#*casts circle of protection and gets mad about it*

[chaos-has-theories]

Heaptober Day 8: Keeper's Cottage

I was just going to repost last years entry. Then I was just going to "quickly color it". Ah well: have whatever this is.

[lorelune]

some quarry

|| mydeimos x reader || E/18+ || dark content || yan mydei & self destructive reader || wc: 12.5k || ao3 ||

You are very familiar with dancing and its many forms. It's unfortunate that Mydei has taken note of your fondness for flames and their consequences.

minors, antis and ageless blogs dni

notes: helloooo!! this fic is a trade with beloved oz (@owlespresso)!! they asked for yan mydei and dears i delivered. mydeimos is a character i find narratively so fascinating and i hope that was injected at least a lil into this fic :3c thank you to mao (@yinyuedijun) for beta reading this piece as well!!! getting a second set of eyes on mydei and his character in this form was so vital truly

please mind the tags on this one!! this fic does include explicit noncon/dubcon near its end. in additional, yandere themes like stalking and mydei being QUITE overprotective. read if you'd like, don't if it's not your cup of tea!! that being said, enjoy! 🩷

CWs: dark content, yandere mydei, gender neutral reader with afab anatomy, noncon/dubcon, stalking, protective mydei that goes too far, self destructive reader, avoidant reader, almost bath sex, a single non-verbal threat of ankle breaking, fingering, piv sex (pronebone), reader is a dancer, a few references to phainon/mydeimos, author-brewed kremnoan lore

It is difficult to dance with flame when daylight lays eternal, endlessly. It’s hardly as fun, as enthralling and mystifying, to dance with light while it's so light. 

The tradition of bibasis was created long before you were born, back when the Titans were sane and Castrum Kremnos had yet to fall to Strife driven mad. There used to be a dark sky then— night— where the scholars of the Grove say that balls of light, hearths hung in the heavens, dotted the sky, weaving fate.

You like to imagine what the Era Chrysea could have been like. What it would have been like to live forever and dance with your flames under a starry night sky. It feels romantic and nostalgic despite you never having experienced it before. Perhaps it’s a collective memory, etched into the soul in a way that the Grove has yet to understand. You know you’re not the only one who yearns for bygone days that you didn’t live. 

You, thankfully, have enough of your wits about you to recognize that the only way is forward. There is no night sky for you to perform your bibasis. Only dark enclaves, carved in the stone cliffs below Okhema. They are no Castrum Kremnos, it’s a relatively polar living situation, but you have found you don’t mind it all that much.

Especially since you can dance your bibasis as your ancestor’s intended— as a shining light in the deep dark.

The cave is nearly perfect circle cut deep into the rock face. Along the sides of it, a Kremnoan crowd jeers. You can hear how impatient they are, hungry for a show and the camaraderie that will follow. The room is pitch black, the torches haven’t been extinguished, so you can slip into the center of the room unnoticed. 

With a spark of flint, the bracelets around your wrists and ankles ignite. 

The flames throw light across the room, casting shadows over the faces of your audience as you walk a wide, sweeping circle over the space. The aulos sound, trilling as your dance truly begins.

You know the steps by heart.

It’s as easy as breathing. You kick off the ground, jump, and kick your leg as far back as they’ll allow. The licking flames around your ankle streak through the dark, and a chorus of cheers follows. Your arms crest above your head, lowering down as you fall from your leap. You follow inertia. Falling low, throwing your legs out, and dragging the licking flame slowly over the ground.

The heat of the flame doesn’t burn you yet. 

It only hastens you.

...

You dance like this until it hurts to breathe. Until your muscles ache and the flame threatens to brand you with its mark. It eats through the wound, slow-burning cloth enough that you feel it singeing hairs on your arms and legs. 

It’s not until the end of the dance that you notice the crown prince idling near one of the crudely arched entryways.

Your breath catches when you notice him. You nearly stumble and fall on your ass, which would be very embarrassing considering you do this dance once a week and haven’t had any notable stumbles since the Kremnoans’ earliest days in Okhema. Most of your missteps simply get integrated into your routine, your leaps and low lunges. Losing your track record of improvisation and finesse over the crown prince would be understandable, but a blunder nonetheless. 

You can’t help yourself; you spin on the tips of your toes over the crown prince. He’s easy to spot. Even among your people, he towers over them. His shoulders are broad, his chest ample. The shadow he strikes is mouthwatering.

You’re brazen in the way you stride up to him, a flourish in your steps. There are a few cheers from the drunkest members of your audience. Mydei looks unaffected, despite the way you stalk him like a large, predatory cat. You do see his gaze flick up and down your body. It’s brief, a hardly there glance. It would be easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it. 

You’re a bit hurt he doesn’t ogle you or at least look at you a bit longer. 

Half the fun of these things is twirling around the desire of your onlookers. Being ogled by near-strangers is another part of the dance you’ve become so familiar with. You would figure that Mydei, despite his title, would show a wisp of want at the very least. The crown prince is a man— he can’t be immune to your curves, steps, and dress. He comes to your dances often enough to actually indicate that he wants to be here.

But he never shows desire, really. No matter your provocations, no matter the way that you curve your spine and leap, streaking with flame, Mydei stays stone-faced. 

It’s your own personal game to attempt to get some reaction from him. It’s too entertaining.

You sidle up to him, wearing a sly smile. His shoulders square. In time with the aulos, you spin closer, bracing on one foot, pivoting with a sweeping gesture. The flame licks your skin; your dance is almost over. 

Your back presses to Mydei’s front.

He’s hotter than the flames on your extremities. He’s a furnace, a forge, smelting something far more dangerous than a sword or spear. 

You tilt your head back, speaking with a curling tone and cat-like smile. “Crown prince.”

It’s a whorish greeting, but isn’t it meant to be? You hear him huff out a breath, you can’t tell if he sounds annoyed or amused. You don’t stay close enough or long enough to find out.

Rather, you push off Mydei, an immovable wall of muscle really, and leap back into the center of the room. In a swift motion, you undo the barely-there knots of the fabric on your wrists and ankles. It’s practiced, you’ve practiced this part, because it really would look clumsy if you did it wrong. 

They’re all dropped into a smoldering heap in the fire basin in the middle of the room. From your waist, you swipe a small bottle tied there. You take it in one go, the burn of harsh liquor coating your mouth like its own layer of flame. 

In a single motion, you spit into the fire pit.

A high plume of flame follows, lighting the residuals of your garb and the logs and kindling you laid out long before your dance. 

As the flame explodes and you raise your hands above your head, the crowd roars. 

And your crown prince remains silent.

...

After you dance, the Kremnoans of Okhema do one of two things. Party or bathe.

Today, you’ve chosen to party. Mainly because Mydeimos hasn’t ditched the gathering as he usually does. Which affords you the perfect opportunity to bother him.

It helps that you immediately have a few goblets of wine.

You’re handed one almost immediately as the torches are lit after your dance. It’s thrust into your palm with a slap on your mostly bare back from one of the spirited, older women who always attend your dances. Your biggest supporters, really. 

The alcohol helps chase off some of your self-consciousness too.

What you wear during your dances is... revealing. Worse than revealing, it's really nothing at all. Your chest is partially bound in silks. The skirt tied around your waist billows where it falls over your upper thighs. The little shorts you wear underneath would be entirely indecent if you wore them alone.

(You suppose that even these garments, despite how scantily clad they make you feel, are somewhat generous covers, given that when the bibasis was performed on Castrum Kremnos, the dancer would be essentially naked.)

(And Okhemans are far too prudish for such dress despite their love of public bathing.)

You down the rest of your goblet, wiping over your lips with the back of your hand. A pleasant buzz settles in your blood and behind your eyes, it makes staring down Mydei all too easy.

Some of your aforementioned aunties are crowding him, talking his ear off, it looks like. His arms are crossed over his chest, which is really doing some insane things for his tits, and despite the fact that the aunties are definitely in their cups and talking relative nonsense, the crown prince listens diligently.

He’s a good man. It’s too bad that you enjoy messing with him so intensely. 

As you approach, you half-bow, spreading an arm out wide as you. “Crown prince. How rare of you to linger like this.”

The aunties giggle at your dramatics. Mydei looks unamused. Not blank-faced, not angry, but a third thing you can’t identify well in your state. Perhaps disapproving— that seems right. This feeling of his is entirely directed at you; the aunties have been spared from his ire.

More for you.

“He’s been waiting for you,” one of the aunties slurs. “‘Says he’s worried. Aren’t you lucky?”

“Cora—!” Another of them admonishes, slapping the other woman’s shoulder. “Don’t interfere!”

You smile at Mydei, burgeoning with an otherworldly amount of mischief. 

“Waiting for me? I’m honored. Are you looking to share a drink? I’m sure I can find something—”

“I don’t drink.”

“Ah, yes. Your delicate sensibilities—how could I forget? Pomegranate juice, then?”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Suit yourself.” 

One of the aunties, Cora, hands you a half-full goblet, and you take a heavy gulp. It’s honey wine, rich on your palate and sticky in your throat. She takes it back from you, scuttling off with the rest of her group. They’re giggling like school girls as they do. You lick your teeth, sucking off the last sweet wine. “What did you need from me, Mydeimos?”

He stares at you with a scoff. His arms are still crossed, but it doesn’t seem like he wants them to remain that way. The crown prince isn’t the type to be tongue-tied, so you find it curious that he seems to be. You tilt your head and invade his space. Your palm falls over his chest, the thump of his heart like a drumbeat. 

“Don’t—”

“Loosen up, my dear prince.” You gesture around you. “It’s a party. Even if you won’t imbibe with the rest of us, enjoy the festivities.”

“I have better things to do.”

“And yet, you’re here, waiting for me, apparently. And you still haven’t told me why, either.”

“Let us speak elsewhere.”

“Oh, something needs to be said in private? How brazen.”

“That’s not—”

“I don’t think of you as particularly prudish— why not just say it here? I’m sure you can keep your voice down.”

You tilt on the balls of your feet, leaning your weight into him. He bears it without flinching. When you sway, blood too slick and lush to not to. Mydei steadies you with a hand on your waist. His hold there is far too gentle. You could call it tender, though you’d blame such a description on the wine roiling in your veins.

You grin up at him, smitten. His face is flushed, red painted onto his cheeks, melding into his handsome features, both high and low. The staining flush fades into his hair and melds with the firelight. 

“You’re drunk,” Mydei says. It’s simply a fact.

You hum and nod. “I would certainly hope so, by this point in the night.”

“I had hoped you’d be sober enough to be able to take this seriously for at least a moment, but I thought too highly of you, it seems.”

That makes something odd and painful twist in your chest. Mydei looks at you like you disappoint him— all the time. Not as though you’re a nuisance, but that you’re more trouble than you’re worth. It’s a look you’re used to, but the expression rarely matches his words. He’s terribly polite with his own people, and you are one of those, and so he is polite with you, even if his face looks like he’d rather be scolding you.

As he is now.

You push off of him with a scoff.

“Fuck off,” you snap, harsher than you mean to. “Find me in the morning. Perhaps I’ll be ‘serious’ enough for you then.”

He says your name as you spin around, ready to scamper off into the throng and forget that Mydeimos has a unique dislike for you. 

He snatches your wrist— actually the middle of your forearm. You flinch with the contact, spinning without thinking, kicking into his stomach as a reflex. It’s a messy move, one born of muscle memory rather than technique. The liquor in you makes the motion sloppy.

Mydei catches you, holding you up with a wide hand under the back of your knee. Your breath catches.

“You burned yourself,” he says.

His gaze flits from your wrist, burnt— scalded. He’s being dramatic— to you, all disapproving again.

“I’ll find a healer later.” You attempt to break from his grip, but he holds you there. 

His gaze is lit with fire of his own, lightning that cracks the sky and shatters the land. It pierces you, running through you. It’s immediately sobering.

There’s far more than disapproval in it.

You jerk, stumble, and fall on your ass. Your head— spins— fucking ow— and you accept someone’s hand— not Mydei’s— and rise on shaking legs. You feel like a fawn, cloven-hooved and clumsy as you walk backwards away from him. The mouth-drying wine won’t be enough to make you forget about— this. 

He calls your name once more, but you’re already fleeing the scene.

...

You avoid Mydeimos the next morning. And after that too. You avoid him at all times, actually, with an expressed amount of effort that is legitimately difficult to keep up with. 

It’s for the best— you tell yourself this often as you avoid his most frequented locations. You dodge the Chrysos Heirs when you see them out and about, worried Mydei will pop up just as easily as they seem to. The Kremnoans tend to prefer the hot baths, your crown prince is no exception, and despite your own partial nature to the steaming, almost bubbling baths, you don’t go near them. Instead, you resign your daily soaks to the more populous open bath and deal with its just-above-tepid temperature. 

The aunties notice. The uncles, too. You’re a notable figure in the Kremnoan population— the dancer who flirts with flames and dares to show the world. 

The type of dance you do is a dying art.

It’s why Mydei took note of you, you think. Your performances are spectacles. They have been ever since you were skilled enough to twirl on your own and not be afraid of the flame licks. These days, you spend your days teaching the young Kremnoans who want to learn. Or practicing yourself while the little ones watch. It’s less of a performance then and more of a demonstration. 

Your… selfish interest in Mydei started when he began to show up at these informal lessons. You like to think that this is mainly because you were holding them at one of the training arenas that he frequently sparred with that snowy-haired Chrysos Heir at. He made a habit of watching you spin in the daylight— not with your usual fire, just the yellow-white glow of Kephele’s Burden. It’s only you and your steps, the taps of your bare feet on stone before you throw yourself in the air. 

You really enjoyed his attention back then.

Because— you respect Mydeimos. How could you not? You’re not dumb, and even if you don’t keep up with all the political intricacies of the relations between Okhema and the displaced Kremnoans, you know Mydei is willing to do just about anything for the comfort and safety of his people. That includes you and your unseemly vulgarity and provocations. 

You know that just beyond your range of conscious awareness, Mydei is protecting your dying dance. 

As much as you respect him, you must torment him. A little. Because he is so damn stoic and impenetrable. He revels, yes, he’s battle-forged, revelry is vital, but there’s a part of him that holds back from the other side of the coin of carnality. There is violence and pleasure. You tempt him with the latter.

It’s really... really easy to. He’s built like a fucking brick-laid wall. He always uses scented oils after bathing. Seeing him after a hot bath is fucking lethal. Slick with oil, smelling of herbs, spice, and his own unique musk even after luxuriating in Okhema’s best baths. God forbid you stare at him and the gleam of his tattoos; you’ll be done for. He takes good care of his hair too. One of the aunties helps him trim it every few weeks; her wife rebraids it whenever she sees him out and about.

Mydei is also very... cute. You’d never say this outloud as some of the traditionalists around you would probably consider it treasonous. But thinking that the crown prince is cute is not a thought crime, and you can’t silence the little, cooing feeling you get around him sometimes. 

Despite who he could be, Mydei remains so kind-hearted. One might not see it if they weren’t looking for it. But you do. The way he entertains the children of your people so easily. He will weave them explosive tales of battle and valor. He ‘spars’ with them too— which is really just him letting the kids beat him up until he throws them off him (lightly) with a battle cry, meant only for play and not bloodshed. He lets the Kremnoan grannies tease him and pinch his cheeks when he thinks no one is looking. 

And he looks at you with pride.

Maybe— your desire is simply to please him more. And your cultivated sex appeal is an avenue to that. And it’s just... flirting. That’s all it’s meant to be! Your purpose when dancing is to be enticing and prideful; it’s what you embody. You don’t find it to be too out of bounds to impress yourself on Mydei for a bit of playful flirting.

It had been playful, anyway. 

...

You’re hiding in a private bath, late in the evening. Scrutinizing the burn scars on your wrists, slick with rivulets of water, dripping lazily back into the steaming pool below.

You burn yourself all the time— at the very least scald. You don’t understand why Mydei made such... a fuss about it. About you. It irks you. 

This isn’t how you’re supposed to play together, Nikador slain.

Mydei— he fucked up the rhythm. You’re supposed to antagonize him, and he’s supposed to take it like a good, stoic crown prince despite your behavior probably annoying him a great deal. You’re supposed to not care, dance into the crowd, and make ‘fuck me stupid’ eyes at him, and neither of you are supposed to do anything about it. You don’t fucking want to do anything about it.

Mydei has apparently decided that he’s done playing, you think.

A bathhouse worker announces herself before ducking inside of your room. She carries a goblet and a plate of cut fruits. Blush fans out over her rounded cheeks. 

“U-Um,” she stutters, sandals slapping the wet tile of the floor. “Mydeimos requested these be sent to you. And that he’ll be waiting outside the bath to speak to you. He said it’s urgent.”

You grimace and roll your skull. The back of your head bumps the tile behind you, not hard enough to ache, but hard enough to thump. 

“Please tell him to leave me be,” you sigh. “And you can take the fruit.”

“I— Um.” This poor girl. You rise from the bath, the light, thin cotton of your bathing dress clings to the curves and edges of your body. Stretching, you paw at your nearby waist bag. You have a handful of balance coins you can give her for the inevitable trouble you’re causing her. 

You extend your arm as far as it will go, and your bag is still a little too far out of reach. The bath is simply too luxurious to get out of fully at this moment, and you huff before throwing one leg up and over the side of the tub.

You arch your back, stretching low, and just barely snatch the leather belt of your bag. 

And, fates aligned, Mydei enters the room. His presence emanates over the steam-filled. Your poor bath attendant looks like she could pass out. And clearly— clearly— Mydei was not expecting to see you tummy-down, ass-up, arched on the bath tiles while nearly naked. 

He flushes crimson, matching the reddest parts of his hair. You don’t fare much better— your cheeks heat, and you immediately slip back into the water.

“Mydeimos—” You sound shaken; you are. “How brazen. I’d kindly ask you to leave.”

He— stutters, already shuffling back. “I— will be waiting outside. Have the decency to speak to me yourself.”

You snap back at him, “And you have the decency to respect my modesty.”

Mydeimos stares at you. His pupils slitted. They cut into you like a blade. It makes you feel too exposed.

Your modesty has never mattered to you before this moment. He knows this. So do you.

He turns, leaving you with the click of metal boots on tile. “Find me later then.”

You won’t be, actually. You’re going to be avoiding him twice as hard because clearly he wants something from you and you have zero intention of giving it to him. Even knowing what exactly he wants, actually.

The poor attendant looks like she has forgotten how to breathe. You crawl back to your bag and hand her a lump of coins with an apologetic look on your face. You imagine it’s quite pathetic. You must be quite pathetic. Turning down the crown prince, slick and indecent in your thin robes, and heavily tipping an attendant to both apologize and encourage her to stay quiet.

She seems to get the idea and scampers off, leaving you alone with the tray of juicy, ripe fruit and a goblet of what is undoubtedly pomegranate juice to taunt you. 

...

Mydei is at your dance that same evening.

You see him before the torches are snuffed. He sees you too, you think, but you force yourself to ignore him in favor of your performance.

It only half works.

The cloth around your wrists is bound such that the outer layers burn slowly and an inner layer is soaked with a viscous, fire-retardant liquid. It keeps you mostly... mostly unburnt. In the old days, in Castrum Kremnos, dancers like yourself wore the extremity burns that came with your art with pride. They were indicative of prowess. You’ve found that Okhema is less accepting and prideful when you walk around the streets with fresh wounds. So, you’ve become very diligent in wrapping your wrists and ankles to prevent actual, lasting injuries. A few flame bites don’t scare you.

However, this evening, you’re unnerved by Mydei’s unwanted presence. His gaze feels like a brand, hot iron tucked into gemstone embers, a silent threat that you’ll be burned by something other than your own controlled fire. 

Frustratingly, you know that if you asked him to leave, he would. He’d probably just be waiting around a corner for the remainder of the night, ready to stalk you down like a big cat.

Mydeimos remains, and you attempt to dance as usual. But the whistling of the aulos and the drumbeats feel a little wrong, and you’re embarrassingly off-beat. You stumble more than once but disguise the blunders with a well-timed lunge or leap. The fourth-ish time you misstep, you turn on your heel wrong, and pain shoots up from your foot to your leg. It hurts badly enough that you snap your jaw shut, teeth clattering against each other. Your leg gives out, and your knee crashes into the stone floor.

The most sober of the crowd seem to still— this isn’t part of your usual routine. You rise and try to make it seem natural, but your next step— fucking hurts— and you crash to the ground. The wrapped cloth around your limbs begins to slip off, you fully put your hand onto the burning strip of fabric that has been shed with your stumbling.

“Fuck—” You curse under your breath and flinch away from it. 

You don’t even realize Mydei is there until there are large, hot hands under your arms, hauling you back and away. You— fuck him— fight against him, elbow and kick at him, but he is the indomitable crown prince, and he is not moved by what are essentially the swats of an angry kitten (you are the angry kitten).

With a dizzying amount of dexterity, especially given the low lowlight, he tugs the remaining flame-ridden cloth from you. He snuffs it just as easily. It all happens so quickly that you can’t protest properly, can’t curse him out either. The torches are relit just as Mydeimos stands, dragging you up with him, still hoisting you under the arms like you’re nothing more than a doll. Or corpse.

