#and just jaywalked across the main road to get into a building which was not the library but was connected to the library

[dreamertrilogys]

i’m SO good at directions i could never ever manage to get lost on the way to a library i’ve been to many times in an area i’ve been to even more times

[strawberrysoup]

Yes, Sheriff || Chapter 1

Sheriff Carol Danvers takes her job of protecting the citizens of her small town very seriously — there are just some that she cares about more than others. A lot more, in fact, and she will take care of her sweet baby girl whether she likes it or not. 

relationship: Carol Danvers/Reader rating: Explicit chapters: 1/? length: 5,413 warnings: Dark Carol Danvers, coercion, manipulation, noncon and dubcon sexual situations, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat  additional warnings: open the read more and CTRL + F, search “content warnings” to skip to detailed trigger warnings at the bottom of the chapter. 

This is my entry for searchforanotherway’s Onyx Night Challenge! My plan is for this story to span several chapters, so it certainly won’t be finished by the deadline of January 11th but I wanted to try and write a fic longer than just a oneshot. That being said this chapter can stand alone and doesn’t have to be read in conjunction with other chapters for plot coherency or effect. Oh, also please keep in mind that I’ve never written a reader insert before, so go easy on me if anything seems off! 

Being the sheriff of a very small town and the rather empty surrounding county came with some very particular challenges Carol hadn’t necessarily expected when she signed on. Burgess was mostly concentrated in a small area where the main town was built, about three or four streets worth of businesses. Beyond that were what they jokingly referred to within the department as the Suburbs, mostly cute little farmhouses with plenty of space in between. Of course, the distance between plots hadn’t done them any good when the fire broke out about 6 years ago, before Carol signed on with the department, and had taken out 12 houses. 36 people had died, the fire was so hot and spread so fast through the 100 year old homes the volunteer fire department had barely been able to keep it from jumping the road. 

Y/N’s parents, her only family, had been 2 of the casualties. She would’ve been too, had she not been spending the night at a friends house on the other side of the Suburbs. From what Carol had been able to gather, the young woman had just graduated from getting her Masters degree in library sciences and had intended to only move back home for a little while before moving to the city permanently. The death of her parents had destroyed many of her plans, especially when she had to deal with so much fallout from the insurance companies and lawyers. Luckily her family had owned the land her house sat on, the money from the home insurance had come through and y/n inherited everything. She’d rebuilt the house, smaller but just as old fashioned in design, and taken a job as the town’s librarian, enabling the previous one to retire (the woman had been older, didn’t actually have the education necessary to be a librarian and was happy to step aside so sweet little y/n could have the position). 

Most of the town seemed to have a soft spot for y/n. When Carol first started, the entire population had been leery of her. She’d expected it, luckily, and wasn’t shocked by the reserved nature of the people she served. She was relatively shocked when they started accepting her presence, their topics of conversation ranging from now the town fair is very important around here so you need to handle it correctly—those townies will run amok if you’re not careful to do you think you could drive past the library this evening while y/n walks to her car? I get so worried when she’s out late like that with no one around. It was consistent that the townsfolk would find a way to wriggle y/n into conversation but they didn’t seem to know it was a collective issue; every person who asked her devote some extra attention to the young woman did so covertly, as if to prevent anyone from knowing. It was endearing and cute and Carol honestly didn��t have much to do most of the time so she didn’t mind the little side tasks. 

The small town and county police department was made up of 90% locals who were happy to respond to most calls. They mostly dealt with domestics and property violations, occasionally some sort of larceny or robbery or breaking and entering calls. Wilson and Barnes were trained paramedics and dealt with the medical calls, luckily, although when she rolled into town Carol had forced all of her deputies to get certified in multiple emergency life saving techniques. The nearest ambulance dispatch was an hour away and she was baffled the former Sheriff hadn’t enforced even basic CPR certifications. Rogers, one of her two deputies, handled most of the domestics with Carol as his back up if necessary (it was almost never necessary, even if Rogers didn’t have that disarming Good Ol’ Boy Charm he had biceps as wide as y/n’s thighs and could handle most things on his own). Rhodes, her second deputy, was good for dealing with bored teenagers who liked to play at crime, breaking and entering and minor burglary, along with trespassing. Property violations and agricultural issues were big in a town like Burgess too, but Odinson (another transplant like herself) had grown up in an even tinier town devoted to farming and could handle such problems in his sleep. Pietro, the youngest and greenest in the department, handled what she considered the beat; traffic and parking violations, jaywalking that caused endangerment, vandalism, etc. Most of what came down on Carol’s shoulders were the big issues—the small amount of drug situations they dealt with, any prostitution or assaults. The other officers said they liked her to be open for those sorts of calls, which left her driving around on patrol at least 50% of the time with nothing to do. 

It gave her more time to talk to locals than she expected, more time to subtly watch y/n than she could’ve ever anticipated. The more she watched her, the bigger Carol’s problem became; y/n was lovely and sweet and beautiful and Carol was finding that she had a crush on the young woman. Well, it might’ve started as a crush. Carol found herself very quickly falling down a rabbit hole of obsession and honestly wasn’t all that mad about it—the longer she watched, the more she realized how perfect y/n was, in general and for her. 

Carol had embraced her bisexuality at a young age, had dated men and women over the years but never really found anyone to her liking. She had an incredibly dominant personality, both in general and in the bedroom and finding someone willing to unconditionally follow direction was hard. Moving to a small town had seemed like a sexual death sentence in all honesty, until she came across y/n. She was so small and demure, averted her eyes and blushed constantly under Carol’s strong gaze and said yes Sheriff when prompted with the most precious drawl. Carol could look down her nose at the woman, could imagine the way she’d feel slotted right against her chest with her head tucked perfectly under her chin, knew that y/n was just short enough that she’d have to stand on her tiptoes when Carol put her thigh right between those pretty legs and made her work for her orgasm, those tiptoes slipping for purchase while her pussy ground hard into her thigh.

It had gotten harder and harder to ignore, the all too carnal desires she had for the young woman and she was relieved when she decided there was no reason to ignore them. There was no reason not to take y/n as her own— she’d take good care of her, in every way, and love her so deeply that she’d never dream of anything else, never want anyone else. Carol was meticulous and careful and manipulative, even if she pretended not to be. It wouldn’t be hard to get her right where she wanted her. 

The spark plugs in the glove box of her cruiser were a testament to that. It had been easily to quickly take them after the sun had gone down, Carol knew for a fact there weren’t security cameras anywhere nearby and there was no one around to see (usually the library was rather busy right up until close, but most of the population was at the high school football game a town over). Several of her officers were there too, Carol correctly assuming that it would be a slow night for calls. Peter Parker had offered to take the dispatch shift and run the receptionist desk so that the usual evening dispatcher, Wanda could attend the game too. 

Carol sat straighter in her seat as y/n emerged from the library, taking the time to carefully lock the doors—first the door that led straight to the her help desk and then the double doors that opened into the main library, the entrances separated by a wall between the doors and a small hallway that allowed y/n a little bit of privacy in her “office” unless someone needed extra assistance. The keys went into her purse, exchanged for her car keys with a generous pause that made Carol cringe slightly; she wished y/n would have her keys ready and out when she left the building, the long hesitation while she stood alone in the dark was ample opportunity for a mugging or abduction. She’d impress the importance of being prepared and quick once she had an opportunity that wouldn’t betray the fact she’d been watching her from afar. 

There was another uncomfortably long pause as she unlocked her car and climbed in, leaving the door open for an extended time while she settled and Carol was sure y/n didn’t lock the doors even once it was closed. It would evidently be a rather long conversation regarding safety. Carol smiled when the car didn’t start after several minutes and turned up her radio. Most of the townsfolk would call the non emergency line at the station when they had car troubles and Carol was nearly positive y/n would do the same. It took about five minutes give or take for her radio to crackle to life, Peter’s voice coming through. 

“Sheriff, Rhodey, are either of you near the library? Y/n just called in from the parking lot, she just finished closing up the building and can’t get her car to start." 

"I’m just across the street, actually— Coach Steveson asked me to make sure y/n got home alright since he figured nobody would be around because of the game,” it was true, Carol regularly got requests from different citizens asking her or the other officers to check in on people and y/n was one of the top requests, obviously, because everyone knew she was alone, “tell her to wait in her car, I’ll be over in just a second." 

