled your eyes and you froze, willing them not to fall. Tamlin had been there, right there in the most golden glory and he hadn’t chosen you. You, who had nursed him and held him and watched him torment himself. As another crackle of thunder passed through the clearing, you shivered. The sweet tang of magic in the air passed over your skin and your skin rippled under its touch. Then, a sweeping sense of relief. All of these people bore witness to Tamlin tonight, all of them eyeing that Fae he took into the cave with some opinion or another. Though the idea of Tamlin was one you yearned for, this particular reality was one of politics and a heaviness you couldn’t stomach. The other maidens had begun to mingle in with the rest of the crowd and so you made a beeline for Bronwen. She was cursing to Emyr as you approached.

“Bronwen,” you began, she passed you a flagon and you downed it in three gulps. “Fuck.”

“Indeed,” she spat, “What is he playing at? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” you levelled, and you were, or you could continue to tell yourself so. There truly was a part of you that was sure that Tamlin would choose you, that you were ready for Tamlin to choose to- and yet…and yet.

“Well I’m not, I’ve lot 20 marks.” She huffed, Emyr patted your arm softly.

“Probably for the best,” he said, “They don’t call him Beastbringer for nothing.” You glanced over to the cave, where the last fire was being extinguished. He was in there now, with her. She was beautiful, and appeared kind. You couldn’t begrudge him that. Not as he’d said that he hadn’t been intimate with anyone since the High Lady of the Night Court. He deserved someone kind to be his first since her.

“Well,” a voice from behind you said.

“Lucien Vanserra,” you drawled with a smile. The red haired male rolled his eyes again but offered a small smile.

“Oh well, all that worry for nothing!” He said chirped.

“I wasn’t worried, just confused and may I say quite rightly too having seen what just happened, can I add, as to why you were all putting your eggs in my basket.” Emyr laughed at that and poked Bronwen in the rib.

“Pay the male,” he said gesturing to Lucien. Bronwen scowled and fished for her coin purse. She counted 20 silver marks and dropped them unceremoniously into Lucien’s waiting hand.

“It’s always a pleasure doing business with you, Bron.” Lucien grin could have cut through glass and the gesture that Bronwen made in return was just as lethal. Emyr’s head rolled back as he roared with laughter.

“Now if you’ll excuse me,” Emyr said, “I’d like to ravish my wife behind that there tree.” He pointed to the tree line where a particularly old tree had been half uprooted. Lucien clapped him on the back with a laugh. You watched them go, Emyr’s hand travelling lower and lower down Bronwen’s back until he had a handful of backside.

“It is nice to see old friends,” Lucien mused, his eyes never leaving the odd couple. “It’s been too long.”

“What do we do now?” You asked, the celebrations had well and truly begun. People had started disappearing in pairs and some in groups out of the valley into the trees. Moans and gasps could be heard from each direction, the air was full of sex and magic and everywhere you turned- you were reminded that Tamlin was the cause.

“Drink?” Lucien offered.

You returned with Lucien back to the spot you had found before the Grand Rite. Lucien produced a bottle of wine with a swish of his hand and with another swish, passed you a glass. From where you sat, the valley swelled beneath you. The knoll in which you had made camp slightly overlooked the cave, but if you turned your body toward Lucien- you could pretend it wasn’t there.

“So,” he said, pouring himself a liberal measure. “How’s life in the Spring Court treating you?”

“I could ask you the same question.” You countered, taking a sip of wine. It was so sweet it made you cringe. Lucien laughed and pointed to the bottle.

“It’s Velarian wine. It’s too sweet for me, too.”

“Do the people of Velaris not have teeth?” You winced, the mysterious city of Velaris indeed. Lucien chuckled again and shook his head. “What’s it like?”

“In Velaris?” You nodded. “It’s honestly breathtaking. And the people who live there seem some of the happiest I’ve seen but…” he trailed off, staring into the distance. “It’s never quite felt like home to me.”