“This performance is over.” His words won’t be questioned even as you begin to snarl at him under your breath. “Take part in your regular merriment all you wish.”

‘Regular merriment’ is the two barrels of wine that have already been popped open and dipped into. 

The crowd still manages to cheer (traitors, all of them), the aulos and drums resume, and despite your protest, Mydeimos drags you from your stage, your theater, and you have a sinking feeling that your one-sided game has come to an end.

...

It becomes immediately clear that you cannot run from Mydei now. He has corralled you, cornered you so efficiently. Your egress has been smashed, no alcohol to blame or drunkards to weave your way into. 

You cannot hide from him as he drags you away.

Well— not drag. Carries. Over his shoulder, specifically.

You protest— because how could you not? All of your kicking and snarling doesn’t do anything more than get Mydeimos to throw you over your shoulder like you’re nothing more than a sack of grain that he’s helping a passerby move from one place to another. Except you’re not a sack of grain, you're a vaguely tipsy dancer who would much rather be enjoying the afterparty.

Mydeimos only sets you down once you’ve sufficiently punched his spine and lower back. It doesn’t affect him, and he carries you all the way to the hot bath without issue.

He sets you down on one of the massage tables; he treats you more gently than a sack of grain then. His touch isn't unkind and he makes sure you settle, unwobbling, on your backside, legs dangling off the edge of the table. One of them is already swollen around the joint of your ankle.

Mydei frowns— he notices too. He drops to his knees to inspect it. 

With an uncomfortable amount of reverence, he scrutinizes the injury.

“Mydeimos.” You hope to interrupt his... overt concern. “Stop that. Stop this. It’s unbecoming.”

Mydei, with one hand cradling the underside of your knee, lifting your foot closer to his face, and the other cradling the sicklish instep of your foot, flicks his gaze to you. It moves back down to the injury, to the burns that marr the skin there. There’s a ring of thickened, textured skin from your fire dancing. You never saw them as— a bad thing. Battle scars, you thought of them as.

With the way Mydei is eyeing them, like they’ve personally offended him, you can’t help but feel an edge of... guilt for allowing yourself to be injured like this. You usually don’t care. Scars are nothing to be ashamed of— your mother taught you that when she was stabbed in the gut by a Furiae tideling. She still wore the revealing tops she adored, the ones cut to show her stomach and the molted, gnarled skin there.

Your little burns are nothing against that. Yet, Mydei looks at them, looks at you, like you’ve been grievously injured. 

“I should forbid you from your dance,” he says, voice clear and irrefutable. “This is unacceptable.”

“Fuck you.” You kick him with your other leg, not hard but enough to startle. “No. That’s— stupid.”

“You’re hurting yourself.”

“Nikador slain, Mydeimos. It’s a few minor burns, once a week, in exchange for the joy and excitement of our people— your people— I say it’s a fair trade, don’t you think so?” 

“No. It’s not.” He drops your ankle, futzes around under the massage table, and pulls out a long bandage. The kind that stretches and holds pressure. He wraps it gingerly around your swelling foot. From the stash that you didn’t even know was there, he grabs a salve. Gauze and bandages too.

You frown. With a lurching tilt, you attempt to snatch the supplies from him. “I can do this— my fucking— self—”

Mydei rights you with a single hand against your sternum. The metal of his gauntlet is slick with condensation from the bathhouse air but still a bit chilled against your skin. 

He stares at you. That sharp gaze of his leaves you defenseless, uncomfortable in your skin. 

“You cannot be trusted with your own well-being.“

There’s… something in the way that he says it. A finality to his words, a statement of absolutely unflappable fact, he provides you. It makes you feel… small. And foolish and weak.

“Yes, I can be.” You sound defensive, it makes you cringe inside yourself. “I’m perfectly capable of handling my ‘well-being,’ thank you very much, Mydeimos.” 

His jaw locks, tightens. You see the strain of it in the tendons of his neck. He— he still hasn’t let go of the fragile skin and bone of your ankle. As you sober up, increasingly quickly given the conversation you’re having, you’re aware of the ache in your limbs. The sting of burns that you… may have ignored. But it’s your choice to ignore them! 

In a rush of motion, Mydei stands, still holding your leg. The flow of the action pushes you back, flattening you to the massage table so that you’re forced to lie on it. When you try to at least get on your elbows, keep your tender belly somewhat less flat and exposed before you lose your composure any further—

Mydei stops you. A hand laid over your sternum pushes you back down. The sharp points of his gauntlet tease into your skin. A threat that you’re sure many others have felt before under his hand.

You didn’t think you’d ever be one of them, not like this. 

“You are not a fool, nor are you stupid,” he says. “And I would think that you have enough sense to put aside your childish ego when it comes to something as paramount as your own health.” 

“It’s not— it’s not a childish ego—“ You feel like you’re being flayed open under the heat of his gaze and touch. “It matters to me— and to others—“

“There are far safer ways to indulge your dancing.” Mydei fingers drum over the bones of your ankle. “Your performing peers have almost entirely put aside dancing with live flame.” 

“Cowards.” You spit, voice trembling. 

“No, they’re just more honest than you.” Mydei leans forward. He eclipses the haze of steam and low, warm light of the room. “They don’t want to experience such pain in order to provide joy. You disregard that pain in favor of… what?”

“Fuck you, Mydei.” You really push up against him now, but it’s unmoveable. “Let me up—“

“Attention?” Mydeimos stares at you, grips your ankle harder. “Is that what you crave so badly?”

“I ‘crave’ my ability to move and exist as I wish—“ 

“Clearly not,” gently, but firm all the same, Mydei squeezes your twisted ankle. A half-formed sound escapes you as pain rockets up from the appendage. “How would you expect to move, let alone walk, when you’re injuring yourself so carelessly?” 

“Let me up—“

Mydei’s grip on your ankle tightens. It— hurts, actually. More than a little. An involuntary noise, a squeak, a fucking whimper bursts up from your throat. 

“You have a liar’s tongue.” Mydei tells you. 

His gaze flicks to your ankle. Then back to your face. Then back to your ankle. He squeezes— harder. He’s still not putting anything close to his full strength into it, but you have the bones of a dancer, the body of a mover, not a fighter.

He’s… not going to—

“Mydei—“ you feel paralyzed, frozen. So unsure in your belly and behind your eyes. 

He’s not going to break you, is he?

Mydei pushed your ankle the wrong way. You can’t help but squirm, attempting to tug yourself away. He is unyielding. Your words of protest are stuck in your throat. 

“What you really want,” he says, “is just a game, isn’t it? The feelings of others. A drunken sport for you, is it?” 

“That’s not—“

“Don’t lie.” It’s a threat, you realize. Mydei's hulking form moves closer, pinning you fully. Your legs are forced around his body, bent at the knee. It would be an intimate position under other contexts. 

Not this one. 

“A-And so what if it is?” You manage to crack a smile, nervously looking between Mydei and your ankle that— he wouldn’t, would he? “Flirting a little— it’s within my right, isn’t it? I’m not hurting anyone.”

Mydei frowns at that. 

“How callous of you.” 

It clicks then. It’s like you’ve been dunked in the cold bath, not the hot one that you’re flattened so close to now. Immediately, you’re sober, you’re so alert it feels like your heart is going to tear out of your chest. 

The swirl of emotions in your chest is overwhelming— shame— fucking shame— fear, hot on your tongue too. Sadness at your misunderstanding; you didn’t mean to hurt anyone. 

“O-Oh.” Is all you can manage to squeeze out. 

Mydei inspects you. He has you where he wants you, you think. You’re immobile, forced to reckon with whatever he presents you. You can’t do anything but take what he says— and it’s Mydei, so of course you believe him. Something awful grows in the pit of your stomach, like a fungus that crawls along the lining of your guts. The backs of your eyes sting. 

“Do you understand?” He asks.

You’re certain that he’s going to break your ankle. Shatter it right then and there. 

“S-Sure.”

Mydei stares at you, then lets down your ankle and releases it. Free of pressure, the promise of something far worse than being pinned is not quite gone, but it’s... somewhat diffused.

Mydei opens his mouth to speak but is interrupted by the laughter. The floating, high kind, fueled by wine and merriment. A gaggle of girls stumble into the baths, you recognize them as some of your regular attendees. They hang off each other, bracing themselves on the railing down to the bottom platform, to the bath and the massage tables.

You freeze, Mydei looks unphased. 

The girls notice you and— gasp. Audibly. The fucking dramatics.

“Oh my gods,” one covers her mouth, the strap of her dress slipping down her arm. “We didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You’re not—” you rush to say, pushing against Mydei’s hand. 

It’s a jolting movement, one Mydei doesn’t fully expect, and, perhaps by reflex or perhaps with some repressed intention, the claws of his gauntlet dig into your chest and he pushes you back into the damp wood of the table. 

Blood pinpricks where the gauntlet digs in.

Mydei notices, scowls, and then an unreadable look takes over his features. He lets you go without another word and departs wordlessly but swiftly. He looks back at you just before exiting.

His gaze pierces you. It’s a promise, it’s a threat, it’s a death knell that every fiber of your being tells you that you must avoid.

...

You do see a healer the next day. Or, rather, you contact your usual girlie, requesting a house call. You did manage to drag yourself to your little home the night before, but walking on the sprain was a pointedly bad idea.

She fixes you up with a splint and gives you a bit of ointment to put on the small wounds on your chest. The cuts spread out from between your collarbones, all the way down to your sternum. Your healer, a doe-eyed blonde, tells you that they’ll scar in the shape of a star (“How pretty will that be?”)

You have to make sure it doesn’t scar.

Your encounter with Mydei... unnerves you. 

It’s not like you haven’t seen the crown prince intense before. You’ve spied on him and that Deliverer Chrysos Heir more than once during their spars. Mydei strikes with blows that would maim an opponent with any less strength and finesse than the other. He fights with intention, and he speaks the same way. Mydeimos bears a heavy crown and an even heavier burden, and he’s constantly vying for control and sway between the elder Kremnoans and the seats of Okhema. He does not do this with pretty words; he does so cuttingly. He is kind to those he wishes to be kind to and lethal to those he wishes to be lethal to.

You’re not sure which side you land on anymore.

It’s a bad idea, continuing to attempt to ignore him. But this time, it feels more... paramount. Less childish and more like you’re trying to save yourself from something bigger than the fallout of your brazen flirtations.

You lock the door and hide in your little apartment for four days.

It’s coward behavior, but truthfully, you don’t know what the fuck to do.

You don’t want to face Mydei. You don’t know what will happen if you do face him. You’ve already canceled your dance for this week, citing your injury while thinking of Mydei’s disapproval of you performing at all.

You shouldn’t care so much about his opinion. 

You haven’t before— it’s not like you weren’t somewhat aware of his disapproval. Or, his perceived disapproval. In your mind, the reason why he always left your performances before their end, before the carousing and revelry, was because he was too disgusted by the overtly… enticing nature of your dance and flagrant disregard for your safety to stay. 

You have always disregarded his… disdain? Lack of interest? That’s half the reason he was so fun to tease, or attempt to tease. Getting a rise out of the crown prince was one of your pleasures for a while.

Now? You’re… perhaps a little scared to get a rise out of him. Your ankle still throbs, bruises have bloomed under your skin where he gripped so fiercely. You’d, actually, like to avoid attracting his attention at all for the time being. You don’t want the crown prince to have any opinion of you. The ideal situation would be for you to rot in your apartment for as long as it takes for Mydei to forget about... whatever all that was, and you can go back to your dancing in peace. 

However, you cannot rot in your apartment forever. One must eat, and your stash of bread and olive oil runs out very quickly. Not to mention that you’re... perhaps— going through some very big, complex emotions, and nothing soothes like a carb smothered in high-quality olive oil. You’ve been indulging and your empty pantry is the consequence.

You venture out of your apartment on the fifth day, wearing a cloak to cover your face (rather dramatically) and heading to Marmoreal Market during its least busy hours. It earns you some odd looks, but you don’t particularly care. You’re in your hermit era. Your ascetic era, actually, because you’re going to make the cask of olive oil and two loaves of bread you purchase last for at least a month. 

... Okay, maybe not complete asceticism, because one of your favorite vendors has a fresh batch of sesamous rolls out, and you’re just a mortal, human person, and you cannot resist the supernatural call of a flakey, nutty pastry when all you’ve eaten for a week pantry basics.

So, you procure six. Which is excessive, but you make decent money as a dancer, and you’re kind of going through something.

With your wares secured, you start to head back to your home. Your safe haven where you can pretend the crown prince didn’t consider breaking your ankle. Or bedding you. Or some unholy combination of the two. You can’t be sure and truthfully, you don’t really want to be sure. 

(It’s unfortunate that the lionesque crown prince has been on the prowl for you.)

His voice, low and rough, bounces off the marble of Okhema’s inner hallways. You freeze when you hear it, panic lancing through you. He’s not far and it seems he’s rounding a corner, talking to— fuck— Cora, damn woman.

You scamper back up the hallway, looking desperately for a place to hide. A pillar to duck behind, a cart to hide under— fuck, you’d slip into a pond if it would allow you to escape this impending interaction. 

Mydei, however, is a warrior and far faster than you in every regard. The hallway is relatively empty, and the best cover you can find is behind a not-so-large pot and vining, flowering plant that curls through one of the open air windows. It’s— not really cover. But if Mydei wasn’t looking for you, he wouldn’t see you.

Except, Mydei is very clearly looking for… something. Probably you. Scanning left and right, up and down as he walks. Cora chatters by his side, her arm looped through his. Traitor, you think. You thought Cora was on YOUR side. But, apparently not. 

(It’s easier to blame her for things she doesn’t even know then acknowledge any of the unpleasant feelings that have been creeping up your throat the past few days.)

You flatten yourself to the wall, praying Mydei doesn’t see you.

It’s foolish, really, because one look in your direction and his eyes lock onto you. Regardless of your cloak and shadow-covered face, he recognizes you. You curse under your breath and kick off the wall. Running off is paramount. You can (probably) lose him in the markets and their growing crowds. 

You’ve never been known for your speed or stealth, however. Only the grace of your steps. It doesn’t help that your splinted ankle is already aching from all of your walking. 

Before you’re two steps from your hiding spot, there’s a hand on the nape of your neck, tugging you backwards. You choke, grasping at the cloak’s tie around your neck. It only takes a single motion to loosen it, and it drops to the ground. You whirl around to curse at Mydei, who is still staring at you along with a very mischievous-looking Cora.

“Oh, dear,” she says, hiding a smile behind her palm. “I fear I may be about to intrude on something.”

“You’re not.” You straighten yourself up and overdramatically (or perfectly dramatically) brush dust from your robes. “This is actually harassment. Cora, could you escort me home, please?”

You give her a pleading look, probably looking like a sad, wet puppy, but she does not waver. Instead she looks even more pleased, giggling to herself as her frizzy, silver-grey curls bounce around her jaw. 

“If this is harassment, I ought to get into the business of being harassed.”

“Don’t joke, please.” Mydei frowns. “And what would Sara think of such pursuits?”

“She’d attempt to join in, Mydeimos!”

You turn, ready to leave this weird, flirting-but-not-flirting exchange. Mydei seems engrossed enough, but he still shoots out a hand to grab your shoulder. You curse, ready to snap at you, but he’s at your back. A furnace-like presence that eclipses everything else in your line of sight.

“I’ll escort you.” Mydei says it in a way that brokers no argument. 

“I’ll pass, thank you.”

“It’s not an offer.” He tells you, stooping so just you can hear. His tone isn’t harsh, but it’s unignorable and sharp enough to pierce. You shudder. The phantom pain from the healing bruises on your ankle makes itself known.

You sigh, looping your arms with Mydei, reluctantly, like it’s the worst fate in the world. Cora howls as you do. Mydei looks rather unimpressed. Your theatrics don’t seem to phase him, not actually— rather, whatever he is seeing underneath your performance is what’s bothering him. 

You wish you were drunk. Maybe you should’ve bought wine along with your sundries. 

It’s too late to regret now as Mydei steers you away from Cora and the vining, budding plant that could not hide you from the eyes of your undying crown prince.

...

Mydeimos does not, actually, take you back to your apartment, much to your chagrin. He leads you into the baths through a back entrance. There’s no chatter between the two of you as you walk. You have no interest in attempting conversation when you are being dragged through the bathhouse somewhat against your will.

It’s only when you think of the blessed loaf of bread and fresh baked goods that you start dragging your feet.

“Mydeimos,” you huff. “The steam in here will ruin my groceries. Unless this is some shortcut back to my apartment that I’m unaware of, take me home.”

“I will.” Mydei continues to walk because you, tugging on his arm, really does next to nothing to stop him. “After we talk.”

You sigh. It’s not really worth it to fight him on it at this point. Maybe, after you talk or whatever, you’ll be free of his oppressive presence and can go back to dancing (and maybe even forget about his stunt at the hot bath. Maybe.)

Mydei drags you far into the bathhouse, down hallways you don’t recognize. The marble molts from white and grey to black and silver. It’s almost warm beneath your feet. Part of you thinks to ask for more details of where you’re being led, but you think better of it. It gets quieter and quieter. The air feels thicker.

Eventually, you find yourself a private bath. Far larger than the ones available for rent in the main bathhouse. The basin seems deeper, wider, with a current curling in the water from somewhere you can’t identify.

You eye the round bath and its blueish, perfect-looking, steaming water, then look up to Mydei with a scowl.

“We’re in private.” You extract yourself from the loop of his arm and cross your own over your chest. “What did you wish to talk about?”

Mydei looks at you, deadpan. You revel in the reaction. “Do you enjoy being daft on purpose?”

“No, actually. Though, I would very much enjoy forgetting about the... events that followed my dance.”

Mydei frowns at you and clicks his tongue. It’s then that he decides shedding his already objectively indecent outer (and inner) robes is the best course of action. You scoff and turn away from him. You do not need to see this man naked. He already wanders around half-naked and you have enough mental images of his likeness stored in such a state to not need to see him entirely undressed.

There’s a slight splash behind you, and it’s only then that you turn around. The churning water that comes up to just below his tits protects some of his modesty. Bare minimum decency, really.

You frown so hard that you think you might get a headache.

“Get in.” Mydei nods to the bathwater, steam already making his hair frizzy.

“Absolutely not.” You frown. “For a litany of reasons, I will stay on dry land while we ‘talk’, Mydeimos. Allow me this much.”

Mydei stares at you. He looks at you with the same precision and violence that a lance piercing a fragile chest would have. It makes you freeze in place. 

It’s only then that you become aware of how close you are already to the bath’s luxuriously large basin. How Mydei, far stronger and swifter than yourself, is not all that far away from your tender, healing ankles.

Your gaze snaps from your feet back to him. It’s already too late.

In single deft motion, he has you by the calf and pulls you into the bath. One of his arms shoots out as you crash down, you feel it on your back, up your spine, to guard your head and neck despite plunging you into the uncomfortably deep bath. You yelp as you hit the water, half-drowning as your head slips under the water. Mydei hauls you up a moment later and drags you next to him. 

You must look like a wet cat. You feel like a wet cat— a pouting one as you stare at him incredulously. Your light clothes are soaked and— indecent. Fucking indecent and half-floating in the water with the current and heat of it. 

“What the fuck—” 

“I wouldn’t have had to do that,” Mydei interrupts, stern in a way that makes your stomach flip, “if you didn’t keep running away.”

“I’m not running away.” (You are.) “You just cannot let this fucking— thing go. This a you problem.”

Mydei looks sick based on his expression. You lean away from him in the bath, crossing your arms, horribly aware of your own exposure. 

You feel like a cornered animal.

“You’re so—” Mydei sighs. His composure is fracturing. Part of you is deeply enchanted by watching this occur and the other is horrified by it. You’re so close to him, so bare to him. It makes your skin itch. He breathes out through his teeth then stares at you. You feel his gaze down to your marrow. “Your obstinance is infuriating. But, you’re aware of this, aren’t you? Are you taking pleasure in the trouble you cause?”

“No—?”

“I don’t believe you,” Mydei’s tone is scaring you. “You revel in this. The affections you give and how you dash from the consequence of your kindness, whether it be bad or good to you. You run from the recompense. You cause reactions only to turn the other way when they actually occur. To yourself, even to your own body. It’s been difficult to watch. Unbearable, even. You look away from your own discomfort with such dexterity.”

“Choke,” you say reflexively. 

It’s clearly the wrong thing to say. Mydei’s jaw locks.

“Must I give you a taste of your consequences in order for you to understand their severity?” 

“I think—” You drift away from him in the bath. To the otherside of the pool, hopefully creating enough distance that you can slip away. “That you should go spar with that snow-haired one who clearly wants to fuck you. How about you blow off some steam that way, yeah? I’m sorry for flirting with you and not sticking around for anything else. Just kinda my thing, you know?”

“It’s—” Mydei pinches the bridge of his nose with his uncovered, ungaunleted hand. “Is that all you think this is about?” 