"Will do, Sheriff!” There was a click and crackle on the radio and Carol smiled; Peter made an excellent receptionist but his dispatch skills could use some work and professionalism, not that she really minded the candor.

She cranked her car on and reached into the glovebox to retrieve the spark plugs she’d grabbed earlier, glancing at herself carefully in the rearview mirror. Her hair was pulled back to show off her undercut, the front in a twist away from her face with some strands having managed to escape over the course of the day. Y/n liked the undercut, evidenced by how flustered the poor thing got the first day she saw it (actually that was the day Carol realized y/n wasn’t straight, the poor thing had been so caught off guard she’d stuttered and blushed and had 100% rubbed her pretty thighs together under her skirt).

She quickly popped across the street, spark plugs tucked discreetly into her pants pocket and pulled up beside y/n’s car. The door opened immediately, much to Carol’s displeasure; she was sure Peter relayed the message that y/n was to stay in her car. The order was likely too ambiguous and Carol would be more careful in the future. 

“I’m so sorry to bother you Sheriff,” y/n started immediately as Carol exited her cruiser, “I hate to call but my car won’t start, I could pop the hood but I have no idea what I’m looking for." 

She looked embarrassed, hands twisting together at her waist and Carol had to carefully arrange her features to prevent her excitement from showing, her demure little baby was so cute, "that’s alright y/n, I always want you to call if you need help. How about you get back in and pop the hood for me, I’ll take a look." 

Y/n did so quickly before joining Carol at the front of the car, much to her amusement, "you go ahead and sit down, sweetheart, I might want you to try cranking the engine, okay? I’ll tell you when." 

The pet name was easy to pass under y/n’s radar, the endearments a regular part of the small town life. Even Carol got called sweetheart and honey on a regular basis, but it didn’t stop y/n from blushing darkly all the way down to her chest. Carol carefully kept her eyes from trailing down the neckline of y/n’s sensible tank top (it was hot as hell outside and paired with a long, flowy skirt Carol was sure anyone would think it professional enough for a small town librarian) despite the fact she desperately wanted to know if the redness spread all the way to her tits. The young woman did as directed, quickly hustling around to sit in the driver’s seat with the door open. 

It was easy to quickly reattach the spark plugs, just so that when the mechanic showed up in the morning they wouldn’t be suspiciously missing. She didn’t bother disconnecting anything else, instead staying ducked under the hood long enough to justify a good look around before standing straight and closing it. 

"There must be something going on below the surface honey, everything up here looks fine,” she stated, walking around to meet y/n as she stood up, “why don’t I give you a ride and I’ll call Tony out in the morning to take a look." 

There was a torn look on y/n’s face at the suggestion and Carol watched the gears turn in her head; leaving her car overnight in the lot wasn’t the problem, no one would tow it or anything, the problem would come in the morning when she needed to get back to the library to open. The blonde had already considered all of the options though and smiled sweetly when y/n hesitated. 

"I’m just about to get off for the night anyway, we could swing by your place and grab some of your clothes and you can stay the night at mine, I can drop you over here on my way in,” she offered, enjoying the flustered way that y/n shifted on her feet, “I guess I could just drive around to come pick you up at your place before I start my shift…" 

The sheer thought of inconveniencing the town Sheriff made y/n look like she might cry and she quickly shook her head, "no, no I can stay over tonight. I’d hate to make you go out of your way—no, thank you so much for the offer, it’s so kind thank you." 

Y/n wouldn’t look up from her feet but Carol didn’t push, couldn’t push quite yet. Instead she encouraged y/n to grab her purse and held the door of the passenger seat open while the smaller woman slipped inside. She’d call Tony in the morning, say she couldn’t find anything wrong with the car but would you please take a look for y/n’s peace of mind. The mechanic would surely be happy to help and would make up some excuse for why the car hadn’t started so y/n wouldn’t get embarrassed over not being able to properly start her car. 

The ride to y/n’s house only took about five minutes and she was quick to collect an overnight bag before running back out to the cruiser. Carol kept a very careful eye on her as she continued on to her own home, a good fifteen minutes further into the suburbs. She could tell y/n was confused, if Carol’s house was further than hers why couldn’t she stay at her own home overnight? It would’ve been on the Sheriff’s way into town, just a quick stop. But y/n was a good girl and never questioned those she considered superiors, instead just sitting in vague discomfort as they got farther and farther from her home. 

Carol lived on what was considered the very edge of town, as a new addition to the population it was hard to get a place closer, but she appreciated the the isolation. Y/n waited until Carol opened her car door to do the same, shuffling nervously along behind her up the steps. The house wasn’t as nice as the one y/n had built but it was quaint and old and smelled like all of the old houses that had survived the fire. 

"Here we go,” Carol unlocked the door and waived y/n inside with a pleasant smile, “I left dinner in a slow cooker this morning, give me just a minute to change and I’ll get it all together." 

"Oh, Sheriff, I couldn't—" 

"Of course you can sweetheart, I’d be insulted if you didn’t,” she joked with a smile, “you can put your stuff where ever, make yourself comfortable, I’ll be right back." 

Carol could tell y/n had been expecting her to show her to a bedroom and pressed her lips together; y/n would be sleeping in her bed by the end of the night but the poor thing didn’t know that and wouldn’t know what to do if Carol instructed her to put her things in there. She changed quickly, into a pair of tight joggers and a slightly cropped workout top that showed her abs—she wanted to see what shade of red y/n’s skin would turn at the sight. Plus, she had aspirations of y/n riding the hard planes of her abdomen until she came and a short shirt would make that easier if she could make it happen, no matter how far fetched the hope. 

Y/n’s eyes immediately dropped to the exposed skin when Carol returned and the blonde wanted to coo her face turned so red, it was so cute, her baby was so precious. She carefully pretended not to notice the staring, crossing into the kitchen quickly and checking on the crock pot of spicy pulled pork. 

"I could put this over a salad for you or put it on a roll, which do you prefer?” She turned back just in time to see y/n’s eyes snap up from where they’d been locked on her ass and was unable to hide the that came over her features; teasing her at this point would be a mistake, but it was so hard not to, “come over here and I’ll make you a plate honey." 

Y/n shuffled over, red faced and very obviously embarrassed to have been caught checking out the ass of the local sheriff, "just-just a sandwich, please." 

Carol made sure to pull from the bottom of the pot, where the meat would be the spiciest for y/n’s sandwich before handing her the plate and grabbing a bag of chips to go with it from the pantry. Y/n dutifully went to go sit at the table, waiting patiently while Carol fixed herself both a sandwich and a salad. She didn’t bother to ask if y/n drank, pouring them both a large glass of the strongest red wine she currently had in the house (bought specifically for this occasion) and setting one down in front of y/n. 

"This is my favourite wine,” she stated, looking to subtly manipulate y/n’s coming actions, “it’s a bit expensive but I haven’t had such lovely company over in a minute, might as well share it." 

The wine was already poured, Carol’s favourite, and it was expensive; there was no way y/n would reject it now. The food was spicy, she’d likely drink the entire glass, and with her smaller stature would certainly not be entirely herself afterwards. And poor y/n played right into her hands, following the script Carol had written in her head to a T. She got flirtier as the meal progressed, as her wine disappeared, responding to Carol’s carefully probing words beautifully. The blonde was two seconds from stealing her off her chair to sit her right on her lap when y/n gave a little sigh. 

"I think I drank a little more than I meant to,” the words were punctuated by a little hiccup and Carol cooed in response, immediately standing when y/n pressed to her feet. 

She didn’t give the shorter woman time to move too far, carefully latching an arm around her waist and drawing her in close, her other hand catching y/n’s cheek gently to direct her gaze, “that’s okay, baby, I’ll take care of you." 

Y/n took just a second longer to process than it usually would’ve taken before her cheeks darkened, her lips parting in surprise, "O-oh, I—" 

Carol hushed her gently, her lips finding purchase against y/n’s jaw and running the length of her cheek to her ear, "you’re so shy for me baby girl, it’s so precious. I’ve always wondered if that blush goes all the way to your tits." 