“Do you miss it here?” You knew full well that Lucien had called the Spring Court home for the best part of a century. Lucien hummed and looked around over the valley and into the night sky.

“How could you not?”

“Yes…” was all you could offer. You snuck another glance over at the cave. “They’ve been in there a while.” You observed.

“It’s not even been 10 minutes,” Lucien snorted, “Do you really think so little of him?”

You scowled into your wine as Lucien regaled you of how one Calanmai Tamlin hadn’t appeared from the cave until morning, bruised and spent. “Other years it’s been an hour or less. Depends on how pretty the maid is, I suppose.”

“Vile.”

“You know I jest. It’s got nothing to do with that, at least not from my perspective I suppose. Just takes longer sometimes than others to fulfil the Grand Rite.” Lucien levelled taking another sip of wine. “Don’t be disheartened that he didn’t choose you. He didn’t choose Feyre either.”

“I’m not disheartened,” you flashed him a lazy smile, although you felt somewhat surprise in the ease he felt speaking her name. “Suppose I just got myself worked up for nothing.”

“It’s not for ‘nothing’,” Lucien said plainly, “you look…well you look like the Mother sent you.”

“A compliment from Lucien Vanserra, I must be Cauldron blessed.” Lucien winced at your words, and you paused. “Are you alright?” He coughed and took another sip.

“I just haven’t heard someone mention the Cauldron in a while.”

“I see.”

From the tree line, Faldar the bookkeeper appeared trailing another young female behind him. She was laughing and clutching at his arm as he pulled her into the clearing. You glanced at Lucien, but his eyes were transfixed on the couple. You watched as Faldar grasped this female with a hand on either side of her face and brought her in for a crushing kiss. Her hands were in his hair, pulling him closer. Faldar lifted his companion by the waist, her legs wrapping around him hungrily. Then, they were on the ground, grappling with each other for purchase. Faldar found his way on top of her, swiftly unbuckling his trousers and freeing his cock. The female moaned at the sight of it, he pumped it twice, whispering something to her that you couldn’t quite make out. Lucien shifted next to you, drawing your attention back to him.

“Mother above,” he whispered.

“I know,” you replied.

Faldar tore his partner’s gown down the middle, exposing her nakedness to the night. She writhed beneath him, her legs spread allowing you and Lucien a clear view as to how aroused she was. Your chest heaved with want. You wanted to be touched like that, you wanted to be wanted, you wanted to be in that cave. Lucien groaned with Faldar as he pushed himself into the female, his eyes closed in ecstasy. Half lidded, you cast your gaze over to Lucien, he in turn was watching you. Faldar fucked his partner with fervour, and you could feel the wetness between your thighs.

“I have a mate,” Lucien blurted. “In the Night Court. But she-“ he faltered, “She is reluctant. We haven’t…yet. It’s killing me.”

“Oh Lucien, that’s terribly sad,” you said, your eyes flicked back to Faldar as he pounded mercilessly, as his partner moaned his name.

“I need…fuck, I need it.” He whispered.

“Well you’re in the right place,” you breathed, “Look around you, there’s plenty of sport to be had.” Lucien shook his head.

“I couldn’t do it her, even though she doesn’t want me. Even though she loves another.” He tugged his tunic over his crotch in vein, his erection was still clearly visible.

“Why torture yourself, then?” You asked rolling onto your knees, Lucien eyed your movements, his eyes sweeping over your body.

“Because what would I say? What would I do if tomorrow she says she wants me?” He asked, pushing himself onto his own knees, his body only a breath away from your own.

“Then you would have your mate. Anything that came before wouldn’t matter. You say she loves another, you are an Autumn son- have you not waged a Blood Duel?”

“Does it matter?!” Lucien exclaimed.

“Not really.” You considered, “Whether she wants you in five minutes or not. She doesn’t want you now, and she’s also not here. Don’t ruin yourself for somebody who doesn’t care, Lucien.”