Seeing the bare skin of his muscular forearms pre-massage table incident would’ve probably had you salivating and causing problems. Now, like this, exposed and all too aware of how your clothes are sticking to your skin under the water, the sight brings you nothing but distress. He’s strong beneath the little armor he does wear.  

“Look,” you interrupt him, kicking away from him (with your bad foot— ow—) to a distance that feels safer, “Even if I was flirting with you— I don’t owe you anything beyond that. It’s just... light-hearted, yeah? Besides, you’d know if I wanted you in bed Mydei.”

This— strikes him. You can see in the way his expression darkens. It’s a good distraction. Mydei may be a brutal fighter, but there’s a tender heart there. You admired it, prior to him tossing it aside to pin you down and nearly break one of your limbs. 

“Would I?” Mydei asks, his body coiled tight.

You heft yourself up out of the bath and sit on the lip of it. The air is much cooler than the hot, hot water. Steam curls off of your skin.

“I would’ve just asked if you wanted to fuck.” You shrug, attempting nonchalance. You have no idea if it's landing.

You’re mostly lying. You haven’t had anyone in your bed in months. Physical pleasures that drift so far, so seriously, haven’t interested you in quite some time. You get enough contact from the revelrous dancing following your performances and the dirty, frantic kisses you share with strangers on the way home. This carnality never follows you past your apartment door. 

Back when you were fucking, more regularly, it was long-term partnerships. This whole flirting with no strings attached thing scratched an itch in the back of your brain entirely polar from that. 

You don’t bother explaining any of this to Mydei. It— it feels too late for that. 

“Do you only know how to lie?” He asks.

You look away from him to the condensation-slick stone and dark tile of the floors. They seem far more interesting than affording this guy any amount of further eye contact.

“Depends on who you ask, I guess.” You shake your head, tracing a vein of marble with your eyes. “For what it’s worth— I’m sorry for playing with your feelings. I didn’t realize you’d take all this so seriously. That’s my folly, and I’m sorry for the trouble it’s caused you.”

Silence follows.

Your words crest over the light gurgle of the ever-filling bath. The syllables lay heavy in the air. You don’t know how you really expect Mydei to respond. All you hope is that he lays this stupid heart-to-heart, intervention nightmare to rest and you can go back to wallowing in your apartment until your ankles and wrists heal enough for you to resume dancing (with flame still, by the way.)

In the seething silence, you stand with a sigh. You decide, actually, that this encounter is done. Hopefully Mydei got his scolding out of his system and whatever hurt feelings linger in him can be resolved by that so-called ‘Deliverer’ blowing his back out in a few hours.

You get two steps from the bath before you realize you are terribly, horribly wrong. 

Mydei grabs your ankle. The sprained one, the one that is swollen and wrapped because you stopped wearing your splint early because it was annoying. Pain shoots from the limb and as he yanks, you drop. There’s no cushion to the fall other than how you catch yourself on your hands. The sting is immediate and you nearly crack your skull on the tile. 

You turn to give Mydei a piece of your mind, because what the fuck— but he’s already rising from the water. Naked, half-hard, and so much bigger and stronger than you are.

It all hits you then. 

The situation at hand, really. How much you’ve pissed this guy off, how far you’ve pushed him— the fact he brought you to the depths of the bathhouse to a private room to have this conversation. ‘Conversation’, you realize too, is generous.

This is a duel, one you were destined to lose.

“No—” You push up from the tile, scrambling on the slick surface, but in a single move, Mydei has you pinned on your tummy. A hand splays out between your shoulder blades and he climbs to straddle your hips. Just over your ass. The garment you’re wearing is so thin and the panties you’re wearing are just simple cotton. They’re soaked through.

“Mydeimos— wait—” You need to stop this. It’s vital, it’s vital— you need to run.

“I’ve given you an opportunity to listen. I’ve explained how you ended up in this state.” He applies pressure to your back. It squeezes the air from your lungs with exhales against your will. “And yet, you can’t even do that much. What you do hear— is devoid of the actual intent that I know you understand.”

“Let me up, Mydei!” You shove at the ground. Mydei gathers your wrists in one large, scalding hand and pins them to your lower back. His grip burns more than your flame ever did.

He leans down over your body, flattening you. 

“You have no idea how to take care of yourself.” His voice is hushed, sticky in your ears and you whine. He’s— he’s stupid and dumb and you’re scared— “Mind and body, you’re so reckless with yourself and care not for the harm you inflict on yourself. And on others.”

“Mydei, p-please—” You’ve been reduced to begging this quickly. Your pulse rabbits under your skin.

“You were given many chances.” Mydei hand drifts down your back, following the slope of your spine, the curve and bow of it. “You were presented many opportunities to acknowledge your behavior, really acknowledge it, and you still didn’t. I know you’re not truly ignorant to your own patterns. You wouldn’t be so adept at turning away from them if you were ignorant.”

You try to kick your legs up. Your feet hit Mydei’s back with no effect. 

“As a result,” his words are rough and silken all at once. “You’ve forced my hand. You must be shown the consequence of your actions.” 

You squeak out his name, turning your head under the pressure of him. When you finally meet his gaze, it’s impenetrable. Your— stupidity, foolhardiness— idiocy and indifference have brought out a side of the kind-hearted crown prince that you never expected to be on the receiving end of. 

Dread pools in your gut and you claw against the floor.

...

You know it’s not just about flirting. 

It’s about the wounds. It’s about the way you care not for how many mornings you wake up hungover with the taste of someone else’s spite and berry wine still clinging to your teeth. It’s the way you don’t mind the burns you get, that you ignore the sting and aches you get from your art. You don’t eat sometimes, entranced in learning new steps to a new melody. It’s how you cozy your way up to anyone who suits your fancy and will give you the time of day. It’s about how, despite how legitimate their affections may be, you twirl from the potentiality of closeness and back into your flames. 

If you didn’t know these things before, you know them now, on the tiled floor of the private bath. 

You tremble, grasping at the slippery ground for any type of purchase as Mydei pushes a third finger into your cunt. 

It’s too much, too big, too fast. Mydei’s hands are a warrior’s, strong and rough from years of training, and you feel the texture of them as they work their way, with some difficulty, into the clutch of your cunt. Each callous drags against your opening and you drop your head on to the tile, barely restraining a pitching cry from the back of your throat. 

Mydei, for his part, fucks you with his fingers slowly. You’re not all that wet for him, despite how he’s alternating between slipping his other hand under you to rub your clit and petting over your hip as if to calm a startled animal. 

You are a startled animal, really.

“I y-yield—” you choke out, again. You don’t know how many times you’ve said it at this point. Your throat feels dry despite the damp air. “I yield—!”

Yielding won’t stop whatever Mydei is doing— you know this, but you have to at least try and resist.

He hushes you in a way that isn’t tender, but isn’t cruel either. His thumb strokes over your side and you barely keep yourself from crying. You bury your face in your arms.

For how much you don’t want this, Mydei isn’t being cruel with his touch.

There’s force behind how he is pinning you down. How his legs are braced over the backs of yours, how one of his hands presses into the center of your spine to keep you belly-down. He bears down on you unrelentingly.

But it’s not cruel. It’s not harsh— just— unignorable 

His fingers drag on your insides, pressing against your sweet spot with an infuriating amount of tenderness given your predicament. He’s drawing desire out of you, coaxing you into a state you have so diligently avoided.

The delirium of carnal pleasure. Fucker.

A noise lodges itself in your throat. You can’t tell if it’s one of discomfort or desire. 

He continues like this, fingers curling in you with enough gentleness that you could, under different circumstances, fool yourself into thinking it was the touch of a proper lover. The pump of his fingers in and out of your cunt gets easier, wetter, much to your dismay. You don’t want to admit that there are little, pleasurable sparks beginning to curl from your toes up to your spine. 

You hope that what’s making you slicker is blood and not your own arousal. 

Mydei strokes your back as his pace increases, each thrust into your insides begins to punch. Each stroke and curl is directly over your sweet spot. He’s learned your body so well, so quickly.

“Fuck you—” You spit at him, breathless, unfortunately. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!”

He sighs behind you, squeezing your hip in a way that you’re sure will leave a bruise. “Even like this, you deny yourself?”

“Especially like this!” You shout, your voice bouncing off the tiles. “You c-could’ve, like, I-I don’t know— asked me to dinner or something first.”

Mydei stills behind you. His fingers are deep in your cunt as he does, too warm and keeping you too full. He shifts forward, you can feel it, feel the looming shadow he casts over you. His hand tangles in your hair, dragging you from where you’ve been hiding in your arms. Pain nips at your scalp and you gasp with it.

Mydei is nose-to-nose with you, his gaze hot and piercing and uniquely infuriated.

“If I had, you would have said no.” His lips press to your cheek. “Even if you had wanted it.”

He’s the fucking worst— he really is.

Mydei doesn’t drop your head as you squirm beneath him. His fingers move again, harder, faster, pumping in and out of your hole with sick, twisted squelching sounds. You’re slick, you’re wet, and you are undeniably... enjoying this. On some level. Somewhere. And Mydei’s right, isn’t he? That, had Mydei propositioned you traditionally, you would’ve turned him down. You might’ve even laughed in his face. He probably has known that reality longer than you’ve been aware of it yourself.

You have no retort; you can only glare at him.

It’s hard to maintain your disposition like this— as pleasure rolls over itself in your belly and as Mydei is slowly undoing all of your carefully kept defenses. Maintaining— nonchalance has, more or less, gone out the window.

Mydei wants that, you understand. He wants to break you down, and it’s working.

You lose yourself in the feel of it, in the unrelenting weight and presence of Mydei at your back and his fingers in your cunt. It’s hard to think beyond that and the glowing sparks of pleasure that make you drip. It’s— a little hard to breathe with all the steam. And maybe you’re breathing a little too frantically from the shock of being penetrated and not really wanted it. Maybe your own helplessness has made you more a prey animal than a dancer.

You feel the heat in your gut coil tighter, hotter— burning— as he curls his fingers just right, rolls the pearl of your clit with a haunting amount of dexterity. 

“I h-hate you—” you sob, giving one last, valiant attempt at bucking him off of you. “— Mydeimos—” 

Mydei growls. Something angry and more animal than you’re used to. A swoop of something akin to terror shudders through you. Mydei doubles his efforts at taking you apart with nothing but his hands.

You come around his fingers. Your cunt flutters around his digits and the sickening wet sound of flesh and slick goes static in your ears. A sound is ripped from your throat, one that you can hardly hear as pleasure overtakes you.

Before you can really come down, Mydei flips you, so you’re on your back with your legs spread. He kneels between them. Still naked. Fully hard. The tip of his cock is a raging purple, wet with pre.

“You still cannot let go of your liar’s tongue?” He grabs your jaw in one hand. The gesture is firm, but tender, in a way that’s so him. 

You whine— you can’t make yourself form words. Your so-called ‘liar’s tongue’ is too thick and heavy in your mouth.

He looks at you then— examines you, assesses you. Your chest heaves as he does, shivering in the sticky air.

“One more opportunity,” Mydei says. “Listen well, flame kin.”

You nod with a rolling, loose neck.

Mydei strokes over your cheek. “Admit that you revel in your own suffering.”

You whine, trying to close your thighs. Push him away— please, Nikador slain—

He continues, “Admit that you seek your own suffering and push away pleasures. If you can, which I know you can, this ends.”

“That’s basically just admitting that y-you’re hurting me, you know.”

“I’m giving you what you want, apparently—” Mydei’s hand finds its way to your throat. It doesn’t squeeze, but the threat of pressure looms. “Pain. Even if we both know that that’s not really what you want, is it?”

Something weird knots in your insides. You want to push Mydei away, but you know it won’t work. You want to run from this bath, but you know that won’t work. Mydei has you in his grasp, under his predator-like gaze and you cannot escape it.

Your attempts have been feeble. Your sharp tongue hasn’t done you any favors either.

“What do you think I want?” You ask him, voice shaking and breathless all at one.

“Pleasure,” Mydei says, so matter-of-factly. “You’re just too rabbit-hearted to allow it.”

You want to lambast Mydei, it’s a knee-jerk reaction. But you abstain. You’re too tired, too worn down by... everything.

“Fine,” you say, far too softly. “I—I would prefer to hurt than feel good, most of the time. I know it’s not great. Are you happy?”

Mydei sighs.

He looks vaguely disappointed and for a very terrifying moment, you think that that’s not enough. That he’ll find some other way to wring more of your very fragile truth out of you. You’re not sure you could take it, truly. You feel close to shattered— the heart of you fears how else Mydei would push you.

He rubs below your eyes and pulls his thumb back wet. You didn’t even realize you had been crying.

“I’ll accept your answer.” Mydei says. “But know that I am watching— and expect a change in your behavior.”

“S-So no flames?” You swallow. “And w-what, no revelry?”

“No flames.” He reiterated. “I’m certain the Grove can create some alternative that is safer. And you may still revel, but if you wish to entangle yourself with the physical, you will find me.”

“And what if I don’t?”

“Then we’ll find ourselves back here.” He nods to the bath. All of its cruel tile and stone. Your ruined bag of groceries, tossed into a corner. There’s a massage table in the corner you hadn’t even noticed. “And you will receive the carnal from me, regardless.”

The part of you that is used to twirling and spitting is quiet. Dead, maybe, if not dormant. You rub your eyes and think about your bed. About the pastries that are soggy and inedible at this point. Your isolation and the fearfulness you’ve carried over simply being seen.

(How running and hurting has worn you down and how unfair it is that Mydei saw it so easily. And, in retrospect, maybe he was quite patient with you.)

“Okay.” You sniffle. “I-I agree.”

Mydei sighs again. This time, it’s pure relief. A knot comes loose within him so visibly. His slick shoulders sag and he sinks on his knees just a fraction. You, for your part, collapse into the tile. Boneless, wrung out, and slick still dripping out of your core.

...

It’s after one of your dances, sometime later. Normalcy has taken a new shape and you have allowed it too. 

(Though, you hardly had much of a choice. You’ve been leashed.)

Your body is... mostly healed. Your ankle still aches sometimes. On your worst days, you need a cane. A perfectly crafted piece from a Kremnoan artisan, commissioned by Mydei when he noticed the way your limp persisted.

(When you saw that the healer Chrysos Heir about this persistent injury, she had been quite perplexed. The wound was entirely healed, a sprain shouldn’t linger like yours has. ‘It must be psychosomatic,’ she had said.)

You still dance. You still revel. Even without flame licking your skin, you still lunge and leap. Your revelry is, perhaps, more subdued. You do not sidle up to potential prospects so brazenly. Truthfully, you don’t entertain any suitors at all these days. Either because you don’t look for heated gazes the way you used to or those gazes aren’t turned to you as often anymore. 

(You suppose that even if your new leash isn’t visible, it’s still noticeable.)

You do not antagonize the crown prince in the way that you used to. You would say that your roles have flipped, but that isn’t entirely true. 

You used to tease— Mydei does not tease. But he does take.

You often find yourself as you are now— laying, stomach down, with Mydei overtop of you. He cages your skull in with his forearms braced on either side of your head. His breath is hot and loud in your ear as he presses his cock into your dripping cunt. 

You groan in unison, your sounds far more pitchy and desperate. 

Mydei isn’t too rough with you these days. He fucks you well when you need pleasure. You’ve gotten better about going to him for it rather than him having to track you down and fuck you stupid in a shadowy corner. These days, you end up in a bed. Surrounded by his scent usually, being stretched and opened with his fingers and tongue. Pleasure is given to you in heaps, and you have found it is much easier to accept it than attempt to run.

(Not when the lion-souled crown prince has made you his quarry.)

When Mydei grabs your hips, bare-handed, you keen. You sink into the bed, arching your back into a slope that angles his cock just right inside of you. Your toes curled as he fucks you hard and deep. He might be praising you for your good behavior. Words are being panted in your ear, but you feel a little too out of your body to tell what they are. 

You feel even further from your flesh when Mydei’s rhythm begins to stutter. You feel like a different person, experiencing this connection from a thin, spidery tether, when he spills inside you. The gush of sticky warmth, followed by the feeling of being— full— keeps you far away. 

You’re brought back when he presses a kiss to your nape. Then another to the side of your throat. He turns you easily, gently, easing onto your back. 

You feel so exposed like this. Belly-bared, chest heavy and dewy with sweat. Between your legs feels, somehow, sticky and numb all at once. Your lips are parted with each heaving breath, a little too fast, a little too prey-like. 

Mydei looks at you with a fiery reverence that scares you a little more each day. 

“Beautiful,” He breathes, his braid half-undone and bangs sticking to his forehead.

You don’t get to digest the comment before he’s nestled between your legs, thighs up on his shoulders, eating his cum out of your cunt like it’s his last meal. He’s slow with it, but firm. Always firm, always unyielding in what he decides is true and right. Before all of this, you admired him for that resolve.

Now? You’re not sure if you scorn it or love it.It hardly matters, anyway. 

You come on his tongue while he sucks your clit. Your voice cracks and shatters, made raw so easily. Your vision crosses and you tug on his hair with enough force that it must hurt, you think.You think about apologizing for it, but you choose not to. Or maybe you’re simply too wrung out. 

Mydei pulls up and away from your core. His lips are slick with your slick, wet with his own spent. He grabs your jaw and kisses you, filthy and slow. The mingling taste of you keeps you just tethered enough to writhe and keep your legs spread for him, in case there is more to be had.

He breaks from you, panting, and pulls your head into the crook of his neck. It’s a gesture that feels like it should come from a lover, not whatever Mydei has become to you. Your keeper, your jailer— maybe a lover, too. Someone with such a cruel title wouldn’t treat you as gently as Mydei does.

(It’s easier to think this way.)

The smell of him invades you. Gone is the light scent of incense and fragrant oils that permeate the room, and all that remains is unique, familiar musk of Mydei. Sweat, polished metal, and bur

You lean into the hollow of his throat. It’s better to embrace, rather than to resist.

(Your ankle throbs.)

For some time, you stay like that. Eyes shut and world slow, you shiver as the high of ‘pleasure’ wears off and leaves you off-kilter. What tethers you to your reality, your relatively new, somewhat uncomfortable reality, is Mydei. It’s always Mydei. The heat of his touch, the piercing nature of his attention, and the specific flavor of uncomfortable tenderness he reserves for only you. 

It’s not so bad. It’s less painful in some ways. There’s no more flames licking your ankles and wrists— the only embers that are allowed near you are the ones within Mydei’s own gaze. 

(Maybe— it’s just a different type of pain. One was yours to wield and torch yourself with, and the other is a scalding reminder that leaves no visible mark.)

Mydei must notice you’re too deeply in thought. His hand cups the nape of your neck, his thumb rubs little circles around your spine. He’s warm like a hearth, kind like one when he wants to be, too. You knew that before, and you know it even better now.

It’s better, you remind yourself, to work with your conditions the best that you are able to. It’s better, it’s better, it’s better.

You lean into Mydei’s warmth and go slack. You hear him breathe a sigh of relief as you do. 

[whoopsyeahokay]

October Sun

summary: Simon had wondered what any of it had meant. Maddie's death, why he'd been the only one who could see her. And then he'd learned that, perhaps, everything that had happened...it hadn't been about him or Maddie at all.

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: eventual smutty smut smut. and mad spoilers. and obvious Canon divergence. very involved, very dense plot.

bon reading, frens

___________________________💀

OCTOBER SUN pt.25

A roaring white noise erupted in the theater, smothering all other sounds. A TV static howl that seemed to come from within your own head, building and building until it was unbearable. You slapped your hands over your ears, gritted your teeth, pulse thundering almost as loud as the unnatural noise in your ears.

Muffled as if through cotton fluff, you heard someone yell, "What's happening!?" but no more than that, the voice swept away by the bellow. You lifted your head away from Xavier's shoulder and turned your body as much as you could within the tight band of his arms. Where the trapdoor should be, rising like a nightmare from its grave, the farmhouse door materialized in the middle of the stage. Your eyes widened in horror as the familiar screams from behind it began to gnash at the edges of the noise like teeth, "STOP! COME BACK! STOP! LET ME OUT!!"

You cast around, saw Maddie and Wally huddled together, Charlie tucked between two rows of seats, Ajay shielding Mina with his body, and Rhonda with her arms crossed in front of her face as the noise crashed through the theater like a physical force; a tempest of rage and violence that pierced the veil. The ground and walls shook, windows rattled, a stage light fell and smashed on the stage. The quake vibrated through your bones, motivated you to act, but you couldn't move. Xavier clung to you both protectively and in terror, his eyes pleading as he seemed to figure out what you planned to do. He trembled, fingertips bruising into your flesh through your sweater.

You'd never seen him so scared. Not once. Not ever.

Driven by adrenaline, "I'm sorry," you shoved Xavier off you, spun and rose in one fluid motion, and charged at speed down the center aisle toward the stage. The wind was sharp and stinging, pieces of glass and metal from the shattered stage light picked up and whipped about, but you didn't stop. Hurdled into it. Leapt onto the stage. Close, so close. Hand extended, fingers brushing the knob, about to brace against it to keep the monsters from escaping.

