#but its binded in a way that the pages will be ripped most likely

[lexa-griffins]

Human Osteology manuals are like: give us 100€ for a book or buy the ones from the 19th century for 20€ with incorrect info we refuse to edit

[cvrsedslytherin]

Catching Teardrops | Sebastian Sallow (oneshot)

WC: 4k

Pairing: Sebastian Sallow x Zyla Lestrange (fem!MC)

Warnings: depression battle, angst, brief mention of s**c*de, mentions of slight family abuse, mentions of anxiety but also tooth-rotting fluff & disgusting cheesiness

(Might start off strong but it’s gonna get better & become sweet)

Note: I’ve taken lots of breaks with writing so please correct me if you see mistakes! Thank you.

Summary: Depression struck Zyla Lestrange when the agony of her trauma decides to haunt her one late night— but her best friend, Sebastian Sallow, wasn’t going to let her demons win. He always had a way of finding her… being her saving grace. And tonight, it would be even more special.

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With the castle so eerie yet peacefully silent and darkness completely taking over— it was definitely way past curfew. Very little light had been flickering within that darkness but it was enough to guide her way, even with her eyes blurring from time to time. The time was around 3:00 AM and Zyla Lestrange was making her way through the Slytherin common room; quiet tears streaming down her face. Slowly sliding down, as if to remind her how long this pain would last but also to serve as the calm before the storm. Currently, it wasn’t so bad; there was this numbing feeling that accompanied it despite some tears. But it would get worse later; the feeling was growing at its slow pace, clawing to her heart in hopes it digs in. A usual routine… because depression knows no mercy; the claws of it will just keep digging deeper & deeper until her heart feels like it’s too hurt to continue such a maddening young life.

The start of sixth year had begun with a fire; one that was burning her alive, trying to rip open the flesh. Only a week in and this had to happen. Usually this was one of her happy places. Hogwarts; the second home. Or in her case; the real home.

Zyla Lestrange had went onto the spiraling staircase of the common room to exit it; once out, she had paused— taking her wand out for some more lighting by casting the Lumos charm. Her feet were just going to lead her to wherever they chose; though she usually had certain spots she’d secretly hang out in, to wallow in misery. Turning up the left stairs, towards the exit of the Slytherin dungeons; it seems she would be going to the Quad Courtyard. A small bit of a distance to reach the area but once she did get outside, she was greeted by the familiar bridge that gave her a high view of the Black Lake. Halting for a moment to get her rare, perfectly colored violet eyes lost in the calming waterscape; her tears temporarily stopping in this moment… but the numbness still there along with that aching feeling surrounding her heart. Zyla didn’t understand it… how she could get so overwhelmed and plagued by the same thing, over and over again. At random times, even when nothing bad had happened in particular; the waves of agony would just roll in— all consuming, wanting to drown her. Not a daily occurrence but it was a shadow that secretly followed her. One she did everything to hide in public view and had done a good job of it.

For the most part… but there was one Slytherin boy, attuned to her and her only. Reading her like a book… a book that’s slightly broken with missing pages that he wanted to find. To mend it’s binding to be perfect; to fill it with colors and life of endless pages. And that boy was Sebastian Sallow, her best friend. Fate would always bring him to her… when the timing was deemed right by the cruel Gods that tormented her soul. Zyla was certain that the universe liked making her feel complete misery.

However, misery did like company and Sebastian Sallow had plenty of his own demons to share.

A breeze pulled through but Zyla enjoyed it; it was the only lovely feeling right now. Her somewhat messy, almost shoulder-length, curly black hair shifted with the air hitting. Something about cool air (even cold) had soothed her a little. Even when she didn’t have her robes on. Here she was in her school skirt, and just her uniform blouse on, accompanied by her brown laced boots at ankle length. She had not wanted to go out in her pyjamas but she also did not bother to dress so properly. At least it wasn’t winter; though in this state— she would have still dressed this way probably. Maybe it was the dissociation kicking in; everything felt like it wasn’t actually there right now. As if she could lean over this bridge and fall… fall, fall, fall into an endless abyss of total nothingness rather than the rocks and the Black Lake that would definitely kill her upon impact.

Luckily, she gained some of her sense back. A small frown making it’s way on her lips as she started moving again, until she reached the Quad Courtyard itself. Zyla had always been a fast walker, so it was no problem getting anywhere despite how huge the castle was. But there was appreciation too… the castle had been always hauntingly beautiful to her. She was passing by a mermaid statue… lots of plants and flowers around; trees too. Mother nature’s beauty meshing with the castle. She walked up the stairs that would lead to a second small set of stairs that were near a side door entrance to the Great Hall. Before that second set— she’d turn to the right, into the slight garden there. Wanting to remain outside plus this one was of her secret hideouts. Her feet still taking her straight now, past the little fountain there and down a small set of stairs that led to a part of a bridge that had shown an even bigger view of the waterscape and landscape beyond this castle. It wasn’t the minor bridge she wanted to be at… no, it was the dead end, far right corner… a grassy small hill upwards with Queen Anne’s lace, Bulbous buttercup and Lavender flowers gracing that particular corner which had several bushes to hide in, right behind. Another little, hidden, dead end area but she didn’t go in there through the bushes, just stayed close.

Instantly plopping onto what felt like soft tall grass and that bed of flowers… she sat for a moment, just taking it in with half-lidded eyes then she started leaning back. Often lying on her back to watch the stars light up the immensely dark sky as she tried warding off her inner demons.

Minutes go by… until those claws finally dig back into her heart and remind her what has been her life. Tears coming back in full as the storm finally hit.

“I don’t understand… I…” She felt herself choke up as she spoke out-loud, to nobody. A habit of hers. “Why n-now…? Why is this…”

Anguish lives in her mind and replies, ‘remember all that has happened… remember who your family is, LESTRANGE… remember all the horrid things you’ve seen as a little child, remember all the people that have brought this inner pain you try locking up… until it explodes and your strength lets go. Everything has a way of reaching the surface… keep resisting and I will keep suffocating you with it.’

The brain is such a warped little thing. Turning itself against the person it resides in… a loss of control and Zyla hated losing control.

Every bad memory hits like a flood… the home she returns to when school is no longer in session. The nightmare of a family she’s unlucky to have been born in. Visualizing the physical parts of it next… mentally, she can see through her clothes… the reminders. The burns marks and cuts that had etched to her skin, under her blouse. There weren’t many but there were some. A torment from her own family. Much like another best friend, Ominis Gaunt. Her, Sebastian and Ominis were a trio but with her and Sebastian being closer. For other reasons. Ominis was someone she could bond with at times; both having come from a family of dark wizards. Families that only care for Pureblood supremacy. Abuse was a nasty thing, especially when done to children and Zyla… and Ominis had the misfortune of knowing what it was like.

Panic was starting to arrive… the creeping feeling of some anxiety as she sat up, burying her face in her hands as the floodgates burst, wanting nothing more but to be let out. An ocean having been held inside her… needing to break through.

“Merlin, I hate my life… I— h-hate… so mu—…” hic

Her sobs growing louder and louder, as she barely breathed properly until a voice called to her.

That voice… that warm voice in the sea of torment, Sebastian Sallow.

“Zyla?! Is that you? Hold on, making my way towards you!” He sounded a mix of distress, pain and irritation. How had he even found her? He hadn’t known about this one spot… she had too many to keep track of showing him. It would easily slip her mind but here he was, like a knight in shining armor.

Shaking, she looked up from her hands, still unable to calm down from the assault of tears and breathless gasps. Her vision blurring… all she could sense was the wand-lighting charm he had cast to find her and once he did, the freckle-faced brunet immediately dropped down to his knees in front of her, panicked. His wand falling beside him as the lighting charm gave out. But he could still see her somehow.

Even sitting… he somewhat towered over her— she was rather short and Sebastian’s growth spurt really kicked off over summer break.

But that only made him feel more safe to her; like a bear… a giant teddy bear made to comfort her.

“I… I…” Zyla hated herself for becoming a stuttering, choked up mess.

He put those strong hands on her shoulders, gently but firm. Her lips were parted quite a bit, quivering as they took those gasping breaths.

“Breathe with me… okay?” His voice trying to calm the storm. A storm he was familiar with.

This wasn’t the first time he had seen Zyla like this… the first time had been half way through fifth year. It left him shocked and confused, but he still tried to help. After that… he paid close attention to the girl. Sometimes, he wouldn’t be there for those bad moments because she had hid it well but as time went on, he was learning rather quickly how to navigate that broken soul of hers. How to read it… study it in hopes that he could figure out any clues that would lead him to her whenever she was in trouble.

And it’s as if the universe had granted him a wish for being so sincere about her— because he would find her, more and more when she wasn’t okay. When she needed someone, him. He understood the telltale signs and he just had a sense for her. Even in the random hours of the late night… if he was asleep, he’d wake with a horrid gut feeling. He just knew.

She gulped, still shaking and distressed from it all but nodding her head.

“Okay, follow with me, Zyla… 1, 2, 3… deep breath in,” his voice staying soft but strong for her. She followed that count, taking a deep breath in.

“Hold it, 3 seconds…” he continued and she did. For some reason, the voice of her best friend could lead her out of the trouble… it was easy to follow. His voice became the focus in her mind… the more times he helped her, the more she was getting better as recovering faster.

“Breathe out… 1, 2, 3…” he said slowly and she followed along again. They had repeated that three more times, his hands never stopped holding her shoulders— he stayed kneeling in the flowers and tall grass that she sat in.

The feeling of choking has subsided and her breathing was much better; stable but there was still the issues of her tears that had remained. Falling down her face the whole time, loud yet silent now. Those violet eyes still unable to fully see him in their blurs. Her mouth closed so she could breathe through her nose now.

The pain wasn’t gone yet. He knew that; he was just thankful he got her to breathe better first. Now it was time to handle the drops sliding in their quickened pace down her face. The sniffles that came out of her. The way she bit her lip now… a nervous gesture that meant, ‘it wants to come out… more waterworks.’

Sebastian changed his position… he moved his hands away from her and fully sat himself properly in front of her— knees touching hers then he slowly brought his hands to tenderly cup her face, “then you let it out, Zy… because I will always be here, to catch the remaining tears.”

She made a little noise, her face showing how much those words touched her as she started slowly letting it out. It was a promise he made her… not too long ago, when they had gotten closer and he started speaking more sweetly to her. He promised to catch her teardrops.

“You know… every drop represents a pain… to let go. Ones that were kept inside you too long. Crying is okay, Zy. You’re not weak for it.” He really always knew what to say and she let herself go. Turning something negative into positive. His words combined with him holding her face… did it. But it felt liberating while she envisioned what he said to her about the meaning of her teardrops. She nodded just a little during her now soft crying. Those tears rolling to his hands.

“And I’ll take every drop of pain… I’ll let my hands take everything that pours out of those precious violet eyes and soak it up for you. So you feel less of it…” his tone heartfelt and genuine. So while she cried what was left… he never let a drop escape and fall to the earth, literally. He maneuvered his hands ever so gently, wiping slowly. And if there were a lot of tears rushing out, his hands left her face as they formed like a personal plate under her chin… catching the teardrops. When it was less… his hands would move up again, wiping her face with his warm fingers. Thumbs caressing that sweet, hurt face.

The warmth that gave her immense relief and comfort. Zyla was a strange girl… and maybe to others, this might be a little weird or different but for her? It was perfect. It felt like Sebastian would really take away some of the pain. And it wouldn’t be one-sided. Whenever Sebastian was in trouble… and showed his pain to her, whether he wanted to or not; she was there to comfort him. In her own strange ways that were perfect to him. She might not have always been as good with words as him but they were true and honest. A support system they formed for each other during their painful moments.

Once she stopped crying… and her vision fully focused— she tilted her head up a bit, to stare at him. His hands dropping to the sides. Eyes full of thankfulness and admiration, locking into the depths of his dark colored eyes while it was night time. The stars in the sky had shined brighter for some reason and they saw each other better. Some divine timing. There was that slight flicker of worry and sadness for her but it melted into relief the more she looked at him and felt calm. His heart feeling calmer too.

She whispered, a bit tired, “thank you, Seb…”

He shook his head then pulled her into his chest, locking her into him.

“You don’t have to thank me, Zy…” whispering back as she always was stunned a bit with those hugs but slowly melted and wrapped her arms around his waist.

He didn’t want her to thank her… she was his best friend but… that wasn’t really why. Over some time, he knew his feelings had turned into something more for her.

And the thing was… Zyla had felt the same.

Sebastian’s comfort for her had been an act of love instead. And Zyla’s comfort to him when he needed it, was also an act of love. It was more than mere friendship at this point.

Unspoken words… within them. Fear holding them back.

So in tune with each other yet also so hopelessly oblivious to that one big thing inside them.

It wasn’t always this way at first… and these tender moments gradually came about. In the beginning, after her crying or vice verse, the two would crack dark jokes or tease the other to lighten the mood. Coping mechanisms that they took on.

However, over that summer break before this sixth year began, it started changing… to this. The tender moments that they slowly melted into it. At first… Zyla had resisted a bit— being embarrassed and stoic but Sebastian wouldn’t let that slide. No, he’d make her comfortable and accept it, no matter what. He would pull her in until she let herself feel it.

But still… the words that lingered on their lips during these quiet moments of an embrace… an embrace that was slowly tightening and their hearts would beat in sync— the words, never came out.

Until now.

Ten minutes… they stayed in that embrace… amongst the flower bed.

How fitting— Queen Anne’s lace which represents safety, sanctuary, and refuge. The buttercups that meant joy, youth, happiness, and friendship. Then the lavender, with its meaning of devotion, serenity, grace, and calmness.

Sebastian could no longer hold it back; for some reason, tonight felt different. Was it really the right timing? After what she went through… he really didn’t know but for the first time, the words he was dying to let out, just came out. Tumbling from his lips.

“I love you, Zy. I’m here because I want to be your safety… because I want to protect you with all my heart. And I never want you suffering alone… because I have so much love in my heart for you. I have… for a while. It’s starting to make me want to burst.” He confessed, resting his chin on top her head as she stayed buried in his chest. His heart rate pounding and hers too as she heard of all that.

“I hope that’s okay,” the nervous tone came when he spoke this time again. As he wasn’t sure how she would feel.

She almost wanted to cry again but not for sadness, not in agony. For once… tears of joy. They had been through a lot during fifth year. They had spent the whole summer break together. All the help she had given him back then that he didn’t realize at first. Now he was making sure, he’d give her double that help if needed.

Zyla must have taken a bit too long to answer because she felt his body tremble slightly. She had been in a daze almost… now nervous to say it back but she would. She wasn’t going to let him think this was only him.

She moved her head off of him… causing his chin to lift off her head. Her arms stayed loosely around him though and so did his around her, but there was space to look as she craned her head up a bit.

On cue, several fireflies had appeared near them… bright and lighting up more. Letting them see more of the other as the lights illuminated on them, especially their faces yet it was a blur to them— those fireflies and even the world. Right now, it was just them.

A blush painted her face and his eyes widened. Zyla never really blushed… this struck his heart. All he wanted to do was make that graceful scarlet color appear on her face more now that he had seen what she looked like with it. As if she was a painting come to life, accompanied by those violet eyes that were glowing from the light. He never saw her look vulnerable in this particular way and his heart rate went up. Even his breath hitched as he waited.

“I know, I usually would try to run and resist. I know this overwhelms me but it would be so cruel of me… if I wasn’t honest and didn’t tell you that I love you, just as much… because I really do, Seb. You became the safety that I never knew I needed… and I’m thankful to have your love back… I, I—“ Zyla had started to slowly ramble; she didn’t even know what else she had left to say. She said the most important words and he couldn’t take it anymore.

After all, Sebastian wasn’t the most patient and when that declaration of love returned to him and she stuttered that “I” at the end, he swooped down his face to hers and stole her lips with his. The passion had burst out of him with a desperate need to show her how much he loved her.

The first kiss… that was long overdue.

A soft gasp leaving her lips when she felt his attach to hers and his arms around her pulling her closer. That gasp felt like a sweet symphony to his ears. In a few seconds, she reacted… giving him the same kiss to convey that she wanted to show it too. Pressing her lips more into his soft yet somehow fierce touch.

The feeling had been natural, nothing awkward just right… like two puzzle pieces that had been separated but finally put together. His head tilting a bit to somehow try making sure she felt it as much as possible. A light nibble on her lower lips with his teeth to make her shiver… the gentle swipe of his tongue, not to make her open her mouth but to just taste her a little. To show affection. Though she slightly parted them to let out another sweet, quiet sound to which he almost wanted to whine at for a second. He wanted to control himself for their first kiss though— he didn’t want to move too fast. Not with her. He needed her to know she’s special first.

She felt so soft to him and he felt so warm to her— they could drown in each other now.

His lips wanted to stay on that softness.

Her lips wanted to keep on that warmth.

He had pulled her gently into his lap after several seconds while they stayed kissing in the same ways. Seeking each other, among the flowers with the tall grass. After a minute, when they needed air finally, they pulled apart a bit. Breaths intermingling, panting and staying close— deep flushes on both of their faces as they calmed their breathing slowly. He cracked into a wide grin and the corners of her mouth unable to stop tugging, forming a smile back as she couldn’t resist. He made sure she didn’t leave his lap right now.

They chuckled softly and breathlessly; he leaned his forehead against hers and closed his eyes. She closed hers too after, just enjoying the silence. Enjoying each other’s presence.

Agony was gone… nowhere to found right now. The claws that tried digging into her heart… had all but vanished and she felt a new type of peace. He had always brought her back but now… it was utter bliss filled with love that was finally out and free. Shielding her against her demons for this time being.

He had caught her teardrops, given her love.

She accepted and gave him love back.

And of course… now he wanted to show a little more love and passion. Add in a touch of fire, taste her depths. The want to explore the inside of her pretty little mouth, to get as much of that sweet taste as he could. So he opened his eyes… pulling a bit back and cupped her cheeks… bringing her for another kiss.

That kiss. One filled with need for her to which she instantly accepted and he kept bringing her towards him until he started leaning backwards onto the grass and flowers. With her on top of him as their lips stayed attached and he finally got to taste her in full. A soft groan escaping his mouth that she had swallowed up. Making a sound of her own in return as she shuddered.

They would probably stay there for a bit. Passionately kissing under the stars for as long as they could before the sun came up.

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[boin-de-bindery]

PAPER DOLL by Mel Calero

If Borrasca was unusual, then this one is niche. Shout out to alumni of the Sims 2 Story Exchange, for whom this will be a blast from the past 💚 If you had a popular fantasy or legacy series on that platform, I probably signed your guestbook or gave you benes on the forum at some point. God, I'm getting old.

PAPER DOLL was one of the works of fiction published on the official Sims 2 website, which was shut down in 2009 by EA causing the loss of thousands of uploads. Unless authors were particularly diligent in backing up their story uploads on other platforms, most published stories died with the website and are no longer available.

Thankfully, some forward-thinking souls had the sense to back up a selection of the uploads before the website went down for good. These can be accessed here. It's where I rediscovered PAPER DOLL, which was peak fiction to me when it was uploaded c. 2007-2008.

The beauty of the Sims 2 Story Exchange was that text uploads were accompanied by illustrative screenshots from the game. PAPER DOLL was one of the more stylised uploads to the platform. The custom content might seem crunchy now, but at the time it looked premium (given we were all on XP or Vista graphics). Realistic skins, eyes, hair and outfits were very much the trend back then. The author (melcalero) had a eye for aesthetic and style that holds up.