Faldar’s partner climaxed loudly. Both you and Lucien snapped your heads in their direction, he had her on all fours, rutting into her from behind. You watched the way her breasts moved with each thrust from Faldar, your own hand reached up to cup your breast over the fabric of your gown. Lucien whispered your name.

“Tamlin is a fool for not taking you tonight.”

You couldn’t speak, you could only watch as Lucien inched closer to you still. He traced a finger ever so lightly over the hand that still held your breast. “Permit me.” He said. “I will not kiss you. But I need to bury myself inside you.” A small gasp fell from your lips, the wind whipped across your face, exposing your throat to him. Lucien brought his mouth to its base and licked. Your eyes fluttered closed as your arms wound around his shoulders, affixing him into place. Lucien groaned as you acquiesced, shifting his weight so that he lay on top of you. He trailed a hand from the bodice of your gown downwards until he grasped a great handful of fabric and hoisted it over your hips.

As tradition dictated, you wore nothing underneath your gown. Lucien licked his lips as he regarded your bare body. You opened your legs for him and he wasted no time spreading your folds, and inserting two digits.

“Oh, fuck,” you breathed. Lucien growled as he pumped his fingers, they were coated with your slick. He removed them and brought them to his lips. In one fluid motion, he sucked your juices and moaned.

“I cannot believe he chose not to taste you.” He whispered. “You’re enough to make a mated male want to feast.” You smiled ruefully at him as he savoured one more taste before he unbuttoned his trousers.

Lucien Vanserra’s cock was something you needed to commit to memory. If indeed what he said was true, he was mated and you would never see it again, you wanted to savour this moment. He was proud and thick. His manhood was truly a reflection of himself, wiley and wholly satisfying. You brought a hand between your legs and rubbed lazy circles on your clit as he readied himself to enter you. He worked his hand up and down his shaft slowly, achingly so. “I could watch you do that and spill my seed in an instant.” He breathed.

“I’d rather you filled me with it instead.” Was your reply. With that, Lucien slid his cock inside you. Your back arched as soon as you felt just how deep he was. He filled you almost entirely. With great effort, you opened your eyes to find Lucien staring intently at where your bodies joined. “Fuck me,” you pleaded, “Please.”

Lucien needed no other instruction as he began to fuck you in earnest. He held tight to your hips, as over and over again he slid his length into you. This, this was what you needed. This was what you had needed for a long time. You didn’t need Tamlin, you didn’t need him to want you. You just needed a strong Fae to ravish you. As it turns out, Lucien Vanserra was skilled at ravishing. He pushed a hand down the bodice of your gown and freed your breasts, with skilled fingers he plucked and pulled at your nipple and with his mouth, sucked on the other. You were in bliss, you were floating, you were soaring towards your climax at speed but you didn’t care. This male on you, with you, in you rutted away until you cried out, warning him that you were going to cum. Lucien moaned and burrowed his head into neck, your body glistening with the shared exertion welcomed the precipice. Your body shuddered with your orgasm, it was nails and teeth and grunts. He was everywhere and yet you couldn’t get enough. Lucien’s thrusts became quicker, chasing his own completion. You held his face, forcing his eyes on your own as he came. Long roles of his hips, indeed filling you with his seed.

Thunder rumbled again in the distance, this time followed by a crack of lightening. Lucien collapsed onto you, his head on your breast. Panting, you wrapped your arms around him and held him close. Still joined, he placed a hand on your thigh and traced a lazy circle with his thumb.

“It’s done.” He whispered.

“You are?” You questioned.

“No, Tamlin. Look, here comes the rain.”

And just like he said, huge raindrops splashed onto your bodies. The entire valley was covered in a downpour, the once clear night sky now obscured by thick cloud. Despite the rain, the son of Autumn lay with you on the cool grass. He positioned himself next to you and slipped a hand into yours. You stayed that way for a while, neither of you saying anything, content in the silence. On the third rumble of the thunder, Lucien sat up.