The door ruptured at its center, fragments of wood bursting outward and immediately captured by the storm. The force of the sudden explosion sent you sailing backward, followed by a tsunami of blinding, iridescent light that fell from the breach in the door and reached toward you. Cold. Clutching. You barely made out your name being shouted in varying degrees of desperate concern and fear. But it didn't matter. It didn't matter. Because as soon as you landed, hard—enough to knock the air from your lungs into your throat and choke you—the world shifted on its axis and went black.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Question 1.

Why did Frankenstein create the Monster?

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Simon lay in bed and stared at the ceiling above him, cracked and pillowed, a yellow-brown rash bloomed in patterns that he tracked in meditative circles with his eyes. He needed to shower, he thought dully. He hadn't had time that morning before being chauffeured to the station for another damning interrogation by Deputies Hayes and Stewart.

"Where is she, Elroy? Where's Maddie?"

"I don't know."

"Don't lie to us, kid, it'll only make things worse for you."

"I'm not lying, I don't kn—"

"God dammit, quit playing dumb!"

"That's enough," Mrs. Grace had snapped before Stewart's jaw had shut with an audible click. "Without substantiated evidence, this is all hearsay. Simon has given you everything he knows in his statement. Unless you intend to further make fools of yourselves, we're leaving."

Simon needed to get up. Get up. Get up. Get. Up.

He didn't move. Couldn't; his limbs grafted to his sheets, muscles like stone, bones elastic. His back was sore, his skin ached and he wanted to move around, stretch the discomfort out of his body, but...he didn't. Instead, he kept staring at the ceiling as the morning looped in his mind. Questions and suppositions, two manilla folders, one map, and then a tense drive home where he'd felt little-boy scared of his parents—his father—for the first time in years, their disappointment and anger palpable in the tight confines of the car.

Simon had been shown Maddie's file. A couple of graphic photographs that looked staged for a prime-time procedural drama. His best friend's blood splattered on the boiler room wall, evidence of the pain and torture she'd incurred when she'd been killed. Murdered in the bowels of the school while Simon had been three floors up in homeroom, bored and bleary-eyed, dozing on his backpack, mentally preparing for a night at the APEX with a group he felt a little on the outskirts of.

"Fuck." He choked, eyes stinging, rubbing over them with his wrist.

The photographs were seared into his retinas; there even when he tried to distract himself or ignore them or pretend that Maddie was still within reach and not one resolution away from vanishing forever.

Blood. Her blood. From a swing so violent that it'd projected onto the wall when the weapon had been hitched for another strike. How many blows had been delivered before Maddie's eyes had dimmed and her breath had stopped? His stomach lurched, but still, Simon didn't move.

The deputies thought Maddie was out there. Not enough blood on the scene to warrant a murder investigation, Stewart had informed Simon as if suggesting that Simon and Maddie might've tried to fake her death so no one would look for her. It was half-assed and ridiculous. Even Hayes seemed to think so, though she wouldn't have admitted it aloud.

Desperate to repress the images, Simon tried to remember the other file he'd been shown. The deputies insisted the cases were linked: Maddie's "escape" and a string of break-ins that spanned two neighborhoods that would've been one if it weren't for a railway track splitting it down the middle like a stapled wound. Simon had recognized the first immediately. Riverden Heights. A low-income area that had been chosen by the town council for regentrification, spearheaded by none other than Claire Zomer's stepfather.

The other, Warren Meadow, had taken him a moment to recognize, but when he did, it'd been a feat to conceal his surprise. He'd been there the night he'd found Mr. Anderson's stash, sat on a swing in the play park behind the house you called home.

What did it mean?

As he pondered the possibilities, a crisp gust of wind coasted over him, disturbing the curtains and ruffling the posters on his walls. At last, he moved, prompted to investigate because he was sure he'd closed it. He swallowed thickly, tense, heartbeat ratcheting up a notch. Propped on a hand, he looked in confusion and dread at his, yeah, closed window.

A slow, eerie creak snapped his attention toward his closet, the door open a sliver when he knew that, too, had been closed. The darkness within seemed even blacker than was natural. Inexplicable. Otherworldly. A shiver ran down his spine. Similar to the feeling he'd had when he'd caught Maddie's reflection in the classroom window on Monday.

The floorboards squeaked when he stood. Simon took one cautious step after another, muscles flexed, not prepared at all for an attack but willing to be brave.

Two. Three. Four. Five steps. His chest was tight. Hands shaking. Breathing shallow. As he hooked his fingers on the door to open it further, it started. The sound was faint and he had to strain to hear it, but it was unmistakable. Wet and rattled, punctuated by thick sniffles.

Someone was crying.

Someone was crying in Simon's closet.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Rhonda remained couched, braced against the wild, unholy wind until, bit by bit, she realized it'd stopped. When she opened her eyes, she gasped in shock, collapsing forward onto her hands. The world around her had changed; the theater was replaced by a span of paved ground enclosed by a chain-link fence, painted games bright against the black asphalt. A tingle crept down from her scalp to her nape, goosebumps pebbled her arms, and she panned her head to glance over her shoulder.

Panicked, she spun, landed on her ass, shoving herself backward with her feet to put distance between herself and the eerily suspended door. The void at its center flickered. It felt like a black hole trying to drag her into oblivion.

Rhonda flipped over and pushed herself up. Ran. Ran harder and faster than she'd ever done in life or death. Down the side of the building she'd found herself behind to skid around the corner and come to an abrupt stop.

She turned this way and that, disoriented, chest rising and falling quickly as she tried to suck in enough air to keep her upright.

"What the hell is happening?" She wheezed, every alarm in her brain going off at once as she began to process her surroundings: Outdoors. Too dark for how early she felt it should be, the air thin and cold, biting, and the sky obscured by a dense layer of gunmetal grey clouds. It was raining in sheets so thick Rhonda could barely make out the line of British inspired maisonettes on the opposite side of the street. "Where—?"

She cut herself off when the wide, double-door entrance to the building opened, releasing a soft glow from within that illuminated the pathway ahead of it. Children in raincoats and rubber boots bounced down the front steps, giggling as they jumped and splashed through puddles on their way to join clusters of adults who waited under umbrellas on the sidewalk.

"No. Fucking. Way." Rhonda walked toward the pathway, jaw slack, gaze fixed on the words etched into the stonework. She nearly tripped over her own feet, only just managing to correct herself as she turned fully toward the building.

Adelaide Meheive Schoolhouse for Boys.

The brick and mortar was as old as Split River itself, named after one of the town founders' wives. The school had been reestablished as Adelaide Meheive Elementary in the early '40s, ten years before Rhonda's family had moved from rural town Romania to Wisconsin. Rhonda had still been curious then, unjaded and excited and eager to learn. Her fourth grade desk had been right there, beside that window. Where she'd daydreamed as she'd stared at the houses across the street and had wondered what it'd been like to live somewhere so unlike her own home in the low-income district that bordered the factories.

Pressure stuffed her nose, her vision blurred, and suddenly she was overwhelmed by the memory, instantly missing her parents, her sisters, her grandmother in a way she hadn't in countless years. Unfortunately, she didn't have more than a moment to grapple with it before her attention was forced back to the school's entrance.

Two figures emerged, one was small, obviously a child. A little boy, Rhonda discerned, with a Spiderman backpack and rainboots to match. The second was taller, slender, the hood of their sweater up so it concealed their face. They hauled the little boy by the hand as they complained, "Come on, stop messing around, I want to go home," as the little boy kept trying to gleefully splash his way through every puddle on his way to the front gate.

A spike of foreboding shot through Rhonda as she watched the pair.

She found herself trailing after them as they turned onto the sidewalk. That sense of unease continued to worsen, churning in her stomach like a bad premonition. Although it felt like every other bad gut feeling she'd experienced in her young life, it was somehow distinguished. And when the taller figure got so frustrated by the little boy that they pushed their hood off and threatened, "I'm so serious right now, I will leave you here and tell mom you ran away," Rhonda was once again stunned into stillness.

The taller figure was a girl, no older than eleven or twelve with features identical to ones Rhonda had seen mere moments before the theater had turned into a category 5 hurricane zone. Your hair was longer and your face was rounder, softer, yet you looked exactly as you had when Rhonda had joked about getting Wally a new wardrobe.

You began to tug the little boy along again, your foul temper tween-girl extreme to the extent Rhonda questioned whether or not it was really you. Regardless of whether or not it was, Rhonda decided, she needed help, needed an explanation. Where the fuck was she? When the fuck was she? How did she get here?

"Hey!" Rhonda yelled after you, "Wait!"

You didn't notice Rhonda. In fact, she was entirely nonexistent to you as you yanked and heaved Aiden every single step forward. He enjoyed being a pain in your ass, always elbowing his way into every sleepover, usurping attention, whining until you gave in and put on movies for babies because he didn't like what you and Xavier and Hana wanted to watch.

You'd already been grumpy when your mom had called to ask that you collect Aiden from school on your way home, consumed by thoughts of Xavier and Hana ditching you to hang out with another couple because, apparently, that's what boyfriends and girlfriends did.

Your face twisted in displeasure, jealousy seeping into your veins like toxic sludge as you barked again, "Aiden, come. on. Stop it!"

Xavier and Hana hadn't even kissed on the mouth yet, you grouched internally. Plus, they were still going to Dave & Buster's with Mrs. Baxter like all three of you did. As a group. Every Friday since 1st Grade. It wasn't fair that just because you didn't want to be kissed or have some gross boy who smelled like B.O. hold your hand like that, you weren't allowed to go too.

The rain came down harder, thunder rumbled overhead and lightning cracked across the sky. Aiden continued to resist, stomping in and out of the stream that flowed along the curb. Stupid mom being held up at work. Stupid Aurora being at university. Stupid Andrew for being away. And stupid, stupid Aiden, not listening to you when you were obviously in a bad mood.

"Aiden!" You yelled, tugging him back onto the sidewalk, "I said stop it!"

Your clothes were drenched, your limbs were frozen, and all you wanted to do was go home, rant to Nanna, and have her comfort you and tell you to forget Xavier and Hana and their dumb relationship had ever happened. Just as you were contemplating how upset your mom would be if you abandoned Aiden right then and there, you heard a car pull up behind you and a male voice call, "Hey, can I give you a ride?"

Rhonda stopped when she saw the car stop. More specifically, when she saw the face of the man behind the wheel. She didn't recognize him and he looked normal enough. Buzzed, military brown hair and a friendly smile and eyes that crinkled charmingly at the corners. Rhonda moved to peek into the open passenger window, squinting at him. Despite how normal he appeared, there was something inside her soul, a niggling feeling that made her gums itch, that told her that the man's aura was several shades of wrong.

Clumsily, she reared back and turned to urge you, "Don't go with him," as that prickly sense of unease increased, blaring like an air raid siren in her brain. Rhonda couldn't tell if you were familiar with the man and decided quickly that it didn't matter, "I know we aren't exactly besties," She said, standing directly in front of you now, "But you have to listen to me."

You looked right through her.

Leaning across the console was a man wearing a uniform like your dad's, his face familiar though you couldn't quite place it. Your grip tightened around Aiden's hand and you narrowed your eyes at him. A thousand and one speeches had been delivered throughout your life on the subject of which strangers are good and which are bad. And random men in cars were at the top of the bad list.

"You don't remember me?" The man chuckled and then explained, "We met at the barbeque on base. I'm Christopher." He raised an amused eyebrow, "You got me with your water gun a few times."

Rhonda's gaze ricocheted between you and Christopher as you hesitated, tilted your head, and chewed your lip, studying Christopher like a Wanted poster. That nagging feeling in Rhonda's gut swelled into a sick panic when the tension bled out of your shoulders, showing signs of finally recalling who Christopher was.

"Oh yeah," You grinned and stepped closer. Christopher was in the same unit as your dad. He'd been at the barbeque with his wife and daughter, the latter having hung out with you and Xavier all afternoon while the adults drank beer and got rowdy. "Xavier pushed you in the pool."

Christopher snorted and hung his head in mock shame, "That's me."

Rhonda shook her head, her mind screaming at her to stop you from going with him. That if you did, all the happiness and joy and pure, unconditional love in the world would be snuffed out as easily as the flame of a candle. Rhonda had felt similarly when Mr. Manfredo's demeanor had shifted in the split second before he'd revealed his true colors.

"Don't go with him," She repeated, trying and failing to grab your hand, shoulder, face, anything. But her hands kept missing, sliding away, your energy and hers two like poles that would never connect. "You need to listen to me!"

You smiled down at Aiden, "A ride would be great, right Aid?"

Aiden wasn't paying attention, staring off into space. He did that whenever you asked him to stop being annoying. Acted like he hadn't heard you or that you weren't there. Glaring at him, you repeated the question, only for Aiden to tug your hand so you had to bend to his level to hear him.

"What?" You demanded under your breath.

Aiden whispered, "I don't think we should go with him."

Relief flooded through Rhonda, however, it was short-lived.

You rolled your eyes, "Seriously, Aiden?" God, could he just not? For once, one time, could he be on your side instead of making everything difficult? You knew he was complaining just so he could keep splashing in the puddles, but you were over the wet and the rain and the cold.

Aiden stubbornly stared into space again—stared at Rhonda—and refused to budge until you poked him in the cheek. He reluctantly dragged his eyes to yours, looking up at you with a pout, "I don't want to, Sissy." Lip wobbly, brow furrowed. The same expression he pinched his face into when you refused to let him use your Switch.

You heaved a careworn sigh and put your hands on your knees as you spoke to him, forcing your voice to a sensitive register, "How about this: If you get in the car, I'll make you mac 'n' cheese with chicken nuggets when we get home. Alright?"

Rhonda lurched forward, "No no no!" She begged you to change your mind, to hear what Aiden was trying to tell you, her voice strangled, throat closing. "Don't!"

Aiden chewed his lip as he considered your proposal, eyes on the ground. At last, with an apologetic glance into the middle distance, he nodded. It was a small gesture, almost disappointed, and he mumbled, "Okay."

You grinned and hugged him, praising him for listening to you as you opened the car door and helped him into the backseat. Once he scooched over, you climbed in after him, thanked Christopher for his kindness, and made Aiden do the same.

"Thanks," Aiden muttered, staring at his lap, looking for all the world like he'd just been told he wasn't allowed dessert ever again.

Though she knew it was useless, Rhonda bodily flung herself at the car when you closed the door, banging and slapping the window with her palms until they stung bright red. "Don't! You have to get out! GET. OUT!"

You buckled your seatbelt, then Aiden's, and the car pulled away.

Rhonda stumbled into the street, shouting after you. Her hands gripped her head in panic, pulse racing. She watched the car stop at the corner and saw Aiden rise to peer out of the back window, chubby hand up as if he was waving goodbye. The emotion in his big, green eyes—

She inhaled sharply. Without any doubt, Rhonda understood that she'd just witnessed a child's future turn to ash. And she felt in her bones that Aiden knew it, too.

"Come back." She begged, tight and weak. Then, with everything she had in her, "COME BACK!"

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, an ominous creak drew her attention behind her. The farmhouse door. The deep, black void at its center. Eyes wide in fright, she shifted to run after the car but didn't get even a step before the blackness shot out, wrapped around her arms and legs, and wrenched her into its depths. The door slammed closed and disappeared.

In the backseat of the car, you asked Aiden, "What're you looking at?" when he continued to stare out of the rear window. You peeked over the seat in confusion, not seeing anything worth that much scrutiny.

Aiden slowly slid his gaze to meet yours and what you saw in them made your stomach twist, the look in them far too old for a six-year-old boy. Clearing your throat, you forced yourself to brush it off, fixing Aiden in his seat after he'd lowered himself to sit properly.

"Nothing," Aiden responded, tone solemn. He began to draw a little stick figure in the condensation on the window, and then an upright rectangle with curly cues coming out of it.

You watched him for a moment, suddenly feeling uneasy. "You sure?"

Aiden nodded.

You wouldn't have believed him anyway.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Question Two.

Does Frankenstein learn from his mistake in creating the Monster?

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

You roused in pained stages, groaning as you hoisted yourself onto your hands and knees. The world was spinning, vision cloudy for a moment before the room settled around you. The damp and dark didn't feel right against you, pushing in from all corners like pressure in the depths of the ocean. Heaving a breath, you wobbled to your feet, blinking rapidly as your eyes adjusted to the dim light.

Even in the thin light filtering through the high windows, you recognized that, wherever you were, it wasn't the theater.

"Wally?!" You called out, "Maddie!?"

No answer.

"...anyone?"

It took a minute for your eyes to adjust. The space was wide and empty, the ceiling low, walls exposed slabs of thick stone. A cellar, you realized, stepping carefully across the packed dirt floor. Faded Persian carpets had been placed down in the center; thinner, longer ones like runners led from the base of the polished wood steps to the back wall, the tail end of the last carpet disappearing beneath the stone.

"Where am I?" You wondered, glancing about.

A few items of furniture stood against the wall directly opposite the staircase. A tall, fat cabinet with glass windows that displayed a variety of trinkets that reminded you of curiosities Victorian nobles had collected to be admired by their unworldly peers. Beside it was a sarcophagus, Egyptian-inspired but certainly not original. It was far too dark, menacing, the face demonic with ruby eyes that seemed to burn from within.

You kept a wide berth around it, its aura unsettling. Like walking into a forest after nightfall with no flashlight.

On the other side of the cabinet were wrought iron hooks nailed into the stone, neat rows of ten across, seven down. Most of them were bare, though a few still held gruesomely painted masks in the Venetian style. Some with long, pointed noses; others more feminine.

"What the hell is this place?" You murmured to yourself as you reached out to run your fingers delicately down the smooth nose of one of the masks.

It felt familiar. The exposed beams, the packed dirt floor, the draft that chilled you to the bone. You followed the runners to the back wall, turned, looked out the window above you. Twisty, naked branches speared the sky, a large gap in the middle where...where the road... Oh, God.

Your breath caught and you began to feel queasy, bile burning the back of your throat. This wasn't just any cellar. It was the farmhouse cellar. The place you'd been when you learned exactly how many minutes it took for a human body to die.

The room swam as your vision blurred and all at once, you doubled over, retching into the dirt, swaying on weak legs when it was over. Breath after breath felt like ice as you tried to get air into your lungs, your heart to calm down, your head to stop spinning.

"It's not possible," You choked, collapsing against the wall, "I shouldn't be here, this isn't right." You sank to the floor, completely devoid of energy in the wake of your realization. As if the darkness had sucked it all out. You sat there for minutes that dragged into each other, hitched little inhales and drawn, stuttered exhales. "I want to go home," You whimpered, but there was no one around to hear you.

In that instant, voices rose and the floorboards above creaked under the weight of several people. Panicked, you shot to your feet, casting about for something to protect yourself. Nothing good had ever happened in this farmhouse, you knew, and you doubted that now would be any different.

There was nothing. And when you tried to open the cabinet, a taser-like shock jolted through your arm and knocked you backward onto the floor. You didn't have time to question it, the door above opening—that door, the door, the one that had haunted you for six years—and the voices getting closer.

"Surely, Lord McNair, you jest. A stablehand!" A woman's voice spoke, sounding giddy as much as disturbed. "How on earth did that happen?"

A deep, male voice answered, that of Lord McNair assumedly, "I haven't a clue, Liza." He sounded dismayed, "He took off with all the money and my daughter, the wretched bastard." A pause before he growled, "I tell you, never trust a Clark."

"Certainly not." Liza agreed. "I had two in my employ, sisters. Irish though they weren't Catholic, and I wish I had known such an important detail before I had Beaty hire the little rats. They stole the diamonds right off one of my necklaces. Had they the fear of God in them, they wouldn't have done so."

"And they were Clarks?" A new voice asked, another male, though thick with an accent you could only describe as South Asian.

Liza answered, "Indeed. You'll have to be careful during your visit, Your Excellency. The poor have become a problem in recent years, I'm afraid."

You listened with half an ear as you scouted for a place to tuck yourself into. The sarcophagus was latched and the effort it would take to break the lock off would be both too loud and too obvious. You searched along the walls, in the shadowy corners. The best place would've been under the stairs but a large cord of chopped wood had been piled in front of the space.

The footsteps got closer as the group descended, talking amongst themselves. Swallowing thickly, you pressed yourself against the side of the cabinet, crouched beneath the rows of hooks, hands over your mouth to muffle your harried breathing.

A strange sensation passed through the cellar as the group stepped one by one onto the carpet at the bottom of the stairs. The air stilled and the shadows seemed to part for the group as they moved across the space. A man held out his hand to help a woman down her final few steps and then escorted her with her arm through his. The next man did the same for the next woman, and then the third man for the third woman.

All were dressed elegantly, the men in tuxedos with white ties and polished boots, and the women in beaded dresses that fell past their knees, gloves to above their elbows, and furs around their shoulders.

"It's truly wonderful that you were able to attend at last, Your Excellency," A new voice said, female, heavily accented. Eastern European, you believed, "My husband and I have been eager to introduce you to the leader of tonight's gathering."

"I appreciate it immensely, Lady Rose," His Excellency replied, "I was delighted to have received the invitation."