Anyway, it's a reading experience I hold dear and a story I wanted to archive physically. I made the decision not to include any of the game screenshots, out of consideration for my printer cartridges, but I included all published text with some editorial changes (spell checking, consistency revisions etc). It's technically unfinished (was a part 7 shared off the Exchange?? I could be misremembering) but part 6 rounds off the story nicely enough.

PAPER DOLL is a dark romance set in Japan, featuring both American and Japanese characters and a marriage of convenience/fake dating plotline. It's of its time, but I remain fond of it. There's depth to the network of relationships between the two leads and supporting characters.

My decision to pursue borderless printing for the sake of style near broke me. I had to print single sided because my printer can't handle duplex and borderless printing. Between that and a series of misprints, there were more discarded pages than properly printed sheets overall. The edge-to-edge background graphics turned out well, but I'd be wary of doing it for another project.

Garamond 10pt for the body text, and the iconic BLEEDING COWBOYS for all title and heading text. The finished typeset is about 260 pages long and in the ballpark of 60,000 words. I went a bit nuts on vector graphics as you can see, but it's in keeping with the original version's aesthetic. Cover is bound in uncoated viscose bookcloth, while the textblock is printed on "cream" A4 printer paper. I'd hoped before purchasing this would be closer to an off white colour. I now have too much of this paper, so it'll likely feature in future binds despite being A Vibe 🍊

I made a few mistakes on this bind, but I think an improvement in skill is noticeable too. Most conspicuous is a rip right at the edge of the front cover, which I can't do much to address. It kinda works with the grungy title font so I'm not that pressed about it.

The bookmark ribbon was an afterthought and added after the headbands, which I don't think is industry standard. I quite like my scene kid pink 'n' black headbands, plus the vinyl layering I did for the cover titles and illustration. I was still chugging along with adhesive vinyl but the application went better than previous attempts.

Lastly, I attempted to trim the textblock with a chisel. The chisel was in no way sharp enough when I started out, and even subsequent sharpening couldn't rescue the edges. They are even, but remain decked in places. I don't hate the result, but it took wayy too long and left me with repetitive strain which took days to heal. I might try again on my next novel-length bind, but I'm considering investigating if a local print shop will trim text blocks for a nominal price.

Anyway, 'scuse the long post. I was enthusiastic about revisiting an old favourite of mine. Plus it's worth talking about old, dead websites that evoke nostalgia. On the off chance melcalero sees this, I'm more than happy to provide them with an author copy if they reach out 🌸

[mulling-over-milgram]

Day two // actually started binding in my book binding project :0 (unbelievable)

Today was much more productive! I had the whole day (mostly) to work on it so l got heaps done! I didn't get as much done as I thought but l'm starting to suspect that it's because I over estimate my out put rather then I wasn't productive enough.

first thing I finished I don't have a full photo of because it was ripped to pieces :) it was a second prototype for the mechanism. It works the exact same way as the original and is pretty much same in general except for alterations to the decorations and this one was made to scale and with the same material as the final project.

I needed to make lots of alterations to it the first one didn't need because the first was to see if I could get the general idea to work this one was to get the exact details fully fleshed out they have the same skeleton but the sizing, shape and placement of the decoration is different something you can't see because it is as aforementioned ripped to pieces :) since it was a prototype I wasn't exactly super careful with it on top of the fact thing were getting changed/moved alot and that I scarified the material for other thing were I could its not in great shape.

(what remains…)

got the window? Thingy done today. (Well their the odd thing I want to tidy up and ad but functionally done) It's definitely the part I'm most proud of so far but I do sorta wish I had different materials. The colouring in pencil looks kinda out of place and the card is flimsier than I would have liked but l worked with what I had and I do like it. The star was originally supposed to be the earths moon but I stuck the planet circle on wrong so they weren’t next to each other anymore…so it changed it to a star! Surprise lucky reference in my kotoko book bind? More likely then you think

Something else thats more likely than you'd think actually book binding shock and awe. The binding isn't great but the biggest problem is l punched the holes in the wrong place :) it was fine in the end it just means the pages are a little out of place but man am I mad at myself for messing up something so simple.

And now for the thing that inspired the project actually pressing the book! Now you might be looking at the video below and be wondering about the label clearly saying 'flower press' and this is what I meant in the original poll when I said the press wasn't technically meant for books. My dads cousin had gotten it for an art project but never used it so he gave it to me because he thought l might want to incorporate some pressed flowers into my art but I realised that the press was big enough to fit a text block into it if you took out the cardboard layers so thats what its being used for.

Lastly I cut the cover boards! They aren't anything to special for now its just cardboard from the backs of old sketch books cut to size.

-uploading all the pictures is taking so long ITS BEEN OVER TWO HOURSSSS so while I waited I cut/folded and glued the inside pages. Nothing fancy just coloured paper.

[separatist-apologist]

I Am Not A Woman, I'm A God

Summary: Elain Archeron only wants revenge on the man who jilted her and turned her village against her. On the Autumn Equinox, she decides to summon a demon and have her vengeance before leaving that village-and the life she'd once hoped for- behind. What comes for Elain is no demon. An ancient God of Chaos rises, binding her life to his. And when he speaks, he makes the most terrifying claim she's ever heard.

He says she's his wife.

TW: dubious consent (in both part 1 and 2). Fuck or die trope (part 2). Coercive language, Lucien as a (dis)respectful King. Light BDSM. Typos.

Part 1: I Am Not A Martyr | AO3

Elain scurried through the darkness, a basket slung over her arm. She glanced upwards at the full moon shining brightly, her feet bare against the cool grass. Wind ruffled her hair, urging her to turn back to her cottage, to go back inside and forget this plan of hers. Elain couldn’t, plunging further into the woods until she found the clearing she was looking for. Swaying treetops encircled the open, starry sky overhead while moonlight poured around her. Elain left the hood of her cloak up over her head as she set her basket on the ground. She pulled her things out one at a time, setting her spellbook at her feet.

Witch! His voice echoed through her mind. Graysen, her beloved, had exclaimed when he’d found the grimoire. You’re a witch!

She’d tried to explain her magic was light, was based in nature. She used it to grow plants, to tend to her garden. She wasn’t like the witches he’d heard stories of, who conjured demons and ancient, slumbering monsters to wreak havoc on the natural world.

Only, now she supposed she was. This night, Autumn Equinox, also featured a full moon. It was rare for the two to line perfectly but when they did, all manner of creatures could be compelled to come forth. Elain meant to call Lucius, a demon of vengeance, and have her revenge. She’d given Graysen everything, including her maidenhead and in return he’d ruined her. Broken their engagement, told the village she was no longer a maiden and a witch. She’d pleaded and begged and when none of that worked, tried to hold her head up high but the shunning had taken its toll. No one came for herbal remedies any longer, just as no one purchased her vegetables. She meant to leave entirely but before she did, Elain would see Graysen punished.

She chewed a mint leaf and began pouring her salt circle carefully. She’d need it to contain the demon, to compel it to do her bidding. She made it thick, passing several times as she chewed slow, swallowing only when she’d finished.

She reached for her tied lavender and eucalyptus, igniting them with her own magic. She’d woven honeysuckle and jasmine in between, hoping to entire the demon with something personal—they were her favorite scents.

Kneeling in the center, Elain hesitated. Her flowers burned gently in the grass beside her, the smoke curling upwards like a lovers caress, wrapping around her throat before vanishing into the night sky. It wasn’t too late to call the whole thing off. To back out. Elain bowed her head and then reached for her last item.

A long, jagged knife sheathed in leather lay harmless by her thigh. She pulled it out, examining the gleaming metal in the moonlight. Elain flipped open her book where she’d hidden the stolen, ripped page. She’d translated it herself, the language ancient and old. Her coven didn’t dabble in the darkness and as consequence, Elain’s grasp of the old language was only adequate. Good enough to read down a list of requirements to get her demon. Blood, to bind him, and then the evoking spell.

Elain took a breath. She assumed the demon would retreat once the full moon receded, but the blood would bind it to her will. If nothing else, Elain could always banish it back to hell, or wherever it came from. She tested the sharpness, not quite cutting her skin as she worked her way up to actually slicing her palm. The wind blew louder, a warning howl not to follow through with her plan.

Go home, she felt it beg. But Elain could not. She could not spend the rest of her life knowing Graysen lived, happy and carefree while she hid, terrified like a little mouse. She would make him feel her fear, if only for one night.

The blade screamed over her skin and Elain bit back a sob at the burning pain. Blood pooled over her palm, dripping over her wrist. She reached for the little opal stone, clutching the smooth, cool surface as though it might do anything to help the bite.

And then, without letting herself think of the foolishness of her plan for a moment longer, Elain began to speak the evoking words. Binding Lucius, demon of vengeance, to her. It was almost a vow, half prayer, half curse. Her will would be his, her life his. She spoke that final word, aeternitas. Until she willed it otherwise.

The ground beneath her shook violently and Elain waited, wondering if the demon would appear with smoke and fire, trailing the scent of brimstone and rot just behind. The rumbling stopped, leaving nothing but utter stillness in its wake. She didn’t move for what felt like hours, until the wind picked up and the world was normal again.

No demon. No vengeance. Elain let out a soft sob, rising to her feet furiously. She kicked the immaculate salt circle with her bare foot before gathering the rest of her things. Her hand throbbed from the blade and her feet ached from the unforgiving, rocky ground beneath her. It hadn’t been a guarantee, of course but Elain had been so sure the demon would come, if only out of curiosity. It wasn’t every day a nature witch called upon hell for vengeance, after all.

The walk back was longer. Elain let herself delight a little in the cool, autumn air fluttering around her. The world seemed different to her in a way she couldn’t quite explain and Elain was uneasy as she stepped from the forest. Gold seemed to hang in the air, glittering dust particles that shifted and danced in the moonlight. Behind her, the trees swayed and groaned, as though forced to move by a hand they were not used to obeying.

The air smelled crisp and yet older, somehow. She looked over her shoulder more than once, wondering if she was being stalked by her demon. It was bound to her, unable to harm her and yet the prickling on the back of her neck didn’t abate. She was relieved when she saw her cottage sitting alone on the hilltop overlooking her village beneath. Far from the villagers, just as they preferred. Tomorrow she’d pack it up entirely and begin the journey elsewhere, hoping for a fresh start in a place not so superstitious.

Smoke curled towards the violet, star freckled sky overhead, a cheerful omen that put Elain at ease. Over her door hung more jasmine and honeysuckle, the scent mingling with the crisp, cool air still dancing around her. Elain reached for the silver handle, adjusting the wicker basket on her arm.

The world stilled again as she turned the handle.

Run!

It was too late. Elain was not alone, not anymore. And whatever she’d summoned? Well, the shirtless man standing in the middle of her cottage was certainly no demon. His lips curled into a smile, revealing perfect, too white teeth. Wild red hair fell around his shoulders, braided in places, with little golden rings glinting in the firelight. Three ugly scars streaked across a golden eye, marring the otherwise beautiful brown skin of his face. His other eye was a strange brownish red, unblemished and flickering just like the flames from her fireplace behind him.

Every inch of him was hardened muscle, his bicep circled by a golden snake, his legs wrapped in tight black pants. And Elain knew viscerally he was something older, something far more dangerous than a simple demon.

“Who are you?” she asked, her spine cold with dread. Her voice shook with fear.

“You do not recognize your own husband?” he replied, that curling smile ever more cruel when he registered her panic.

“I…I am not married—”

No?” he interrupted softly, not moving from his place on the wood floor. His large, broad body seemed to suck up the space, making her feel small by comparison. “Did you not read the vows? Did you not pledge your life, your will, your soul? Did you not seal it in your blood?”

He held up his palm, revealing a shiny, matching scar on his own hand, a twin of her own. “I…no…I was summoning a demon of vengeance,” she tried to explain. His laugh was rich and dark with amusement.

“Oh, is that what you thought when you spoke of eternity?”

“Eternity?”

“Yes, little witch. Aeternitas. Eternity. Your life and mine, intertwined, inexorably bound.” She shook her head. “A mistake. I can undo it.”

His expression darkened. “No.” “Surely you don’t wish to be…bound to me, for eternity?”

He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. “Oh, but you’re wrong. I watched you walk into the woods, and I hoped you would see the words. I spoke them with you, I offered my blood. You are mine.” She took a step backwards, reaching for the door handle. It didn’t budge. “Who are you?”

His grin was sharp. Feral. “I will tell you my name only to hear you scream it later.”

That stilled her. “What did you—”

But he cut her off, unconcerned with her new, sharper fear. He straightened his spine, somehow taller. Bigger. A wreath of flame crowned him, bathed him in orange and red light and Elain knew what she had done the moment she the terrifying creature looking back at her.

He seemed old because he was old. Ancient. A God.

“Lucien,” he breathed, smoke pouring from his mouth. “God of Chaos.”

Elain couldn’t take another moment. She tried to gulp down air, desperate to hold on to reality.

It was no use.

Her vision blackened and the last thing she saw was his mismatched eyes watching her.

Feral with hunger.

~*~

Elain had the strangest feeling of warmth when she woke. She felt positively toasty, as though she were beneath the finest heated blanket instead of her own threadbare one. Comforted that she’d been trapped in a nightmare, Elain went to turn, her wrists aching from their position. Something hot tugged, holding her in place. Elain opened her eyes, back in her nightmare. Lucien was there at the foot of the bed, head cocked as he examined her and Elain realized the warmth was coming from his own strange magic, binding her around her hands and her ankles.

“Let me go,” Elain whispered, cognizant of the clothes still hiding her body.

“Will you run?”

“No,” she lied. Their eyes met and Lucien waved a hand, releasing her. And Elain scrambled from the bed, flying towards the door. Lucien caught her easily, chuckling. She felt his nose run against her neck, burying itself in her hair.

“I’m tempted to unleash you on the world and give chase,” he whispered, his words making her shiver. “Would you like that, wife?”

“I’m not your wife,” she replied, squirming against his tight hold. He didn’t release her, leaving her hoisted in the air, her back pressed to his chest.

“You are,” he disagreed, inhaling deeply. Still, he dropped her back to her bed and this time did not restrain her. “You feel it. Right… here.” And she did, felt the soft tug beneath her rib cage. Elain knew what magic felt like, understood how it bound things and people to the world. This was magic in its rawest, purest form, a thread tied to her rib that connected against his own.

“I didn’t…it was an accident,” she whispered, rubbing the spot he’d yanked just beneath her breast while he watched in that quiet, hungry was of his.

“Explain,” he demanded, spreading his legs, arms crossed over his bare, gleaming chest. Husband. The word clanged through her, rattling her bones. Could she truly marry a man without realizing what she said? Surely there was some loophole to this, a reasonable explanation he’d listen to. Elain steadied herself, certain this situation was just as upsetting to him as it was to her.

“My fiancé abandoned me,” she told him, keeping her voice calm and clear. “I only meant to summon Lucius…I was leaving in the morning.”

“And you still will,” Lucien replied dismissively. “I’ll handle the fiancé.” He took two thundering steps towards the door before she caught him, nearly tripping over the hem of her muddied dress to grab his muscular bicep. He looked down, eyes heated and Elain quickly released him. “Don’t do that.” “Why not? This is what you wanted.” But she knew the God of Chaos was allowed to play by his own rules, could do whatever he wished. The magic he possessed was unlike anything she could have dreamt of and there was nothing stopping him.

“It’s…”

“You are full of contradictions, wife. You vow yourself body and soul to me and then run away the moment I make good on your offering. You want vengeance but when I offer, you ask me not to.”

“I don’t want to kill him—” “Because you still love him?” Lucien sneered mockingly, turning to face her fully. She backed away breathlessly, too aware of how large his body was and how easy it would be to overpower her. He’d done it once and she knew he would do it again if she couldn’t convince him to leave. That was all Elain needed—if she could get him out of the house, she could come up with a new plan, one that took her far away from the chaos surrounded her.

“No, I don’t love him—” “That’s lucky for him,” Lucien murmured, reaching a broad hand to brush a piece of hair from her face. “I’d kill him for it.”

She steepled her fingertips in front of her body, hating how he watched her every minute gesture, as if everything utterly fascinated him. “Surely there is a loophole to this…marriage?”

It was the wrong thing to say. Lucien erupted, his rage made manifest by flame. Elain scrambled to the bed again which, in retrospect, was a mistake. Her arms yanked over her head, bound by warm flame and tied to the headboard. He’d left her feet unbound and she wondered if he didn’t like her resistance, up to a point.

“There is no loophole,” Lucien murmured, the flames receding back into his body until the man remained. He rolled his neck, glossy, molten hair falling around his face. “I made my vows to you gladly.”

“You don’t know me,” Elain pleaded, tugging against her restraints. “Please. Let me go.”

The shake of his head was imperceptible, practically unnoticeable. “If I let you go, will you run from me?”

Her whole body shook. She didn’t know if it was fear or the new thread of arousal that had spiked, so foreign that she immediately squashed it. She had the feeling he could sense those feelings and might pounce the very second she made any hint of her interest known.

“I think you would like if I ran,” she whispered as he approached again. He reached for one of her flailing legs, gripping her ankle tightly in his too large hand. She tried to kick him once, aiming for his face but his hold was ironclad. Calloused fingers rubbed against the inside of her calve, pulling her closer and closer until she realized he’d unrestrained her hands. She could have twisted, could have thrashed…but when he ran his nose along the inside of her knee, inhaling again, Elain could only watch with burning fascination.

“I would like very much if you ran from me,” he admitted. “I would like to have you among the leaves and rot.” “There will be no having,” she informed him shakily. He smiled, mouth pressed to the skin of her leg. Elain tugged, then, reminded that she was far too compliant for an unwilling bride but Lucien only held tighter, lowering himself until his head was between her legs.

“No?” he murmured, his breath hot against her body. “Your scent tells a different story.” “Stop it,” she whispered, fisting the sheets in her hands. The rough pads of his fingertips slid further up her legs, parting them with ease.

“Let me convince sell you on this union.” His murmured words were curling smoke, wrapping around her neck until Elain could only smell crisp night air and the blooming fire that trailed him. Heat, bright and golden, wrapped itself around her and for a moment, she let him stare down at her half naked form, his lips mere inches from her body. “Let me taste you, wife.”

The word settled in her stomach like a warning. She kicked him, then, the flat of her foot connecting with his lovely face. He staggered back and Elain flew off the bed, reaching for the door handle so she could run through the night, back to the woods where this had all begun.

Her hand throbbed at her side, her feet crunching over strewn leaves. Wind blew her hair behind her, the cool bite sharp against her overheated skin. It didn’t occur to her until she reached the tree line that he must have opened the door. The same one he’d locked.

And he’d be coming for her. Giving chase.

Just like he’d wanted.

~*~

Running back into the woods was the worst idea Elain had ever had. It seemed as though all her ideas backfired on her. Leading him into further darkness, where she’d be at his mercy, where no one would hear her if she screamed…Elain stopped dead in her tracks. She couldn’t see anything in the dimness surrounding her. Clouds obscured the once moon bright sky, leaving her to scan her surroundings with her own poor vision, looking for his looming presence in the dark. She couldn’t see him and yet she could feel his eyes watching her, waiting to see what she’d do next.

Elain shivered, the memory his mouth on her leg forcing her to clench her thighs tighter. Magic, she lied to herself. It was only his magic.