“I should get back to the house. Calanmai magic takes a while to burn out of your system, someone needs to watch him.” He said, raindrops dripped from his chin. His auburn hair once tied away from his face now hung limply in disarray.

“Why do you care for him so? He treated you appallingly.” You said as you pushed yourself up onto your elbows. By the way Lucien stared at you and you deduced you looked no better than he did. “What, do I not look as Mother sent as before?”

“The phrase drowned rat springs to mind.”

You barked a laugh and got to your feet, extending a hand to Lucien. He took it gratefully and removed his outer jacket, placing it delicately around your shoulders. “Lucien?” You began, he squared his shoulders and waited for you to continue. “I won’t tell anyone. What we did, I mean. I won’t tell your mate.”

“I’m not going to ask you to keep my secrets,” he said, “She doesn’t want me. It’s as simple as that. But if you would prefer this stay between us, well then of course I’ll oblige.”

“I’m not ashamed of you, if that’s what you’re getting at, Lucien.” You pulled down on his hand. “I’m a big believer in not over complicating things. Not anymore. All I’m saying is, is that…you wouldn’t even kiss me. You know? She means that much to you that you wouldn’t even kiss me. So you don’t have to worry about it, okay?” Lucien looked at you askance, narrowing his eyes slightly.

“You wouldn’t kiss me either. It’s not like you asked me to. I would have too, if you’d asked. The Mother knows it took everything in my being just then not to claim you.” He looked down at his feet. “But I don’t think you would have wanted Tamlin to see the pretty marks I would have given you.” A dead silence. “Would you?” He added, it wasn’t a question. “So if you’re saying you won’t tell anyone because of me and my mate, that’s fine but don’t lie to yourself. I won’t tell Tamlin. I won’t breathe a word to another soul.”

“I won’t ask you to keep my secrets, Lucien Vanserra.”

“What secret?” He winked. “Come on, whilst I may have some proclivities outside of the norm- getting pissed on isn’t one of them.”

On your way down from the knoll, Lucien made sure to guide your step. The terrain was slick with mud and the rain continued to pelt down. At the bottom of the hill, just outside the entrance to the cave you offered Lucien his jacket.

“Thanks, give it back once it’s soaking wet.” Lucien chuckled. At that moment, the Priestess who had introduced the Great Rite emerged from the cave-mouth. By her side, a sentry dressed in a Spring Court green brocade tunic carried in his arms the fae female who Tamlin had chosen. Her purple gown was gone and her body was smeared with the same blue paint that had adorned Tamlin’s body.

“Mother above, she’s not dead is she?” You whispered to Lucien. He swallowed a laugh as the Priestess shot a look laced with venom in his direction.

“No,” he said, “But she’s likely unconscious. Calanmai magic.” He gestured to nothing in particular, and yet you understood precisely what he meant. Under no circumstances would you have entertained having sex with a near stranger out in the open for anyone to see, and yet…

“Calanmai magic.” You agreed. You watched the Priestess and the sentry as they made their slow progress through the valley. You wondered where the female would be taken to recover; would she go home to her family? Was there a post-Calanmai recovery camp?

“I suppose this is where I leave you, if you’re happy getting home on your own that is.” Lucien said with a yawn.

“More than. I couldn’t winnow us both and I’m not getting back on a fucking horse.” Lucien grinned.

“Fair enough.” He held your gaze for a moment. “To answer your earlier question. I care for him…because I care for him. I accept that he has his faults, just as I have mine, as you have yours. He has not been dealt the easiest of cards, and he has had nobody for a long time. I don’t think it would be wise for me to assume that he trusts me again. I’m not entirely sure I trust him. But I care about him. I care about his wellbeing. I care that he’s eating enough, that he’s…sleeping. I care for him enough to forgo my own reputation. Feyre thinks I’m mad to go back to him, but he’s my brother. Brothers fight. But brothers also fight for their brothers. Tamlin is odd, and quiet and painfully shy. He is awkward and bullish and has a sharper tongue than he realises. But he is deserving of love. Of kindness. Brothers fight, for their brothers. That’s why I do the things I do for him.”