The sound of the men and women nearing made your pulse rush like a roar in your ears. You squeezed your eyes shut, turned to tuck yourself as close as you could to the wall, back against the cabinet, pleading that you wouldn't be found.

Closer. Closer. The footsteps and voices were right above you now.

"Here you are, Raj" Lord McNair said pleasantly as he claimed one of the nosed masks and handed it to His Excellency. "Your lovely bride can help you attach it, I'm sure."

With big, terrified eyes, you watched Lord McNair remove another mask, one without a nose, and hand it to the woman beside His Excellency. And no one—your brow furrowed—seemed to notice you. Not even the slightest acknowledgment that you existed.

You didn't want to push your luck, staying put with your hand remaining clapped across your mouth. However, you couldn't stop yourself from glancing up at the faces of the group gathered in front of you, helping each other tie the ribbons of the masks at the backs of their heads.

His Excellency turned around after helping his bride with her mask and you almost collapsed in shock.

"Ajay!?" You said before thinking about the consequences. You rose quickly and stumbled forward, attempting to clasp your hands around his forearms as he fiddled with the ribbon on the nosed mask he held. "Ajay, where are we? What's happening?" But...your hands passed right through him, his image distorting, coming apart like whisps of smoke before letting in again. "A-Ajay?"

With a strained whine, you studied his face and the longer you stared, the less he looked like Ajay. The resemblance, as uncanny as it was, was only that. A resemblance. And, furthermore, Not-Ajay, it appeared, couldn't see you. Couldn't hear you. In fact, none of the men and women paid you any mind whatsoever. To them, you were as real as a ghost.

"Fuck." The word punched out of you as you staggered back. The faces that hadn't been covered were eerily identical to ones you knew until you stared too long. Rhonda. Ajay. Maddie. And then the resemblances faded and left behind just the most subtle of like features. "What's happening?"

You were going crazy. Trapped in a nightmare of your own making after you couldn't keep the farmhouse door closed. God only knew where the others were. If the light that had ripped out from behind the farmhouse door had trapped them too. If they were experiencing the same thing. Or worse.

"Come along, Liza dear, we're already behind schedule." Lord McNair remarked, holding out his arm for her to take. He led the group to the back of the cellar, following the line of carpets before he paused at the wall. Not knowing what else to do, you trailed after them, observant though feeling faint as you tried to accept that you might never make it out of whatever coma or conjuring the farmhouse door had unleashed.

If this was a nightmare, you thought, there was only one way out. You had to see it through to the end.

You saw Lord McNair produce a pen-shaped piece of silver from his pocket. Sleek, smooth, nondescript, and rather unremarkable until Lord McNair pushed it tip-first into a tiny hole in the mortar that you never would've noticed on your own. When it was halfway in, you heard a heavy clank of metal then stone scraped against stone. Your jaw dropped as part of the wall sunk inward and then moved aside, revealing a steep stairwell carved into the rock, lit by a line of low-burning torches.

The group herded into the stairwell, continuing their conversation, the men attentive to the women as they descended down down down into whatever was below the farmhouse cellar. The stairs were uneven, some tall, some short, and you briefly marveled at the ease the men and women ahead of you exhibited as they gracefully carried themselves to the bottom of the staircase.

As soon as you entered the space below, you staggard in your steps. A shock of pitch black energy crowded against you, the same as what you'd felt when you'd put your hand to the tree last night. Dark and sinister. Evil.

It took a moment for you to gather yourself, and once you had, you stepped further into the space. What lay beyond the staircase took you aback. The sheer extravagance was so out of place for where you were.

The narrow walls on either side of the staircase opened into a massive cavern that had been structured and decorated to mimic a European palace. Italian marble floors, a grand fireplace with detailed carvings in the wood of the mantle, portraits of aristocratic men and women kitted in ceremonial costume.

Your attention lingered on the portraits. The subjects seemed to be related, some more distant than others, but they all shared the same piercing blue eyes and severe expressions. Ginger to auburn to mahogany hair. Sharp jaws and smooth skin. Not a wrinkle or blemish in sight.

The clothes were ceremonial as was usually the case when the rich were painted, but they were also...religious. In a way you had a difficult time putting your finger on. Not typical of the Abrahamic religions or Dharmic or Taoic. More Pagan. Celtic or Nordic, you weren't sure, but definitely Pagan.

The subjects wore cloaks and were ornamented with etched daggers and wooden laurels bent and shaped into antlers, and identical broaches pinned under the notches of their collars. Large, silver things with a symbol you'd seen in the pages of a book housed in your family's library. Three interlocking spirals. A triskele.

A tinkling sound, fine metal tapped on hollow crystal, echoed through the cavern, a man's voice calling out to announce, "Welcome all!"

You turned, gaze searching the crowd of what you guessed was about seventy people, one for every hook in the cellar above.

They stood in a semi-circle facing you though their focus was on the man who spoke. You couldn't see much of him since he had his back to you, poised proudly in front of the crowd. He was tall, broad-shouldered yet lithe, and had hair that had clearly once been blond though was turning grey.

"I am overjoyed that so many of you could join us on such a momentous occasion."

"Hear, hear!" The crowd exclaimed, lifting in unison their champagne coupes.

"My only regret is that my lovely wife seems to have gotten lost."

The crowd tittered at what you figured was meant to be a joke. Stepping closer, you tried to get a better look at the man, wanted to see if, like the men and women who you'd followed down here, he held any resemblance to someone you knew. Together, the crowd's focus shifted to something behind the man. He turned, a wide smile spreading across the part of his face that wasn't covered by his mask.

You went completely still as his eyes settled on you through the holes in his mask. They were striking; bright seafoam green that within them held a wisdom and respect that transcended time. You shivered as those eyes, far too old for the face they belonged to, burned through you, heart hammering behind your ribs.

Slowly, the man reached out his free hand, smile softening, and said, "Ah, there you are," in a quiet tone.

Private.

Just for you.

"We've been waiting."

💀___________________________

PART TWENTY-FOUR - PART TWENTY-SIX

also available on AO3!

MASTERLIST

[simp-ly-writes]

Part of the Band

─────── · · Arcane Band!AU

PAIRING(S): Jayce Talis x gn!Reader, Vi x Caitlyn, Viktor x Sky, Ekko x Jinx

─ · · SUMMARY: What if the cast of arcane created a band? Everyone seems to be paired up with someone leaving Jayce as the last remaining member without a partner yet it is not without a lack of trying and you not being all that receptive to the drummer for his relationship history.

─ · · TAGS: gender-neutral reader, depictions of anxiety attacks and crowded scenes, emotional hurt/comfort, attempt at humour, nicknames/petnames, swearing, not beta read.

─ · · MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQUEST | WORDCOUNT: 1,800

─ · · A/N: HEAR ME OUT ON THIS PLEASE... (taken from this).

─────── · ·

─ · · Lead Vocalist!Mel, Lead Guitar!Vi, Rhythm Guitar!Caitlyn, Drummer!Jayce, Bassist or Keys!Viktor, Tour Manager!Heimerdinger, Production Assistant!Sky, Social Media Manager and Photographer!Reader

─ · · Musical Duo!Jinx and Ekko with their Manager!Sevika being the opener for the main band. Nobody quite knows if the duo is dating- not even themselves choosing to keep it vague to the public but share many lingering stares while on stage together.

─ · · Heimerdinger and Sevika can be constantly heard fighting backstage- having different visions for how they want to production, management, and finnancials to look as they try and prove themselves to Sky who looks beyond scared standing in between the two, clipboard between her shaking hands, glasses shaking against her nose as she waits for someone to call her away from the madness of these two put together.

─ · · Vi and Caitlyn are a couple as the fans would have it no other way- rivalling Mel for the bands most popular members and holding the most combined followers as they make music together apart from the band while on breaks. The couple often preforms more for each other than the crowd, circling one another, singing along while bobbing heads and knocking shoulders- sharing the occasional quick kiss in between songs.

─ · · Viktor keeps himself off to the side of the stage, looking down at his hands to ensure he is hitting the right notes, head bobbing to the rhythm, long hair casting over his eyes that usually are looking offstage towards Sky for reassurance behind the curtains yet before their eyes meet, both quickly look away blushing and acting like nothing happened (the band has begged them to 'just get together already'- you included).

─ · · Mel and Jayce used to get shipped together a lot and dated in the past in an on-again, off-again relationship before officially calling it quits as Mel started getting serious with actor she met at an awards ceremony a couple years ago and has been going strong ever since.

─ · · Jayce on the other hand had yet to find a long-term partner like everyone else in the band and is was not from his lack of trying. Jayce was playful and a romantic at heart even though it played off as him being a "play-boy." Often having a new girlfriend or boyfriend every few months until his heart got broken by them complaining about him constantly being on-tour or in the studio. Sometimes in the worst of cases, using him for popularity as he built up quite the reputation or even caught some trying to stealing from him (not that he cared much about any of his possessions besides his drum-kits and custom noise-cancelling headphones you gifted him for his birthday- those he was extremely protective of).

─ · · You remember the day vividly, everyone was waiting in the cars to be taken to the airport for the next leg of the tour. You leaned against the black car, camera in hand waiting to capture a shot of everyone in the van together to post to their socials... the only one keeping you from completing your work for the day ahead of a 14 hour flight was Jayce whom Heimerdinger was grumbling about while standing beside you, arms crossed.

"Where is that boy? He's usually the first one out here standing by you." You shrug, unknowing to where Jayce is and now that you think about it... you turn around, glaring through the tinted widows to count the heads within... "I think Sky's missing too," you add before taking back to your position and flicking through your camera roll, double checking all of your shots from last night you had yet to upload.

Heimerdinger huffs, "we're going to miss our flight if Jayce is not here in the next 15 minutes. Can you go try and work your magic? He's not answering any of my calls and somehow always catches yours." You stare down at the tour manager with a raised brow, asking, are you serious? And by the glare and kick to your shin that you receive you are putting a lens back on your camera and rushing through the lobby towards the elevator, phone in hand only to receive no answer.

─ · · When you reach the bands floor, Jayce's door is open, his gear waiting by the door yet no sighting of the man, "fuck!" you hear a man yell and your speed-walk is now a full blown sprint as you turn into the room to find a shaking Sky with her hands hesitantly outstretched trying to soothe the maddened drummer who looks to be tearing his room apart, hair dishevelled and shirt missing as he rips through the bedcovers obviously looking for something.

"Jay?" you call out, placing a hand on Sky's shoulder, tipping your head out the door as she nods in reply, exiting the room quickly. Jayce's head snaps up instantly at the sound of your voice, his chest rises and falls quickly before his breath hitches seeing you walk closer to him, placing a hand on his arm as you look at him worriedly, "whats wrong? can I help you look?"

Jayce bits his lip, looking away from you and squeezing his eyes shut as a blush starts working over his cheeks. "Jay?" you call out again, giving his hand a squeeze, surprised to feel as he takes his away first having never done that before. "Its... stupid, well not stupid but just.. fuck..." he pauses for a minute before turning back to look you in the eyes. Your breath hitches at the sight of honey dripping with sadness, "...its those headphones you got for me and I can't find them anywhere when I knew I wore them last night," he explains.

You nod your head before slowly walking away, Jayce opens every drawer again in hope of seeing something he hadn't seen before as you walk into the hall and reach into his backpack retrieving the infamous headphones in their black-shell protective casing.

Walking back into the room, Jayce sits on the bed, head in hands, "I'm sorry for losing them, I always put them on my bedside not to forget and-" he feels something snap against his head and a song starts to play in his ears as you squat down in between his legs to catch his eyes mouthing, "found them." Before standing and wheeling one of his suitcases down the hall, Sky following after you swiftly with the rest of the luggage in hand that Jayce takes from her once joining you both in the elevator with a freshly equipped shirt.

─ · · You blink yourself back to reality as the curtain drops and you race to change the exposure settings on your camera as the band slowly walks out in a line. Even with your in-ears and sound-cancelling headphones, you can still feel the utter force of their cheers pelting against your back as they scream and shout after their favourite members, you feel as the barrier rumbles as the crowd surges forwards- a security member quickly guides you away.

─ · · You catch Jayce's look of concern as adjusts his sound pack and fixes his hair, somehow always knowing exactly where you were while preforming, nodding towards you while keeping rhythm and staring you down until you nodded back before he would smile and play harder.

─ · · After performances Jayce would walk to the front of the stage, joining everyone in a bow before throwing his drumsticks into the crowd and hastily walking over to you, pressing his face close into the lens of your camera, waiting to hear the click before wrapping an arm around your shoulders that you would try and wiggle out from underneath of- shoulder's tense, "you're all sweaty, Jayce," you complain, nose scrunched up in disgust to hide your hammering heart seeing all the veins protruding from his skin, running up his tired arms, hair sticking to his forehead as he pouts.

"But my arms tried, sweetheart," Jayce explains, eyes glittering with humour as you roll yours at the nickname and sigh, patting his arm before Jayce allows you to slide it off him. Sky runs up and provides a towel and water bottle before darting off again as Jayce slides down against a wall, legs kicked outwards as he unscrews the cap and offers you the first sip before drinking the rest.

"Was it a good performance?" Jayce asks you earnestly, dabbing off his forehead and arms, smiling underneath your stare before you seemingly see something incredibly interesting down the empty hall. "You all are in your prime and have the awards to show for it, don't think you need my voice," you answer, turning your camera back on, "smile!" you cheerily state, glaring as Jayce stares blankly at you.

"I respect your opinion, thats why I ask. Why would I give a shit about some senile board members telling me about modern music?" Jayce counters, standing slowly as he walks over to you while throwing away the water bottle in a nearby bin. You take a step back and begin walking you both in the direction of the green room where the rest of the band was already winding down and taking notes within.

Jayce saunters over to an empty chair before patting his thigh with a raised brow, you shake your head, moving to stand beside Sky in a corner who rapidly jots down notes on her tablet before showing Sevika who signs her signature at the bottom without a care.

You feel Jayce stare on you yet refuse to give him anymore attention, waiting for him to turn back to Heimerdinger and he eventually does once realizing you were not going to look back at him.

"You alright there, man?" Ekko whispers, nudging the older man's shoulder as he has his arm wrapped around Jinx who is passed out beside him. Jayce stares at the couple for a second, looks up and around to all the couples in the room, his heart aches as he nods through the pain, "I'm alright, just wearing off the adrenaline."

Ekko nods slowly, watching as Jayce shifts his head over to you for a second before looking back at Heimerdinger who is finishing up his speech for the night. Huh... Ekko thinks to himself startling as Jinx talks, eyes still closed, "bunch of idiots the lot of 'em." Ekko laughs at the blue-haired girl, squeezing her shoulder, "am I at least your favourite?"

"Nah, why would you ever think that?" she deadpans, laughing herself fully awake as everyone looks at the pair, brows raised. "What?" Jinx states and everyone goes back to their conversations.

─────── · ·

─ · · A/N: what did y'all think? 🤔

─ · · JAYCE TALIS TAGLIST: @sseleniaa @sunshiines-stuff @kiromiix @todorokishoe24 @w2momo @m-arj-1 @reid490 @kaminocasey @chickenlvr123 @peachhiz @hellokittyluvr69420

[themusingsofacurlyhairednerd]

Obsidian Salt

Summary: A little Witch!Reader x Demon!Rhys AU for my Spooky Season Fic List

-------

My hands shake around the ancient text, the worn tome heavy and dust laden from years upon years of sitting on a shelf, untouched and forgotten. The old latin script is illegible in places, the ink faded and hidden under unidentifiable stains; the parchment is dog-eared and scribbled in, the margins full of strange, archaic markings I’ve never seen used in our Coven’s rune work. These are not the spells of my ancestors, not the runes my mother and grandmother cast upon the old foundations of our family home. We are a family of witches, dating back beyond the ages of written word; I am supposed to carry on that legacy, but truth be told, I’ve always been terrible at spellwork. My potions are mediocre; powers of persuasion abysmal. I truly am a poor excuse for a witch, and everyone in the coven knows it. Perhaps that is why Sister Ruth chose me to put on a demonstration at the Solstice Festival tomorrow. If I cannot prove my worth, well, maybe it is in the best interest of the coven to throw me out, or worse, make a sacrifice out of me. 

I would not be the first.

I grip the tome a little tighter. I must prove my usefulness. I cannot fail my sisters, or worse, my grandmother.  She raised eight successful witches, it would be to her utter shame to have been my teacher all these years for nothing. 

I draw a shaking breath. These spells are old magic. Dark magic. But I must get good at something quickly, and the gods know I will not get there on any natural talent. Perhaps I don’t need to be a natural. Perhaps I just need to summon something that is. 

On the old wood floor of our basement, I have laid the circle of obsidian salt in three overlapping circles, each etched with runes of chalk for protection. Just in case, I’ve dusted the floor with dried rosemary and anise seeds; an added barrier against whatever evil I might accidentally conjure if this goes wrong. My mother’s amulet feels heavy beneath my sweater, the cold iron biting against my skin as if in warning against what I am about to do.

I take another deep breath and ignore the warning. I must not fail.

The words are clunky, foreign on my tongue, the first couple of tries produces no results at all. Perhaps I really am the worst witch ever!

I grip the tome so tight the spine groans as I try again, slower this time, sounding out each word piece by piece. I will not fail.

The whole basement is lit with candles and as I finish the final words of the spell, the light suddenly snuffs itself out. 

The air in the room drops to near freezing temperatures. My hands so stiff and shaky around the old tome that the book slips from my hands and falls somewhere in the darkness. I make it onto my knees to look for it in a mad scramble before the sound of rushing wind fills the tiny room. It’s so loud I have to cover my ears with my shaking hands. 

In the center of the salt ring, dark shadows begin to slither out from a crack in the floor, hissing like a dozen tiny snakes. 

What have I done?!

I scramble to find the book in the dark, hands tearing over the anise seeds and clumps of rosemary. Perhaps the crushed scent of herbs will be enough to ward off whatever terrible shadow I’ve just called upon!

The temperature of the room continues to drop, lower and lower, even as the screeching wind gets louder and louder. The shadows within the circle grow darker and thicker by the moment, spinning now like a whirlwind. At least the salt holds. 

And then, as quickly as the noise had begun, it suddenly quiets. All the candles light themselves again, allowing me to see where I’d dropped the book: Directly into the circle, having bounced over the line, and it now sits at the feet of the most handsome male I’ve ever seen in my life.

I can do nothing but stare. I had meant to summon some help, the soul of an old mage or a spirit from another world, perhaps, but not… well, whatever he is. He’s definitely alive, his bronze, bair chest rising and falling, making the swirl of dark ink over his skin move in twining patterns. Not a spirit, though I do not know what to make of the great, bat-like wings that sprout from his back, the leathery membrane twitching as he brings them close to his body to avoid the barrier the salt creates. And his eyes! Gods, there like two blazing, violet suns inside the sharp planes of his face. 

“Well isn’t this interesting,” he purrs, voice smooth as velvet.

“Gods, what have I done?” I whisper to no one in particular.

His mouth twists in a devilish grin as he bends down to pick up my tome. From the tips of his fingers come dark claws. A bit of living shadow curls over his wrist, moving like snakes across the worn pages. “No gods here, Darling.”

I, somehow, find it within me to stand, despite my shaking legs. It is still terribly cold in this basement; the source of it seems to be coming from him. “What are you?”

He chuckles as he flips through the pages, claws running affectionately over the runes written in the margins. “Why don’t you come closer and I’ll show you?”

The longer I watch him the more off I realize he is. There are fangs in his mouth, the sharp tips of them glinting in the candlelight. Tiny, glittering drops of starlight glisten in the strands of his raven-black hair. Intertwined within the ink across his chest are smaller versions of the runes written within the pages of the book. 

“I’ll stay right here,” I say.

He sticks out his full lower lip in a pout. “That’s no fun!”

He takes a step closer to the line of salt, testing the barrier with the tip of his boot. At least I managed to summon him half-way decent in a dark, leather pair of pants and boots. I don’t know what I’d do if I had summoned him fully nude. 

My cheeks flush at the thought, drifting down to follow the defined V of his abs, and where his pants slide low on his hips. If he were human I’d climb him like a tree. 

“Don’t tell me you summoned me just to gawk?” He presses. When he catches where my eyes are on his body, he adds, “Although you’re welcome to enjoy the view for as long as you like.”

I let out a huff. “I didn’t summon you for anything! I was trying to talk to the spirits.”

“There’s only one spell that can summon me, and you picked it,” he turns the book to show me the exact page I’d been reading from. “So tell me, what is it you want, Witchling?”

The way he says Witchling makes my skin flush; the heat in his tone enough to make me second guess myself. Why did I think that spell would summon something else? 

Perhaps I am a fool for saying it, but I blurt, “I need help.”

“Do tell,” he purrs.

“I’m supposed to give my coven a display of my magic tomorrow, for the Solstice, and well… I’m kind of the worst witch ever.” 

He glances at the herbs on the floor, and then back up to me. I swear there are actual violet flames moving around within his irises. I don’t know what he is, but I don’t think it’s anything that can help me. But how am I supposed to send him back without the book?