She could try and get back to her cottage and find some way to keep him out. A spell, perhaps? A lock? None of it seemed strong enough to prevent him from just strolling back in when he tired of their game.

The woods were a non starter. She knew what would happen out there…and wasn’t entirely sure she didn’t want to find out what, exactly, he could do among the leaves and the rot, as he’d said. She knew he wouldn’t hear her if she said no…and suspected she might not ask him to stop if he ever managed to do the things his hands and eyes were promising. If he believed her to be his wife now, what would he think once they’d consummated things?

That left one option. Her sisters lived just beyond the village, further out closer to the sea. Elain had moved inland to be closer to Graysen. She thought if she could find shelter among the village residents and take off in the morning, she might be able to shake him. Perhaps he’d tire of waiting once he realized he could not lure her from others.

She took a breath, her heart pounding. The villagers did not trust her, believed her to be the cause of all their problems. Surely, though, someone would be sympathetic. Someone would take pity on her, would remember that she’d delivered nearly ten babies during her time, had sat with the sick, had helped bury loved ones.

The wind whistled around her softly, a familiar warning. Don’t, it seemed to warm, pushing against her face. Shoving her towards the trees, as if the woods were somehow safer. She knew what was lurking, what manner of monster meant to claim her if she turned around.

She smelled the burning wood before she ever saw the massive fire, built in the middle of the town square. From her position at the village gate, Elain watched with fascination how the flames licked towards the sky, smoke blotting out the twinkling stars. It was far too late for such a bonfire and for a minute, she thought something had caught fire. She didn’t notice, from how far she was, the people who kept it going, stoking it with wood and other material until the flames reached far higher than anything Elain had ever seen. What could they possibly need with a fire so big, so hot?

“You shouldn’t be here,” a voice whispered, fingers curling around her upper arm. Elain started, surprised to see one of the midwives holding her. Elain let her drag her into shadow, hiding between the thatched homes that were arranged so neatly within the village. The smell of tallow and lavender told her they were just beside the soap makers. Elain had delivered one their babies. “You need to run.”

“I need help,” Elain tried to explain, her eyes desperately searching in the dark for some ounce of kindness. “Please, I am being hunted—” “I am aware of what hunts you,” the woman interrupted. “Go to the woods where it is safe. They won’t follow you in there.”

Elain shook her head because of course Lucien would follow her in. He would dance into that tree line singing as he undid his trousers, determined to claim something that did not belong to him. “Listen, it’s only for—”

“You found her,” Graysen’s voice cut through Elain’s plea and the woman released her grip with a shove, pushing her towards Elain’s once beloved. Elain stepped into a silvery beam of moonlight, suddenly able to see. Graysen looked down at her, his brown eyes steely and unforgiving. He radiated a coldness that made her shiver in the Autumn chill, fear slithering up her spine. “I was just about to pay you a visit.”

In the distance, the fire cracked menacingly. “A visit?” Elain asked, looking over her shoulder at the midwife. Her face betrayed apology though she said nothing. She would do nothing to stop what was happening, would only hope Elain understood that today it was Elain but tomorrow it could be any one of them.

“More cattle are dead, Elain. We have begged you to stop and still you afflict us with your terrible curse.”

“I’m not killing cattle!” Elain protested, dodging when Graysen lunged for her. “You know I’m not!”

“I don’t know you at all. You bespelled me to—” “I did not such thing!” she shrieked angrily, rising her hand to strike him. He caught her wrist roughly, twisting until he threatened to break the bone. Elain’s indignation became pain, letting him pin her arms behind her back. “Graysen, you have to know I didn’t…” “It explains everything,” he grunted, dragging coarse rope over the delicate flesh. Her palm seemed to scream in agony at this new intrusion, the wound still too fresh to take any further abuse.

“If I truly had you in my thrall, how did you manage to escape?” she demanded, wincing against how tightly he bound her.

A crowd was gathering, murmuring abusive comments and other words of encouragement to Graysen. At her question, they fell silent, waiting to hear. How had he managed? Elain waited for whatever vile bullshit he would offer up, lies the crowd would devour in their thirst for blood.

“I am stronger than you,” he finally retorted, yanking on her hold as though to demonstrate the truth of his claim. “It was only a matter of time.”

“Yes, how convenient it happened after you compromised my virtue!” she spat.

“That was more of your doing!” he snapped and she hated him in that moment, hated so much she would have done anything to be free of her bonds, to face him if only to spit in his lying, cowardly face. “You have brought this all on yourself. Who knows what might have happened to a lesser man—”

“You are a lesser man!” she screamed as he began to drag her towards that cackling, roaring fire. It’s use was now apparent to her, her demise so laughably obvious she wondered how she had not realized sooner. “You are a coward—”

His hand struck across her face and the crowd roared its approval. Chaos, it seemed, reigned in the village that night and Elain was merely a slave to its will. She dug her heels into the dirt, determined to fight Graysen every step of the way. She would not go quietly, would not let him force her into the role of martyr so he would be absolved of what he’d done. No one could force him to honor his promise to her, to hold up his end of their night together, if she was dead. Elain wished she could scream in the faces of every villager, of every woman that hungrily cried out for her dead.

And so she did. “What happens when it is your husband who tires of you?!” she screamed, legs flailing against Graysen’s hold on her body.

The world stilled so suddenly Elain was jarred by the silence. The bonds on her wrists vanished, leaving her the only moving thing in a portrait of promised violence. The wind whipped again, warmer than before and behind her, flame erupted furiously. Heavy boots stomped loudly in the darkness, bringing Chaos himself before her. Eyes burning, his brilliant red hair wreathed in flame.

“When I told you to run, this was not what I meant,” he complained, gesturing at the frozen crowd scattered around her. “Would you rather die than be mine?”

“Are those my options?” Elain retorted, forgetting the danger that surrounded her for a moment. His expression darkened, half hidden in the inky night. “Yes.”

“You’d leave me here?” she demanded and Lucien’s resulting chuckle made her shiver. It wasn’t fear slithering up her spine anymore. She hated the reaction he provoked, wanted to know how he managed it. Was it magic, like Graysen claimed? Or was it something else?

The thought was too terrifying to comprehend. She had enough problems in the moment.

“Oh no. If you choose death I will merely endeavor to change your mind.” “Then why bother giving me a choice at all?” she asked, exasperated. He cocked his head, a smile curling over his handsome face.

“You want a choice. I am content with what I have, sweet wife. Now…I believe I have been summoned, this evening.” “I didn’t mean—” she began to protest, but he held up his hand.

“They have summoned me and if they are not careful, will draw the attention of War and Vengeance as well.”

Elain turned, her horror returning in full force. “You can’t…they’re innocent.”

“Each of them,” Lucien began, his words silky and dark, “Hopes desperately your death will be drawn out. Painful. A show for them to watch, to discuss in the morning. How they dress it up as justice, but I can see their desires, I can read their hearts. They suspect this one,” Lucien paused before Graysen, lips curling into a sneer, “Is lying so he might marry the blacksmiths daughter. He was caught with her and swore to uphold her honor…a hard task given he was already betrothed to another.”

Pain lanced through her chest. “You’re lying.”

“I don’t care enough about any of this to lie,” Lucien snapped. “What would you have done had you summoned your demon correctly?”

Elain looked to Graysen, frozen in the firelight. His face, twisted with hatred, his cowardice so apparent. She’d assumed he just…never loved her at all. She supposed that was still truth. To hear he’d been with another, that her death paved the way for him to marry that woman, well… “I wanted him to die.”

It was the ugliest thing she’d ever admitted. Lucien’s featured twisted with satisfaction and she realized he must have known the truth of the matter all along. He circled her body until he stood behind her, his back to the crackling flames. His fingers curled one by one over her shoulder. He lowered his head, his breath hot against her neck. “Let me give my new wife a gift.”

Heat bloomed through her body. “I’m not your wife,” she reminded him, ignoring his dark chuckle.

“Not yet. Just as soon as I end this pathetic man’s life.”

She hesitated as time picked back up. The crowd was still humming, their noise rising and then immediately falling when they realized something wasn’t quite right. Graysen spun, looking for the prey he’d just held in his arms. She wondered what it must feel like to blink and realize the God-like status you’d assigned to yourself could be so cruelly snatched by an actual God. Lucien’s presence was imposing, the smile on his face cruel and beautiful with equal measure. Graysen stumbled backwards at the sight of the crown of flames licking across his forehead, a near match for the ember in his eyes.

“What have you done?” Graysen whispered, turning to look at Elain.

“Mortal,” Lucien’s booming voice was condemnation, was hell on Earth and the most terrifying thing Elain had ever heard in her entire life. Surely it had not come from the same man? Her heart pounded even as his fingers dug sharper against her shoulders, reassuring her she was the only one safe from his promised wrath. “It is you who have summoned me here with claims of a witch.”

The remaining color drained from Graysen’s face. “I...I…she has been killing cattle—” “I would not lie,” was Lucien’s only declaration, each word dripping with promise should Graysen not heed the warning. Lucien stepped around Elain, his steps echoing in the ground beneath them. The crowd skittered backwards, their fear heady in the bonfire rich air.

“Take it back and I’ll spare you,” Lucien whispered when he approached Graysen. The heigh difference between the two men was hardly noticeable and yet Lucien’s broadness, the musculature of his frame and the raw power he seemed to exude made him seem twice as large. Graysen cowered in his presence.

And Elain knew, before Graysen ever whispered, “I take it back,” that Lucien would kill him no matter what. He would kill him for the lie or Lucien would kill him for his cowardice. Lucien looked at her, waiting for a moment. Teeth gleamed in the moonlight.

And she ran for the second time that night.

~*~

This time, when the trees appeared in Elain’s line of sight, she didn’t hesitate. She plunged into the darkness, her feet flying over the branch and leaf strewn floor. She ignored the ache in her feet and the pain in her hand, listening for the sound of screams. They came all at once, a symphony of fear and pain…and then stopped all at once. Her stomach lurched, not in horror at what she’d signed off on, but anticipation. If he was done in the village, he’d turn his gaze to her.

The wind murmured its agreement, blowing swift and cool around her too hot body. He was coming.

A smarter woman would have given in. It occurred to Elain, when she heard the sound of his walking steps behind her, when she smelled that rich, crisp scent, that she was better off stopping where she was and giving in. Accepting her fate was the only reasonable choice and still Elain decided she would keep running, past the clearing that had started it all, further into the dark until the spidery veins of the now empty trees swayed a silent warning beneath the Autumn moon.

Lucien caught her roughly, the force of his body knocking the wind from her lungs. The pair sailed to the ground in a tangle of limbs. He panted though if it was his own exertion or desire that stole his breath, she didn’t know. The two struggled for dominance until he had her arms pinned over her head, one knee firm between her legs.

“It’s over now, wife,” he breathed. “Stop fighting.” “I’ll never stop,” she retorted hotly, ignoring the way her body pulled towards his. She squirmed, gasping when he ground hard against her, the hardness of him heady and terrifying all at once. “You are mine.”

“You can’t own a person,” she whispered against the brush of his lips, attempting to angle her hips away from his. It only caused more friction, which in turn brought more heat. She was panting now and couldn’t pretend some of it wasn’t desire…at least a little. “Get off me.” “No,” he replied, his hand sliding down her still clothed body. “I made you a promise. If you didn’t want me to uphold it…why did you run?”

She closed her eyes. “You frighten me.”

The kiss he leveled against her mouth was part assault, part brutal claim. He gathered her aching wrists in one large hand, keeping them pinned atop her head, freeing himself to tangle the other in her hair. His tongue pried against her teeth and when Elain bit against his lip, hoping to cause him pain, he merely groaned loudly and bucked his hips, letting her know she’d pleased him by accident.

And the kiss itself? Electric. Elain could claim some sort of magic infused his lips, settled against his tongue. She writhed against him, unsure what she would do if she managed to free herself even as she kissed him back, drawing blood in her desperation to punish him. His tongue slid over the roof off her mouth, sending a pulse of heat lightning hot through her body. The arousal threaded over her skin, making a mockery of Elain’s protests.

“Don’t,” she whispered at the feel of his hand, touching her breasts through her dress until he found her peaked nipples and pinched. The rustle of the fabric only heightened the sensation, drawing a gasp from her throat. “Lucien, stop.” “I can smell you,” he groaned, ignoring her protests to thrust against her, his nose buried against her neck. “You are the only thing I can smell and it is driving me insane.” Fingers curled around the hem of her dress, pulling it over her hips. “Lucien—” he silenced her with another punishing kiss, claiming her with his mouth. The taste of him, heady and golden, coated her tongue until her pulls against his grip were to free herself, not for escape so much as to thread her fingers through his hair.

It was wrong, so very, very wrong to let him have her this way. He was a stranger whose claim was dubious at best. For all she knew he’d merely seen her in the woods and decided to debauch the maiden for fun. She needed clarity and perhaps some proof of his claim before she woke alone in the forest floor covered in his emissions, ruined for the second time by a man.

“Lucien—” her protest slid into a gasp as his fingers pulled aside her under garment and slid the length of her. He hissed, eyes flying open to look down at her with accusation. His hand returned to her face, brushing the wetness against her own lips.

“Liar,” he crooned, invading her mouth with the pads of his fingers so she could taste her own arousal. “Beautiful little liar.” She whimpered, not from the intrusion but from the loss of his touch. She arched against him, saliva sliding down her chin when he pushed his fingers deeper, forcing her to inhale the musky sweetness of her body. His breathing was labored, eyes almost frenzied as they watched.

“I’m going to release you,” he warned, squeezing his hold along her wrist for just a moment. “If you fight me, I’ll take you while you kick and scream.” She shivered at the thought, nodding while she watched, his face still inches from her own. “Don’t make me regret this,” he all but begged, grinding his cock against her wet core with the same desperation she was pretending she didn’t feel. “I need to taste you, I beg of you—” And the thought that a God might beg her for anything was heady, made her feel powerful for the first time in her life. Elain nodded and his grip vanished so he could hoist himself over her, caging her beneath his larger, more powerful frame. He brushed his thumb over her lip, the wound on his palm catching in a silvery slip of moonlight.

“You’re bleeding,” she whispered as he slithered down his body, unconcerned about the cut he, too, bore on his palm.

“We will deal with that later,” he grunted. He settled on his knees between her thighs, holding the edge of her dress in his hands. Ripping fabric shattered the peace around them, sending several lingering birds screaming for safety. She gasped, suddenly extremely exposed, not just to the cool bite of Autumn air but to his burning, possessive gaze. Her hands flew to her breasts and Lucien shook his head.

“Don’t make me tie you up,” he warmed, his good palm flickering to life like a candle. He reached for his pants. Panic flared to life and Elain scooted backwards, dragging leaves with her. He tutted, his irritation plain. He snapped his fingers, and her hands were rebound in soft, almost tickling flame that roped her to a nearby tree. He cocked his head to the side, admiring her as he freed himself from his pants.

“I’m starting to think you enjoy restraint,” he murmured, rising to his full height to shed himself of his boots. He held his thick, large cock in his hands, the head beaded with moisture. Her gut tightened, a mixture of fear and desire warring from dominance. He was the largest man she’d ever seen, the tip of his cock stretching towards the dense trail of hair covering his taut abdomen. In his overlarge hands, it seemed threatening and Elain squirmed, tugging on the magic bonds she knew she could not escape from. Wind blew over her naked body, eliciting a shivered moan she could not hide from his ever-watchful gaze.

“Are you frightened, wife?” he asked, stroking himself again. He lowered himself to his knees, still holding the base of his shaft in his hand.

“Yes,” she admitted truthfully. His eyes rolled backwards for a moment and he inhaled, reassuring himself that whatever fear she felt was punctuated by desire. Or perhaps he did not care if she enjoyed herself at all. Perhaps her fear was enough. He released his hold on his body to reach for her legs, smiling when she offered a halfhearted kick to his chest. Firmly, with more force than was warranted, he spread her apart. Eyes burned, twin flames of red and gold in the dark. While shadow danced over his golden-brown skin, lit softly from whatever fire burned just beneath his skin, she sensed he could see her with perfect clarity. His eyes cut through the dark and allowed him a perfect view of what he sought.

“I am going to enjoy you,” he whispered, lifting her hips until he held her in broad hands, his biceps bulging as he arched her off the ground, bringing her pussy mere inches from his lips. Elain panicked again, writhing against her restraints. No one had ever—

“Wait—”

He did not wait, sliding his tongue over her in one long, broad, wet stroke that silenced her for a moment. It was wrong, her brain screamed even as her struggling shifted, not to escape, but to bring her closer to the heat of his mouth. “Stop,” she whispered, her plea no longer believable to even her own ears. He merely laughed, licking again with a delicious slowness.

“You are so wet,” he groaned, so loud even the trees stopped their rustling to listen.

“It’s you,” she protested with a gasp, refusing to admit she liked how soft his tongue felt against her body, how good those slow circles he was making against the trembling nub of flesh made her feel.

“Liar,” he whispered, breath curling against her skin. “Struggle for me, little wife.”

And she did, yanking against the bond until his face was buried against her, his tongue flicking back and forth, lavishing attention over a part of her body she’d never given a terrible amount of consideration to. Perhaps he knew, had pulled the memory from Graysen before he ended his life, looking at the quick, otherwise forgettable night they’d spent together. She’d once thought it special but now, tied to the forest floor as she writhed against his face, Elain thought it rather plain.

Embarrassing.

Lucien moaned against, the sound threading through her body. His fingers dug into her thighs until she was certain he’d left fingertipped sized bruised dotted against her skin. Leaves rustled beneath them, muffling the wet sound of his lips sucking, licking, tasting ever available inch and then redoubling his efforts.

Pleasure, bright and hot, ripped through her body, urging her towards an unknowable end. She could not say a word, her lips pressed together to keep her from betraying herself, from begging him to keep going. Nails dug into the dirt, anchoring her to the earth below her, blanketed in a dusting of gold and ash and still he didn’t stop, until her world was a mere moment, pinpointed in the space between her clitoris and his mouth.

She screamed involuntarily, splintering into pieces. Her hips bucked and he spread her wider, his tongue faster, hotter than before. It was perfect for one blissful moment. She was outside her body, practically floating as she lost herself, stuck somewhere in the place where pain and pleasure mingled and met. She attempted to pull herself from his grasp, to let him know she was coming down, but Lucien did not stop. He yanked, one arm settling over her pelvis so he could continue his feast, utterly ravenous.

“Lucien,” she gasped, over sensitive and desperate for relief.

“Scream,” was all he said, his word a command. “I need to hear it again. Music.” “Stop,” she begged, pleasure rebuilding, too hot, too fast. Lucien held her against the ground, ignoring how she writhed until she did exactly as he demanded, screaming her plea even as her thighs clenched, her body locking around his head. He was lost and she knew it, determined to take every ounce of pleasure he could without a care as to how he got it. A tear slid down her cheek, her body shook. It was too much, each new orgasm ripping through her anew, robbing her of breath.

And then, when she thought he meant to torture her with his mouth all night, he pulled back. Resting on his haunches, he looked down at her, his cock bobbing between his legs. Gingerly, he reached back between her quivering cunt and spread her wide, as though trying to gauge what he thought she could take.