The tank top came off easily, y/n squeaking in shock but not fast enough to prevent her bra from following. Carol’s hands grasped her hips and she walked the smaller woman backwards until she could lift her to sit on the counter, her lips pressed hungrily against y/n’s own. Her skirt lifted easily until the fabric bunched at her waist and Carol pressed herself firmly between y/n’s thighs, happy for the extra bit of height. She wished she’d put on a strap on after changing, she could’ve slipped right into y/n’s pussy so easily at this angle.

"Wait-wait, Carol—Sh-Sheriff!" 

"You’ll feel so good after this,” Carol’s lips trailed down her cheek, to her neck and down to her pretty tits, lapping at her nipple gently, “just let me…" 

Her lips engulfed one of y/n’s nipples and she gave a deep, languid suck while the young woman on the counter writhed. One hand kept purchase on y/n’s back, a careful but firm hold to prevent her from squirming away while the other trailed down to her panty covered pussy. She was wet, a spot beginning to form on the fabric and Carol grinned. Her teeth scraped over y/n’s nipple, drawing a sharp cry from her and quickly slipped her fingers up into her wet cunt while she was distracted. Although it didn’t take long for her baby to notice the intrusion, her legs shifting and her thighs attempting to close even as Carol stood between them.

"You’re so wet, baby girl,” she cooed darkly, watching y/n’s face coloured with humiliation, “you want this so bad, don’t you? You want me to make you cum? Huh? On my fingers or my tongue?" 

"N-no, wait,” her head spun as she reached down, grabbing Carol’s wrist in a weak attempt to keep her fingers from pumping into her cunt, “Carol, I don't—" 

"When we’re fucking you call me Sheriff or Sir, do you understand?” Her thumb gave a rough pass over y/n’s clit and she jumped, a short whine escaping her even as her eyes started to shine with tears, “tell me you understand, y/n." 

"Y-yes sir,” she hiccups slightly but was rewarded with Carol’s lips returning to her nipple, tongue laving over her sensitive bud forcefully enough that y/n tried to wiggle away. 

Carol immediately withdrew her hand from y/n’s pussy and slapped her cunt hard through the fabric of her panties, earning a yelp and the blonde was forced to hold her hip tightly in place with the other hand, “you don’t try to get away from me baby, not ever." 

It was easy to lift y/n over her shoulder, her baby screeching in shock as she was forced to hang upside down. The walk to her bedroom was quick and she tossed y/n onto the bed without hesitation, absently deciding to add more weight to her workouts— she liked manhandling her baby girl and some extra training might help it go smoother, especially if y/n decided to be naughty and needed a bit of extra restraining. 

Y/n was still dizzy from the ride, too shocked to attempt to slip off the bed and simply not coordinated enough to try anything clever. Carol caught the edge of her toy box with her toe and dragged it over to the edge of the bed for easy access, slipping onto the mattress and covering y/n’s small body with hers. She quickly returned her mouth to the perky tits beneath her, lips latching onto the under stimulated nipple and sucking hard. Y/n whined him response, chest rising with each hard tug in attempts to lessen the pressure.

"I’m glad your pussy’s so wet,” Carol murmured after releasing the abused nipple with a pop, hand reaching over the edge of the bed to dig one of her smaller strap ons out of the box, “I don’t know if I have any lube." 

She whipped her top off quickly after finding the one she wanted, followed by her pants. Forgoing underwear had been convenient and she quickly worked to attach the strap on around her waist. The moment y/n realized what was happening, her face scrunched and the tears came back with a vengeance. The no trying to run away rule was obviously immediately forgotten as she scrambled for purchase on the bed, her coordination nonexistent after the strong wine. Carol reached out and easily flipped her onto her stomach, subduing her flailing limbs with ease.

"What did I say about trying to get away from me baby?” Carol yanked the skirt down over her legs, catching the waistband of her panties in the same tug and shucked both articles across the room, “now I’ve gotta punish you before I fuck you, naughty girl." 

"N-No, no! Wha—" 

Carol slapped her hand down on y/n’s ass with enough force to make her shriek, the sound lighting the blonde’s pussy up like nobody’s business. She could feel her wetness dripping, the press of the strap on over her clit delicious. When she finished up the spanking, leaving her pretty ass red and raw and painful, Carol flipped y/n onto her back once more. The yelp she let out made the blonde smile, knowing that even the soft fabric of her sheets would feel like sandpaper at the moment. 

"Awe, don’t cry baby, shhh,” Carol stretched out above her, letting the cock of her strap on drag against y/n’s wet little cunt in the process and wiped the tears away from her cheeks, “shhh, be a good girl now. You’re gonna take my cock so well, won’t you baby girl?" 

"P-please, I don't—" 

"You don’t what, baby girl? You don’t wanna take my piece?” Carol’s hand immediately found her wet pussy, scooping a good amount of arousal onto her fingers before bringing it back up to smear the moisture across y/n’s lips and cheeks, “this greedy little cunt disagrees. It wants my cock bad baby and who am I to deny this pretty pussy anything." 

The head of the strapon nudged between y/n’s pussy lips, drawing a loud whine. Her knees drew up as Carol pressed deeper and deeper and the blonde was quick to spread her thighs wide, the muscles jumping as she pressed those pretty thighs flat to the mattress. When Carol finally bottomed out, y/n was whining and squirming, hands pressed against her taut abs. The movement chafed her raw ass against the sheets and the blonde knew the pain must’ve been a sharp burn.

"Is it a lot baby?” The blonde panted slightly, clit well stimulated by the strap on, “is that a lot for your little cunny? This is one of the small ones baby girl, you better get used to the stretch." 

Carol withdrew and thrust in deeply before y/n could speak, repeating the motion roughly several times before she fell into rhythm pounding away at her pussy. Y/n wailed, her ass dragging brutally over the sheets with each sharp thrust and igniting a truly awful burn. The squelch of her pussy was obscene though and Carol shivered at the sound—she was so wet it was dripping out of her pussy, sliding down her ass crack and soaking into the bedsheets. Her mind might not’ve been entirely on board but her cunt was 100% involved, ready, and excited for the pounding even as her burning ass was rubbed raw by the bedding and the constant, torturous movement. 

"God your pussys ruining my sheets baby,” she slapped at y/n’s clit several times in rapid succession, drawing a loud wail from her lips, “your cunts so excited to be fucked, so fucking wet its gushing. You’re gonna be a good girl and cum for me, aren’t you? Cum on my cock baby girl, cum on it!" 

Y/n wailed in response, her little body pulling tight for several seconds before she came so hard her eyes rolled back and she shook. Carol fucked her through it with force, only stopping when the desperation for her own orgasm set in. She pulled her cock from y/n’s gaping pussy and removed the strap, dropping it over the side of the bed as she moved up her baby girl’s body until her cunt was positioned over that little gasping mouth. 

"Mouth open, baby girl,” she ordered, hands digging into her hair to angle her chin up, “you’re gonna eat my pussy until I cum." 

A small noise escaped y/n, some cute little grunting whine as Carol flattened her cunt over her mouth and thrust her hips forward. The drag was lovely, y/n’s open mouth warm and wet against her sopping pussy lips. 

"Use your tongue,” she ordered with a small gasp, feeling her orgasm getting closer as her hand closed over the back of y/n’s head to keep her mouth pressed firmly against against her cunt, hips rolling swiftly back and forth as she chased her own end.

She moaned loudly when little kitten licks teased her lower lips, concentrating the movement of her hips to press her clit against y/n’s tongue. The drag was wonderful, a loud cry escaped her lips as she started to cum and she doubled her efforts, fucking y/n’s face brutally into the mattress until it abated. She let her weight rest suffocatingly over y/n’s mouth and nose for several seconds, lifting up just before she could start to panic. 

“God that was even better than I could’ve imagined, you’re so good for me baby girl,” Carol slipped down her prone form, kissing her soundly but gently and licking the cum and arousal from her shell shocked face, “fuck, I knew you’d be perfect." 

Y/n looked up at the blonde with big, wet eyes even as Carol continued to whisper praises against her lips. A hand had returned to her sopping pussy, Carol collecting her cum with taunting fingers before swiping the residual from her own messy cunt as well, bringing it up to y/n’s mouth. When her baby girl’s lips didn’t open she grabbed her jaw, squeezing with increasing pressure until her mouth opened and she was able to shovel the mix of their cum into her mouth. 

"Swallow it down baby girl,” Carol cooed, hand sealing over y/n’s nose and mouth tightly until her throat visibly worked several times to swallow the load, “so good, so precious sweet girl." 