“I meant to summon a spirit to guide me in some quick magic. I didn’t mean to summon, well, whatever you are.”

“I am many things,” he says, walking a slow circle around the barrier, testing it. It’s like watching a recently caged animal at the zoo; he’s testing every point for a weak spot, and if he finds it, he’s using it. 

I swallow the lump in my throat. What do I do if he gets out?

“But you can call me Rhys.”

If there is any heat left in the room, it leaves in a rush. “As in Rhysand? One of the Princes of Hel?”

Rhys drags his claws over the invisible barrier the salt creates and I watch the magic ripple and pulse under those sharp tips. “Perhaps.”

“You need to go back,” I say in panic, even though I know it can’t work that way. I summoned him. I have to be the one to send him back. Without the book, Hel, even with the book, I can’t do anything. 

“Then send me back, Witchling.”

I’m going to have to get my grandmother, and everyone is going to know that not only am I a failure as a witch, but I am a danger to all of us. I can’t even read a spell book right! I summoned a Prince of Hel by accident!

I chew on my thumbnail, pacing now myself around the outside edges of the salt. What do I do? What do I do?

“Oh but you can’t, can you?” He teases, knocking the book against the barrier. “Not without this pretty little thing.”

The dried herbs crunch under my boots as I keep pacing. There are no other tomes like that accessible to me, not without the Elders knowledge. This one had slipped past unnoticed in my grandmother’s grand collection, I had found it by sheer luck. There were no other texts to help me out of this one, and at this rate, even if there was, could I even get it to work?

“So how about we do this my way, hmm?”

A shiver crawls its way up my spine. 

“You break the barrier, and I will help you with your little Solstice tomorrow.”

I finally turn to look at him. “You would do that?”

“After tomorrow night, you can send me back and we can pretend this whole thing was a bad dream.”

Maybe this wasn’t a mistake after all! Maybe I can still turn this around!

“You won’t cause any trouble?” I ask.

He puts a clawed hand over his heart. “I will not cause any trouble.”

“You swear it?”

“I cannot break my word, Darling,” he returns. 

My hands shake. What other choice do I have? “Just until the Solstice passes.”

“I promise you, that is all the time I will need.” I have to admit, his voice is strangely soothing. He does not strike me as some malevolent ruler of darkness at all. 

I grab a broom off the wall. “It’s a bargain then.”

He grins wolfishly the entire time, watching my every step as I approach with the intensity of a wolf stalking a deer. 

I swallow the lump in my throat. It’s only one night, what could one night hurt? With one last shaking breath, I drag the broom through the salt and break the seal.

The book clatters to the floor for a second time tonight, as he lunges forward, a clawed hand wrapping around my neck as his momentum propels me back against the wall. I hit the worn stones so hard dust rains down from the ceiling. 

Panic grips me; I have no magic to save me as a real witch ought. He’s taller than I thought he was, towering over me as his grip on me tightens to the point of pain, the tips of his claws leaving indents in my skin.  Rhys chuckles at my plight as he leans down and brushes his lips over mine in the ghost of a kiss. Ice fills my veins at the contact. “Silly little, Witchling, a night is more than enough to make you mine.”

[boba-pearl-writes]

1/31 - remember- word count: 741 - @rosekillermicrofic - major character death

It was just a normal mission. Another one of those “strike fear in the hearts of the muggles and they will listen” assignments. They didn’t even have to take down any aurors this time.

And then they saw Moody.

Mad-Eye Moody was one of the best aurors that there ever is, was or will be. At least, that’s what the auror department called him. They weren’t joking, either. The only people who remotely stood a chance against him were the inner circle of the Dark Lord- which included Barty and Evan.

Barty was a promising Death Eater, and, because of his smarts and cleverness, quickly rose up the ranks. Evan was one of the best duellers they had, who had once, before, taken down three aurors at the same time.

Moody, this time, though, had the element of surprise. 

As soon as he saw them, he cast an expelliarmus towards Barty, and Barty was too slow to dodge. Then, Evan sent a dark hex back at him, and Moody blocked it with a well timed protego. 

They sent hexes and curses back and forth while Barty got on the floor and swept his hands across the ground to try to find his wand. His hand closed around the familiar wood and then-

“DIFFINDO!” Moody yelled, just as Barty whipped around and yelled “STUPEFY!” Moody crashed backwards into a tree from the force and desperation of the spell. At the same time, Barty heard a strangled scream of pain from behind him. 

Fuck. 

Evan. 

Barty turned back around and rushed to where Evan was stumbling back against a wall, hand and arm pressed against his chest protectively. Barty helped Evan sit down, helpless as the blood seeped out from behind his hand. Barty gently pried Evan’s hand away to reveal a deep slash across Evan’s chest. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” he muttered under his breath as Evan coughed blood onto the ground. Barty didn’t have the spell to help Evan, and he doubted there was a spell strong enough to bring anyone back from this. The gash was too deep, Barty was pretty sure the spell had affected his heart. 

They didn’t even have hope. In those last moments, all they had was desperation. 

Barty’s mind was frantic, trying to figure something out. Something, anything. Please. 

He couldn’t live without Evan. He wouldn’t. 

“I-“ Evan rasped, fighting to get the words out. Evan’s beautiful hazel eyes connected with Barty’s own gray blue ones and Barty went still. 

For once, Barty went still and just looked. He looked at Evan, looked at him like a drowning man grasping for straws, like a thirsty man gulping down fresh water. 

“Barty,” Evan said, and tears welled up in Barty’s eyes. He wrapped his arms around Evan carefully, trying not to disturb the wound. He tried to hold on as tight as he could to something that was so fragile it could crack in his arms. 

“Evan,” he said, and his voice cracked. “Rosie, angel, don’t go. Don’t leave me.”

“Don’t- don’t do that. Please, Bee, I don’t- I can’t- I never wanted to leave you.”

“Ev-“ Evan looked like he was confessing something- something of finality, an ultimatum. 

“I love you so fucking much,” Evan said, and his voice cracked. He started coughing out blood again, and Barty helped him through it, then laid him down so that Evan’s head rested on his lap. Evan raised a hand to Barty’s face, his fingers brushing Barty’s cheekbones. “Don’t forget me.”

Barty placed a hand over Evan’s. “Never. I-“ Barty let out a wet laugh “-you’d have to kill me and suck my soul out to make me forget Evan Rosier. My Rosie.” He offered a small, tearful smile.

Evan’s eyes fluttered, like they did when he was tired. Barty didn’t want to think about that. He tightened his grip on Evan’s hand. 

“Remember to…” Evan trailed off, then blinked a few times, each blink longer than the last. “To find me after this life. Or in the next.”

“I promise,” Barty whispered. Evan’s face softened. 

“Love you, Bee.”

“I love you, too, Rosie.”

When Evan’s breath slowed, and then stopped, when his heart didn’t beat out those familiar rhythms Barty knew anymore, when his eyes closed for the last time, Barty buried his face in the crook of Evan’s neck and cried. 

Evan was gone and, with him, so was a piece of Barty’s soul. 

[no-goodbyes-no-regrets]

More news from TikTok 😂

Apparently it was Ravi who was supposed to die but then Tim changed it?! Is this true? That tracks with what you said about him killing off the medic to make room for TK on the team on Lone Star. But I guess Tim swerved at the last minute.

Apparently people have been giving the Lab Rats episode low ratings and it is something like 4.1 right now (personally I think that is mean, because the episode was beautiful). But basically, people in general are mad about Bobby dying, then Buddie fans are mad about Eddie not finding out about Bobby on-screen.

But also, you were right about the rumours. I saw on this Tiktok that when Tim was asked if Eddie was going to return to 118 LA permanently, he replied, he is returning for the last three episodes. So, NOTHING ABOUT SEASON 9!!

They asked Tim about the script, he said he didn't know anything about it - so it's just the cast trolling the set stalkers.

I looked up the interview this person is talking about - they're picking out the parts they like. As usual.

I could quote the whole thing here, but this post is already LONG as it is so I'll just link it

Here is the "it was supposed to be Ravi" thing

DEADLINE: Angela, did you have any inkling that something of this magnitude might be coming this season? BASSETT: Absolutely not. Not an inkling, not a word, not birdies, nothing. This is near the end of the season. Sometimes near the end of the season, we’re in this race against time to get our scripts, you’re really getting it in real time. It’s like get it today, and we’re going to start filming it tomorrow. So it was really a jaw-dropping moment when I read the script and saw that. Well, initially it was a different character, the whole bio lab. I mean, it could be anyone, it could be Chimney, it could be him, it could be Ravi. I remember Tim called. He said, someone’s going to pass away. I said, Is it me? Self-preservation, you know. I went through the list, you start with yourself, but I was very surprised that it was my husband. DEADLINE: You mentioned that there was a different character that initially was supposed to die. Did something change in the script? BASSETT: That may have been just a misdirect, but initially it was Ravi, the probie; well, he is not a probie anymore.

So obviously things changed from page to filming. It happens. Tim mentioned he wanted to make a big impact, and we love Ravi in this house but his death would not be anywhere near as big a deal as Bobby's. They would be sad for a while - but that's it.

DEADLINE: Did you adjust Bobby’s story arc this season to give him a proper sendoff? Obviously he died a hero, saving his team, but he also had a heroic moment in the pre-lab leak episode, emerging from the smoke of a bus crash with a baby in his arms. He finally reconciled with his mother, too. MINEAR: Yes, a little bit actually. I’d really been thinking about it back during the first part of the season. There’s a moment in the first part of the season when Brad Torrence, the Hotshots [TV show] star, says that his captain is never going to wake up from his coma, and a fan says, you can’t kill him off, he’s the father figure of the firehouse. So that was me hinting a little bit about where I might be going.

CAN WE TALK ABOUT THIS THOUGH:

DEADLINE: Tim, you mentioned redemption earlier. Bobby was praying as he died, also coming full circle as he and Athena first bonded when they went to church together. How did you come up with that ending? MINEAR: That was Peter. That was Peter.

@ Peter you dropped this 👑

also

DEADLINE: Tim, are you afraid of fans’ reaction to Bobby’s death? Are you going into witness protection? MINEAR: I I’ve been in witness protection ever since I stopped looking at social media. That’s the way I protect myself, is I just don’t look at that stuff. I’m definitely going out on a skinny branch in some way. We’ll see what happens. I fervently believe that it was the right move creatively for the show. I didn’t expect us to be going into a ninth year, and if the show has any hope of being creatively viable and alive going forward, then you need moments like this. You need them.

I wouldn't worry about Ryan/season 9 for now. Nothing is official yet, they're still filming season 8. We won't know anything for a few months I think. Knowing Tim the cast will hear what is or isn't changing about a week before they start filming and we'll know either via set stalkers again or official press releases around that time.

As for the review bombing on imdb - they're just a bunch of entitled whiney bitch babies who can't handle the fact their fave isn't in every minute of every episode.

We expected/hoped for Lou in 8x14 but he wasn't there. You don't see any of us going to imdb to rate it 1 star because he wasn't in it.

[jangofettjamz]

Overwhelming

Jenna Ortega x Autistic!Male!Reader

Summary: Your were nervous about going to the Scream 6 premiere, but it turned out to be a lot of fun... until it wasn't.

Words: 1993

3rd Person POV

The premiere for scream 6 was but a few hours away. Tensions rose as Y/N tried to prepare himself for the event, despite being an actor he has very secluded and did not enjoy the limelight as much as his fellow peers.

He had been trying to muster up the courage to become more socially involved in his work such as: going to interviews, late night shows, going to dinner with directors etc. Unfortunately, It just seemed for too difficult.

However, this time was different. He was going to try this time; to attend a premiere. He knew this would be no easy feat, the camera flashes alone would overstimulate him into madness but he was determined, scared but determined nonetheless.

His girlfriend and co-star, Jenna Ortega has been helping him to confront his fear of social interaction through love and support. She had studied his language and helped him navigate in a world that didn't understand him.

Y/N has also made a life long friend in Mikey Madison, who also happened to be close with Jenna. Though she never was on the set of scream 6 due to her character dying in the previous film, she remained close with the cast and crew and treated him as an equal.

Y/N, although adamant in his choice to attend the premiere, was still absolutely terrified at the thought of hundreds of people in one space wanting him to sign autographs, take photos and pose on the red carpet. It made him feel ill.

Jenna was his shield from everything. She promised to protect him from the cameras, should he not want his photo taken. She promised to protect him from the hyper fans who have little regard for personal space.

"Alright sweetie, I've got all your stuff in my bag: stim toys, plushie and snacks if you need one. If you need a break or want to leave just tell me, your comfort is my number one priority."

One problem; Jenna didn't pack the headphones and Y/N was too stressed to even remember them aswell. The noise would likely send Y/N spiralling.

"Jenna how many people are gonna be there?"

"Atleast a thousand people honey" she says sadly knowing that this was going to be tough for Y/N.

"We don't have to go you know, we can just chill here for the night." She suggests not really thinking of the consequences that could have on her career.

"Wouldn't you get in trouble?" Y/N asks but imm receives an answer.

"I don't care, as long as your comfortable it's worth it" she states making Y/N feels warm inside, like a scarf wrapping him up in the cold winter but on the inside.

"It'll be fine Jen', we're all ready to go now anyway so there's no point in backing out now." He reassures making her form a toothy smile.

"Besides I know how much this movie means to you and I wanna make you happy aswell." She approached him with loving intent.

She placed a hand on his cheek. "Can i kiss you?" She asked, knowing he doesn't like spontaneous kisses without permission. He nods and she kisses him lovingly which he reciprocates, light pink blush painting his cheeks.

Their private car soon arrived and they made their way to premiere. Y/N was on edge, he wasn't as excited so much as he was nervous.

Jenna held his hand rubbing soothing circles with her thumb and he put his head on her shoulder as she held him tight around his waist for the rest of the car journey.

-

The premiere was more packed than usual, containing around 2230 people; far more than they anticipated. The movie drew more hype than Y/N and Jenna thought possible, some just there to see Jenna.

This troubled Y/N, yes he had prepared to undertake an entire crowd but not to this extent. Jenna could sense his fear as if she was some sort of telepath and held his hand tight.

He started to stim by clicking him fingers and tapping him knees, though seemed futile as the feeling of overstimulation didn't seem to falter.

"Y/N/N, do you need your stim toys?" He nodded violently, starting to sweat as the noises from outside became more irritable.

She grabbed a fidget cube for him to play with for as long as he needed until they had to walk onto the red carpet. He slowly leaned back into her shoulder and she held him tightly again, placing feather light kisses on his scalp.

"Remember, we can always leave if you want." She reminded him wanting to make feel as safe as possible.

"I'm gonna be with you the entire time okay, Mikey's gonna be there too and she'll protect you aswell; we both will I promise." He nodded and took deep breaths while Jenna rubbed soothing circles on his back.

He took one final deep breaths before opening the door of the car and out into wilderness of: fans, paparazzi, reporters and fellow actors. He was gonna hate this.

He instantly grabbed a hold of Jenna's hand and she squeezed tightly letting him know that she's there. Fans wanted to Jenna to sign stuff for them, but she made it a point that she's putting his comfort first, much to their dismay.

"Let's go find the others okay, I heard Jack's here aswell and I know how much you two get along." Jack Quaid visited set often in vancouver when he wasn't Filming for The Boys and the two of them clicked because of their shared nerdiness.

Jenna and Y/N made their way up the red carpet and were called for an interview by Vanity Fair. Y/N considered his options, he could either do this interview with Jenna by his side and be extremely uncomfortable or walk away and still be extremely uncomfortable. The choices were negligible so he figured he'd do the interview.

They walked hand in hand over to the interviewer for Vanity Fair. "Well hello you two, how are feeling about tonight's premiere." She started

Jenna was the first to respond. "I'm so excited, I can't wait for everyone to see this film we worked so hard on it and I think fans are gonna be very satisfied with what we've created." She says smiling.

"Y/N L/N so lovely to see you at the premiere, how was filming with veteran talent like Courtney Cox and Hayden Panettiere?"

He answers "They're very lovely people and easy to work with too. This film project is probably my favourite one I've done thus far." The interviewer asked more questions before promptly ending the interview.

"It was very lovely speaking to you two, congratulations on the movie." Jenna looks at Y/N with a proud look on her face which made Y/N's heart do cartwheels.

She cups his face making eye contact with him. "You did so well Y/N, I'm so proud of you for getting through that interview. You should be proud of yourself too."

Y/N kisses her on the cheek thankful for her words of encouragement, he felt elated on this new found confidence, he wanted to do more and that's exactly what he did.

"Y/N/N!!!" He heard and he saw Mikey and immediately tackled her into a hug. She had become a very good friend to him.

"I'm so glad you came, you having fun?" She asked and he was indeed having a good time.

"Yeah you know what, I think I am having fun." He said with a wide grin.

Everything went great, he did more interviews, conversed with his co-stars and even took a few pictures with fans. He was having a good time... until he wasn't.

The next interview he did was with Fox News and they did not hold back on their questions. He and Jenna both went up to talk with them.

"Hello Miss Ortega and Mr L/N, how's you're evening?" she starts "It's going great, we're having a wonderful night" Y/N answers with tremendous enthusiasm, which will be snuffed out soon.

"Y/N is it true you have spaz attacks when people are screaming on set?" He was confused, Jenna was pissed.

"I'm sorry?" He says politely but still confused. "We heard that you have spaz attacks on set, it would be really unprofessional if you did you know." Now he was annoyed "spaz attacks" who does she think she is?

"I don't have meltdowns on set, or "spaz attacks" as you call them when people scream on set. The screaming is on script so why would I complain? Has anyone ever told you you're extremely unprofessional and terrible at your job?" He says, his voiced laced with venom.

Jenna snickered, she was proud of him for taking a stand for himself, plus she thought is was hot. But that confidence soon faded.

The interviewer says under her breath "Yeah well atleast I'm not a retarded spaz like you" just low enough for the camera's not to pick up but Y/N and Jenna heard it well. Jenna was PISSED.

Suddenly Y/N felt his confidence diminish, the voices around him became louder, the camera flashes became more irritable, creating spots in his vision. He could practically hear all the clicks and cracks coming from each of the cameras as they snap photos.

The colors around him became more and more irritable to look at; too bright so he clamped his eyes shut. The voices and music hammered his ears drums, he held his hands to his ears and started to hyperventilate, thoat closing up in the process. He was having a meltdown.

Jenna saw this and instantly whisked him away from the crowd and into the theatre, they found a quiet corner and begun their techniques. She searched through her bags only to find that his headphones weren't there, he started to panic.

He babbled uncontrollably, he needed his headphones to block the noise. She pulled out her headphones that she carried with her 24/7 and moved his hands and put them over his head; noise cancelling too so that helped.

Once she put her headphones on his head she began to speak. "Honey, can I hold you?" She says, her voice quiet and muffled due to the headphones but he nodded nonetheless.

"We're gonna rock okay?" She says and he nods they begin to sway side to side. His head was in her chest and her head on the top of his, she was his safe space and he was so thankful.

After a few minutes he took the headphones off, but was still feeling non-verbal. Jenna continued her rocking as she began to speak.

"What she said was bullshit, you know that don't you?" He shrugged in response. "Sweetie, you're not a spaz or retarded or whatever horrible words she called you, she's just a bitch and she will be dealt with, believe me."

He nodded against her chest. "I'm so sorry you had to go through that, buddy. I hope you didn't regret coming here." He shook his head, he didn't regret it and he had fun.

She pulled something out of her bag. "Here, I've got your ghostface plush. You wanna take him with you while we watch the film?" He nodded and they made their way into the screening.

They sat down and Y/N put his head on her shoulder as she stroked his hair to keep him regulated, keeping a vice grip around his body as they watched their new movie.

In moments like these he felt safest, like no could hurt him as his girlfriend shields him from all the bad things in the world. It felt like home. She felt like home.

Despite everything that just happened, he was very happy.

[hope-you-brought-kneepads-bitch]

Agatha all along spoilers

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Okay okay sure

First off! I’ve seen people on Twitter already going mad but I think I need people to understand, this show was never targeted at a specific lesbian ending, yes! Very queer show and of course lots of Agathario but Rio is death, I always thought a kiss of death would happen because otherwise we’re being silly with ourselves it’s not queer baiting and it’s not helpful to be mad because marvel wont want to do things like this again if we start getting angry, the cast and crew were so proud of this and we should be too (we can vent a little and I plan too but I won’t tag actors or creators because I’m not weird)

But! I will say dying for Billy (technically I know she did because of Nicky because Billy got into her mind like a loser and a bitch and she wanted to redeem herself or whatever) is a bit strange I guess I get people saying ‘oh well of course lesbians get screwed over’ but you know for a marvel show to have actual canon lesbians who are kissing, yeah it’s scraping a barrel but if it’s received well I have no doubt they’ll do it again, I mean in the comics agatha gets resurrected and who’s to say that won’t happen? Anyway I’m ranting and yeah a little sad about the ending because it does feel like the killing eve ending but! Let’s get into the two episodes

Alice! My love, my baby I’m so sorry! Rio was right you died doing your job as a protection witch but it still hurts! I hope the afterlife is good to you and treats you well I love you 🥰

Jen! My beloved you did it! You got your powers back, I can’t believe agatha bound her that’s so funny and messed up! God agatha were you that low on cash???