He snarled softly, releasing his hold on her to look up at the sky overhead. Violet had given way to a dusky rose, betraying the suns eminent rise. Relief pooled through her and Elain relaxed for a moment despite her runaway heartbeat. Reprieve, if only for a moment. She was exhausted, wrung out and still in pain. Her legs ached from all the running, her wrists chafed from constantly being bound and her palm, still bleeding from the knife, oozed a trickle of blood that was beginning to worry her.

Lucien snapped his fingers and tickling fire vanished, dropping her wrists back to the cool bed of leaves. She watched him yank on his pants, his irritation apparent.

“What’s going on?” she asked, suddenly afraid he meant to abandon her. He said nothing until his boots were back on his feet. With a wave of his hand, a cloak fashioned from dark fibers draped itself over her body, fluttering to earth like the sweetest feather. He let her sit up amid the ruined, ripped tatters of her dress, wrapping the soft, warm fabric around her overly sensitive body.

He didn’t wait for her to clamber to her feet. He merely scooped her up against his hot, bare chest and began walking further into the woods, his back against the rising sun. “Where are you taking me?” she asked, twisting in his arms in an attempt to look over broad shoulders.

He frowned. “Where else would I take you, wife? I’m taking you home.”

“Home?” she repeated. Lucien’s smile was blinding, beautiful and cruel all at once. “Yes, wife. Home.”

[yandere-wishes]

A Story Told In Maybes  {Part #1}

🗡️Yandere! Enma Yuuken x reader

🗡️Summary: Enma Yuuken lives on the fine line between "Hero" and "Villain" but his story will never end in a "happily ever after" or a "tragically ever after" it will only end in Maybe...

🗡 Edited by the amazing @tealyjade-libran

🗡️ Alternative title: How many times can Genie use "Damn" in a story...

Maybe in some other world, they could have been lovers

Imagine that...

picture it as vividly as a fresh stab wound to your heart. Sketch the vision of a red waterfall carrying away your life. 

Now picture two people. A young man and woman, sitting on a park bench, holding hands and laughing, inching closer and closer. 

Imagine love, happiness, tranquility...

But those things only exist in fairy tales. And his life was most certainly not a fairy tale. 

They were foreigners, outsiders, aliens. Banished into a strange land were twisted fairy tales, roamed the earth. Where magic and mischief came as naturally to the inhabitants as breathing. Where nothing mattered, because nothing was. Everything is and thus it isn't. Nothing made sense, and sometimes, in some rare moments of stolen repose, Enma Yuuken was scared that nothing would ever make sense again. 

All of it, every microscopic thing about this 'new world' was wrong, abnormal, twisted. 

Everything except his traveling companion. Another lost soul as disjointed and out of place as he was. Another ghost trying to survive in this matrix of a so-called reality. 

There was no shock initially, no surprise in not being the only normal creature to be transported to this bizarre world. Enma knew full well that he wasn't special in any way. Another foreigner being here was one of the few things that actually made sense. 

But as the old expression goes, everything comes at a price. 

Someone else just like him being here, being stuck in this nightmare, made sense. Yet the price of logic was a thread of hysteria that had woven itself deep within his battered heart. A maddening sense that gripped his lungs, robbing them of breath. That picked off pieces from his tattered mind, replacing them with clear cutout thoughts of her. It was always only her.

His companion in this broken world just had to be you. A frail, naïve little girl with no sense about her. Some pretty-girl protagonist straight out of the pages of Shojo Beats. The kind of girl who finds her happily ever after no matter where the hell she is. 

Yet he did not have that luxury, his life was dictated by a series of maybes and could bes. He was a secondary character at best, a background shadow at worst. With no purpose other than smiling and waving. And listening to the protagonist weep about their love-driven woes.

Some days, when the dreary bell chimed for the last time, when the students marched back to the solitude of their dorms, Enma would wander around the halls, squirming in his own misery. Pondering why, oh why of all the people, in all the towns, in all the worlds, did you have to be the one to wind up in this grim land along with him. 

Why fate always had to be so cruel, so domineering, thinking it knew better than the people whose miserable lives it toyed with. He wanted to be your lover, your prince, yours. But what would a guy, who doesn’t even belong in this backward world, have to offer some heroine-type sweetheart? 

🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️

The Ramshackle’s flickering porch light glows in the distance. Like a dying star beckoning him to a destroyed paradise. He knows what's waiting for him behind the worn door. He knows you'll be there standing by the cracked dinner table, laying out days-old sandwiches for dinner, while Grimm rangles with an expired can of tuna. He knows you'll smile with tears in your doe-like eyes as you retell the fables of your endeavors. Telling him in great detail how the so-called king of beasts overpowered you in the school garden. How the King of poisons stole yet another kiss. The tales go on and on. Never-ending, never stopping, never giving him the chance to scavenge the fragments of his shattered heart.

You play your role so damn well. You know how to be the damsel in distress, the poor thing in need of saving. It's repulsive, disgusting...but only because he doesn't know how to be the hero that you need. 

If he was being honest -something he rarely did nowadays- Those "prefects" were the root of all his problems. They were the evil that made this dark world an endless horror. They'd been the ones to drive him into the "caring older brother" role. They had twisted his hand, leading him to the role of the "side-hero" like a lamb to the slaughter. Made him into a prince charming in a world that ate princes alive and spat them out once more. 

They had sealed his fate with a few insults and loaded threats. With just a few longing stares overflowing with lust and envy. They were villains, in a world that celebrated sinners. A world that cheered when the dragon steals the princess and rejoices when the evil king sits upon his skeleton throne. They were villains in every dreadful sense of the damn word. 

It's hard to be in love when all odds are against you. 

When your fate binds you into one role with no way out.

Like a rabbit hole made of quicksand. It dragged him deeper and deeper into intimate madness.

Maybe in some fair world, those leeching villains could keep their greedy blood-drenched hands off of you.

Maybe in a world where the sun never dies, you could bring yourself to love him.

Maybe he could have been the love interest, maybe, maybe, maybe.

It's always only MAYBE!

🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️

"Welcome home Nii-san," 

It's a sweet greeting that ties his guts into ribbons. His hands grow damp as his heavy eyes stare into yours. His lips curl into a painted smile, shielding you from the pain that's clawing in his stomach.

"Hi..(Y/n)"

His voice cracks and croaks like a dying frog. His lips feel abnormally dry and his eyes sting as if they've been pierced by diamond daggers. His steps are heavy as he plops down in his seat. The weight of his worries pulled him down harder than gravity ever could. He watches you through tried, restless orbs. Watches as you waltz over to your seat and sit down with the half grace of some future queen to be. It's bitter, dreadful, leaving a sickly toxin-like taste in his mouth. The mere thought that someday one of those, sinners, will take your hand and drag you to some kingdom far far away makes Enma want to claw his brain out with his bare nails. 

Enma's focus shifts over from his traveling companion to the silver-coated fireball licking his paws. Grimm's teal eyes scan him nervously before he offers a nervous smile, a rarity for the narcissistic cat. He's usually so talkative, so boasting, there was never a moment of tranquility with that cat around...

It takes a moment. A steel coated moment before the gears in Enma's head begin to turn. Before he can place his finger on the heavy abnormality weighing down the atmosphere. His nerves jolt to life, leaving a freezing sweat behind their trail. The room is spinning like a ballroom floor. Something's off, something big and obvious and hidden and...

Maybe...

"So..."

It's your sweet voice that breaks the tension creeping into the air. Melodic and luscious just like the sensation of a blissful dream. The room freezes in its tracks. The heavy atmosphere melts away like a cube of ice. Normality has one foot through the door. Behind it, hope and tranquility peek their heads through the tiny gap.

 Maybe just maybe everything is alright. Maybe it's just him, his stress and anxiety are starting to play cruel jokes on his wonder mind. Maybe he's just going mad. Yeah, that's the sanest conclusion to draw from all this. 

Enma cranes his neck to the side to get a better view of your face. Distress is scribbled all over your skin, like pristine razor cuts. You shift around in your seat, clawing at your uniform skirt as if the midnight black fabric is cutting off your circulation. Your fingers nudge the entrance to your pocket fiddling with something he can't quite make out. 

His voice is low, shaky, as he replies. The unusualness of the situation has him on edge. Nervous to the bitter bone. Maybe he was wrong, maybe his nerves were right to be wary of whatever this was. This uncertainty permeated the air-tight room. 

"What is it?" 

Slowly you drag out a white envelope flooded seven times over from your pocket. You stretch out your hand placing it in between his fingers. Enma throws a passive look at the note, his nose wrinkled up at the familiar scent that pervaded from the paper. 

"What's this?" 

It was rhetorical, asked out of dull, morbid courtesy. This time he didn't bother looking at you, in fear of seeing you look -lord forbids- gleeful. 

"A love letter, Grimm found it in our locker after class." 

There was a pause, lengthy, nerve-wracking, heart wrenching. Yuuken could hear the way your breath hitched in your throat, he could almost feel the excitement radiate off your body. 

"Can you believe it Nii-san? Someone actually left me a love letter!"

It hurt it really did, this time his heart didn't shatter. It simply broke, in two or three or maybe four. Who knows, who cares.  They had escalated from simple harassment and unsightly displays of public affection to leaving you love letters. How ungodly, how absurd, how brave...

He laments, eyes tracing over the fog of his breath as it wafts through the musty room. He wants to rip that damned piece of paper, shred it into millions so the words become ineligible, so you'll never read those horrible words again. So you'll forget that some damn fool other than him can actually love you. But he doesn't, he has too much self restraint and too much respect for his dear "little sister" to actually do it. 

His arm stretches over the table, skin illuminated by the dying candle on the center. He places the letter back safely in between your fingers. His eyes meet yours for only the second time that night. He takes in your face, Committing every piece of it to his miserable memory. The heartily glow in your crystal eyes, the faint schoolgirl smile dancing across your lips, the rose blush kissing your cheeks, the way the candle illuminates your skin, wrapping in a sparkling glow like the princess from those tales of old. You're mesmerizing in every way, it would be reasonable for other men to notice your elegance. No wonder those "prefects" were drawn to you so naturally like moths to a golden flame. 

"Who sent it?" 

His voice comes out like a block of ice, shielding away any and all his stray emotions. He doesn't want to know how doleful he is, he just can't have you taking pity on him. 

Your smile fades ever so slightly, your brows draw closer. Confusion is etched on your face. You haven't got a clue. 

"Well...I'm not sure, but they did say to meet them at the school gates when the clock chimes twelve."

Oh, joy, another fairy tale reference. It's comedic how fairy tales have begun to dictate his life. Everywhere he turns there's a grim tale awaiting him. Yuuken spares a quick glance at the crooked clock hanging by a loose thread. It’s a minute to midnight. 

"I should come with you" 

It's not a request but you take it as so. 

"No need to bother, I'll take Grimm, he could use the walk. He's starting to bulk up a bit"

"HEY! The great Grimm-Sama doesn't "Bulk up" He only gets more powerful!" 

Before the older male can protest, you're already halfway out the door. Grimm scurrying to follow you on all fours like a pesky rat. The door slams on your way out, leaving Yuuken alone with his morbid screeching thoughts. 

There goes the only good thing in his life. Into the arms of another. 

For a second he contemplates leaving you to fate, after all, who's he to disobey fate, go against whoever orchestrates this universe. But it's only a second, short lived and quickly died. 

Maybe he's a hero.

Maybe he's a Prince Charming.

Maybe he's a villain.

Maybe he's just some honorary older brother looking out for his kid sister.

Maybe, just maybe, he's your future lover;

and he'll be damned if he lets you slip out of hands. 

Enma's quick to grab his old practice blade from the overstuffed closet. It's not much, but it's all he has from the normal world, from his world. 

The door grates for the last time that night as he steps out into the cold midnight air. The stars blink in some sort of secret tongue, either warning him or encouraging him, he doesn't know. Nor does he truly care, for Enma Yuuken is done letting life and fate and villains decree his meaningless life. Here and now that's where he'll make his stand, he'll save you. Kiss you. Love you. Marry you. You, You, YOU

But there's still one nagging thought that screams inside his head as he dashes for the school gates. This world worships villains, prays at their feet, and hands them death and destruction on golden plates. And he's no villains, he's some sort of upside-down, in-between. Rotting alone in the border between Hero and Villain. By law of society, he's a reject, a useless foreigner, an alien, an outsider. 

and MAYBE he's already too late...

Who wrote the love letter? Was it the head of the savanaclaw dorm or maybe the head of the heartslabyul dorm ? Maybe it’s the ever mysterious  Tsunotarou... 

[cleansingreflections]

i got a moleskin for my first bullet journal because i like the way the covers feel and then my heart was broken because everything just bled through the fucking paper. moleskin hate club

literally the exact same happened to me. moleskine is so low quality everything bleeds through, the pages are way too thin and also its not wide enough to actually use comfortably, the paper rips like nothing and the cover eventually tears (has happened to me) and they cost SO MUCH it's impossible to use

if you live in europe flying tiger's journals are 1/7 of the price, they have durable covers, they width is comfortable and the paper is thick and nice

dunno how available this one is outside of italy, but from what i know fabriano also has really good quality notebooks, i just bought a couple like 20 minutes ago so i havent written on them yet, but the paper feels also very very nice and they have a lot of different variants depending on how you like the binding

the fact that the most popular and expensive journaling brand's notebooks are worse quality than the ones that are sold at literal flying tiger is hilarious to me though

[syubub]

May 13th Reading

Definitely long awaited and way bigger than I intended it to be so buckle up.

Funky disclaimer: this is for entertainment purposes only and not to be taken as fact! This is my interpretation of the cards!

Oh boy. The continuation of yoongis soulmate saga.

(Note frome future me: it's not proofread but I'm hungry. Sorry for mistakes!)

So so so so

Let's start.

I started with all the normal jazz. Connecting with his energy and shit. Same as usual same old same old. Platform= same same. I was like, "hey, let's talk about your soulmate and the whole may 13th shit" and we connected via energy stringy thing to the forehead and such. I was intresting bc my end of the string was kinda my energy color! Neato. Looks like some rest has really done me good!

Okay, here's where I start actually asking shit. I made notes at this point before the reading as I usually do. I'm just gonna insert the screen shot here.

The 14 thing really fucked me up. You'll see later. Also, when I got the whole Pisces Jupiter thing I had to do me some googling bc we established that Jupiter went into Pisces ON May 13th so I was like?? Am I missing something?

I was. I forgot that it goes retrograde and then co.es back to Pisces on December 28th. And I do indeed think it to be significant.

The shit about temperance makes a lot of sense. In yoongis first soulmate read I flipped my shit bc he was like, "You're gonna get temperance reverse" in regards to a card for his soulmate and I was like "pft whatever. Don't play me like that"

And then I got temperance reverse. It's been a significant card from the jump.

I asked him if he had any advice for his soulmate and that's what "Don't wait for big things, you'll miss the small ones that lead you to bigger things" and "Look for facts before assuming" and "Don't try pushing it, forcing it won't make sense" and "A spade is a spade/ ace is an ace" and "Don't make ill informed guesses" all were

Now this part:

"Union has happened , yet to on the physical"

Gave me some hints thankfully because he straight up said no more hints.

This ties back into the whole Jupiter thing too. The seeds are/ have been planted and now they have to grow before they can be harvested.

Well Mr. Yoongi, I'm impatient and I don't want to wait. I want to see you in love pronto.

Anyways

He showed me a little dream box/ trinket box looking thing and a super vague Keychain with no further explanation... so... there's that I guess.

I can't quite decide if "Don't make ill informed guesses" was a tongue-in-cheek pike at me or if it was genuine advice to his soulmate? He just loves to not explain things.

Now let's begin the monster read.

So. The first row of cards

I asked the question, "what the fuck was May 13th and what was it's purpose in regards to your connection"

Important is what it was lol. I interpret this as them finding their footing and this being the starting point of the genuine foundation being layer. Like they've been manifesting eachother for a while but May 13th marked the start of them making the real life changes in their actual lives that will be the set up for them meeting.

The seven of coins is about thoughtful planning and creating security/ stable plan. The tower is essentially ripping away anything and everything that was built on unstable foundation and challenging/ testing your character (an extremely rude awakeing if you will). Judgement is releasing the past so you can rise above it and confronting yourself as you are (Also legit awakening) the queen of coins is financial security and self confidence in your abilities. Ten of coins is prosperity and abundance and most of all, stability. Eight of wands is explosion of potential and rapid movement. Temperance is awareness and balance between physical and spiritual. It's also that quiet peace where you find balance.

So. Seeing all those cards it really does seem like maybe his soulmate took on something new that could lead straight to union? Same for yoongi. I'd like to analyze and recent or new-ish habits or hobbies he's picked up?

Moving right along though. I asked what the 13th did for each of them in their personal life and personal journey. Kinda like what came as a result of that energy? Let's start with yoongles

This was really intresting to me. I think he definitely gained some form of clarity about the situation with that sun card. The 5 of cups tells me that either he was kinda forced to confront some of his flaws in a way that he was trying to avoid or he had to consciously let go of something dear to him? Could be something he had to leave behind because it crumbled with the tower moment but he didn't see it coming or didn't know that it was time to part with it? With that queen of wands though fits beautifully with the sun! Its like he's found warmth after a long winter. Definitely found a spark of compassion and generosity from a place of happiness and love rather than anger, fear, obligation or pitty.

I asked for clarity cards/ anything else that may 13th signified bringing in and we got the 2 of cups and 10 of swords. I have two thoughts. Either he let go of a relationship that he was already in because he didn't feel as though they were particularly compatible anymore (Also ties into the above section) OR the 13th had made him very much consciously aware of his soulmates incoming status and he is now preparing and working on himself for when this person comes. The 10 of swords would be him releasing the past and the pain and any ill fitting behavior that don't vibe with him any longer. Yellow really seems to be working for him by the way.

Soulmate time

Lol. All signs point to his soulmate genuinely starting a new venture. New creative pursuit that will bring them good money. 10 of pentacles is abundance, prosperity and stability. The ace of wands is a new creative spark and passion and it's the first big steps into something new. The 2 of wands is "the world is in the palm of your hands" vibes. Choices need to be made swiftly and with the ace of wands I think they will be. With the heirophant too, it will be a well informed decision because they've been manifesting this and has been searching for all the possible information.

As for clarity, we have the moon. Damn. Soulmates been doing that shadow work. Dredging up all their bullshit and getting rid of it while still taking the time to sit with it and release it so nothing is unresolved. Also probably extra creative due to all the emotional baggage being thrown out. (Definitely helping with the ace of wands vibes tbh)

Now for the bad boys in the middle

The question I asked is what those individual changes (detailed in the last two sections) will bring for the bond and I just can with them. These fuckers. I am so invested in their love story bc it's so... them? And just so fucking ROMANTIC. UGH I CAN'T.

Back to the point. High priestess, 4 of wands and the lovers. The high priestess is deep knowing and insane intuition, the 4 of wands is the purest joy and marriage and the lovers is well, the lovers.a magical union.

FUCK DUDE I NEED THIS TO BE A ROMCOM.

For the row of bottom cards

I asked if they had anything at all to add so I'm gonna explain each card individually bc I think they could be individual tid bits of shit.

Knight of coins is good news about finances/ money looking promising and organized work (also dependability!!). Death is all about transformation, the beginning of a new chapter and accepting in order to move foward. Ace of coins is spiritual and material abundance and also a reminder to keep grounded. Page of swords is confidence, important news coming and really good insight! Roots out secrets or hidden things like a truffle pig. The star is promising potential, healing and guidance from an enexpected place. The two of cups is a soul connection, love, intuition especially in regards to another person and a good bind. The emperor is self awareness, foresight, fearlessness to achieve a goal and confidence. Eight of coins rev is poor discipline and skating by on low effort.