The blonde’s eyes glanced to the bedside table and she sighed lightly, ignoring the huge wet spot on the bed beneath y/n and lying to her left on the mattress. She easily pulled the smaller woman on top of her, y/n’s little waist cushioned between her sticky thighs and her head rested perfectly between Carol’s breasts. She could see the bright red, chafed skin from her position and smiled darkly—y/n would feel it for days, everytime she sat would be a reminder. 

"It’s gotten late baby, we should go to sleep. We’ll wake up early and go to breakfast at the diner before I drop you off at work,” her hands worked gently up and down y/n’s back with soft, sleepy touches, brushing the top of her ass with careful fingers. 

“I—”

Carol hushed her before she could get a word in, “go to sleep baby, the alcohol in your system must be making you drowsy by now, especially after that kind of fucking. We’ll talk in the morning." 

content warnings: alcohol consumption, nonconsenual vaginal fingering, strap on insertion and fucking, ass and pussy spanking, cunnilingus and face riding (is that what that’s called? i’m honestly not sure how to tag that), suffocation, and cum eating. hmu if i’ve missed anything. 

[solitaria-fantasma]

Dark Arts and Demons - Ch. 36

“You’re going to crack your teeth, if you keep that up.” Mystery’s voice cut through the tense silence in the van, and snapped Vivi out of a cloud of angry, buzzing thought.

The woman took a deep breath, and unclenched her jaw.

“That’s better.” Mystery adjusted himself on the bench seat, and draped one paw to dangle over the floorboards. “Now, while we’re waiting for the traffic light to cycle back around to us, let’s talk.” Vivi had to resist the urge to tense again, and settled for tightening her grip on the steering wheel.

“What is there left to talk about?” She grumbled. “We found Arthur’s body, and now we have to cleanse it-”

“Without harming Penn.” Mystery tacked on with a pointed look over his glasses. Vivi’s scowl deepened just a tad. The light turned green, and the van lurched forward with, perhaps, a bit too much acceleration, and Mystery made a disgruntled noise as he was jerked back against the seat from the change in speed.

Vivi quickly slowed back down to the speed limit, but maintained her frosty silence as they left Tempo behind. Mystery righted himself on the seat and adjusted his spectacles, rolling his eyes as if to some invisible audience as the van turned onto the main street of town.

He let Vivi keep her silence as they rolled through downtown Tempo. It wasn’t a very large town; in short order, they passed the hair salon and the laundromat, the groomers and the local accounting firm. There went the name-brand convenience store that had only been allowed into town on the condition that they set up shop in an existing storefront, and the motorcycle dealer who managed to squeeze their inventory into a parking lot designed for an old cafe.

Mystery poked his nose out the window as the local coffee shop rolled by. The labrador lazing around on the front steps barked in greeting as they passed.

“...how much do you trust me?” Mystery asked quietly as the downtown strip began to shrink in the rearview mirror. Vivi gave him a cold side-eye, as if the unspoken implication that she didn’t trust her lifelong companion was an insult in and of itself.

“I trust you with my life.” She replied stiffly. “You’ve proven time and time again that I can.”

“Then will you trust me to tell you that Penn is an unfortunate bystander?” Mystery leveled Vivi with a calculating look. Tellingly, she couldn’t quite meet his eyes. “Vivi, I know how close to home this all strikes - trust me, I know.” The canine implored. “But what good does it do to lash out?”

“......” Vivi ground her teeth again, and took a slow breath in through her teeth. “...it makes me...feel better.” She admitted grudgingly; haltingly. Now that she said it out loud, it sounded terrible. Hadn’t she scolded Lewis for doing just the same, months before? Lashing out at Arthur without considering all sides of the story had nearly killed them both...and here she was, lashing out at Penn without considering all sides of the story.

Back at the restaurant, Lewis had pointed out that they hadn’t cleared all the ghosts from the factory building, and he was right. Both he and Mystery had reported sensing lingering spirits after that first night, so it was, in fact, plausible for one of them to have still been hanging around when Arthur was…commencing his plan. Whether there had or hadn’t been a remnant of the green spirit left, like Arthur had feared, didn’t matter, and if nothing else, Vivi trusted the grudge Mystery carried against the green spirit to point their anger at the right target.

And Penn…was not that target.

“.....! WhAT TH-” Vivi abruptly slammed on the brakes, and Mystery flew into the footwell with a sharp yelp. The brakes shrieked, and the van shuddered to a dangerously quick stop just inches away from the disheveled jaywalker who’d stepped off the median without looking. The man glared through the windshield with sharp green eyes before looking away, and continuing on across the road as if nothing had happened. Vivi shook her head, grateful that there had been no-one behind her, and slowly drove off again as a dazed Mystery pulled himself back up onto the bench seat.

“What - pardon my language - the fuck was that?” The canine questioned. Vivi cast a derisive look at the man’s retreating form in the rearview mirror.

“Just some waffle-brained tourist who thinks they own the road.” She muttered. As Mystery sprawled on the seat, still reeling from the sudden stop, she reached over and scratched his ears. “Sorry, buddy. I’ll keep a better eye on the road this time.” She promised.

…….

“....ugh, no.” Vivi snapped the heavy tome shut and dropped it on the table she’d set aside for rejected texts (which was piled higher than she would have liked already). Mystery nudged another book her way with one large paw, still skimming through his own tome, and flicked his seven long tails. Here, in the privacy of their own home, he hadn’t been able to pass up the opportunity to stretch the legs of his true form.

It made the library a little crowded, in all honesty, but Vivi wasn’t about to tell him that.

“Try this one next. I’ve got some promising topics in this one, but nothing yet concrete.” The kitsune sighed as he flipped the last page, closed the cover, and carefully picked it up in his mouth to move it to the ‘potential’ table. Only a few books sat waiting to receive it.

“Nnnoooot this one, either.” Vivi frowned as she flipped the pages of this new book. “This one’s all about exorcism. Good thing I didn’t have this one packed up in the van, huh?” She muttered under her breath as she set the rejected book aside. Sullenly, she looked over the stacks of books they had left to cover, and curled her lip at the hours and hours of research they surely had ahead.

Usually, she wasn’t one to shirk away from the ground-work like this, but her mind just wasn’t focusing like she wanted. Something kept nagging at her; a thought that she’d let an important clue slip through her fingers.

She hated it.

“....I’m going to brew some tea.” Vivi announced loudly, swinging her legs for dramatic theater as she popped up out of her chair, and stretched her arms above her head. “Maybe a good cup of ginseng will help me focus.” Shaking out her arms, she headed for the kitchen. “Stree, do you want anything?”

“I’ll gladly take a bowl if you’re brewing.” Mystery called after her, still skimming through a new book. If Vivi noticed how he sprawled out just a little bit more in her absence, she chose not to mention it. “Perhaps with a dash of jujube, if we haven’t demolished Lewis’ stock already?”

“Sure, sure.” Vivi called back distractedly, moving down the hall with a thoughtful frown on her face. Running on a mixture of distracted practice and muscle memory, Vivi filled up the coffee maker with fresh water, and set it to heat up as she dug out the tea mix from the cabinets. She preferred her tea from scratch, in all honesty, but she and Mystery had a lot of work to get done, and not a lot of time to waste on making fresh tea.

Her thoughts remained on the safety-challenged stranger as she fished out a mug for herself and a bowl for Mystery, and Vivi began to drum her fingers on the countertop as she waited for the coffee maker to finish. No-one’s eyes were that vivid by nature, and cosmetic lenses were a coincidental reach. Ugh...she must be thinking too hard about the green spirit, and her anger towards it was coloring her memory.

Vivi shook her head, and admonishingly tapped her own forehead with the heel of her palm.

She had to get her head on straight. Arthur was counting on her.

The coffee maker ‘ding’ed, and Vivi quickly filled up her own mug, and then the bowl, with the boiling water. She dropped in the tea bags, and then carefully picked up both vessels to carry them back into the library. She had to remember to thank Arthur for talking her into buying this heat-resistant glassware - carrying a bowl full of boiling water would have been a pain without Lewis’ beloved oven mitts, otherwise.

“You’re gonna have to let this steep.” Vivi called ahead to Mystery as she made her way back down the hall. “And don’t spill on the carpet again, or I’m breaking out the feeding mat!”