“He’s an abomination�� Damn right Rio get him!

Also the change in agatha a little about not wanting to see Rio when she died like yeah it’s a quick change but I think it’s Agatha putting her shields back up, she does want Rio back she definitely does but also it’s like ‘oh actually I’m putting my guard back up because I’m scared and you did something that hurt me’ (she is my scar!)

Rio being pissed off that agatha doesn’t want her and that she loves it when she’s like this unfortunately ladies this foreplay went a little too far and got ruined by a man (fucking typical) them basically flirting through their whole fight was great too

Also going back to episode 1 where Rio said ‘so take my power’ and Agatha replied ‘cute, but you know that would kill me’ BECAUSE SHE HAD TO KISS HER TO TAKE HER POWER! Did I get it right? Pretty sure I did so I declare that in their private moments agatha never kissed Rio but just started at her neck so not to accidentally kill herself during sex (dramatic lesbians)

Also in ep 4 when Agatha tries kissing Rio but then Rio stops her, I have a depressing feeling that Agatha was so upset at being reminded of what happened to her son she was willing to take the kiss of death I guess? Or maybe Rio can control stuff like that and kiss Agatha fine if she holds her power in but thinking she’s death I think it’s the first one

Rio cutting the road and stepping through I’m not gonna lie I was shocked! I gasped guys and I don’t do that often like obviously they knew was fake but I didn’t I love just thinking about Rio stepping in and out of the road but also where is the ‘road’? Is it just Agatha’s house? Have they been walking around in circles this whole time, god the citizens of westview may need to start looking for other places to live

The Salem era! I loved it (I do want more backstory but I think we’ll get some interviews explaining it so that’ll be fun) ‘born from scratch’ beautiful line Rio turning up I was like ‘oh daddy’s here to help with the birth’ then I quickly remembered she’s death and agatha begging not to take him and then I realised daddy isn’t here to stay for good reasons (like most dads)

Little Nicky was adorable! Such a cute kid and helping his mother trick witches? Putting him to work agatha, I like it! Start them early I say

Also they created the balled! So cute and heartbreaking since Agatha had to sing it all the time when killing these witches constantly being reminded of her son

Also her killing everyday then the one night she doesn’t rio takes their son??? God Rio give her a fucking day don’t you have like billions of other souls to take?? Just walk very slowly 🙄

Billy carrying the trauma of killing three (that’s right I count Sharon too!) witches because he created the road makes the ending worth it actually (not by much) because he has to suffer the consequences and deal with ghost agatha, get recked!

Rio and Agatha will definitely reunite (source: Me) Rio says she hates ghosts but only because she’s death and ghosts probably don’t want to move on, be a bit like trying to round up cats. HER AND AGATHA CAN FINALLY WALK TOGETHER FOR ALL ETERNITY

Anyway I have work in an hour and I’ve been up since 4 it’s now 6 and I’ve slept about 3 hours soooo if this is all ramblings I’ll try to add things later but yeah I loved the last two episodes yeah we could’ve gotten a bit more Agathario but I truly think they didn’t anticipate the overwhelming reception for them (Kathryn and Aubrey did though definitely)

I’m up for any discussion too I love talking about this stuff but works been hectic recently hence why I’m watching the episodes before work because after I’m just knackered but I’m off this weekend so I can reply properly to people

[jgroffdaily]

But Just in Time, the new musical about the life of legendary singer Bobby Darin starring Tony winner Jonathan Groff, is proving to be something different.

Directed and developed by Tony winner Alex Timbers, based on an original concept by Ted Chapin, the musical — which begins performances March 28 at New York City's Circle in the Square Theatre — takes theatergoers into an intimate nightclub, where a cast of 16 will bring Darin's story to life through his catalog of hits.

It's a fully immersive experience unlike what audiences may have seen before. But as Groff, 39, told reporters at a Feb. 5 press preview, it was a necessary move to fully showcase Darin's power as a live act.

"We're playing a little bit with form and style and form to recreate the in-the-moment live magic that Bobby Darin had as a performer," he shared with The Broadway Show with Tamsen Fadal at the event, held at Hell's Kitchen piano bar So & So's — photos from which PEOPLE can debut exclusively.

The show will begin, Groff explained, with the actor as himself in 2025 before transporting audiences back to the 1950s and 1960s, when Darin rose to fame.

"Alex and Jonathan, they've found a way to take a historical story and make it feel very present," star Erika Henningsen notes to PEOPLE. "This is not a typical show. What's happening here is unique among the mix of what's on Broadway.

The actress, returning to Broadway for the first time since originating the role of Cady Heron in 2018's Mean Girls: The Musical, is portraying sun-kissed teen idol Sandra Dee in Just in Time.

"Proscenium-style shows that we're used to seeing on Broadway and are great as exhibiting a certain story. But for Bobby Darin's story, you need to feel him on top of you," says Henningsen, 32. "It's all about bringing people into that live experience and making them feel like they're in the living room with Bobby and Sandra, like they're in the Copacabana and like Bobby's audiences felt when he was performing."

"Bobby really told Sandra, 'There's more out there than your mom allows you to do,' and that was so powerful for her," Henningsen says. "She started her career in Hollywood at a very young age as a child model, and was fiercely protected by her mother and by the studio as she grew into an actress. She hadn't really had a real womanly adult experience until she met Bobby, so in a way, he kind of saved her from this life of arrested development."

She's also looking forward to bringing Dee and Darin's partnership to life. Though Dee's film career would ultimately take a backseat to Darin's musical aspirations, Henningsen explains that the two were one another's ultimate cheerleaders.

"They really respected one another's talent and they really respected one another's drive," Henningsen says. "And that's pretty rare for two people who had this much acclaim, because so often you hear about one person begrudging the other for their success."

She adds, "But even after their divorced, that respect was there because they saw that part of themselves in one another. They both had that fire. Sandra saw how driven Bobby was and said, 'I can't get mad at you for doing the thing that you were born to do.' "

[bunji-enthusiast]

Hello love, I was wondering if you could do a Tristan one shots with a female s/o, where Tristan gets protective and jealous of someone trying to take his s/o

Hello hello dear anon, here you go! I hope I did quite alright for this request of yours :)

"Hm." Straddled along the horses you were given, with a fellow body. You were able to make it to where you needed to go in no time, hopefully without complications in your journey. Which there was none so far, leaving you to breathe a sigh of relief each and every time at each potential mark of the road.

It was undeniably fierce, the rays of the sun beat down on the two of you hard. You had been sent down, and alongside you--at his insistence--Tristan. To which you had audibly sighed and rolled your eyes at when he had been very vocal about his disdain about you going alone to fend off the area of which the band of invaders were very unwelcoming in residing territory that belonged to the Kingdom Of Liones. You weren't sure about why he was being so quick to volunteer in coming along, or why his father complied with it in the first place either.

But nonetheless, what's done is done, and you couldn't really find it in yourself to stay mad at your boyfriend for long. He often times is far too kind and gentle, but firm when needed be, and you wished he was like that more often. Yet, he is fearful of his own power, and rather often this comes too light in many situations where Tristan is forced to resort to the use of his demonic abilities. The thought of the circling relations had confused you for a mere moment but you had steadied your busy mind.

"I think we're almost there." Tristan commented, snapping you out of your deep circle of thoughts. You turned your head, your gaze inquiring as he had immediately pointed ahead in the distance of which you had been needed to go. The end reach of your required destination. You nodded in return, and hurried along.

Tristan was surprised by your speed, but nonetheless decided to match your pace.

Each thudding of your footsteps, almost resounded harshly in the confines of your ribcage. The harsh thumping of your heartbeat, supposedly wrought a deafening feeling of something in the future that is possibly meant to be feared. You were readily reminded that your boyfriend was not far from you as you reached such a rabble of a building, which was lighted by torches and clear noises of busy bodies.

You let out a low groan -- mentally preparing yourself for the combat of reparations ahead.

"Okay, let's go." You said, nodding at Tristan as a means of reassurance. In return, he had done the same, steeling his nerves. Trodding your horses over, you went on down, and tied the rope which heeled your horse to a wooden pole. You began walking toward the entrance, almost crouching to conceal your presence, you casted a brief glance over at Tristan, who had mimicked your array of actions.

You wanted the assurance of surprise on the self-imposed band of invaders taking illegal residence inside the territory, you snuck by side the large doorway. You watched as Tristan went to the other other side, you murmured a small but surefire plan, enough to ensure that only Tristan had heard it. A small series of hand gestures accompanied your verbal plan, then with a small affirmation that he understood, you both nodded at each other. Which appeared to be a reoccurrence lately.

Jumping into action, you snuck around in the shadows. Picking off each bandit one by one, until you had been caught by one on pure accident.

"Hey you!" the bandit shouted, garnering the attention of the last few bandits left. "The hell you sneaking around here for little girl?"

Your blood had boiled at the man's insidious comment, but you were so desperately trying to break free. Even call on your abilities, yet, his grip was far too great.

'Tristan, please..' You thought to yourself, still trying with every inch of your being to get away from the bandit. Hearing a sharp skidding around the corner your head whipped around to notice the answer to your short-slighted prayer.

"Let go of her!" Tristan shouted, his hands laying on the hilt of his swords. The bandit laughed, leaving you to grimace at such a horrible one, you never wanted to hear it again.

"And what?" The man replied, "What can a little boy like you can do?"

Tristan didn't respond, closing his eyes and murmuring a silent prayer to himself. The man was about to ask what the hell he was doing, yet nothing came out, only sputters of blood spilling from his mouth. The gut feeling of which you did not want to look as the hand that held your arm so tightly had loosened, and then, fallen off with a hard thud.

You look around until you spotted Tristan, sheathing his swords with harsh, heavy breathing impounding the structure of his body. You noticed finally, that he had called on the use of his goddess powers. For the act of killing, you almost would've thought that he would've called on the use of his demonic side.

Yet it appeared, that his goddess side of which, still held such deadly results.

[lunar-inkclipse]

…okay, so from what I’ve seen of Leo, it seems that the only reason he at all had friends back in college was because the Swap Institute staff talked to him, rather than the other way around XD (hey, just like canon Logico! Who, admittedly, was more quiet, shy, and socially anxious than aloof :P)

Seriously, I do NOT at all see this guy being easy to talk to. Paranoia, general aloofness (compare to his very friendly canon self :P), probably being kind of a jerk if the trend with logic-based characters is anything to go by…but hey, he managed to make some friends! Or, more accurately, they made him their friend, through the fabled method of “sitting next to him and talking whether he likes it or not” or, in one case, repeatedly breaking into his house :P

Oh yeah, Leo's friend circle happened because he was just adopted by the Swapstitute cast (one of these days I'm gonna think of a cool and creative name for it that deals with litigation) rather than them seeking him out. Compared to the canon, he is quite aloof, paranoid, maybe just a liiitle (maybe more than a little) stuck up and kind of a jerk. Not to mention, news about his past is pretty common knowledge- His moms were likely well known figures, and having the reputation of "Orphaned at 16 after his moms were murdered" doesn't make him any easier to talk to. So, how do you talk to a guy who's prickly from a distance and pushes you away up close? Well, depends on who you ask!

Seashell, for one, just kinda kept wearing down at Leo until he gave in. How did this work with Leo's paranoia? Not well, I'll tell you that much! But Seashell is smarter and more adaptable than he may seem, he did manage to pass the bar (without pulling a Midnight) after all. I think in his attempts to get Leo to fall for him, he probably would change his tactics a little and swear to protect him and stand watch . Does it work in seducing Leo? Nope. But hey got hired at the Swapstitute, so he did something right! (though, just, don't ask Leo to think too hard about why he lets Seashell hang around.) (Side note- Since it's a weekly thing, can you imagine if it was also a Sunday thing and Seashell got mad at Illogico for stealing his shtick because I can)

With the rest of the cast, they just kinda adopted Leo (And Leo eventually decided he wanted some more friends outside this one pre-med turned pre-law weirdo who keeps showing up at his house). He's slow to trust, but he does indeed make some more friends- I think Night and Azure were probably some of the first people he really grew friendly with in college tbh: With Night, I’m gonna borrow some more of your banger headcanons and say they helped Leo out with math- They probably sat next to each other in class and Night offered some tutoring, thinking that Leo could really use a friend. Leo’s much more oriented towards writing and research rather than calculations, so the extra help was really useful. In turn, Leo helped proofread Night's essays and helped them out in that aspect, making them one of Leo's first and closest friends.

With Azure, she and Leo were in a lot of the same pre-law and debate classes/clubs, so they just kinda kept meeting up and often were on opposite sides, as Leo would do the prosecution side of things, and Azure would be doing more defensive stuff. It was a rocky start to a friendship, what with Leo's more smarmy nature making him much more of a rival/combative towards Azure, but eventually he realizes he's a) being a bit of an asshole, b) he's actually kinda lonely and could use some more friends, and c) he and Azure are actually kinda similar with their ambitions and could get along pretty well if he swallows his pride.

And just as a bonus because Umber is a fave of mine, I think she and Leo became friends in law school. While Swap Umber is a criminal psychologist rather than a sociologist, she still wanted to understand law and criminality more, as well as the legislation that was involved in pleading insanity and the like, so she took a class or two at Leo's law school and they ended up becoming friends there, because Leo's corners were starting to round off a little bit by now, and she's smart enough to not start psychoanalyzing Leo until after a few months :P. Everyone else became friends with Leo through Night/Azure/Seashell introducing him to their friends and probably a group project or two. The cast all found him and adopted him, rather than the other way around. And honestly, having those friends is really good for him. With Illogico, he probably considered working up the courage to introduce himself to Leo at one point, because he was pretty cute, but upon sensing this guy had straight up Vibe Arsenic with his personality and the stress he put himself under, he promptly decided that was Not His Problem tbh. And Leo once considered introducing himself to the mysterious goth who- according to rumors- managed to deal with a so called "ghost problem" in the basements of one building, but the idea just seems stupid and he's too busy for much of a social (or romantic, even if said goth is very hot to him) life.

[aerascreamer]

This is literally keeping me awake so I wanna talk about it:

If you want to make Tim East Asian or half East Asian specifically, then do not portray his parents as abusing and violent.

For one, writing the Drakes as abusers who hit Tim and expect him to be a perfect doll erases all nuances of their family dynamic. You could do so much more by exploring the effects of neglect, by writing about Jack and Janet’s love for their son that is too often is eclipsed by their priorities to their work or by exploring Jack’s efforts to connect and protect his son before his death. Heck Tim was that 🤏 close to use Lazarus Water to clone/revive him with Steph and Kon. Tim loved his dad, Jack loved his son.

Nightwing 1996 #139

Painting Jack as just a violent abuser is a detriment to his character but it gets worse if combined with the headcanon that he is East Asian. Same goes for Janet.

Asian parents are often portrayed negatively, with the “Tiger Mom” stereotype. Take Shiva or Talia (1/2 or 1/4 Chinese), who are casted not motherly, cold, unloving, seeing not a child but a tool in Cass and Damian. Or they aren’t given the opportunity by narratives to be mothers and raise their kids normally, like In Cheshire (Jade’s) case. She herself too didn’t grew up in a loving home.

So by making both Jake or Janet Asian and abusers feed into this circle. Instead, it would nice to nuance the thematic and The Drake’s character much like in the Marvel movie Shang-Chi and the legend of the ten rings. Wenwu is also not a good dad who blames his son for the death of his wife. But the man is driven by grief that clouded his judgment and broke the remaining ties with his family. But his grief is fuled by love, the love for his family. So at death’s door he sees the mistakes he made, he sees the hurt he caused to his son and gives the rings to Shang-Chi to fight the demons he unleashed in his mad quest.

I need to see more loving Asian parents represented

[silvantransthranduiltrash]

Hc that different types of elves are able to use magic in different ways/to different levels.

I will be focusing more on the avari and silvan elves as i am known to do:

Magic, in this sense, is more like the life force that flows through everything and everyone. Elves generate an extra amount of it which, they then can use through pathways in their body. Humans and dwarves, etc, are rarely able to use magic to an effective result bc they don’t generate as much as elves and aren’t built with the pathways to access it, though dwarves can occasionally channel the magic around them into the objects they create.

Silvans actually have a surprisingly high level of magic usage, even more than their valinorian counterparts, though most of it is passive. A surprising amount of people will hear “silvans can communicate with trees” and then never proceed to link it to magic usage. Of course it varies silvan to silvan, but a well trained silvan can actively use magic to protect and defend and lay down wards. Their link with the world around them through trees also allows them to boost their own magic when they need it. It’s because of this especially why silvans do not like being underground. Thranduil and Legolas are actually rather adept magic users, though they don’t show it off.

There’s also a type of elf that cannot use magic at all. These are the Fawneli elves. They are considered the strongest elves in the world, to the point they can pick up boulders the size of a palace and toss them about without breaking a sweat. They’re fast and their hardy. They are also referred to as “mini-giants” because it is as if someone took a giant and shrunk them, but kept all their strength in tact. However, in return for this strength, they are unable to use even the slightest bit of magic and are completely cut off from it. The Fawneli are mostly desert elves, and nomads. They don’t have a governing body and sadly most of them were hunted down and enslaved, which was made easier due to their vulnerability to magic of all kinds. There’s only a few dozen left in the world by the end of the third age.

If silvans were magic positive, and the Fawneli were magic neutral, than the Okreans are magic negative. Not only are they capable of seeing through any magic disguise of anyone, including maia and vala, but they are also mostly immune to any and all magic thrown at them. Whenever they are around, magic actively deteriorates. As a result, they are elves of science. And, as a result, the Valar do not like the Okreans as they see them as a threat bc of this immunity. Because the Vala saw them as a threat, they massacred the Okreans, with Tulkas and Orome themselves coming down to kill off these elves, during the second age. Only 8 Okreans surivied, including Kleoyia (though she was only 8 at the time), and they were cursed by the vala to live in agony untill they either killed themselves, or lost themselves to madness.

The Atric Elves share their magic with the forms of beasts. Individually, they cannot cast it the way most do, but rather they obtain the form of animals with their magic and get power through that. The Atric elves live in the the far north, mostly in the arctic circle, and thus tend to share the forms of arctic animals, whether they be from the land, air, or sea.

Aquatic elves are, as the name describes, elves that live in bodies of water, emphasis on in. Way back at the lake, they decided that the water was much safer than land, and so they took a plunge and never looked back. Aquatic elves are often refered to as mer-folk or sirens. Parts of their body take on shapes of aquatic life, and they come in many shapes and sizes. They have abit of a rivalry with the Atric elves, specifically the Atric elves that shape-shift into aquatic animal forms, as they compete for food. The silvans, however, they have a good trade relationship with. The Aquatic elves will provide silvans with good seafood, and in turn the silvans will give them a lot of land meat and vegetables the Aquatic elves can’t reach.

Sucian elves are probably the most common of Avari elves. They are also referred to as spiritual elves. Their magic mostly comes from their own power, and many will use tools in order to aid themselves. There are two major Sucian elf empires: the Bali’tsa empire and the Qitian empire. What is unique about the Sucian elves is that they can pass on their power to others, though it is extremely difficult. It is also the most diverse of the magic types, and tends to be more unique to each family.

Lastly you have the Agpetian elves, who get their power assigned to them, assumably by Eru himself. As far as i’m aware there’s no rhyme or reason as to why they get the magic they get, but when a child becomes 100 days old, their magic will display itself. As a result, they tend to be a little more…. Religious? Than other avari, though they do not worship or care for the valar at all.

[oddlyunaware]

Detailing the Cast in “Where Art Thou?"

Hey! Sorry for the wait, part two of my introduction to Where Art Thou is finally here!

Let's get to our main characters. Please note I have only completed designs for four of them, and will upload everyone else's designs at a later time!

MK

Xiaotian, or just "MK", is the adopted son of demon-dirtblood couple Pigsy and Tang. He appears to be an everyday dirtblood, until one way a tail suddenly sprouts gruesomely from his back and he gains fangs.

MK is actually the last product of Project NUWA, a super-soldier program detailed in my earlier post. The system had switched on one last time, thawing out a frozen embryo and injecting with sleeper agent cells, not revealing his simian traits until much later in life. He was subsequently spat out by the biometric machine, where Tang and Pigsy found him by chance while scouting out the old facility, the only identification on him being a small tag with the words "CD: Xiaotian - SUBJECT 94-268-426 (MK)" engraved on it.

Red Son

Red Son is the disgraced son of the warlord Demon Bull King, a giant-sized man with bull horns who could very well be compared to Immortan Joe from Mad Max, if Immortan Joe actually drank his respect woman juice.

Red inherits quite a lot from his father, such as his raging tenacity and a small bull tail. He has quite a genius level intellect, yet perhaps the most peculiar thing about him is his nitroglycerin blood. When he is cut, his blood can be ignited into flame, and as such Red Son is nigh-impervious to fire.