“And you?” You voice faltered. “What do you get for caring so?”

“I get to see him happy.” Lucien breathed. “I assure you there is no greater gift.”

“I would be glad to call you a friend, Lucien Vanserra.”

“After what we definitely-didn’t-do on the top of that hill, I’d say that very much makes us friends.” He grasped you by the shoulders and planted himself in front of you. “Be well,” he gently placed his fingertips against your forehead. “Be healthy,” he moved his fingertips to your chest. Then slowly, moved his fingertips to the bottom of your stomach, “Be fruitful.” You offered him a confused look before he shrugged and said, “It’s what a male is supposed to say to a female after coupling on Calanmai.”

“Oh,” you said plainly, “What am I supposed to say to you?”

“Nothing,” and then a smirk crept to his lips, “Well maybe a pat on the head for a job well done.”

You slept through the entirety of the next day and only awoke when the moon was high in the sky. You were thoroughly disorientated, sweaty and a drier mouth you’d never had. Blinking, you dared to open your eyes. Your room was was stiflingly hot, you tried to swallow but found nothing but razor blades coating the inside of your throat. With a groan that pained your entire body to do so, you rolled onto your side and willed the window to open. Unsurprisingly, it didn’t. You didn’t want to be ill. You couldn’t afford to be ill. You needed to find work, but what sort of healer couldn’t heal themselves of a fever? You closed your eyes again, and slowed your breath. Your power, though limited as it may be, was still there inside you- congested nose be damned. You channeled your thoughts to an open window with a cool night breeze tickling the curtains, and as you slowly opened your eyes, the window opened too. You afforded yourself a small sigh of relief as the night air kissed your face, and relaxed into your pillow. Sleep came soon after. It was not restful, nor was it enjoyable. Your dreams were plagued with swirls of blue that danced across a vast green plane.

“Hullo!” A voice called. Squinting against the offensive beams of sunlight that streamed very carelessly across your face, you pushed yourself up onto your elbows. Straining to hear just exactly who had called out to you. “I know you’re in there, I can see your bloody window open!”

Bronwen?

You chanced a swallow, feeling less than razors and more like sand you huffed and stood. Still in the lilac dress you had worn for Calanmai, a general feeling of disgust washed over you. How long had it been since you had bathed? Stumbling over to the window, you pushed the light curtain out of the way to see Bronwen’s grinning, ruddy face below. She shielded her eyes from the sun and tapped her foot expectantly. “Well?” Why was she shouting? “Are you going to let me in or are you still in hiding?” You lifted a finger to her to signal for a moment and Bronwen made her way to the front of your cottage. You delicately slipped the gown from your shoulders, noticing with a wince just how disgusting it actually was. If your gown and Calanmai had had a fight, Calanmai would have come out victorious. It was mud stained all across the bottom, and a suspiciously large grass stain a of the back. You pursed your lips to disguise your exactly how that stain got there. You noticed there were tears and rips littered all over the fabric, you hadn’t realised just how needy Lucien had been. Grasping a robe that hung on the back of your bedroom door, you tied it tight around your nakedness and proceeded to let Bronwen in.

“Cauldron below, you look like shit.” Bronwen hissed, again not waiting to be invited inside. She breezed past you and threw off her light cloak, it fell with a thump next to what had now become her favourite spot next to the fire. With a snap of her finger, the fire crackled to life and Bronwen hummed contentedly. “Open the shutters dear and let the air in. Theres a stench of sickness in here.”

You willed one foot to move in front of the other, but found you were unable to. Pain thrummed in your head in waves, it cascaded over your eyes blinding you for fleeting seconds as you rasped for breath. It seemed that your limbs were too heavy to manoeuvre, and you couldn’t cry out. Bronwen’s shocked face was the last thing you saw before your head cracked onto the stone floor.