[forresthom-blog]

12/02/19 Experiencing the New World: Crossing the Atlantic and Reading Old Scribblings

The past few days have been riddled with firsts: my first time flying alone, my first time in America, and my first time calling up and working with archival resources. Compared to my previous entries that have had an informative, historical angle, this post contains primarily my own musings about everything that has happened to me since I started my adventure at 3am last Friday. From an empty plane to crowding around the signatures of the Founding Fathers, and from being given free bread for being British to learning how to cross the road again - check out the first (and incredibly long) installment of The Making of the Angels in Blue right here!

Flying over the Atlantic. The ocean looked majestic and placid from so high. In the time of the Civil War, it took around two weeks to cross by boat. News reports also had to cross with the boats (there had been a functioning transatlantic telegraph cable in 1858 that shortened communication times to minutes, but it broke after just three weeks).

My journey from Birmingham to Bethesda, Maryland (a suburb of Washington, DC) took just under twenty-one hours. Only my final leg of my trip from Bethesda’s Metro station to my accommodation was made using a mode of transport available in the 1860s (foot!).

Economy class was almost empty! So, I spread out across three seats. My long haul plane flight was not long enough; I was actually disappointed to get off my flight and stop watching films, listening to music, playing solitaire, staring out the window, getting waited on by cabin crew, and getting twice as many drinks as if the flight was full. I can only hope that the flight will be just as empty on my overnight trip home...

Twenty-two years of observing the United States of America from afar - whether it be through TV, film, the news, sports, music, and so on - has resulted in me constructing a highly detailed, and doubtless prejudiced, perspective of what the self-professed ‘Land of the Free’ is like. Consequently, a lot of my initial reactions to the country are seen through this prejudiced lens. Nevertheless, the airport was huge, the border security was sharp, and the roads were several lanes wide. So far, my impression of America was as expected! Then, on the Metro, I had friendly chats with three strangers (from memory, this has never happened in my years of using the Tube). To top it all, on the night of my arrival, I went to Trader Joe’s for bread and milk and a very attentive shop assistant noticed I was struggling to find what I was looking for. When she discovered that I had just arrived that afternoon, I was given free parbaked bread rolls to welcome me to the United States. America and Americans certainly did not disappoint me!

Paying a visit to President Trump’s humble abode - perhaps I could post him a letter asking him nicely to not close any of my archives while I am researching for my dissertation...

My first full day was spent sightseeing around the centre of Washington, DC. Around every corner was hidden a new monument, building, or yet another star spangled banner. French-American military engineer Pierre Charles L’Enfant (1754-1825) drew up the plans for the capital city of the USA. It was designed to be a grand metropolis full of neo-classical architecture and monuments to great Americans. The National Mall from the the Lincoln Memorial to the Capitol Building is a staggering three kilometres in length. It was exciting to see in person all the views I had seen hundreds of times in photos and videos.

One view was particularly striking. As I was walking towards the Lincoln Memorial alongside the Reflecting Pool (which is much bigger than it looks), I turned to look back at the Washington Monument. L’Enfant’s plan for the National Mall was highly uniform with all the monuments aligned and symmetrical. By the side of the Reflecting Pool, I was slightly off centre and as such I caught a glimpse of the great neo-classical dome of the Capitol peering out from behind the Washington Monument which - due to L-Enfant’s exact design - had hidden the seat of Congress. Out loud I said, “bl$#dy h*ll”! 

Here is the view of Congress that made me audibly swear. Admittedly, a phone camera and my limited photography skills do not pay justice to how breathtaking the view really was. The bright white of its dome and its sheer size (at 87.8m it is less than 10m shorter than Big Ben) was what impressed me most. A further result of the impressive architectural planning of the city, when I cross Pennsylvania Avenue to get to the National Archives, there is a stunning view of the Capitol Buidling perfectly framed by the buidlings either side of the road leading up to it. Unfortunately, due to crossing a busy main road each time, I have not managed to snap this view...

Escaping the cold, I then took a couple of quick trips around the Smithsonian’s Natural History Museum and National Gallery (in case a certain peculiarly orange gentleman with hair that blows away in the wind decided to close them again at the end of the week). Perhaps the most exciting thing for me at the National Gallery was a collection of three John Constable paintings. Constable lived and worked along the Essex-Suffolk border in the country that now bears his name: Constable Country. I grew up close to where Constable lived and worked; it was great to see his work exhibited so prominently so far from England and to see a little piece of Constable Country residing across the pond.

To finish my day, I went to the public side of the National Archives to see the originals of the Declaration of Independence and Constitution. I was inches from the signatures of all the Founding Fathers: most notably George Washington, Benjamin Franklin, James Madison and the world famous Broadway star Alexander Hamilton...

The most challenging thing that has faced me so far in the city has been crossing the roads. The roads here are massive and so are the cars. The crossings all look different and some are zebra crossings as we know them in Britain and some look like them but are most certainly not. Cars give way to pedestrians on ‘crosswalks’, but it feels wrong when you are just casually walking across the road in downtown Washington, DC and all the cars are just letting you go. The worst part, however, is waiting to cross not knowing whether you are allowed to ‘jaywalk’ when there are no cars but the crossing is still at ‘wait’, or if the police will spring out from nowhere and reprimand me. Anyway, I am sure I will learn.

On Sunday, I chilled out and recovered from my exhaustive day of endless walking, exploring, and road crossing (!) from the day before. Until the afternoon when I was itching to continue discovering new things. I had heard from some of my housemates that there were spare bikes in the garage. They had also talked to me about the Capital Crescent Trail and how good it was for running and cycling. So, it would have just been plain rude to not have taken a bike ride down the trail!

Getting out of Bethesda and cycling the Capital Crescent Trail was a welcome break from the city. It was now nature’s turn to astound me. What was most impressive was the magnitude of the open space I witnessed on my ride. Despite the vast majority of my journey being within the District of Columbia, the wide expansiveness of North America was tangible nonetheless.

The trail follows an disused railway line of the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad that mainly served to deliver goods to Georgetown in the Northwest of the District of Columbia. It also runs alongside the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal and the Potomac River.

Even though I was only a couple of miles from the centre of Washington and was within the District of Columbia itself, the air was clear and I was surrounded by trees, nature and many local residents running, cycling and strolling down the path.

Another breathtaking glimpse of an iconic monument that Ben’s photography pays no justice. This time, it was the turn of the Washington Monument appearing in the distance across the fast-flowing and very wide Potomac River. I learned the day before that when it was completed, the Washington Monument was the tallest building in the world (555ft [169m]). However, at 150ft (46m) up, the quarry used for the stone changes. There is a clear line where the colour changes. I am sure that if you are building the world’s tallest building, you can at least keep the colour of its stone consistent. Now I have seen the colour change, I cannot unsee it. 

How very off-putting. L’Enfant was not alive when the structure he planned was completed in 1848, but I am sure he was still seething about that ridiculous colour change.

Yet, the weekend soon came to an end and it was time to get cracking on what I traveled over three and a half thousand miles to do: visiting archives!

Against my initial plans, my work this week was primarily at the National Archives and Records Administration. It was closed as part of the longest government shutdown in history throughout the end of December and January. The threat is that the funding, which runs out on Friday, will not be renewed and the archives will be forced to close again.

The National Archives building keeps up Washington’s neo-classical theme with its impressive columns. Flanking the research entrance, are two plinths with quotes engraved. The lefthand quote is above: WHAT IS PAST IS PROLOGUE. A meaningful quote alluding to an idea that all of history has led up to this moment and that by researching history we can discover how we got here. This notion is slightly teleological (the concept that history has a direction and an overall goal), but it is interesting and thought-provoking nonetheless. In comparison, the righthand quote reads: STUDY THE PAST. Which seems rather dull and uninspired. Almost as if someone asked a bored historian what they get up to, ‘I study the past. I am a historian’.

It was exciting to be going to a real archives, looking at real documents, for real research and I almost felt like a real historian and not the amateur imposter that I really am! In all seriousness, it was daunting filling out request forms for the documents I wanted. It was also a privilege to be working in the National Archives where the general public do not get to visit. It was an even greater privilege to be able to read through the letter books of the Civil War.

The greatest difficulty I found was reading the nineteenth-century handwriting. Once tuned in, it was less challenging. 