Now to the sides!

Yoongi is the left, soulmate is the right.

So, let's begin with yoongi. The first two cards are anything he wants to say to his soulmate. Wheel of fortune and three of swords reverse. I take this as "its all in divine time/ it's destiny" (wheel of fortune) and "trust your intuition. It's okay to get hurt, you just need to remember you can always pick yourself up" (3of swords rev.)

We have now cards that I asked what he was learning through this process/ in this time. Be positive and first step.

The last two cards are affirmations he wants to give his soulmate.

"When I introduce joy to a situation, I change the vibrational frequency of what's happening around me" and "directing my focus onto what's thriving creates more of what I want"

Now for soulmates cards (same structure)

Strength and eight of swords. "You're stronger than you think. Take every part of yourself and acknowledge it. You're a force to be reckoned with" (strength) and (soulmate snapped at him on this) "the only thing holding you captive is you."

Now we have peer pressure (I think soulmate is learning to say "fuck you" and "fuck off" to people who have a set idea of how everyone should be living their lives), emotional healing and open your arms to receiving.

Then we have "its good to feel good" (lol I feel like yoongi definitely needs this one) and "when I connect to the spiritual realm, I open the door to recieve divine guidance, clear direction, and great wisdom"

The last stretch my friends.

So. Completion, leave behind the things that no longer serve you. Exist in the present and don't keep mulling over the past or any future happenings. Magic, pay attention to the magic around you. Listen for the signs of the universe and take them as they come (essentially listen to divine guidance) . Be open minded but logical as well. Luminous warrior, try focusing on the good in yourself instead of berating yourself for every small flaw. Spiritual path, self explanatory. The blade, your power can be a weapon when used willy nilly (most often wounding the wielder) or it can heal. Don't fear it but also consider how you choose to utilize it. The give away, be greaful for the sake of being greatful for it, not because you want something in return. The rain maker, manifestation station. Create with the tools you have because you have everything you need in order to manifest. "Don't take life personally"

Now we have heaven sent.

""Let yourself be helped" assistance is coming your way so act on it and say yes"

" This Oracle also comes with the message that you are to trust in the things that you feel and say to others without knowing why. It moves them. You might not understand, but through trust you are allowing yourself not to overthink and censor yourself. As such you are able to become a vessel through which the spiritual gift can be passed on to others. Don't block yourself. Let life happen through you. Only benefit can come from this."

And free from judgment, free to love

" If you have been asking life for a solution to a specific difficulty you have been having, this Oracle comes with the message that a solution is in gestation right now. This situation is already being sorted out and the resolution will come to fruition very soon. Hold tight and wait for the eminent birth of that resolution."

" This Oracle also brings you a message about love. You may find that you are loving, or soon will love, in a different way. You may worry about this love, given that it defies what you have known or been taught about love. Perhaps you are becoming able to love another tremendously, even though you don't have much of a personal relationship with them. You might question if this love is real. It is real Kama it is just happening at a different level to the love and attachment you experience when you are involved in a personal relationship with someone. It is not more or less, it is just a different facet of love. It may be that you are opening up to love the planet and her creatures, including the animals, the ocean dwelling life, your own body, the trees and so on, more than before period you may feel passionately purposeful about giving your time and energy to causes that protect and nurture the Earth and her creatures. You are affirmed in this love too. The universal mother is operating through you to nurture life. She will support you in your work, so that you can continue To come from love and not become drained, depleted or lost in despair or fear of futility. Instead, you will be energised and expanded by your dedicated service to life."

" Finally, this Oracle has a message for those who may be feeling alone or lonely in a need of greater nurturing from others. You are asked to stop, relax, centre and settle into your body to feel your connection with life itself. The air in your lungs is the same as the air that moves through the trees. The water in your blood is the same water that fills the oceans and is moved by the phases of the moon. The flesh of your body is the same substance as the body of the Earth itself. The heat in your digestive system is the same fire and heat as that from the Sun. Feel this connection, then do something nice for another without agenda. Make a donation, even if just a small one, smile, say a prayer, sent out a good thought or make a wish for another. That's it. You have connected to life again and in doing so, life can connect with you. And so it shall.

And that's all for the cards but but but.

Someone (either my guide or yoongi) was like, "do a song. Do a song. Do a song." And I was like, "oki doki, sounds good.

So I asked what numbers I should try refreshing and then it hit me. The number 14 came up before the reading and it seemed a bit misplaced? So I did 14 shuffles and look what popped up

You gotta be fucking with me.

Istg these fools will actually be the death of me dude. Euphoria is so romantic and I lowkey feels like it describes a bit of what their bond must be like.

YOONGGGIIII

Anyway,

I came back to the platform to be like, "thanks homie" and it was weird bc he was practically pure energy? Like usually I visualize his energy as what his physical body looks like because it's easier to comprehend? But nope, he was just a big shimmery glob of energy.

As I was going to disconnect, a few things happened. I felt tingly and the platform was vibrating almost? So I was like, "hold on, what the fuck is this?"

And then

It hit me

"MIN YOONGI IS YOUR SOULMATE HERE??"

I could tell this fuckin asshole was smug even in his blue glob form.

The color was... blue like yoongi but also a light lavender/ pink kinda vibe. Pretty damn distinct.

I was so stoked and I thought we'd all get to chat and I could yell at his soulmate for being an elusive asshat

But Mr smug butt had different plans.

My dude dropped a little marble thing in my hand and I was like ??? And he was like, "you'll know when you need it" and I was like ?????

My guide took pity on me and said, "it's just a representation on information that you've been given but it isn't the proper time to unpack it yet"

Cool cool so like and energetic zip file that will release itself whenever it damn well pleases? Cool cool cool.

(Asshole)

Anyway, I genuinely think that my excitement of this whole situation must somehow also influence how yoongis energy handles my prodding? Like what the fuck is this marble bullshit?

To top it all off, he gives me a friendly shove off of his platform.

Thanks, buddy.

Now we are here. And as always, I'm left with more questions.

My main take away is that amay 13th through July 28th will be all the foundation and ground work and December 28th 2021 through May 10th (11th? 9th?) 2022 will be a more likely time for physical union and actual relationship stuffs.