“Thank you, Belisandra. I’m very grateful to you.” That sounded like Tamlin, you thought. You smiled into the dream, it had felt like an age that you last heard his silken voice. You waited for him to speak again, hungrily awaiting every syllable. You willed your eyes to open, but it was as if your body refused to obey. You felt it then, the pain in your head just above your left eye. No, it was in the back of your head, or perhaps in your temple? Wherever it was, it was agony. You groaned, but found you couldn’t hear any sound you’d made. If you’d made one, that is. You heard another voice though, male and with an accent you didn’t recognise. He spoke quietly, in an almost whisper and you concentrated on making out the words.

“…were not best pleased.” The male said. A scoff came next.

“Best pleased?” That was Tamlin. “I find that outrageous actually.”

“Whatever you feel, Lord, my Lord and Lady have assured me they will look into it.” The stranger said, you could hear movement, the shifting of weight.

“With the current climate, I would assume your Lord and…Lady would want to avoid an inter-court incident. I’ve kept this quiet for their sake, if they do not give this their full attention Shadowsinger, it will force my hand.”

“Aye,” said the stranger- Shadowsinger is what Tamlin had said. “And we don’t need that again, do we?”

“Get out.” Tamlin spat.

“Happily, High Lord.”

With that, you returned to sleep.

When you awoke, you opened your eyes. The light seared against your eyes and you winced.

“Mother above, thank you.”

Blinking, you moved your head toward him. Tamlin. You gave him a weak smile as you regarded him. He was dressed comfortably, in a white shirt and trousers, his long golden hair tied into a bun at the nape of his neck. He looked tired too, but his face was fuller and he had a soft blush to his cheeks. Tamlin looked well.

“Hi,” you managed. Your voice sounded like it came from a thousand miles away and still it bounced around your head like a knife clattering from a table edge. Tamlin sat gently on the edge of the bed and lifted a hand to your forehead. He softly stroked his thumb across your hair.

“Hello,” he whispered, “You gave me a bit of a fright there.” You winced slightly as Tamlin’s fingers grazed a particularly tender spot on your head.

“Ouch.”

Tamlin chuckled and pulled his hand away.

“Ouch indeed,” he began, “You gave yourself quite the wound.” His eyes wandered to the spot on your head you were acutely aware of. The pain in which emanated from that point was like nothing you’d experienced before. It wasn’t necessarily the worst pain, but it made your entire body feel strange. You scanned the room, it was ornately decorated with furnishings you couldn't ever dream of affording. The bed itself was four postered and draped in the most luxurious fabrics. The walls were panelled with a dark wood and large candelabras were set with polished gold. The curtains were drawn so you couldn’t tell what time of day it was, but your stomach rumbled furiously. You pushed yourself up in the bed, Tamlin allowed you to use his arm as a hoist and you settled your back against the cool wooden headboard.

“Where am I?” You enquired, you spied on the bed table to your left a pitcher of water, you reached for it, but Tamlin batted your hand away, electing to pour you a glass instead. “Thanks.” You said as he passed it to you.

“In my house.” Tamlin bit his lip. He watched you drink greedily from the glass and as soon as you’d finished it, he filled it once more. “Emyr Rastlefan carried you here from your cottage three nights ago. I would have brought you myself had I known, but you’ve been here ever since.”

Blessed, blessed Bronwen.

“I feel like I haven’t seen you for years.” You muttered, Tamlin took your hand gently in his own.

“I know,” Tamlin agreed, “I missed you.”