Inside a snazzy lift that is a pretty good match for my top. By my second day at the National Archives, I felt at home moving between the reading room, consultation room and the canteen for lunchtime and was beginning to recognise security guards and archive assistants began to learn my name. ‘A trolley for Forrest!’: being the call when a large set of letters sent to the Surgeon General arrived. Although it was exciting hearing my name called, the trolley of letters meant I had a lot of hunting to do for my small handful of indexed letters I was searching for.

All in all, this is a very long but potted summary of my first five days traveling to, around and working in the United States. I have enjoyed immersing myself in the friendly, go-getter culture of America and it has been amazing experiencing so many things that I have seen for years on screen (hearing and seeing fire engines with firemen leaning on the window while they roar down the street is a highlight, alongside the grand buildings and monuments of DC). Well done if you stuck with my longest post so far all the way to the end!

My plans for the coming days are to finish up my work at the National Archives and look to begin my most important work at the Library of Congress by the end of the week. I also plan to visit the National Portrait Gallery - which is right outside the Metro station I take to the National Archives. On Saturday, I plan to go to Fletcher’s Cove Parkrun which is on the Capital Crescent Trail.

Upcoming blog posts include an amusing story of an Amulance Corps Captain and his stuggle to acquire paint and hopefully my experiences of being a ‘Fresh Fish’ Civil War recruit when I take part in a reenactment with the 3rd US reenactors on Saturday the 23rd of February.

[shirlleycoyle]

De Blasio Could Save Lives by Closing New York City’s Streets. Why Won’t He?

I was walking down the sidewalk in my neighborhood in central Brooklyn when two older women turned the corner in front of me. They both wore masks and latex gloves. They were in conversation, but walked about six feet apart. They had been walking along an avenue with wide sidewalks, but turned onto the sidewalk I was walking along, which was just a few feet wide. As we walked towards each other, it became clear we could not all walk along the sidewalk while maintaining social distancing. I had two options: walk as equidistant between them as possible, perhaps two feet or so from each, or walk into the road.

I repeat this calculus every trip outside dozens of times. I want to be a good pandemic samaritan, but I also don’t want to get hit by a car. And every time this happens, I wonder to myself why roads haven’t been blocked off for pedestrian use.

In 2017, after Mayor Bill de Blasio was re-elected for his third and final term, he decided to make the theme of his lame duck term “the Tale of Two Cities.” It was fresh, original, and not at all a lame throwback cliché, just like de Blasio himself. He explained that there is the rich New York and the poor New York. Little did he expect that an entirely new and unprecedented type of Tale of Two Cities would take place during his term.

Thanks to coronavirus, there is now an empty New York City and a crowded one. The empty city consists of the office buildings, bars, restaurants, libraries, tourist attractions, and streets. It is an object of great fascination for those of us grappling with the blood draining from a metropolis that used to be debatably worth paying exorbitant rents to access. We hope the empty city is merely falling asleep like a limb awkwardly tucked under a torso and the blood will come rushing back to it once it shifts position. But with each passing day we become ever so slightly less sure of this, partly because of a lack of confidence in de Blasio himself to roll the city over.

That lack of confidence stems from what’s happening in the other New York City, the crowded one: grocery stores, hospitals, the living room in our cramped apartment shared with two roommates all of whom are now working from home until further notice or unemployed with nowhere to go, the park where everyone goes to get fresh air and exercise, the playground where kids expend a fraction of their pent-up energy, and the sidewalk which is less than six feet wide, making social distancing a physical impossibility.

In the face of the coronavirus pandemic, for which New York City has become the national epicenter, this tale of two cities is, to a large extent, inevitable and necessary. But there is one thing, one very obvious thing, the city could do to ease some of the crowding in parks, sidewalks, and playgrounds.

The city could close a portion of its more than 6,000 miles of streets to through traffic and open it to people.

The benefits of closing off many streets to traffic are obvious to anyone who visited the Prospect Park loop during the last week. It has been packed with joggers and families to such an extent that it’s not possible to maintain six feet of distance from anyone else. Many neighborhood playgrounds and parks around the city have a similar problem.

While parks are too crowded, streets are virtually empty. In the days immediately following a state executive order limiting business activity, traffic plummeted some 35 percent and it has further declined after the state issued a shelter-in-place order days later. According to urban mobility app Citymapper, only about five percent of trips normally taken in New York City are being made today.

Thanks to this lack of traffic, I now jaywalk across major thoroughfares like Flatbush and Atlantic Avenues without breaking stride—a death sentence during normal times—because there are so few cars. Residential streets are even more desolate. The one I live on would regularly experience traffic jams a block long during rush hour. This hasn’t happened in weeks. On Monday afternoon, a car passed my window every three to four minutes on average. Closing off some streets would have zero impact on traffic because there isn’t any.

Instead of taking this painfully common sense solution at face value—one public place is very crowded, another very empty; let us redirect some of the people from the crowded space to the empty one—and executing it, the city has spat in common sense’s face and shoved it to the ground for good measure. Here, I’m referencing de Blasio’s threat to close not the streets, but parks and playgrounds if they continue to be too crowded, which of course they will, because people have nowhere else to go for fresh air and exercise since the city won’t close off streets. (On Tuesday, the city announced the closure of 10 playgrounds "where we have consistently found a lack of regard for social distancing." Closing playgrounds may in fact be good policy because of all the shared surfaces; parks less so.) It’s a vicious cycle that feels aggressively hostile towards those of us cooped up in something smaller than a mansion on 88th Street.

But it’s not too late to do the right and obvious thing. The good news about closing off streets to most vehicle traffic is it takes little more than a few road cones.

The half-baked idea I thought of a week ago and haven’t immediately thought of a reason why it wouldn’t work—which I guess makes it pretty well-baked by now— is to close off every fifth residential block to traffic. This can be done by placing two orange traffic cones at each end of the block, far enough apart that emergency vehicles and local traffic can still get through but close enough together to force drivers to slow down and see that people may be using the street.

New York already does this, to varying degrees, with two different summer programs: Summer Streets and block parties. Summer Streets is a Department of Transportation program that closes off seven miles of main roads from the pitifully narrow window of 7 a.m. to 1 p.m. on three Saturdays in August. Block parties, which are more in line with what I’m talking about here, merely require a permit in order to close off the street and are limited to one day. The day of the event, the police put a barricade at either end of the block or someone from the block association parks their car across the crosswalk. Fun ensues.

Safe streets advocates have been calling for expanded Summer Streets and block party programs for years, because, as DOT’s own website puts it, “Summer Streets is an annual celebration of New York City’s most valuable public space—our streets.” It seems that if it is truly our most valuable public space, we ought to enjoy it a bit more, especially now.

To be far fairer to de Blasio than he deserves, I will mention the city did recently close off a few blocks per borough—a grand total of 1.5 miles of road—for four days precisely this reason. It is astounding, though, that the city thought this would aid in social distancing one iota. How did they figure closing off four blocks in Bushwick would make the slightest difference in a borough of 2.5 million people?

It’s not at all clear what the Mayor is afraid of, as there has never been a better time to do this, both practically and politically. During these “normal times” to which I keep referring but am increasingly unable to clearly recall, every effort to close streets to cars is typically opposed by a cadre of conservatives: local businesses who think it will hurt their bottom line, crotchety residents who are worried about their parking, and occasionally local politicians who are worried about getting the votes of the people who are worried about their parking.

But these are not normal times. Most of the crotchety people who are worried about their parking have long since gotten in their cars, left their parking spots, and driven far away. Or, they have realized there is nowhere worth driving to and, with alternate side parking suspended, don’t plan on moving the car any time soon. The business owners who normally worry about their bottom lines have much bigger worries about their bottom lines at the moment. All of the usual opposition is either nowhere to be found or no longer opposed.

When I asked the Department of Transportation about all this, it directed me to City Hall, which did not respond to a request for comment. It’s a shame, because closing off hundreds of streets could go a long way towards closing the gap between the new tale of two cities. You’d think de Blasio, of all people, could understand that.