Anyone who knows more about astrology please feel free to chime in on this whole Jupiter in Pisces bit! My understanding is super surface level!!

~~~~

That was a big boi and now my thumbs hurt real bad. Hope you were entertained by the chaos.

[mzmezzler]

Darling Boy - Jinyoung x Fem!Reader

shortlist: crossdressing, humiliation, sub!Jinyoung, dom!reader, Jinyoung in a maid outfit, role play, degradation, mistress kink, minor food kink (it’s just passing a drink before and during a kiss)minor cock stepping, strap sucking.

word count: 2k

summary: I can’t fake out a summary, this is just late Valentine’s porn with a semblance of plot.

a/n: Let’s give it up to the only fic I wrote in its entirety not at work! No,but why tf did this take so long. I was at it all day writing and rewriting and i barely like it.... Anyway @foenixs really helped me pick some integral parts of this fic, hope you like it!

Any and all feedback is appreciated :)

Turning to you from his side in the bed, Jinyoung looks at you expectantly, “Y/N” Humming in response, you turn your head slightly from where it’s trained to the book in your hands to show you’re listening. “What do you want for Valentine’s day?” He asks. 

Turning a page you sigh, “I’d love to see your perky ass in a skirt maybe.” You pause to settle on the idea. “Yeah, and maybe you could go about being completely oblivious, instead of your usual act cause I need a break having to deal with your-” Jinyoung cuts you off with a scoff. “Sounds like you don’t want me at all, I have to be my authentic self for you.” He replies, finishing his words with a sarcastic drawl. Setting your book down on the nightstand, and shifting your front towards him, you offer him an unamused look. “You know what I mean.” 

Smirking to himself, Jinyoung rolls his eyes, “What if I don’t?” His smugness was just one thing he knew he had over you, it was an integral part of the push and pull of your relationship in and out of bed. It took long enough for you to realize that the relationship between the two of you was even evolving since neither of you noticed the consistent bickering more times than not laced with an odd sense of longing.

However, for once, you’d like something easy. Just the version of Jinyoung that would slide easily into things without a fight, you both knew he could, but in his words “it wasn’t as fun”. 

“What’s the point of asking me what I want then?” You ask. Stumped he pouts to himself, “You know I was just teasing.” 

Still maintaining your blank stare, Jinyoung rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. Knowing that’s the sign he was finally done you leaned onto him, snuggling into his die.

 “So do you want to hear what I really want?” 

“Fine”

By the night of Valentine’s the scene was set.

Lounging on the sofa of your living room in a robe, you enjoy a glass of wine and a novel while snuggled in your favorite cover. Sipping from your glass, the drink swirls in the amber glow of the low lights. Settling around the basen, and reflecting the glow of nearby candles. The living room seemed to be ripped out of a Hallmark movie, if it weren’t for the insistent sound of wet bristles scrubbing against the kitchen tile.

Swinging an arm around the back of the sofa and craning your neck towards the sound, you see a bundle of white tulle bobbing with every stroke. At the center of the mess of fabric was Jinyoung's bum wiggling in his haste. It was a glorious sight, drinking in the man in his costume, working like your little maid. Faced away from you, you drink in the sight of his skirt and the white panties stretched across his ass. Lined with white and black fabrics down to the garters holding up his stockings, you can only take another long sip of your wine. 

You hear small grunts and a sigh as Jinyoung sits back on his knees. Suddenly turning towards you with a small smile, he wipes the sweat from his brow. With the full outfit on display, you take notice of how the dress hugs his waist and is subtly cinched by the ties of the apron that lies along his front. There’s a knowing glint in his eyes, but still, he kneels across the room from you to be ogled under your hungry gaze. Squirming in his place he stutters “Mistress, I’ve finished cleaning”

 “Come here darling” You reply, motioning towards the spot in front of the sofa. 

Getting onto his hands and knees, Jinyoung never breaks the heated stare between the two of you as he crawls across the floor. You could now see the pink flush painting his face, an adorable touch to the obscene picture the man put on. Untying your robe, you reveal a lingerie set of your own. Almost contrasting the frills of Jinyoung's costume you opted for a crisp red, matching the strap nestled tight onto your groin. Jinyoung's pace falters at your unveiling, seemingly taking you in as you did before.

Now kneeling between your legs, you caress Jinyoung’s face and smile as his eyes flutter shut at the affection. Moving your hand to tilt his chin up you press your thumb into the man’s mouth. Jinyoung drops his mouth open at your intrusion, licking at the finger. Swirling your thumb over his tongue, you both stare at each other with heavy eyes. 

Removing the finger from the man’s mouth,  a trail of spit follows. Jinyoung whines out at the emptiness, and before he could pout for more you slip your foot underneath his skirt. The hitch in his breath quickly becomes a deep groan as you press the ball of your foot onto his half hard bulge. Snickering at his reaction you grip his chin and dig your heel in harder, “You know what I won’t take any brattiness today. You’re supposed to be my darling boy for once.” You take a long drag from the wine glass and set it down on the coffee table. 

Swallowing most of what's in your mouth you tip back Jinyoung's head, "And you're supposed to obey and take what I give." Ghosting your mouth over his, you trace his lips with yours before opening your mouth to drip wine into the Jinyoung’s mouth. Gasping at the sudden flow of the drink into his mouth, Jinyoung gulps the wine heavily. With a hand on his chin, and the other running over his styled hair.

As the flow stops, you both pant into each other’s mouths before meeting in a wet kiss.

The facade almost fades as the kiss turns suffocating, gripping Jinyoung’s hair and pulling away a string of spit still binds you too together. 

With a dazed look on his face, Jinyoung looks up at you with slightly parted lips, whether they were reddened more by the wine or your assault didn’t matter. Cooing at the sight, you loosen your grip, only to clench your fist in his hair making him groan out. “Are we going to be good then love” Blinking the moisture from his eyes Jinyoung nods, “Yes mistress, I’ll be good.”

You widen your legs and move to fully take off your robe, "Then make yourself useful."  

Jinyoung parts his mouth and lays his tongue flat against your inner thigh, tracing up to your groin he goes nose around the base of the strap. Opening his mouth to lick at the head he opts to put on a show for you, knowing that you can’t feel his motions. 

“You always looked so pretty while sucking my cock” You were smirking, head tilted while the man writhed under his maid outfit. You could see it in the way his thighs clench and twitch while he moves to wrap his lips around the tip. “You look like a doll, pretty lips, wide eyes, and all” Running a hand through his hair you grip at the strands and push the man further down your shaft, successfully making him gag. Moving him to slowly fuck his mouth, Jinyoung moans at the intrusion. The vibrations shake your skin while Jinyoung drinks in the burn now nestled in his throat.

“It feels good to be used like a whore doesn’t it?” You smirk.

Popping off of your member with a gasp Jinyoung looks up at you with wide eyes , “More Mistress...please" Narrowing your eyes, you chuckle at his desperation, “I need to prep you love” 

Jinyoung wipes the spit from his chin and pipes up again,  “I-i did that myself, Mistress." The needy look in his wide eyes is enrapturing as he stutters out his reply, " I did it in the shower before I got ready, thinking about you." 

Imagining Jinyoung under the steaming water of a shower working his fingers into himself, panting out to deaf ears is enough to make you freeze and stare at him with a heavy gaze. He's half defiled in his dress with garters askew and his apron slightly wrinkled with a few drops of wine staining the previously pristine white. You can see his bugle warping the fabric with every heavy breath, it's obscene.

"You don't know what you do to me." You say. Moving onto the floor, you press your lips against Jinyoung's while pushing him onto the ground. Sliding on top of him you cage your arms around his face and look down the man. 

Lying flat against the floor, Jinyoung’s hair is completely undone and spread out in wild tufts.

“You’re so beautiful like this Jinyoung, spread out for me and hard under your panties like my little whore.” You pause to move your hand under his skirt to prove your point. He was hard and leaking through the lace, gripping onto his erection you smile softly at the hard jerk he gives at your touch. 

Leaning down to bite at his ear you chuckle, “Do you want me to make it hurt baby?” 

Jinyoung nods slowly.

Pulling at the lace panties you unfasten the garters and slip the fabric down to the man’s thighs, “Can you hold your legs up for me baby.” 

Wrapping his arms around his thighs, Jinyoung’s legs hang above him as you toy with his wet hole. Plunging in one of your fingers, it slides in with no resistance and only results in a whine from the man below you. 

Giving a sharp spank to the side of his ass, “Don’t get cute now. I’ll leave you right here leaking all over the carpet so you can clean it up after you finish rutting against my leg.”

“I’m sorry mistress” Jinyoung moaned out.

 “I don’t have to fuck you, but this is for me.” You press. 

Lining up your cock with Jinyoung’s entrance, you slap your strap against his hole.

Pushing into the man, you groan at how easy the slide was as you bottom out in him. Wrapping your arms around Jinyoung’s legs you start to thrust into him slowly, building up a grueling pace that would punch out the filthiest moans from your lover. 

Pulling the panties past his knees you part the man’s legs to wrap them around your waist. You change the angle of your thrusts, groaning at the twisted look on his face, “How does it feel Jinyoungie, to be used like my darling whore on the floor of our living room, does it get you off knowing this is how you really are?”

Deepening your thrusts, you move a hand between you to fist Jinyoung’s own dick. He hisses at the sudden attention, crying out as you start to pump his cock in time with your thrusts. 

Jinyoung is a mess under you, drool once again running down his chin while faint whimpers are punched out of him. His eyes are heavy with tears as he holds his skirt up for you.

Suddenly squeezing his eyes shut he stills and cums with a shout, spilling onto the frills of his skirt. 

Sitting back against the sofa, you let your head rest on the edge as you catch your breath. “Thank you for this love.” You pant. Looking over at Jinyoung, he seems to be in the same state having shifted to lie his whole body flat on the floor. Running a hand through his sweaty hair he chuckles, “Happy Valentines Y/N”

[yurimother]

LGBTQ Comic Review - Amongst Us Book 1

A masterful combination of comedy, subtle romance, and incredible sensuality

I make no attempts to hide my complete admiration and infatuation with Shilin Huang's Yuri webcomic Amongst Us. The slice of life AU featuring reimagined versions of the lead characters from fantasy series Carciphona as a lesbian couple has held a special place in my heart for a long time. I named the series one of the best Yuri works of the past one-hundred years, can frequently be found lurking in the author's Twitch streams, and even have a wall in my office dedicated to the artwork of the main couple (or I did before my office became a remote classroom). So, when a Kickstarter by Shilin and Hiveworks Comics launched promising a print version of the work, I was eager to support it financially and promote it with my humble platform. The Kickstarter took place in March, and books were initially estimated for release in May of 2020. However, as you have probably realized by the dates alone, the world went very South around this time. A combination of disruptions from the COVID-19 pandemic, a healthy amount of bad luck, and what I am inclined to believe, for various reasons, was some awful mismanagement by Hiveworks led to numerous delays. Indeed, by the time the book finally shipped, I had moved, so my copy arrived a little later as it had to be forwarded. But, at the end of this frustrating and anticipation-building event, I finally have the volume in my hands, and it was worth the wait. While I adore the webcomic, this gorgeous print volume completely enthralls me. The book is absolutely the preferred way to read this spectacular comic.

Before getting into the exquisite details of Amongst Us Book 1: Soulmates, I need to take a minute to praise how well this book is put together. The paperback binding is thick and features amazing spot glass that sparkles in the light. This feature only accentuates the fantastic and bright the cover illustration of main characters Veloce and Blackbird loving holding each other is. The back cover has a simpler but more imaginative illustration of the two flying through the sky, and the character's expressions tell you everything you need to know about this fantastic, odd couple. There are a few things you will notice upon opening the volume. The first is how well Amongst Us made the challenging transition from vertical webcomic to the page. The assembly and paneling are fantastic and clear, and chapters feature stylized illustrations and title cards. You will then see the inside cover, a powerful display that perfectly contrasts the front's glowing and tender love. Finally, there is Shilin's presents moving forward and dedication, where she lovingly dedicates the book to her partner, Kristen.

I assure you, as good as the book's presentation and assembly is, the contents within are even better. Amongst Us follows Veloce and Blackbird's bombastic relationship. The two women are eccentric and striking musicians in their early twenties, and I swear you will never forget them. The slice of life storylines are, per the genre's definition, mundane and include events like shopping at the mall, riding the train, and having lunch with a friend. The charming simplicity of the story serves well to the reactions of the characters. Shilin effortlessly transitions from adorable moments of affection to explosive and hilarious comedy and irresistible and delightful moments of sexual tension; Veloce's neck and jawline alone could topple a monarchy. Often, slice of life works can become dull or repetitive, but these stories and the frequent changes in tone help the reader stay engaged and excited.

Putting slice of life aside for a moment, it is also important to note that Amongst Us is also has an interesting place within the Yuri genre, or "Girl's Love/GL" as it is often called in webcomic circles (originally an analogous term of Boy's Love). Webcomics have often been a bit more adventurous with their storylines and styles than Japanese manga. While the genre rose to popularity in the space thanks to digital manhwa and manhua, some (not all) of the Yuri tropes did not carry over between the similar mediums. Many modern webcomics and webtoons take their inspiration more from manhwa and manhua GL, which has developed its own canon and tropes over the years. However, even for a webcomic, Shilin's work feels somewhat divorced from most other worlds of Yuri. This first volume exists mainly against the Yuri genre's expectations. However, the next book, which flashes back to the couple's origin, undoubtedly is more in line with convention, for better or worse. It feels like the author decided to screw the norms and write a work that she would enjoy, and I am so glad that she did. Veloce and Blackbird are young adults, out of school in an established relationship with no drama. This (sadly) unconventional setting is made all the more irregular because of just how distinctive, and unwonted Blackbird and Veloce are.

Blackbird and Veloce, originally from the fantasy world of Carciphona, take on a new life, literally, in this wonderful modern reimagining and homage. You do not need to be a fan of the original work to enjoy their bizarre and larger-than-life personalities. Indeed, when I read Amongst Us online for the first time, I had not ever even heard of Carciphona. Veloce is the quieter and more stoic of the two, although she is not afraid of showing a more relatable and human side as she reacts to Blackbirds wild antics. Veloce's (not)straight man approach is hilariously sobering. But, her best moments are in those when she lets loose a little bit, like when she is rendered drooling by the promise of her favorite smoothie or in her stoic yet alluring flirtations with Blackbird, only to get close enough to steal a healthy chomp of ice cream.

Blackbird, on her part, is completely insane. She continuously pulls of wild antics like jumping on Veloce to surprise her or singing an especially threatening song after a glorious battle over lunch. However, she is perfectly capable of showing her love and admiration for Veloce in her own cheeky way. However, true to form, each softer or more personal moment between the two is often immediately and perfectly juxtaposed with comedy, with the apparent exception of the book's touching and thoughtful finale. Veloce and Blackbird will both more than please readers individually, but you will fall in love with them as a couple. I must have read this at least a few dozen times between the webtoon and the book, and I am just as enchanted as ever by their loud and unapologetic love.

The ordinary misadventures of Blackbird and Veloce are accompanied by genuinely astounding artwork. No, that statement does not do Shilin's illustrations justice. Veloce and Blackbird lead from the page thanks to stunning, full-color illustrations that detail every moment of hilarity. Every movement from the slightest smirk to the over-the-top dramatizations of regular events thoughtfully and beautifully sprawl across the pages and invite you to stare for hours. Shilin is the only person possible who could make something as simple as someone softly singing Happy Birthday so epic and sultry. Speaking of which, my goddess of Yuri is this work titillating. No, there are no gratuitous scenes, but just the characters leaning over each other or touching the other's chin makes my hands shake. My only small complaint is that some early chapters show their age slightly with noticeably lower quality linework and flatter colors than the dazzling and dynamic work demonstrated towards the end. Still, even on its worst day, Amongst Us looks better than most of its peers and the entirety of its many inferiors.

Amongst Us is nearly the perfect work. It has a uniquely compelling and mirth-inducing way of displaying a young yet very unordinary couple's everyday life. Its characters, from design to personality, are instantly memorable and striking. Despite being ready to rip each other's heads off at the drop of a hat, or rather because of it, Blackbird and Veloce feel the perfect and natural couple we so rarely witness. Shilin's masterful combination of comedy, subtle romance, and incredible sensuality is astounding. This book is worth it for the outstanding and vibrant artwork alone, but its combination with excellent writing create a sonorous and majestic modern romance unlike any other. I believe that Shilin has created something genuinely special here, and I can confidently say that out of the hundreds of webcomics I have read, this one is the pinnacle of its kind and my absolute favorite.

You can purchase Amongst Us book 1: Soulmates exclusively on Shilin's online shop and read the webcomic now for free on Twitter, Webtoon and Tumblr​ @okolnir​.

Ratings: Story – 9 Characters – 10 Art – 10 LGBTQ – 8 Sexual Content – 5 Final – 10

[jingabitch]

Asmodeus

SUMMARY: While trying to summon a demon, you have an encounter with Namjoon.

PAIRING: Namjoon x witch!reader

GENRE: smut

WARNINGS: demons and witches and stuff, dirty sex in a graveyard, oral sex (f receiving), plot twist, kinda dark-ish?

Word Count: 3.6k

A/N: banner by @kookspierogis​, beta-ed by @hesperantha​, inspired by an ask by @wwilloww​. Hope you guys enjoy it (and appreciate that I actually managed to get this out well before my scheduled deadline!).

You pulled your jacket more tightly around your body and hitched your backpack up slightly, looking behind your shoulder to make sure you weren’t being followed. This graveyard gave you the creeps, and you really didn’t know why you’d agreed to do this  in the middle of the night. Was joining this coven really that important? Couldn’t you have attempted to summon a demon somewhere indoors and, most importantly, warm?

Sighing at your earlier self for making such poor decisions, you watched as your breath fogged up in front of you. “Jesus,” you muttered. Maybe you should just get this done as quickly as possible, so you could go back home and snuggle up under your warm duvet.

Finally reaching the small clearing in the middle of the cemetery, you stared up at the imposing griffin statue for a second before walking up to it and putting your backpack on the ground, leaning it against the base of the statue and kneeling down to take the necessary items out. Your grandmother’s grimoire, the candles, the ceremonial dagger.

It was so cold that your fingers were frozen, making it difficult to get the candles out of their plastic wrapper. Cursing, you blew on your hands and rubbed them together before picking up the package to try again.

Placing the five candles in a circle, you stepped into the middle and opened the book to the right page. “Why are all the summoning spells in ancient Latin?” you wondered to yourself, before kneeling on the ground and placing the book down in front of you.

As you chanted the first line of the spell, you felt the power start flowing through your veins, hot and electric, and placed your palm against the ground. As soon as your hand made contact, you clenched your teeth against the strange feeling of the magic leaving your body, shooting into the ground in the direction of the candles, which lit up immediately.

It was a windy night, but that didn’t matter, because the flames were fueled by your magic. A pentagram with the five points marked out by the candles began to glow on the ground, enclosed within a circle.

Lifting your palm off the ground, you refocused your attention on the spell in the book, picking up the knife by your side for the blood sacrifice. You would have to slice your palm open and drip a few drops of blood into the middle of the pentagram to bind your soul to the demon.

Before you could start chanting again, however, you heard the telltale rustling sound of leaves crunching underfoot, and whipped your head around. As you turned, you caught sight of someone standing behind you, staring down at you.

“What are you doing here?” you snapped, trying to hide your panic and shock.

He shrugged. “I could ask you the same question,” he pointed out, drawing closer.

Your mind kicked into overdrive, trying to find some rational explanation that wouldn’t lead to you being kicked out of the graveyard or arrested or sent to a mental facility.

“Giving a prayer to my grandparents,” you offered. It was a piss-poor excuse, and you knew it, but it was too late to do anything but double down. “They were really spiritual.”

He raised a brow at you.

“Anyway,” you continued defensively, “what are you doing here?” By which, of course, you meant, how had you missed him?

He stepped out of the shadows and into the moonlight, and your breath caught in your throat. Holy hell, how had you missed the fact that he was beautiful? Tall and broad, wearing a long black coat over a black turtleneck which contrasted against his ash grey hair. The coat wasn’t buttoned up, and you could see the YSL logo next to the buckle of his belt.

“Paying my respects,” he said vaguely. “I’m Namjoon, by the way.”

You stood up, compelled somehow by his gaze. “Y/n,” you introduced yourself against your better judgement. When it came to creeps in graveyards at midnight, you could never be too careful, you’d always thought, and yet your mouth had betrayed you before you could think it through.

He was just so beautiful it was disconcerting. Growing up around other witches, you’d never really been around men all that much, and you didn’t quite know what to do with yourself

“You shouldn’t be hanging around places like these late at night, you know,” he cautioned. His voice was soft and low, pleasing to the ears. You strained to hear more of it.

He stepped closer still, until he stopped right outside the circle you’d marked out with your candles. “You never know who’s going to be around.”

“Like you?” you shot back breathlessly. The moonlight reflected off his fair skin, making him all but glow in the darkness of the night.

The half-smirk he gave you was sinister, dark and dangerous. It should scare you, but instead you felt arousal coil in your lower belly.

“Exactly like me,” he agreed easily. He smiled at you, showing off his dimples.

“You don’t look very dangerous,” you observed.

“Well, maybe you should take a closer look, then,” he invited with a shrug.

Step out of the pentagram? You hesitated for a moment. One of the first things you’d been taught when you started learning magic was never to do that – the pentagram was the only thing that protected you from the demon you were summoning. Outside of it, the balance of power shifted dramatically.

But Namjoon raised his hand, palm out, for you, and before you knew it, your hand was in his and you let him pull you out of the pentagram. “You mean like this?” you asked as you slung your other arm around his shoulders.

You thought you saw his eyes flash, but dismissed it as a trick of the light in the second before his lips descended on yours. “No, I meant like this,” he growled.

Your eyes snapped shut immediately as you lost yourself in the feeling of his lips moving against yours. It had been so long since you’d been kissed, and never like this. Never with such skill and dexterity. His hands crept up your abdomen under your shirt, and even though they should have been cold, his fingers were deliciously warm, making you want to press yourself against him like a cat.

He backed you up into the base of the statue, crowding close and pressing the hard rod of his erection into your belly as he towered over you. It should have been menacing, but everything was, instead, endlessly titillating.

“You like that?” he said in a low, raspy voice that tied your stomach in knots. “You do, don’t you?”

You didn’t have it in you to answer, but he certainly didn’t need you to reply verbally. Not when the way you mewled as you tried to get closer to him, sliding your hands greedily into his coat, told him everything he needed to know.

Witches were always so easy. These closed communities of all-female witches meant it was difficult for them to have their needs met, and they were consequently easy pickings for any man who happened to set his eyes on them. Really, he thought, you’d think that after so many years, they’d have wised up to the pitfalls of the coven structure, but it appeared not.

“I’m going to take care of you,” he promised darkly, the sound making heat pool in your lower belly as you clenched on yourself, uncomfortably aware of how empty you felt. His fingers trailed down your abdomen now, in the opposite direction from before, headed for the button on your jeans.

You barely registered the fact that he was pushing you back gently until your back hit the base of the statue, knocking the air out of your lungs. He crowded close, pressing you back into it, towering over you with his broad frame. One of his hands pushed your sweater up, bunching the fabric under your arms, while his other undid the button on your jeans, sneaking his fingers into your panties.

He didn’t bother to hide his satisfaction, letting out a small noise and lifting his head to smirk down at you. “You’re so wet,” he purred, running his fingers along your slit. With a precision that seemed almost inhuman, he found your clit, rubbing his slickened fingers across it.