Didn’t miss me enough to choose me on Calanmai night, you thought. Your face must have betrayed your sentiment, as Tamlin seemed to sense this. “I’m sorry I haven’t been to see you. I’m sorry I didn’t see you during Calanmai. I nearly chose you, I did, truly. But there’s something about the magic, something happens when I drink from the Ukjentstrømlevtid that I have to try really hard to suppress. When I’m in the cave, I can’t stop it, no matter how hard I fight. Usually when it comes to selecting a maiden, it’s like trying to tread water with a weight tied to my leg. Everything in my body, in my mind was compelling me to choose you- but I…I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t allow my first time with you…to be like that. I’m not me, I’m whatever the magic needs me to be. When I give myself to you, I want to be wholly myself.”

When you didn’t respond, Tamlin furrowed his brow, his eyes were downcast. He truly was beautiful. “Can you forgive me?” Your mind wandered to Lucien, of his face as he spilled himself inside you.

“There’s nothing to forgive.” You said, “I understand that Calanmai makes you act in ways that are not like your usual self. More so for you, Tamlin, than anyone else.” Tamlin’s green eyes searched your face for any sign of uncertainty. “I…I found someone to share the spirit of the evening with. So you needn’t feel guilty, Tamlin.”

“I know.”

You spluttered on your water. “Lucien told me. It’s ah, not my favourite piece of information he’s ever told me. But I understand what occurred.” As he spoke, you noticed from his hand a claw slowly broke through the skin. Before you could ask about it, it slipped back under his skin as if it were never there at all. “I understand that Calanmai heightens all different wants, needs and desires, and if I had chosen you Lucien would have fucked another female and felt the same guilt. If I still hadn’t chosen you and Lucien hadn’t found you, you would have fucked somebody else. Probably Faldar. He seemed to get around by all accounts.” You laughed at that and agreed.

“I told myself you didn’t want me and therefore, should do as I pleased. Lucien was an unfortunate accomplice to that.”

“I’m not sure Lucien was so much as an accomplice rather than a willing participant but, I accept your sentiment. I have also told him the same. That it’s…fine.” He wet his lips before he continued. “But do not be mistaken, I want you very much. I wanted you that first night I met you and have wanted you every night since. When I fucked that female in the cave, the magic knew something was wrong. She was beautiful, but she wasn’t what I wanted. I held her down as I fucked her and the magic it- it made her look like you. I continue to want you. Desperately.”

This Tamlin was almost unrecognisable to you. He was open and hot and determined, a far cry from the broken male who wept in your arms. His face was impossibly close to yours, you could kiss him so very easily.

“Tamlin,” you breathed, but a knock on the door commanded your attention. A stout female entered, carrying an armful of white cloth and levitating a tray behind her.

“Belisandra!” Tamlin exclaimed, almost jumping from his seat on the bed. The female wore a wry smile as the door closed behind her. “This is Belisandra,” Tamlin said to you, his cheeks a beautiful shade of pink. “The healer I asked to attend to you.”

“Hello Belisandra, I’m sorry Tamlin brought you here to heal a cold.” You shot a scathing look at the High Lord, your own cheeks burning with the embarrassment. Was nobody allowed to have a cold in the Spring Court?

“Cold?” Belisandra questioned, Tamlin wore his own look of concern. “No child, you don’t have a cold. You were poisoned.”

You looked incredulously between Tamlin and Belisandra.

“Poisoned?!”

“Yes,” Tamlin said grimly, “Calanmai evening, you shared a bottle of wine from Velaris with Lucien, didn’t you?” You nodded. “That bottle of Velarian wine had been a gift presented to him at Winter Solstice.”

“I don’t follow.” You said. Tamlin returned to his seat at your side, again grasping your hand in his.

“The wine had been poisoned,” Tamlin continued. “We assume with the intention of killing him. But seeing as he only drank half-”

“Half the wine,” Belisandra interjected, “Half the poison, half the effect.”

“Who gave him the wine?” You asked, you tried to get up from the bed but your arms wouldn’t support your weight.

“Easy,” Tamlin whispered. “Easy. Rest, love.”

Panting, you repeated your question.

“Who gave Lucien the wine?”

“His mate.”

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