De Blasio Could Save Lives by Closing New York City’s Streets. Why Won’t He? syndicated from https://triviaqaweb.wordpress.com/feed/

[harrison-abbott]

Lick - Short Story

LICK

      Davey had punched that lad hard. Was the first time he’d ever hit somebody. It was in an alleyway in the suburbs, and nobody else had seen it. The lad had kicked a football and it hit Davey’s window! And it had been deliberate – so Davey ran outside his house, chased the boy and hit him in amply in the cheekbone. Davey had experienced a superb reinforcement of rage. The punch wasn’t like punches in films; there was no paaak sound, and the target didn’t fall over. Davey tugged the boy’s hair, then released him and went back inside his house as the boy departed. As a man in his 40s, it was an incident of revelation. But Davey didn’t expect the messages to start appearing after that.

    It first happened hours later after the assault, that Friday afternoon. Davey’s veins were still whirling with adrenaline when he spotted something unusual in his front garden. He walked outside and found a broad piece of paper, folded in two, with a brick holding it down. When he unfolded the paper, it had the word ‘LICK’ written across it. Looked like a child had scrawled the letters with a red crayon. He put it in the bin.

    The next morning, Davey found his wife standing before the front door. She was holding a letter, reading it with a puzzled expression.

    “What’s this, Davey?”

    He took it. ‘LICK’ was written across an A4 sheet of paper about 50 times, in meticulous handwriting. The envelope was blank. Davey crushed it up quickly and said:

    “I don’t know, Michelle. Just some stupid letter.”

    Davey didn’t really begin to think seriously about things until the following Monday morning. This was after he’d told his friend on the Sunday about how he’d attacked the high-school kid. They were playing golf. He was so excited about telling the story that he lost concentration on the game as he played. He couldn’t tell whether his friend was impressed. The latter only lifted his eyebrows, and then said:

    “So, then what happened?”

    “Nothing happened. The window wasn’t broken, so I didn’t have to get it fixed.”

    On the Monday morning, Davey got called into his Boss’ office at work. The Boss told him that a phone message had been left on the company’s office line, which was addressed to Davey specifically.

    “Do you know what this is, David?”

    And the Boss played him the message, which sounded like it was recorded underwater.

    “Lick. Lick. Lick,” an anonymous man’s voice read the word out repeatedly in a monosyllabic loop.

    “It goes on for about two minutes like this,” the Boss said, “and then, here – listen – at the end.”

    “David McPherson. Foul. Foul man.”

    “I don’t know why this has ended up here, David: do you know why it has?”

    He waited for an answer. Davey was embarrassed. He couldn’t just dismiss it in front of his Boss. So, he apologised, and said it must’ve been someone playing a prank on him – probably somebody from the pub. His Boss said he didn’t want it to happen again. Davey saw him shake his head as he left the office.

    That Monday he had a job to do, so he could focus his mind on that. It was plastering and carpentry at a house across the city. The lady of the house was at home and she let him work alone, occasionally bringing him cups of coffee. Her smiles reassured him. She was listening to the radio in the kitchen whilst he worked in the hallway. When the news came on he overheard a report saying that a giant asteroid was on its way to hit planet Earth. The newsman said there was a one-in-two-million chance of this happening, and that if it did then it might mean the end of humanity. Davey smirked a little, and continued plastering.

    Monday passed, then Tuesday, Wednesday. On Thursday night Davey hosted a party at his house for his son’s birthday. Many neighbours arrived and they all enjoyed the night, and all liked Davey’s family. His son reached eleven years of age. The guests doted over the overweight cat they had, and the white fluffy little dog that couldn’t bark. Davey presented his new conservatory in the back garden he was having built with pride. It wasn’t finished yet but it would be soon. He enjoyed the company of Michelle’s lady-friends; it was powerful to mingle within the buzz of people. Throughout the night, he hadn’t once thought about the word ‘Lick’.

    Davey had the next morning off work. His hangover was too dense to sit through, so he began drinking more beers from the fridge. It was another sunny day: almost one week since he had hit the kid.

    Time lolloped to mid-day, when the high-school kids were milling home on their lunchbreak. Davey began to feel their creeping presence. Little pubescent shapes with scrawny limps walking near his lawn. It didn’t seem fair he should be inside his dingy living room whilst they were enjoying the sun. So he took his beer out onto his porch and sat drinking. The children didn’t notice him much, even after he took his t-shirt off. His stomach protruded in an oval – not quiet overweight – but large and hairy. He noticed that when some kids passed, they grew quiet. Once, one kid eyed Davey. Davey dealt the glare back, and won: the kid looked elsewhere immediately. Life was rosy; Davey napped in the heat.

    The telephone ringing from in the house broke his peace. When he answered, a lady’s voice responded in a muffled tone.

    “Mr McPherson?”

    “Yes?”

    “We know that you’re avoiding tax on your work fees. We know that you don’t record your jobs on the books.”

    Davey froze.

    “Who is this?”

    Suddenly a sound of collective laughter rushed through the earpiece, like a laugh-track in a sitcom. He wanted to put the phone down, but then a man’s voice spoke; again the words were distorted and surreal:

    “You must start putting the records on the books, and pay your taxes.”

    “Put they are on the books! Is this a scam?”

    Davey knew it wasn’t a scam. The claim the voice made was true: he illegally avoided paying tax on many of his jobs. But who had discovered him?

    “If you keep doing it, we’ll call the police next Friday at noon.”

    “But, just wait!”

    The line went dud.

    Davey’s drunkenness overturned. The sunshine outside now seemed threatening, exposing him. He went and closed his front door and put his t-shirt back on, then stood in the hallway, thinking. This was serious: he knew it. If his Boss found out he was evading tax, he’d get fired. His Boss might even tell the police, and if that happened, well … ‘What would Michelle think if I got arrested!” He came close to hyperventilating as these thoughts rained.

    ‘But, no, just wait a minute. There’s a way to fix this.’ He just needed to show his fee papers down at the council building. He acted quickly and angrily, finding his work jacket where he had the receipts from the house he’d worked on earlier in the week. They were all there. He put his boots on and left his house to drive into town.

    As he got into his van, the thought struck him: ‘How am I supposed to hide my employment history from the Council?’ He was sweating. ‘They’ll know I’ve been avoiding previous payments …’ But there seemed like nothing else to do. Even if this threat wasn’t real, he had to follow the demands. He could find out who it was phoning him later. He drove out through his neighbourhood.

    When he reached the main road, there was another gabble of schoolkids coming back from their lunch. They were crossing the road as Davey approached, hindering his way. They hadn’t pressed the traffic lights button, jaywalking slowly across, blocking his momentum. At first he paused, clenching his jaws, watching them. The girls were clad in make-up and hadn’t yet grown breasts; the boys fondled them and skipped about, hyper on sugar. Davey snapped, and slammed his horn down. Some of the kids jumped, but they all looked into the window to see the driver. He tried to look scary, but his face twitched.

    After they reached the pavement, one boy threw sweets at the van, and the kids laughed. Davey flinched at the scatter of noise. He wanted to run them over with his van, or at least chase them away. But he had to get into town, so drove off speedily.

    He didn’t usually drive drunk. It was tricky. It would be disastrous to crash his van. A wicked thirst made it worse. And as he got further into town, he passed a police car. He was sure the policemen were watching him, and their eyes terrified him. But nothing happened, and eventually he parked near the main Council hall.

    Once there, he approached the Council workers as calmly as he could. The man behind the counter studied Davey as he asked for the tax forms. Davey completed the forms there in the hall. When he handed them back to the counterman, the latter paused as he scanned the papers, and frowned.

    “How long have you been an engineer Mr McPherson?”

    “Oh, about 20 years.”

    “Right … Well, have you only just started working for this company?”

    Davey tapped his feet. Lying like this was difficult; he hadn’t needed to lie in this way before.

    “Yes.”

    “Okay, you need to get your employer to sign this these forms too, and then bring them back here.”

    “Ask my Boss to sign them?”

    “Yes, please.”

    Davey walked away slowly, and left the Council hall. He sat in his van, pondering what to do. Obviously, he couldn’t ask his Boss to sign the forms. Dehydration was beginning to madden him. ‘I’ll just have to forge his name,’ he decided, ‘I can do that.’

    He drove home, and practiced writing his Boss’ name in signature style. He drank a few pints of water to ease his physiology, and then a few sips of whiskey to ease it further. To be sensible, he took the bus back into town. Luckily when he got to the Council hall again, there was a different worker at the counter, and the forms were accepted. It was late afternoon when Davey got back home.