Xiaojiao-Mei

Xiaojiao-Mei, or just Mei for short, is a dragon hailing from the coast, in search of a mysterious person to "deliver a message" to. Dragons are specially mutated folks who did not gain their traits from existing animal DNA mixing during the fallout, but rather mutated on their own from the radiation.

As such, Mei is a proud and foolhardy young woman, who never leaves without her ancient sword passed down onto her. However, she does not trust easily, and takes a long time to properly warm up to others outside her familial circle.

SUBJECT 63942, Nezha

Project LOTUS was one of the last super soldier programs approved for the war. The attempt was to integrate animal and plant cells together in a human host, giving them powerful traits to assist in the war. Unfortunately, most attempts led to the subjects dying off at an early age... except for one.

Subject 63942 "Nezha" was the only successful asset in the entire project. Growing at unprecedented rates and displaying intelligence beyond his capability, he was subject to experiments that tested his humanity greatly. The only kind soul within the entire program seemed to be Dr. Yin, who taught Nezha the good in humanity. The good worth protecting.

But then the bombs fell, just about 200 years ago. And Nezha hadn't seen her since.

...

Aaaaaand that's all the lore I got for now folks! I don't wanna reveal too much of what happens next, because I've decided to turn this AU into a full fledged fic! I'll link it below once the first chapter is written.

Thanks for reading!

[sebastianswallows]

Dangerous and Delightful — Chapter 5 — Old books and brandy

— PAIRING: Sebastian Sallow x F!Reader

— SYNOPSIS: Sebastian is a purveyor of forbidden artefacts, a dark arts researcher, and a curse-breaker for hire. Ominis, desperate to save him from himself, hires Reader in secret to persuade him, by any means necessary, to leave his illegal activities behind.

— WARNINGS: angst, smut, male masturbation

— WORDCOUNT: 4.2k

— TAGLIST: @bloofinntoona @sarcasticpluviophile @estrotica

Sebastian spent the whole night after meeting her awake, thinking about her, keeping the cursed necklace she had given him to destroy on his bedside table. It was only the third time they met, but for some reason, there had been a different quality to it. Perhaps because it had not been planned — he hadn't expected her to write to him... Or perhaps it was because he had been in her home, seen the inside her of it, felt her touch on every item, every little book, every old picture...

And then, there was the matter of her family. Who was trying to curse her? And what had happened to her brother? Was he really missing in the Aeolian Islands, or was there something else at play?

Sebastian took his layers of stiff clothes off thoughtfully, his thoughts always circling the same — her, her company, her words, her scent, the taste of the skin of her little hand, her warmth, her home, her pleading looks and prying questions — and once he had taken everything off and his skin chilled in the coolth of his room, he walked over to the liquor shelf and poured himself a generous glass of brandy.

He lay in bed, waiting to feel tired. It never came.

Eventually, he sat up and stretched his back as he walked around the room. He stared at the necklace on the bedside table as if it were the solution to it all... Well, if he couldn't sleep, maybe he could at least get through some of the research he had in mind. He only needed to inspect it more thoroughly to get a hint as to who had cast the curse on it. And, to keep his word, he could destroy it afterwards. He’d thought of all manner of spells to try on it while they had drinks at her house, and had worked himself into somewhat of an enthusiasm to apply them.

“What she doesn’t know won’t make her mad at me,” he muttered, sitting at his desk in the nude.

For the next few hours, he piled books upon books beside him, reading up on decryption spells and incantations, the alcohol blurring his vision ever so slightly every time he took a sip.

She had asked that he destroy the necklace, seeming uninterested in finding out who in her family wanted to curse her — or her brother. Sebastian thought it was a bad idea… If he could get to the bottom of the curse, wouldn’t that be better? Would it be more helpful? Wouldn’t that be of more service to her?

Why would she deny it, anyway? Probably to spare her family… She seemed terribly protective of them — which he both did and didn’t understand.

Well, whatever it was she felt for them, he was spared of such limitations.

He turned the necklace in the air with a light levitation spell, examining it closely. Several detection spells bounced off it, but there were a few that stuck.

He had a lot of respect for what it took to make an item like this… Whoever was trying to curse her was clearly a witch or wizard of skill. It had been cursed calmly, without malice, almost with a sweetness to it — and yet the curse would be lethal, he was sure of it. Sebastian pulled out a thick tome on the nature of curses and a notebook, flipping the pages of the heavy book and searching for any mention of something that matched the item before him. He hadn’t studied anything like this since his days at Hogwarts… Most curses he’d dealt with in his work since then were strong, showy, even explosive. There was an ego behind them that was lacking here.

After half an hour, he found a description that closely matched the kind of magic employed on this piece.

“A variant of the Curse of the Lost Soul. Interesting,” he mumbled to himself as he took a few notes. He took a deep pull of brandy and rolled it on his tongue as he thought about it. “Not as original as I first thought, but the power of these things is often underrated.”

Having identified it, he now knew that it was safe to touch, just not to wear around one’s neck. Taking it slowly, he traced a finger over the incantation markings and tried to get a feeling for the amount of magic put into the curse.

There was something cold and cloying about it, he’d felt as much when examining it at her home… Like hands reaching out from a grave, ivy crawling up stone, or a greedy siren in the Great Lake at Hogwarts. It would grab hold of whoever wore it and sap them of all warmth and motion, leaving behind the coldest, dries corpse. It was slow but penetrating. If not for the chill emitted from the gemstones, one might think nothing of it. He found himself greatly relieved — and impressed — that she detected it in time.

Sebastian scratched the back of his neck as he focused his bleary eyes on it, the muscles in his back unwinding. There was no prying the curse off or disenchanting it — at least, not if he was being realistic. A spell that took so long to act took even longer to undo, and he didn’t have weeks to spare for it. There was nothing left to do but to destroy it, as she had asked him to. And yet…

He looked at it. It was a pretty piece, if a little plain. And it was something from her, an heirloom of her family even… Those things had a certain significance beneath and beyond the magical.

Yes, he could keep it a while longer, and reveal all of its secrets in time. Maybe he could discover who in her family hated her so. She was certain to think more highly of him then — not just as a smuggler or dark wizard, but a true friend, a loyal companion, and more…

More... The word ricocheted between his ears and sent a shiver down his spine.

His legs tensed beneath the table and he spread his legs a little wider, settling himself more comfortably on the chair. He thought long and hard, sitting there at the desk with an empty bottle and a still-full glass. He needed to make a profile of whoever crafted that curse, and then match it up against the most likely suspects from her family. It had to be somebody skilled, and comfortable with curses, familiar with old ones too, but likely not in the business of using them often. Someone with more delicacy and patience than the sort of people he’d meet around Borgin and Burkes. It was likely to be hard to learn their identity without giving up his own, if he decided to go asking around…

He rubbed his eyes, feeling them burning from the late night light and alcohol, then looked at it again laying supine and curled up on his desk. This necklace was something of hers, a link she had to her family history... How could he possibly throw it away?

“Oh, bollocks,” said Sebastian, standing up and starting towards his trunk. He grabbed the necklace, placed it back into its box, then tucked it in a corner of his trunk between other cursed and precious things. Standing up, he closed the trunk again and locked it firmly. “I'll deal with you later,” he muttered.

He went to sleep thinking about her.

He woke up thinking about her.

He’d thought there was a certain loveliness about her ever since they met, but after last night, there was a petulant, greedy, needy feeling clawing its way out of his chest, and every moment was spent missing her, wondering what she was doing, wondering what she would think of his little flat or his bed or the street he lived on…

He imagined himself making her laugh, mimicking and making fun of his neighbour who practised the flute every afternoon — he’d been doing it ever since Sebastian moved in two years ago and had only gotten worse. Or pointing out to her when the cat from the little old witch in the building opposite, Mrs Cloke, took a tour of the rooftops. He was a chubby tomcat in black and white named Sweetie, and he loved to stalk the birds. Sebastian enjoyed watching Sweetie play with his victims, or when he clutched them in his mouth to bring as a present to his mistress.

Perhaps they would just lie in bed, slipping in and out of sleep, his fingers curling in her hair, her legs wrapped around him… Would she stay with him after she woke, or hurry to get up? He’d make her stay anyway, and keep her amused, keep her in a state of constant pleasure if she’d let him, kissed and caressed and pampered and worshipped… A rage of thoughts battered his conscience, but he could think of nothing better than to start the day by loving her.

Why couldn’t she just be there?

Why had he left the night before without saying anything? He’d demanded to see her again, the only form of compensation he wanted, but now that she asked for the necklace to be destroyed she had no reason to. He didn’t know if he’d ever see her again but, well, he knew where she lived, so he could always — no.

Sebastian turned in bed and looked out the window. Cloudy, foggy, rainy day, unworthy of spring. It was a Friday, and quite late in the afternoon judging by his pocket watch braced on his bed table — not an unusual time for him to wake up, as he was usually home late on most days. On Friday evenings in particular he had a business meeting with two enterprising gentlemen in Knockturn Alley. Sighing, he turned around the hugged his pillow. His sheets felt warm, too warm, and damp with sweat as if he had been feverish during the night. A rush of hot and cold trickled like waves beneath his skin to pool at his loins. He grunted in frustration at what could have been a pleasant feeling, turned bitter by his loneliness.

Sebastian slid a hand beneath his stomach, down to his hips, down to his thighs, and gripped the throbbing length. He nearly jumped out of his skin at the sensation, his manhood far too sensitive and sore, as if it had been working hard all night long — if only. Gingerly, he felt around the head and was embarrassed to find it damp, a trickle of wet seeping all over and making his thighs stick. Sebastian buried his face into the pillow, then trailed the tip of his fingers along the underside. He moaned. Another rush of slick got pumped out of him just by the slow, hungry throb... His skin felt pliable and warm there, soft as velvet and as hot as fiendfyre, as he began to move his hand up and down.

As he teased himself, he slid his arm beneath the pillow and brought it to his face, burying his mouth in it to muffle the moans that came. He thrust up into his tight fist and squeezed tighter, punishing himself.

He was unworthy of her, completely unworthy of her. He was a murderer and a thief, his spirit soiled beyond cleansing, while she was sweet and gentle and good and deserved better, and he wanted to kill every last man that was more worthy of her than he was…

Feeling the strain of the position, Sebastian pulled his arm from underneath him and wrapped it too around the pillow, hugging it against his face with both arms, sinking his lonely, needy moans in its softness while he spread his legs and rubbed his swollen manhood on the sheets, back arching to better press his stomach against it. His heavy panting and the plaintive whines came out of him all muffled, and he wished he could hold her to him like that, and bury his pleas into her hair, and his lips into her neck, and not let her see him crying. He thrust faster into the empty sheets, pressing harder, making his tip ache and burn. None of it was enough.

“Oh, please,” he whimpered into the pillow, squeezing it tighter, “please please please…”

He didn’t even know what he was asking for, just that he felt out of breath and dizzy and he needed something, anything to happen, to end it.

His traitorous length was weeping steadily, wetting his stomach until the rubbing turned into a slide, and his sheets stuck to his skin after he pressed down into them.

“Please,” he whimpered hoarsely, begging, “please take it…”

His thighs were tense and burning, sweat pooled at his lower back, and he felt no closer to being satisfied than when he started. Weakly, he lifted his face from the pillow and gripped the headboard behind it, then pulled himself up to a slightly drier spot on the bed.

“Oh that’s it,” he moaned, looking down at his body, past the lost little freckles and the smattering of chest hair sticking to his skin. He could just barely see a hint of the dark red tip peeking from beneath his stomach, squeezed down, rubbed within its soft skin.

His face felt hot and damp, his arms flexed painfully at the angle he was working with, and he felt like he was drowning... Still hanging on to the headboard, he tilted his head back and let his lips part, sucking in greedy breaths as he worked himself toward his pleasure, canting his hips at sharper, deeper angles, letting himself press down more heavily over his manhood, teasing himself, making sure the head slipped completely out of its protective skin before it was covered again, then pressed out fully, rubbed raw and exposed, and back once more into softness.

He felt the lick of flames beneath the skin of his inner thighs, felt the little coil of something sweet and wet between his legs, and then his whole body was shaken by a rush of cold and then of warmth again and he had to bite into the muscle of his upper arm to keep himself from screaming and his thrusts stuttered and his stomach tensed and a dribble of something thick started seeping from his tip — and then the air of the room was stirred by the thunder of a knock on his door.

Sebastian caught his breath and stilled, listening carefully. Whoever was there knocked again louder, with a fist.

Gingerly, so as to not make a sound, Sebastian got up off the bed and wordlessly summoned a bathrobe with one hand while with the other he picked up his wand from the bedside table. His heart was still thumping in his chest, but it calmed as his skin caught the cool air of the room. The robe wasn’t much, but it conveniently concealed his hardened length. He was far from decent, but whoever it was that would pound on his door unannounced was hardly worth more.

He walked carefully to the front door and listened. A simple revealment spell told him there were two people on the other side — men, rather broad, stiff looking…

“Who is it?” he asked breathlessly, wand at the ready.

“Auror office,” said a gruff voice. “Open up.”

Sebastian bit his lip and cursed. He didn’t want to let them in, but running away now would only establish his guilt… And if they came all the way here rather than ambush him somewhere, they must have still had their doubts.

He removed the wards on his room and unlocked the door. Two moustached wizards with unshaven cheeks were on the other side, one brown and the other black-haired, around 40 and 50 years old respectively. They regarded him coolly, staring him up and down. Sebastian felt the last shiver of his unfulfilled pleasure abandon him, lost as the sweat chilled off his body, as his heart pumped steadily, and his muscles relaxed, ready for anything.

“Sebastian Sallow?” spoke the taller of the two.

“Who’s asking?” he said, then cleared his throat, his voice still rather rough and sounding a little choked.

“We’re from the Auror office —”

“Yes, I gathered as much. What is this about?”

They stepped into the room without waiting for an invitation.

After giving him another cursory glance, they began to look around his flat while they continued speaking. Their eyes went to his desk first, filled with a bigger pile of books and papers than they were perhaps used to seeing, a scattering of ruffled quills, and so many and varied ink wells that it looked like a laboratory.

Sebastian was, at least, grateful that their eyes weren’t on him anymore. He closed the door and watched them, his right hand stuffed in his robe pocket clutching his wand, while he shifted from one leg to the other, trying to look normal.

“What business are you in?” asked the black-haired one with the brown eyes.

“Curse-breaker for hire. And what are your names?”

“You’re employed by… whom?”

“Whomever’s paying,” he replied with a smirk.

“Pays well?”

“Not really,” he shrugged, half-lying. “But it’s one of the few things I’m good at.”

“Good at it, are you?” asked the Auror, levelling a hard gaze at him.

Sebastian swallowed the knot in his throat but shrugged and smiled charmingly. He still felt lightheaded enough to be a little dotty.

“A lot of people are good at a lot of things,” said the Auror, “but few are skilled enough in breaking curses.”

“Just haven’t tried my hand at much, then, I suppose.”

“And who pays for that sort of thing?” he asked, poking his wand through Sebastian’s pile of clothes.

“For what?”

“Curse-breaking.”

“I have a hard time remembering their names,” said Sebastian, scratching the sweaty back of his head. “Most sound awfully French or something.”

Their booted steps were heavy in his flat, dirtying up the carpet, kicking it aside at the corners to look for any hidden nooks, then bending down to leaf through his notebooks. They’d find nothing there but his research into salvaging the lady’s necklace, perfectly innocuous. Their eyes passed over his unmade bed and quickly move past it. He breathed a sigh of relief.

The brown-haired Auror with the blue eyes stared him up and down after a while.

“A bit late to still be in your bathrobe,” he said.

“You caught me just after my ablutions,” smirked Sebastian, threading his fingers through his hair that, at the temples, was so sweaty it looked wet.

The Auror stared him in the eye with his milky gaze, and Sebastian stared back — a poor attempt at Legilimensy, easily deflected.

“Do you happen to know a shop called Borgin and Burkes?” he then asked.

“Who doesn’t?” chuckled Sebastian.

“Decent wizards don’t.”

“Well, you did catch me in a moment of indecency.”

Neither of them appreciated the joke, but Sebastian couldn’t help but grin about it.

“They’re involved in suspicious activity,” said the taller Auror.

“You don’t say.”

“I would recommend you keep your distance, Mr Sallow.”

“Well, that’s very thoughtful of you.”

“Say,” started the shorter Auror, “you don’t happen to be related to a wizard called Solomon, do you?”

“Yes,” said Sebastian stiffly. “Why? Knew him?”

“In his later years, yes,” he said, looking at Sebastian from the corner of his eye. “Was dishonourably dismissed, from what I recall.”

“Was he now?”

“Used the wrong spell at the wrong time,” said the other, frowning at his colleague. “Nothing more to say about it.”

Their hands were on their wands, but they didn’t cast any spells around his belongings while Sebastian was watching, although they clearly meant to. Their eyes at some point fell to his large trunk, a treasure trove of proscribed artefacts. Sebastian put on a disinterested look, leaning against the door and picking at a piece of lint beneath his fingernail while they picked his life apart. The two Aurors exchanged a silent look, but shifted their attention away from it — as they were meant to. Sebastian had never had cause to test the Distraction charm he’d cast on his trunk, a spell that made it thoroughly uninteresting to casual observers, but he was enormously pleased to see it worked.

“We’re looking into the legitimacy of some of their wares. There might —”

“Whose was that, again?”

“Burke’s.”

“Ah.”

“There might be a reward for any relevant information. We have ways of repaying anonymous sources too,” said the taller Auror. “If you hear anything…”

He extracted a calling card and left it on Sebastian’s desk.

Alistair Gray

• Senior Auror •

Level 2 • Ministry of Magic • Office 208

“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Sebastian, opening the door and leaning against it, wordlessly inviting them to leave.

With another brief look around, the two wizards tilted their bowler hats and left.

Sebastian shut the door right after away and sighed, placing his wards again, and stronger ones this time too. He knew he’d caught the attention of the Auror office for a couple of years, but he’d never actually spoken to any before. His fears had nearly abated, until now… Very untimely too, since he was supposed to meet Caractacus Burke that evening to speak about a shipment coming in through Dover.

He went anyway to meet the man, although he arrived two hours in advance and kept his distance, watching from a building across the street for any unfamiliar faces. The evening was damp and a little rainy, and Knockturn Alley was hardly the best-lit stretch of street, but he didn’t notice anyone or anything out of the ordinary, thank Salazar…

Sebastian didn’t like Aurors. Didn’t like seeing them, didn’t like speaking to them, didn’t like being spoken to by them. His Uncle Solomon had something to contribute to those sentiments, but his business ventures contributed much more. He knew Mr Burke felt very much the same, which was why he expected him to be understanding.

“What do you mean you’re not going?”

“I don’t want to see them outside my door again,” said Sebastian firmly. “They know we’re working together. They must be watching your shop. Today was a threat.”

“A threat of what?” the old man sniffed.

The low candlelight in the backroom of his store shined off his balding head like a crystal globe. He always met Sebastian in the back, or far away from his store entirely if they were discussing something hazardous to either of their liberties. Caractacus Burke was a sleek and slimy peddler of the untoward, the dangerous, the forbidden… It had seemed earlier on in Sebastian’s career that he could put up with his more scrofulous traits in exchange for a promising window into the area of dark magic. But as their collaboration stretched on for years, mostly at Sebastian’s expense and rarely to his profit, he grew more and more impatient with the wizard.

“I don’t intend to find out,” hissed Sebastian. “I’m not saying I won’t work for you at all, just… not for a while.”

He didn’t exactly trust that Burke wouldn’t use this as an excuse to drop him altogether for someone younger and more naive, but Sebastian knew when he was needed. There weren’t many wizards willing to undertake this sort of work, and there were even fewer with his skills. Burke himself, in spite of the wealth of artefacts he’d amassed, was only skilled in bartering, and lying, and swindling, skills that even a filthy muggle could possess. He’d know nothing of the value of the artefacts that came his way if not for Sebastian to reveal them, and he certainly didn’t have the patience nor the brains for the research it required.

“How long, then?” asked Burke.

“That’s for me to decide, isn’t it?”

“There might not be any work left for you when you return,” he spat.

“Oh yes,” grinned Sebastian, stepping back toward the creaking staircase, “there will be.”

There was always work in bringing items safely to London, and for the finer things, Sebastian was sometimes even sent to see them brought to Callais from wherever they originated. He’d seen much of the continent like that, more than any of his Hogwarts peers did, even the wealthy ones. But it appeared those lovely days of travelling in secret through the cold night air or through dark waters were over, for now…

Sebastian looked left and right before going out of the shop, and cast another Revelio for good measure, but there was nobody suspicious tracing him — or so he thought.

Which was why he was very disappointed to have been wrong when he arrived back at his flat only to find the same pair of Aurors knocking on his door. Sebastian turned around in a heartbeat and walked the other way, down the stairs, down into the basement of the building, where he’d hidden his trunk of special items under a concealment charm as a jar of pickles. He walked outside, to the incinerator, and used the chimney in the back to Floo over to Ominis’ mansion.