A choked moan forced its way out of you as you threw your head back against the cool marble of the statue’s base, your eyes fluttering shut as you rocked your hips into his fingers.

The feeling of him withdrawing his hand from your panties was so objectionable that you opened your eyes, making a sound of indignation. All fight automatically left you, however, when you saw him sucking on his fingers, staring you down with hooded eyes. “I want to taste it from the source,” he told you, his voice deep.

Holding back a shudder, you nodded. “Yeah, we can definitely do that,” you managed, your voice shaky.

He leaned down to kiss you, then started trailing kisses down your neck, before kneeling. Your eyes wide, you watched him get on his knees as you started pulling your sweater down, back over your body.

“Don’t,” he said, a steely undercurrent in his voice that sent a little shiver down your spine. The glint in his eyes let you know that he meant business. Still, despite being mid-hook up with a random stranger in a graveyard – you stared down the neat rows of tombstones – you hadn’t taken complete leave of your senses.

“It’s cold,” you protested with a pout.

“Don’t worry,” he told you. His voice oozed with confidence. “You won’t get cold.”

You were about to say more, but he silenced you with a stern look. With a sigh, you acquiesced, lifting the shirt back up as you leaned your head back against the statue. You were going to catch your death out here, you thought mournfully, staring up at the full, round, white moon. Hopefully he’d at least get you to the little death first.

He ripped your jeans and panties down your legs, knocking off one of your sneakers carelessly as he did so. Your clothes remained bunched around the other ankle, in what surely was the most undignified position you’d ever been in.

Then his tongue touched your body, and as you stiffened and squeaked in surprise, all of those thoughts flew out of your head. The only thing that mattered to you was how talented he was with the appendage, and you adjusted your stance to give him greater access.

Namjoon lapped at your slit with long, broad strokes, bumping your clit every time. You rocked your hips slightly to get more friction, and he reacted by holding your hips still with his strong, big hands, making the thought that he must be the devil flash across your mind in frustration. Then he shifted closer, using his broad shoulders to open your legs wider, and placed his mouth on your pussy, and that last shred of coherent thought left the chat.

The hand holding your sweater up drifted slightly, your fingers ducking into the cup of your bra to circle your nipple as your thumb stayed hooked under the cozy knit material. Your other hand slid down your bare abdomen before your fingers threaded themselves through his hair just to have something to hold on to as he relentlessly attacked your clit.

“Mmf, fuck,” you mumbled around a lock of hair that had fallen into your mouth with all the thrashing around you were doing. It didn’t matter, though. Nothing mattered but Namjoon and his wonderful, awful tongue. Tears squeezed out of your eyes, which were tightly shut, running down the sides of your face.

“That’s it,” he encouraged you as he detached for a second to catch his breath, using his thumb to rub over your clit as he fucked you with his fingers. “You’re close, aren’t you? Come for me like a good girl,” he said slightly breathlessly before once more ducking his head to your core.

Helplessly, you obeyed, your entire body seizing up as you clenched around his fingers, rocking your hips against him as you rode out your orgasm.

When it was over, you slumped limply against the marble statue, blinking up at him with slightly blurry vision as he rose to his full height. In the pale, weak light of the full moon, his cheeks and chin gleamed. He didn’t bother to wipe it away, instead grinning down at you as he braced his weight on the statue, his hands on either side of your shoulders.

“Good girl,” he purred as he leaned in to kiss you. You tilted your head up automatically to receive his kiss, uncaring of the fact that you could taste yourself on his lips. As he slid his tongue against yours sensuously, you eagerly reached to unbutton his trousers. With a chuckle, he leaned back to give you more space, but didn’t otherwise help you.

You were so distracted trying to get into his pants that you didn’t notice how warm your fingers were. You still had full mobility, contrary to your expectations that you’d be frozen solid by now, after his insistence that you expose yourself to the elements the way he’d ordered you to.

Then your hands were full of dick, and you moaned in unison. You would have been more embarrassed about that had your body not been thrumming with arousal still. It had just been so long since you’d touched a man. Training to become a witch didn’t leave you with much free time or access, after all.

“Good girl, such a good girl,” he continued praising you, his voice gone raspy as you stroked him. You were about to get on your knees to return the favour, but he stopped you, instead hoisting you up and pressing you against the statue. There was a vague sense of being pinned like an insect, but the thought vanished like so many had tonight the moment you felt him pressing, hot and hard, against you.

Then you felt your softness yield to him as he pushed into you, sliding deep into you with a grunt. Your fingers scrabbled for purchase along his shoulders, but the solid wool coat resisted. The cashmere of his sweater brushed against your skin, and although it was the softest, most luxurious sweater you’d ever felt, it was almost abrasive, reminding you that although you were pretty much fully exposed, he was still completely clothed.

Your head tipped back helplessly. You felt so incredibly full, the stretch riding the line between pleasure and pain. Namjoon, in response, bent his head to the exposed skin of your neck, pressing soft, wet kisses to the sensitive flesh that turned into sucking.

“Namjoon,” you gasped, and he lifted his head to look down at you. For a split second, it seemed like his irises were glowing red, but he blinked and then it was gone, and you dismissed it as a trick of the light. Your paranoia and discomfort from earlier must have seeped into your subconscious somehow. Ridiculous, really, since as a witch, you were probably the thing to be feared the most in the graveyard tonight.

His hand came up, long fingers stretching around the column of your neck.

“You’re mine,” he snarled. The unexpectedly possessive statement should have alarmed you. After all, he was a random stranger you’d met in dubious circumstances, even if you were currently getting to know each other on a very intimate level. Instead of uneasiness, however, his declaration only served to egg you on more, the rightness of it all settling deep within your bones.

Simultaneously, he pulled his hips back and then thrust into you again, bumping your clit with his pelvis.

“Yesss,” you groaned, although you weren’t sure if it was in response to his words or his actions. How was it possible for a man to be this good with his hips? The few sexual encounters you’d had before this had been fumbling, awkward and ultimately, you’d thought after, not worth it. Namjoon was like a whole different species.

He seemed to enjoy your enthusiastic approval, if the satisfied smirk he shot you was any indication. His body moved like a lithe, well-oiled machine, his arms hitching you up slightly higher to adjust the angle as he slammed into you. There would definitely be bruises on your hips from where they were hitting the marble, but it would be so worth it.

Helpless moans and yelps filled the air. As wrecked as you were, the only indication you had that he was feeling the same way was the way his breaths puffed against your neck. He seemed completely composed otherwise, keeping up a stream of filth murmured into your ear, so lewd it made even you blush.

There was no way, you thought, hurtling towards your second orgasm of the night, that he was a regular man. This level of prowess… it had to be something else.

As your moans reached a crescendo, Namjoon growled again, a delicious sound to your ears. You felt his mouth open slightly against your neck and felt the press of his teeth, but you were distracted and dismissed it as him taking in a gulp of air.

A second later, he struck. His teeth sank so deeply into your flesh that blunt human teeth couldn’t have done it. You should have been terrified, should have pushed him away and run screaming, but instead – completely bizarrely – the searing pain pushed you over the precipice. You came harder than you ever had in your life, the sensations so strong that they teetered on the fine line between pleasure and pain.

When the wave finally ebbed, you sagged against the marble of the statue, your arms loosening around Namjoon’s neck. He was approaching his own orgasm, you could feel it from the way his hips stuttered against yours. Thankfully, he’d removed his teeth from your neck, although he continued lapping haphazardly at the wound.

Exhausted, you marshalled the last of your strength to straighten up. “Come on,” you urged, stroking the back of his neck. Sweat was dripping down it and into his collar, you noted absently. When he finally released into you, it was a relief for the both of you.

In the wake of everything, you both slumped against the statue. The air felt almost eerily still and quiet after everything that had transpired before, and awkwardness started setting in.

Slightly uncomfortable now, you wriggled to be let down, and he acquiesced, stepping away to give you some room. You immediately began tugging on your clothes, trying to put yourself back to rights and studiously avoiding eye contact with him.

“Well,” you said in a voice that seemed entirely too loud, piercing through the silence that had settled over the graveyard. “That was fun.”

“Yes,” he said in a slightly amused voice. “I hope you don’t make a habit of this, though.”

Frowning, you raised your head to glare at him. “And what if I do?” you asked slightly irritably. You weren’t really in the mood to be judged for a random hookup by the man who’d just been railing you into next week.

He shrugged, raising his hands up placatingly. You turned away from him and bent to pick up your things. There was no way you were summoning a demon tonight, you thought. Your concentration was shot to hell, and your energy was all over the place. You’d have to try again tomorrow night.

Namjoon perched on a gravestone nearby, the disrespect of him sitting so cavalierly on someone’s headstone making you cringe internally. “I’ll see you around, I guess,” he said, watching you pack your things.

“Uh, yeah…” you said, your voice betraying your confusion. Who was in the habit of continuing to meet their random hookups? You knew it was probably one of those polite platitudes people exchanged, but the way he’d said it was different, like he really did mean it.

Namjoon laughed at your tone. “You didn’t think you’d escape me that easily, did you?” he asked, standing up. His hands were in his pockets as he walked towards you, looking completely nonchalant. Leaning in, he raised his hand to your neck, running his thumb over the bite mark he’d left. His face was so close to yours that for a moment, you thought he was going to kiss you again, but instead, he looked you directly in the eyes. “You’re mine now, after all,” he purred, as his eyes flashed red again.

Your breath caught in your throat, and your heart started pounding again, although for an entirely different reason this time. This was definitely not a trick of the light, and now that your brain wasn’t so clouded, all the little warning signs you’d dismissed earlier came back to mind.

“Who are you?” you breathed, trying to stop the tremor in your voice.

He chuckled and stepped away from you.

“My name is Namjoon,” he told you, shrugging. As he turned and started walking away into the darkness, though, he called over his shoulder, “But you might know me better by my title, Asmodeus.”

Shocked, you slapped your hand over the bite mark, staring at him as the fog swallowed his tall, lithe figure up. Asmodeus, the demon of lust. So you had managed to summon a demon after all. And, it seemed, a high-ranking one.

Running your fingers over the bite mark, you couldn’t stop the satisfaction from bleeding through you. As a disciple of Asmodeus, you were sure to rise through the ranks of the coven in no time.

[belit0]

Commission for @GlitterBomba!

Part 2 of this!! I don't feel it's as angsty as it should be, but for some reason, my creativity wanted it that way? It's been a long time since I've last written, and this was definitely a challenge... First part was produced way too long ago, so it was also challenging to connect with what I felt when I wrote it! But here it is, and I hope you like it, GlitterBomba. Thanks for trusting me!

My Ko-fi page~ Buy me a coffee if anyone wants part 3 ❤（っ＾▿＾）

It took you days to awaken from your deep sleep, days which became weeks, and weeks transformed into months. There was no hope for your life among the healers, but the tenacity and insistence of those elders who saved you forced them to continue providing methods and energy, herbs, talismans to keep you breathing.

Impossible to explain how that mortal blow did not steal your last breath, not when the perpetrator was the greatest tyrant in the current world, the monster everyone learned to fear and flee from. In the small place where you are kept hidden, rumor has it the treacherous one repented as soon as his hand affected your body, causing you not to succumb immediately.

It wasn’t until after he vanished, shrouded in lightning and hatred, when one of Ashura’s subordinates came upon the scene of your sad fate. A pool of blood acting as a bed over a pale body, devoid of any warmth and life. Everyone was quick to write you off for dead after such an event, and only when one of the village elders took your pulse did he find your incredible attempt to resist despite all odds.

Keeping you along with the new leader and his people would not be a good idea. Not when you barely escaped with your life from the beast. In case he came back and besieged his younger brother, it would be better if he didn’t find you there. That man proved to have an unquenchable thirst for revenge.

Tempting fate once is more than enough.

That led a group of elderly men, those who defended your slight pulse when everyone thought you were dead, to ask Ashura’s permission before disappearing and taking you to a safe place, making use of some of the village healers to ensure your health. 8 men of different ages vanish with you, swearing on their lives to do everything possible for you to open your eyes again.

Winters turned into warm seasons, and autumn leaves were waning. Two whole years quickly go by before your consciousness returns. The world is different. You understand through your guardians that life passed with you as a ghostly presence, a bedridden legend they fought all this time to preserve.

No one mentions what happened to you, though. No one names him.

To everyone’s surprise, you don’t really ask about the village; you don’t ask about your birthplace and your home. You don’t ask... about him.

Your healers discover you memory was damaged after exhaustive examinations beyond your comprehension. Theories why this happened are various in your little home; some argue the loss of blood hurt your brain, others believe the trauma of that betrayal forced you to block it all out, and there are those who think maybe you ignored the past on purpose.

Still, there is an unspoken rule forbidding the mention of what happened, of the village, of those two brothers. After experiencing hell, what would be the benefit of forcibly bringing you back to that horrible past? In this remote place, you have the chance to start from scratch, and your rescuers believe it is the least you deserve.

Little by little, you gradually learn everything all over again. Your own name, your age, information about those around you. You ask with animosity about everything you don’t understand, and the only thing there is reluctance to answer is when you want to know about who you were before... this.

Healers get the problem off their shoulders, rushing you to ask such questions to the older people. They shoo you out of their humble hut with nervousness and red faces, panic in their eyes.

Seniors sigh as they stare into nothingness, sadness and nostalgia, painting their countenances with something you cannot grasp. Some even drop a couple of tears to the rhythm of a depressing whisper, “oh poor child...”

The scene makes you feel so guilty you end up consoling them, assuring it’ s not a big deal and you don’t need to be told. That your life in this small place with them is all you need to be happy, past or no past.

Regardless, it is the scar monstrously painting your stomach which makes you uneasy. While tracing the edges of that sensitive skin with your fingertips, you feel its reason for existence is on the tip of your tongue. As if reminders of what happened to you are lingering there, buried in your head, but creeping closer to your memory every time you look at your navel.

What happened? What terrible thing could have left such an enormous mark on your skin, but not in your head?

It’s frustrating.

Eventually, curiosity to explore beyond your own narrow world peaks. It’s quite natural, considering four older men and four medicine buffs rarely make for an interesting group of company. Older men drink tea most of the day, when they’re not napping in the sun, of course. The rest read rigorously and debate among themselves about their newly gained knowledge.

Getting permission is a complicated task. They are terribly afraid of your departure, scared of your fate, frightened of what dangers you might encounter.

But how to keep you there forever, when you have seen the vivid movement the closest town has?

Perhaps it was your rescuers’ mistake for allowing you to go exploring within the boundaries they considered safe, yet you inevitably discovered such a place, so close and yet so far away, so full of people and... life. Persons of all ages walking from one side to the other, food you never saw before displayed in various stalls, children playing with each other, unaware of the surrounding universe. Everything looks completely natural, as if folks are used to this kind of lifestyle since long ago, and you wonder if you ever lived in a similar environment.

Just what hides in your past?

After insistence and great pleas against the overprotection imparted on you, they understand it is simply hopeless to make you give up your idea unless they expose all those shocking events, unless they explain from what kind of danger it is necessary for you to hide, from whom it is imperative you escape.

No one knew anymore about that demon after his disappearance the same day, and it is uncertain where he is. Whether he is hiding or far from your current home, it is unknown to anyone, and it would invoke bad luck if your guardians expected you to meet him face to face once you get away from them.

Preparation of weeks and many directions, you finally depart from your unnoticed hideout in the world, leaving behind anxious seniors and worried healers.

It was agreed you could explore for a couple of months, but your eventual return is a binding closure on the deal you reluctantly struck. Each new destination brings with it new discoveries, tastes, experiences. You always find charitable souls willing to help when you are short of food, water or shelter, people who offer to give directions when you get disoriented, people who share stories with you on lonely, nostalgic nights.

With each step you take in the outside world, less you understand what your guardians are afraid of. Everyone is well meaning, and no one seeks to take advantage of your innocence. It is incomprehensible why this was denied to you for so long, and every time you think of your precious little home, an emptiness grows in your heart.

Weeks slowly pass, and having experienced so much in such a short time, you find the need to recount it to those you consider your family. As initially agreed, it may be time to return, to prove the world is not as terrible as they feared.

A few miles from homeland, just as you feel you are walking the grounds of your family again, you stop at a stream to get a drink of water, determined not to slow down until you reach your destination. It is too much of a thrill to witness those 8 insane people bickering and arguing. You absentmindedly smile as you rinse your face.

In your distraction, you cannot hear footsteps approaching at your back. It’s not like you would have detected them if you were paying attention either, for the person stalking you is deliberately careful, calculating.

Turning, your face affects directly into a solid mass of muscle, sending you tumbling down the riverbank again. Any woman would have assumed the worst when connecting glances with a man who invades her personal space unannounced, but from your mouth comes a concerned “Are you okay?”

The man, who is watching you as if a ghost were sitting next to you in the water and you were unaware of it, bleeds. Profusely, indeed. Both of his hands are deeply cut, distinct wounds on his palms dripping thickly to the ground.

There is no answer to your question, and the man’s countenance is difficult to decipher. His eyes glow a red which fades too quickly to analyze, his complexion is completely pale and unhealthy, his hair points in all directions, forming a long brown tangle which you deduce has not been combed for some time. For moments, it is as if there are words trying to pierce his lips, but the stupor of the individual continues.

“Your hands... we really should take care of them, shouldn’t we? Aiya, let this humble one help you heal.”

There is no reaction as you stand up and take him by the arm, guiding him to a large rock away from the water and helping him to sit up. His gaze is still completely fixed on your face, searching for something you’ re oblivious to. His mouth opens and closes rapidly, agitated breaths accompanied by sounds resembling syllables.

“Look at this mess alone... sir, you should be cautious walking along the bed of these waters. They are treacherous, hm?”

Ripping off one of your sleeves, previously dampened when you fell into the water, you use the cloth to clean his wounds. There’s not much you can do here, out in the open and in these conditions, but judging by the man’s appearance, he was probably recently attacked. When you mention your little home a few miles away, the man doesn’t refuse or accept.  

Still, when you head back to the road, you find the fellow following you from behind, head down and staring at the ground. In his hands he tightly clenches the cloth of your sleeve, and blood stains the fabric completely at this point. You talk about the healers in your place, and how they can help him get better, but no matter how much you try, the man never responds. You ponder whether, perhaps, the situation he experienced before he ran into you may have been intense, and you attribute his perturbation to that.

After walking without pause all afternoon, your silent companion always keeping your own pace, your destination appears in front of you. From afar, you can see the elders sitting on the engawa of their cottage, sharing tea and quietly waiting for dusk. All is silent, and your announcement of arrival is the only thing disturbing the atmosphere.

Your arms wave vigorously to catch the attention of those you regard as family, a splendorous smile planted on your face, walking at an increased speed to catch up with them. An extended curtsey bow is given before them, and only after raising your head you dare to give them all a group hug, false formality forgotten as much as your guest.

The man slowly approaches this scene and analyzes the faces of those present as the embrace takes place. Had you not been turning your back on him, you may have noticed the change in his countenance, coldness creeping over his features from one moment to the next. None of the elders noticed his noiseless presence, not even having sensed it to begin with, and it is not until one of them finishes smiling and opens his eyes to come face to face with their worst fear.

Suddenly the hug is interrupted when this old man lets out a shriek, trying to back away and losing his balance. You follow his line of sight while turning, and find that innocent-looking stranger again, disoriented. There are screams all around you. Seniors are horrified and collapse on the floor next to each other, completely surrendered to the gaze of the demon fixed on them.

“Don’t behave like that! It would appear it wasn’t you guys who taught me manners... I’m so sorry, sir, they’re not used to dealing with travelers, let alone wounded ones... if you’d be so kind as to follow me?”

Throwing a withering glance at the group of elders, you direct your guest to the house the healers occupy. True, your little family is not used to encountering men in the state this very one is in, but you never expected such an exaggeration. A bit of unkempt hair and blood, pale skin, and they’re all screaming on the floor?

The reaction of the healers is not much different, and after reprimanding them for behaving so shamefully, you get them to treat the man’s hands. Leaving them alone so as not to disturb the setting, you make your way to the third and final cottage, your own. Since the other houses occupy four people each, it would be problematic to ask them to accommodate your own guest, and you take your time assembling an extra bed, improvising with blankets.

Nighttime is delightfully quiet, and as the door opens without warning, you greet the individual with a smile. Elders have taken the trouble to bring food for both you and him, announcing neither they nor the healers were in the mood to share dinner together.

The man’s hands are bandaged, his palms completely covered, and his thumbs trapped in the wrappings. He looks uncomfortable, and it shows in his inability to do anything on his own. His chopsticks are impossible to hold as he kneels on the floor and tries to eat, and after many urgings from you, he nods silently and almost imperceptibly, allowing you to help him.

“You see... you’re here, eating my food, under my roof, safe and comfortable... and I still don’t know your name...”

Teasing is imminent in your voice, hoping to relax him, if only a little. As he takes another bite and chews, his eyes are fixed on the table, like trying to hide from your presence.

After analyzing the end of your day alongside this presence, you assessed this man must be terribly shy, perhaps someone properly introverted. Still, observing his features, you get a strange familiarity, a feeling making you let your guard down and relax in front of him. A secret knocking at the door of your mind, demanding to burst in front of you but being invisible at the same time.

“... Uchiha...”

Without expecting an answer anymore, after several minutes, his voice surprises you. It sounds like that of someone who rarely uses it, raspy and rusty, as if it had been forgotten long ago, and not even the man himself remembers its ringing.

“Um?”

“Lord Uchiha...”

His name, you realize. Formal, a title.

Lord Uchiha continues in the same position, just like his words had been an illusion. It is impossible to keep giving him food, his attitude surly and refusing, and you wonder if he plans to spend the entire night in the same position if you allow him to.

Demandingly, you get him up and offer him your bed for the night.

He tries to take the spot you set up on the floor, and displays physical strength far beyond what you thought he had. There are firm muscles hiding under his stained white tunic, and they flex slightly every time he tries to change the course you both walk. He is probably holding back, you realize, for the way his forearm tenses. The stubbornness of this individual… as if he were someone unaccustomed to taking orders, leading rather than listening. Either way, he ends up tucked inside your room, buried under sheets and quilts so he doesn’t get cold.

You find your own resting place after closing the door and leaving your guest. There is not much room inside your small home, and yet, the greatest comforts are offered to those who really need them.

That night, a fearsome nightmare assaults your dreams. A pitch-black claw pierces your stomach from both sides, long nails tearing through skin and tissue like cloth. Blood pools at your feet, solidifying and making escape impossible. You feel your lips move in a choked scream, and a single word escapes your throat along with another red waterfall.