    ‘This is all so strange,’ he thought, sitting quietly in his house. Davey was 44. He must be losing sense if he was worrying about being arrested at his age. Why was he even listening to weird phone calls?

    He kept trying to guess who it could be; who was doing these things? Did Davey have any enemies? He considered the rival engineer team, who had their office on the same street as Davey’s company did. One time, Davey rolled his window down and jeered at them as drove past their office with a friend. It angered them, and they stuck their middle fingers up. But Davey only did it to make his friend laugh … It was just a bit of banter.

    He couldn’t stop thinking about it until Michelle got home that evening.

    “Have you been drinking today again, Hon?” was the first thing she said to him.

    “No, no. Just hungover from last night.”

    He wanted to tell his wife everything. But he had to trap it in. Besides, which bits could he feasibly tell her? Their relationship was one of lopsided control; Davey was the man – the traditional male who directed his woman, and Michelle was fine with that dynamic. The only times she controlled Davey was when she pampered him; when she wrapped a scarf around him, for instance; when she asked him for a cup of tea and he obeyed. She liked flattering him, liked how big and professional he was. No, Davey had to keep the last week’s events secret from her. He continued drinking that night until he fell asleep.

    Davey had left high school at sixteen years. He’d built himself up in life since then. Everything he had was acquired through individual effort. The fact that his house was the largest in his neighbourhood was down to David McPherson’s graft.

    His father had been physically rough to him and his elder brother when they were children. Davey didn’t speak to his brother nowadays, and had dropped contact with his father long before he died. But apart from those various flashes of corporal punishment, there was no drama in his history. To his own son, he wasn’t rough physically. He knew how to protect his family, guide them right.

    That weekend passed without incident. When the next week came, Davey had three more jobs. He made sure to record all of them on the books. By each one, he knew he was losing drafts of money. He became irritable because of it. He needed the extra money to pay for his new conservatory. Why did he have to do this? How could the person on the phone threaten him? What evidence did they really have?

    He went down to the pub on the Monday night, and found himself there again the next night, and then the next. He didn’t usually drink on weeknights. The percentages of alcohol collaborated across each day; by the Thursday night he couldn’t control himself. He felt inclined to tell his story to somebody new. Not all of it: just the part where he hit the boy in the face. It was late, and the bar was mostly empty. Davey was talking to an older man he didn’t know well.

    The story wasn’t exactly a story. It didn’t last very long. The old man listened, chuckling at first, and then stopped when Davey retold the violent climax.

    “But how old was the kid?” the man said.

    “I’ve no idea.”

    “Who was he, though?”

    “Don’t know. Just some little tyke.”

    The old man shrugged. Davey wanted him to say more, but the old man didn’t. He finished his pint and left Davey in the pub.

    He had another day off work when Friday arrived. He awoke with a lethal headache. It was a struggle to lift himself up to go to the toilet. As he urinated dizzily, he realised that Michelle had left the window open again: an annoying habit of hers he’d asked her not to do many times! He shouted at her downstairs for half a minute, and then remembered he was in the house alone. As he went to slam the window shut, something unusual caught his sight from the back-garden below.

    Things were attached to the clothes-lines. But not clothes. They were small, flapping lightly in the breeze; he couldn’t identify what they were from the window.

    Davey put a dressing gown on and went into the garden. Attached to the clothesline by pegs were little cards of paper. There were no pegs left in the basket. On each card, the word ‘LICK’ was written in pen ink, the letters multi-coloured.

    Davey jumped, and spun around. The neighbours’ windows overlooked his yard. Had they seen this? He began yanking the cards free, thrusting them into his pockets. There were so many pegged up that it became a frenzy, crushing them up, trying to delete the word from his mind. He took them all back inside into his kitchen. He took a soup pot and stuffed the cards into it, and then slowly lit fire to the cards with matches. The cards began to crumple and writhe like spiders as smoke filled the room. He watched over the burning pot with a crazed face.

    The smoke detector began screaming above him. Davey took the pot over to the sink and gushed its contents under the tap. He opened the kitchen windows, spluttering in the acrid air. Standing on a chair, he ripped the batteries out of the smoke alarm.

    When the air had cleared, he returned to the pot. Most of the cards were sooty slush. He drained the water, and put the sodden paper into a plastic bag, which he wrapped. Then took this outside to the big waste bins at the front of the house. He hid the bag in between two larger black bags, so the bin men wouldn’t be able to see it.

    Davey wiped his hands on his dressing gown and looked around. It was a meek, grey day. His chin was sharp with stubble. Old alcohol ran in his sweat. His mind couldn’t decide which emotion it should exercise. What would the neighbours think if they saw him like this: half-naked in his front garden?

    He was looking up the road one way, when suddenly a person appeared from the other side, only meters away from him. He got a fright. It was a boy, walking by his lawn. The boy wore a backpack and smart shoes.

    Davey stared. He couldn’t believe it. ‘That’s him!’ he realised. ‘That’s the SAME BOY! THE ONE WHO KICKED THE FOOTBALL AT MY WINDOW TWO WEEKS AGO!’ Davey was convinced; the boy had the same cheekbones, and light-brown hair. ‘IT’S HIM WHO’S BEEN LEAVING NOTES IN MY GARDEN!”

    “You!” Davey shouted at him. The boy glanced to him with a start. Davey began moving towards him. “You – you little cunt!”

    Cunt was the same word he’d used on this boy a fortnight ago. Davey had found his nemesis again; he wasn’t thinking about anything but catching this boy again, and he sprinted towards him down the road.

    The boy tried to flee as Davey pelted after him. Davey’s dressing gown belt became undone, and his torso and legs were bare in the wind. He caught hold of the boy’s bag, and pulled him up by the straps, suspending him in mid-air. Davey’s strength was ludicrous.

    “You little cunt: you stop leaving notes in my garden!”

    Davey let him down from the air, and then clasped the boy’s skull in both hands and squeezed it together.

    “Aieee!” the boy cried, and then released a flurry of words in a foreign language Davey couldn’t understand.

    Davey let him go. The boy was tiny. He wasn’t wearing a school uniform. He turned and ran away back down the road, whimpering, until he disappeared down the alleyway at the end of the street.

    Something began to ooze across Davey, as well as the cold air which goose-bumped his skin.

    ‘That was definitely the same kid, right?’ he told himself. Davey was standing in the middle of the road. The neighbourhood was cast in plain daylight; had anyone seen what had just happened? He had to get out of the open.

    He fastened his dressing gown and returned inside his house. The burning smell was terrible in the kitchen, but he shut the windows anyway. He went upstairs quickly, and got fully dressed. He figured brushing his teeth would help. His fingers had the same burnt-paper scent as he washed his face. Made him feel sick. There was no pleasant tingling in his bloodstream, now; it was a much different type of adrenaline. He had to get out the house. “I’ll just head into town in my van,” he said to himself. He put some aftershave on and undid the top button on his shirt.

   He’d just gotten his coat and found his van keys, when the front doorbell rang. As he descended the stairs, he saw two people standing behind the door’s stained windows. Could Davey just not answer the door? Pretend he wasn’t in. But, no: this was his house. He wiped his forehead, and opened the door slowly.

    There was a lady standing there who he’d never seen before. She had dark eyes and hair, and held the hand of the boy who Davey had attacked ten minutes earlier. The boy hid around the back of her legs, watching him.

    “You hurt my son!” the lady said to Davey. “Why did you hurt my son?”

    Davey was paralysed. The woman’s vehemence was ripe. He needed to remove her; he imagined lashing out at her violently. But she domineered him in his own doorway.

    “I should call the police on you!” She had a Spanish accent, with a loud, leathery tone.

    Davey then spotted his neighbour who lived in the house opposite his. The neighbour was standing outside, paused by his car, holding his keys, watching this woman bark at Davey’s door.

    “My little boy is on holiday here,” she continued, “I let him go up to the shops on his own, and he runs home to me crying! He says you came and grabbed him and hurt him for no reason!”

    Davey looked over to his neighbour, expecting him to intervene. Surely his neighbour would think this random, foreign lady was crazy. But he just stood still, watching, as the woman kept shouting.

    When Davey looked down at the Spanish boy, he didn’t see any fear in his face. The boy only clamped tight to his Mother’s hand.

  11th Jan 2017