“... Indra...”

[sabraeal]

If All Else Fails Just Play Dead

[Read on AO3]

Obiyuki AU Bingo 2021 Swan Princess AU

There is a boy in her house.

Two boys, actually; not counting Uncle, who is the Margrave Entaepode, or Papa, who acts like he is, or Raj, who everyone simply tolerates because there are worse things than having the first prince adopt your heir as their particular friend, and all of them start with denying said prince what he wants.

(And also because when he’s not trying to flex all his royal powers at once, Raj can be almost tolerable. He at least believes in magic, which gives him a leg up over just about every other boy Shirayuki has known, save for uncle, even if he doesn’t know any himself.)

Sakaki is also not to be counted, though she feels bad about it, on account of how often she typically forgets that Sakaki is a boy and not just some boy-shaped furniture Raj travels with, like how he always brings his pillow and his favorite chair. She’ll have to remember to bring him some extra pastries from the kitchen as an apology.

No, these are two entirely foreign boys, shipped straight from the court of the King Who Isn’t, as her father calls him-- though not within his mother’s hearing. Shirayuki is resigned to make the best of it; Uncle asks for so little, and she is the Lady of the Manor, even if she only comes by the title from a lack of older women to fill it. If she must, she can entertain their guests, but that doesn’t mean she has to like it, not one bit at all.

A shelf rattles, jostling the books on their bindings. Shirayuki’s fingers nearly dint a page as she turns it, but she does not look up. To look up would be to give in, and even if she is charged with entertaining, she does not need to be the entertainment.

It rattles again, now with two giggles to accompany it. Excellent. It seems both her troubles are accounted for.

With a sigh, she collects herself. This is what is fair, after all. It is her duty to see after Entaepode’s guests, and Papa is already taking on the brunt of the Her Majesty’s needs, as well as the marquis’ that travels with her. Not that she would have minded if he wanted to switch; Queen Haruto at least seemed like the sort to enjoy a quiet afternoon in the library.

A leg swings over the top of the shelf, long and skinny and ending in a particularly scuffed boot.

Very much, Shirayuki thinks, slapping her book shut on the table, unlike her son and his companion. 

“You’re not supposed to do that.” She means to be mild, but each sound falls so waspish from her lips that it could sting. Oh, Uncle will be displeased when he finds out she was rude to their esteemed guests. “It harms the books.”

A sly, cat’s grin shines down on her as a second leg follows the first. “We’re just on the shelves.” Obi twitches his shoulders in a lazy excuse for a shrug. “It’s not like we’re ripping out pages.”

Of the three of them, he’s older-- oh, well, both boys are older than her, but he’s oldest. Only a few years shy of being a man in his own right; the sort of older that’s supposed to know better. Not that he looks it-- Obi’s supposed to be thirteen, but he’s barely an inch taller than Prince Zen, showing none of the stretch in his limbs that boys his age should before they come into their growth.

His feet dangle, just at the level of her nose, and uncharitable irritation itches in her thoughts. Maybe he’ll be one of those boys who’s small forever, a man in a child’s body. The sort of boy she’ll be looking down on instead of up at, should she get Papa’s height, or Uncle’s.

“The shelves are where the books live,” she tells him officiously, fists high on her hips. “And if you knock it over, then you might hurt your spine, or worse, one of theirs! Or even worse,” she adds with no little horror, “you might tear out a page!”

He blinks, those wide, gold eyes flashing like candlelight. “Huh.”

She conjures up Uncle at his most imperious as she says, “This isn’t a training yard.”

“How would you know?” The shelf wobbles, and a pale white mop heaves itself over it. The second Prince of Clarines is pinch-faced, like he’s always just finished sucking on a lemon, and pale as an invalid. She could believe he was bedridden, from the way he keeps waiting to be served. “It’s not like you’ve ever been on one.”

A breath hisses between her teeth. It’s not from lack of trying, she wants to say; her last birthday, Papa has trousers sewn for her, plus a shirt and waist. He’d promised her a sword, even traipsed her through the halls to the yard, but Uncle had been waiting right at the gate, mouth drawn to a forbidding line.

What are you thinking, Mukaze? She’d heard him growl, her ear pressed tight to the study door. My own heir, and you put a blade in her hand.

If she were a boy, you’d have thought I’d done it too late, Papa had replied, easy as always, the way that would drive Uncle mad. I don’t see the harm--

Of course you don’t. Uncle had never sounded so cold, so bitter as he did in that moment. You never do.”

Her stomach twists, slithering around like a nest full of snakes, only getting more knotted, more sick as she thinks about it. Uncle and Papa were close as brothers, surely--

Surely, she shouldn’t be worrying about this at all.

“Why are you wearing all that black?” she snips instead, ignoring the heat that licks up her neck. “It’s summer.”

It’s not doing him any favors either; all that thick velvet just makes his limbs skinny and his face more drawn, like he’s a skeleton rather than a boy.

The prince stills, legs no longer kicking, lips no longer flapping; just a steady, slow rise and fall of his chest. Obi-- a study of constant motion-- doesn’t even do that; instead he sits, utterly immovable, and stares.

With a voice chilled with the winter he’s never felt, His Highness finally says, “My father died.”

She’d known that, she had. His Majesty died a year ago, her Uncle even told her, their legs pressed tight on his study’s sofa. She liked doing that, lining bone to bone, like they might one day be a matching set, margrave and heir both. Another pair of shoulders to carry the burden of rule, after so many years of an absent, broader pair.

Her Majesty has ever been a bosom companion to this family, he’d continued, a strange tightness to his voice. Now that her mourning is over, she is bringing her youngest son to visit. I’m sure your father would be pleased if you became...as close as they.

So much for that. Uncle would be so disappointed-- not only had she scolded the prince, but she’d insulted him too, and--

And he had started it. Her mouth settles into a thin line, so like Uncle’s.

“So did my mother.” So long ago that she is barely more than a song and a scent. Still, there is no ceding ground, not to Prince Zen; every inch she gives him yields a mile, and he considers it his due. “And you don’t see me walking around in velvet during high summer.”

The prince’s skin is pale as moonlight, the envy of every maid in the manor, but it flushes an angry red now, his body trembling to contain him. “My father, he sputters, leaping off the shelf, “is more important than your stupid mother ever will be.”

Papa praises her for her even-temper. Just like your mother, he laughs, not as boldly as he is wont. You never let anything under your skin. Not like me. Though all our impulse certainly bred true.

Anger, Uncle would say in his soothing voice, every syllable measured, makes a man a fool. You would do well to eschew it if you can, my little girl.

So it is not that Shirayuki is angry; oh no, she is incandescent.

Her finger curl, carving pitted crescents in her palms. For once she is glad that magic is consigned to history books and scholars in their towers, for if she could but call fire to her fingertips, this whole library would be alight. Her mother may be more sense than solid to her, but there is not a stone here she has not touched, and--

Well, Uncle is right, but Shirayuki is content to be stupid.

“Maybe so,” she says, so calm, so even, just as Uncle might. “But at least people liked her.”

For a moment, Prince Zen looms, every line trembling, and she is convinced that he will raise a hand to her, that he will truly treat her as her father’s mouth has earned her. But instead he spins on his heel, stalking out of the library with naught a word.

Wrath leaves her at once, a spirit exorcised from her chest, and oh, she’s dizzy with the lack. Her hand reaches out, meaning to grab for the chair--

But another hand grabs it instead. Shirayuki had never noticed at what a patrician angle Obi’s nose sat, not until he stares down it at her, his face a smooth bronze mask.

“That,” he says, finally sounding his age, “was badly done.”

Had her father sat her down after that terrible, disastrous morning, and told her that one day she would consent to marry the prince, Shirayuki would have--

Well, she would have done something Uncle wouldn’t approve of, surely. And she had, when Papa sat her down not too long after the queen’s carriage disappeared into the horizon, and told her that their union had been agreed upon, dowry and all. But to think she would ever want to, that she herself would gladly make the plans-- impossible.

If only it had stayed that way. If only she had remembered why she’d waved him off at arm’s length every summer, why she’d tossed him in the pond when he tried to kiss her at fifteen and told him he’d have better luck finding a princess of his own species in there. At least then she might be able to scuttle this whole wedding, instead of having Papa and Haruto cluck at her pitifully when she asks, telling her that it would all work out eventually.

After all, hadn’t she loved him just last night?

Shirayuki huffs, rolling to her side. She’s no longer livid, which is an improvement; last night she’d thought quite long and extremely hard about how many tapestries she would need to tear from the walls to get a good, solid bonfire to catch and burn Wistal palace to its very stones. Once she started considering where the custodians might keep turpentine, or whether she could wheedle the key to the cellars out of the chatelaine, she’d forced herself to lay down. Few things had ever made her so angry that they couldn’t be solved by a good night’s rest.

Wrath and rage has cooled, but not to her usual levelheaded calm, the answer filling her with vim and vigor and a dangerous determination. Oh no, instead her fine barrel of fury has turned to melancholy, and with each minute that ticks by, she drinks a deeper draught.

Is beauty all that matters to you?

Even now her breath catches at the roiling confusion in Zen’s eyes. What else is there?

“What was I thinking?” Her fists clench at her sides, but it’s not enough, not until she brings them to her eyes and pressed down, colors sparking across her eyelids. “Why did I...?”

She thought he had changed. They all had, these last few years, hadn’t they? No longer the three children that had tripped over each other in her uncle’s halls, bickering and pinching and causing trouble wherever they roamed. Shirayuki’s temper had mellowed. Zen had grown taller-- or at least tall enough to please him. And Obi--

Obi should be here. And now he’s not, and it’s yet another why she has no answer to.

A timid knock brushes against her door, followed by an even softer, “M-my lady?”

Shirayuki pulls her fists from her eyes, blinking away the blur. “Come in.”

A small girl slinks inside, dark eyes wide and round. “M-my lady...” Her brow furrows. “Your hands are wet.”

She glances down, staring at the fingers laces so tightly in her nightgown. Her knuckles do indeed shimmer in the light, right where they had been pressed along her eyes. “So they are. I...suppose you are here to dress me.”

“Ah...” The maid loses her certainty, eyes darting around the room. “About that...”

Her heart leaps in her breast. “Has something happened?”

“Ah, well.” The girl winces. “There’s a bit of a, um, problem. With the arrangements.”

“The arrangements?” Shirayuki echoes.

“Ah...”

That’s when she hears the screams.

Her twelfth summer marks the moment that this arrangement becomes completely, irrevocably unfair.

“I don’t see what the problem is.” Branches shiver above her, the only sign of Obi a few flashes of black and buckskin and the leaves quivering in his wake. “You two have gotten nearly civil these days.”

“But you’ve gotten tall,” Shirayuki grouses, tucking herself between the roots of the old oak, book sprawled upon her lap. “Any day now you’ll be head and shoulders taller, and what if Zen’s the same? I can’t be the smallest.”

“Well.” She can’t see him, but she knows he settles above her, perched on a branch too precarious for his size. “You are a girl.”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t be tall.” A finger taps against the page, thoughtful. “Haruto is.”

“For a lady.”

“For anyone,” she corrects primly. “It’s fine enough for you to be tall-- you’re tolerable. But Zen...” She grimaces. “His height it the only thing that keeps him humble. The king isn’t tall, is he?”

“He is,” Obi informs her with relish. “Almost taller than my father, and he’s not done growing.”

She pictures it, Zen being able to look Haruka square in the eye, and shudders.

“I was afraid you’d say that.” Shirayuki sighs, finger knitting in her lap. “Uncle should forbid you from coming. You can stay for now, but next summer is right out.”

It’s strange how even though she can’t see him, she can feel his grin on the air. “I’m sure nothing would make him happier.”

“Or me,” she admits, wistful. “What good neighbors Zen and I might be, if we never had to look at each other again. Save for weddings and births and funerals, of course. And you’d always be welcome, Obi.”

“Thanks.” He drops down one of his too-long legs, toes curling in the air above her, the only visible part of him. “But I wasn’t talk about the Young Master.”

Shirayuki blinks, mouth curving in confusion as she parses his words. “You can’t mean Uncle.”

Obi leans, just enough for her to see his dubious, arched brow. “Why not?”

“Uncle’s always liked Zen.” He’d been the one to calm her when she’d come crying, distraught that Papa would make her marry a boy as pompous as him. Plenty of boys grow out of their pettiness, little girl, he’d told her, smoothing the wild riot of her hair, at least as many that don’t. “Even now, he’s with him, showing him the march.”

“Only because your father asked him,” Obi says, settling back into the canopy. “The next Margrave Entaepode needs to know what his lands can bring. Especially if he means to bring them to his brother.”

Shirayuki frowns. “I’m the next Margrave Entaepode.”

“No,” Obi hums. “You’re the next margravine.”

Shirayuki is not sure what she expects when she walks into Clarines’ great hall, but it is certainly not carnage.

“What happened?” she breathes, picking her way over a toppled chair. There’s not a scrap of fabric that’s not torn, not a table nor chair without a wobble. Flower petals lay strewn on the ground, and the cake--

“Oh no,” she sighs, “I was so looking forward to desset.”

It’s toppled, every tier crushed to the stone beneath it, buttercream and jam and custard smeared up and down the aisle. It had been a gift from the Seirans; Zen had been so excited to know their much-beloved cook had made each layer with him in mind-- Except one, Obi reminded him, swiping a bit of cream from a spoon. You know who Cookie loves best.

“A beast did it,” the steward tells her, near to tiers. “Knocked it over, then even stopped to take a bite.”

“Three bites,” a maid chimes in. “Odd, it was. I could have sworn it thought about it too, just stood there looking as Cook came in, shouting to high heaven, and ate its share.”

Shirayuki glances down. “Flew? As in-- with wings?”

“Yes,” the steward agrees, “it had wings, and a mouth with cruel teeth.”

“There weren’t no teeth,” the chatelaine snaps waving the wailing man off. “It was just a bird. Swan, I think, from the size. And the meanness. Came in here like a holy terror, it did.

“It was a beast with teeth,” the steward insists, “and it bit one of the footmen!”

The chatelaine huffs. “What did you expect, trying to grab it like that?”

Shirayuki can’t help but agree; she’s bitten more than a man or two that tried to catch her as well. But that’s not what has her attention now; instead it is the cake on the floor, those three big bites out of it, baring chocolate sponge and raspberry custard. The layer Cookie made special. The one she thought would go to waste when...

“Where is he now?” At their looks, she amends, “I mean, it. The beast.”

“Outside,” the steward says, sending a narrow look toward the door. “A few of the maids managed to chase it out, but I’m afraid it will have gotten into the decoration-- my lady, where--?”

“I’d like to take a look,” Shirayuki calls back, slippered feet already carrying her to the door. “I, ah, think I might know how to solve this...problem?”

The steward blinks. “Is there some...Tanbarunian folk tradition for this? Ridding the grounds of a foul beast?”

Her feet stutter at the threshold, and she swallows down a laugh. “Certainly something for removing one fowl.”

At thirteen, Shirayuki will admit, Zen becomes tolerable. Not without extreme duress, and certainly never if Obi is around, but being in his presence no longer feels like slivers under her fingernails. Now it’s just that unpleasant drone of cicadas, the same that herald his arrival every summer.

“Are you supposed to be climbing?” she asks, settling herself at the base of the tree’s trunk, as always. “Your mother won’t thank you for ruining those trousers.”

Obi laughs, already deep in the canopy. “I think you mean his laundress.”

“I have plenty more,” Zen scoffs, levering his boot over another knot, giving him the height to reach the first branch. “And I think you’re only so cross because you can’t climb for beans.”

She retracts her opinion. His Highness has certainly not become tolerable in the least.

“Come off it,” Obi laughs, so easy in his bower. “Anyone can climb.”

Zen grins down at her with smug authority. “Not Shirayuki, she’s a girl.”

“So is Kiki,” Obi reminds him, “and if she heard you talk like that, she’d come up and throw you off that branch herself.”

“Kiki hardly counts as a girl--”

“--That’s not what Mitsuhide would say--”

“--And that doesn’t mean Shirayuki can,” Zen adds, tone brooking no argument. “She doesn’t even have trousers on.”

“Shirayuki can climb in a dress just fine.” Obi swings down, right to the lowest branch. Or rather, the second lowest, since Zen hasn’t vacated the first. “Come on, I’ll tell you how.”

She spares the tree a dubious glance. “Are you sure--?”

“Always. Don’t you trust me?” He lowers down a hand, callused and bronzed, and she takes it. “Good, now put your foot there. Now just...think up.”

She sends him a dubious look. “I don’t think it’s possible to just go up by thinking it.”

He grins down. “You’d be surprised.”

Shirayuki is definitely ruining her dress.

“You’re sure it’s up here?” she calls down, a worried swarm of footmen huddling beneath her. “Waterfowl aren’t really...tree-dwelling birds.”

“I’m sure, my lady,” one pipes up beneath her. “Took to wing, then hopped up the branches easy as you please.”

Shirayuki casts a long look up the oak, sighing. “Of course he did.”

One slippered foot lifts, hooking over a thicker branch, resting her weight right by the trunk.

“Just think up,” she murmurs, irritation rising with every word. “Just think up and it’s hardly anything at all.”

“HONK,” agrees the goose above her.

“Oh.” She blinks, taking in the sleek white body and the webbed feet tucked unnaturally beneath it. Well, not that the pose was unnatural, but the place. “You’re not a swan at all.”

“HONK,” the goose informs her, wistful this time.

“Be glad,” she says, reaching for him. “If you were any bigger, I wouldn’t be able to carry you, and you’d be stuck up here with your big wings and bad decisions.

The goose ducks it head, abashed. “HONK.”

“You better,” she starts, trying to wrangle a bird his size beneath her arm, “be exactly who I think you are.”

This close, her fowl friend doesn’t dare express his opinion at the only volume nature saw fit to give him, but instead, cuddles right against her neck. For one, weak moment, Shirayuki leans against the trunk, letting her head sink into his feathers. Please let this be him. If it is, she can worry about the how later. Maybe even the why. As long as he hasn’t abandoned her, there’s nothing--

“Not to interrupt you,” a lady’s languid voice drawls beneath her. “But I’m assuming that you might need some help getting down.”

Fifteen is when Shirayuki is made aware of just how utterly unfair her life will be from now on, now that she’s to be the wife of a prince.

“No, no,” Obi laughs, nervous. “I think the Young Master has it right this time, Miss. You can’t come.”

“Why not?” He’s gotten much taller now, taller even than when he arrived, and she has to look up to guilelessly meet his eye, much more than she’s used to. “If I can climb trees with you, I can splash around in a pond just fine--”

“Yes, but--” his mouth split into a pained grimace-- “climbing trees doesn’t involve taking off clothes. You can see how that might be a, hm, problem now, can’t you, Miss?”

“No.”

His exasperation is completely unwarranted, considering how exasperating he’s being. “You’re a lady.”

“One that can swim,” she counters. “We’ve done it before, I don’t know why it’s bothering you now.”

“Because you’re...” He waves a hand at her, a harried up and down, but she only stares back. “Of all the things for Master to leave to me...”

“I can keep my shift on,” she offers, “if that helps.”

“It really doesn’t, Miss.” Obi sighs, one hand coming up to rub at his shoulder. “Surely your father-- no, your uncle. Surely your uncle’s talked to you about how boys and girls shouldn’t, um...you know.”

“I don’t.”

“It’s just...” He takes a steeling breath. “Miss, you’re a woman now. You can’t be naked with men.”

She wrinkles her nose. “I said I would wear my shift. And besides, you’re not men, you’re boys.”

Obi head rolls heavenward. “Only to you.”

Shirayuki gives him a considering look and pulls out her trump card. “Would you let Kiki Seiran come?”

She doesn’t know this Kiki Seiran, not from anything more than what’s been said in her presence, but she knows-- whatever a man does, Kiki does, and better too. The moment her name leaves her lips, Obi drops her a helpless glare.

“Kiki,” he says, as if savoring the word, “doesn’t count. No one lets Kiki Seiran do something, she just does it, and we all live with the consequences.”

A fond smile flickers across his lips, and for no reason at all, her stomach twists. “You should marry her.”

Obi blinks. “Huh?”

“Kiki Seiran,” she says lightly. “It seems she’s really quite impressive.”

For a long moment he stares at her, unblinking. Then he coughs, one, twice, until it’s no longer a cough but roaring laughter.

Shirayuki stares at him. “Is something funny?”

“Oh, Miss,” he wheezes. “That’s some vote of confidence, but Kiki Seiran-- she’s not for the likes of me.”

The sick knot in her stomach dissipates into affront. “Why not? There’s nothing wrong with you.”

“Again, you really know how to compliment a man,” he teases. “But no count worth his acreage will marry his daughter and heir to a bastard. With her pedigree, they’re probably planning to marrying her to Elder Highness as we speak.”

“Well, that’s silly,” she huffs. “You’re worth a thousand princes Obi. Any lady would be lucky to have you.”

His smile wavers. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

“You should bring her next time,” she decides. “I can talk to her.”

“Ah,” he coughs, shaking his head as he traipses after her. “That won’t be necessary at all.”

This is not how she thought she’d meet the illustrious Kiki Seiran, her wedding dress torn to rags and goose hugged tight in her arms, but it would not be the first time today fate thwarted her expectations.

“I’m fine,” Shirayuki assures her, slowly making her descent. “But do you have, um, water?”

One elegant brow arches. “Water?”

“Ah, yes.” She drops down before her-- oh, Lady Seiran is...quite a bit taller than she’d imagined, and at least twice as pretty. No wonder Obi always smiled when he talked about her. “Like a, um, lake? Or a river might do?”

“A lake?” Her gaze drops, mouth canting into a thoughtful line. “For your avian compatriot, I suppose. You think his home must be close by.”

“Yes,” she lies, because babbling about ancient texts she’s certain she was never supposed to see and magic of the blackest sort seemed a poor first impression to make. “It would probably, uh, help with the...destructive behavior.”

“He has left quite a spectacle behind. It will take hours to clean that up. Or days,” she adds with a pointed look toward the goose. “Your wedding seems to be thoroughly postponed.”

Good, she doesn’t say. This Kiki Seiran is Zen’s friend too, after all. And even if Shirayuki could have shaken him to pieces last night, she’s that too.

“Water?” she says instead.

It’s the right thing to say, since Kiki turns around, gesturing toward the treeline. “There’s a pond back there. Just follow the cobblestone path and it should take you right out to the dock.”

“Perfect.” Shirayuki takes two hurried steps before pausing, turning over her hip to add, “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Kiki. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

There’s that brow again, lifted into an elegant arch Shirayuki could never hope to mimic. “Only good things, I hope.”

Her stomach lurches as she replies, “The best.”

[wkemeup]

By Any Other Name (16)

series summary: When Special Agent Bucky Barnes is tasked with infiltrating the notorious gang Hydra and gathering evidence against its leader, Brock Rumlow, Bucky finds himself drawn to the woman who doesn’t seem to belong in this world of violence, the wife of the head of Hydra… you. pairing: bucky x reader chapter word count: 6.1k warnings: torture, gun violence, kidnapping, arson, a whole shit show and a wild ride from start to finish i am so very sorry  a/n: to anyone who listens to the series playlist, a reminder that Slow Mover has been on there from the start and the second half of the chorus was a direct warning for this chapter 😅 🌹series masterlist 🌹

This wasn’t supposed to happen. It wasn’t supposed to go down like this.

You paced along the small length of a cold, dark office in the back of an old textile factory Brock used to manufacture Cerberus. Heels long forgotten to the top of the table, your bare feet touched on concrete, over small rocks embedded in the ground and the cracks of the floor. They poked and prodded at your skin, weight sinking puncture marks to the balls of your feet. It was something, at least, because with the rushing race of your heartbeat, it was hard to feel much of anything else.

You didn’t know where you were or what happened to James in the blackout. You assumed he was arrested like he was supposed to be, that they made a show of it for the Hydra crewmen in the effort to protect his identity for when this was over. You hoped, anyway. 

But if you knew James - and you knew him well - you didn’t suspect he would comply to much of anything when you were missing and in the company of your husband.

“How in the hell did this happen?!” Brock roared, storming into the office with several men on his heels; Zola, the scientist in a white lab coat with subtle red discoloration along the sleeves, and the two men who held James down in the basement that night as Brock nearly beat him to death, Kohl and Sanzetti.

“I don’t know, sir,” the blonde one, Kohl, replied, to which Brock answered by throwing a right jab straight to his jawline. He staggered backwards, into the filing cabinets as Brock growled at him, almost feral.

“Then why the fuck are you talking!?”

You froze at the corner of the room, watching as your husband cleared the desk of its supplies, aggressively throwing papers and coffee mugs and the computer monitor itself to the floor. You winced as the screen cracked and paper slowly drifted down through the air to land delicately amongst the mess. 

Brock was panting, red in the face, as he leaned against the edge of the desk, gripping at the corners until his knuckles were sheet white.

You’d never seen him like this before; panicked in a corner and lashing out. You would have felt some kind of satisfaction if you weren’t within the crosshairs of his rage.

“I may have some answers for you,” Zola’s mousey voice spoke from the doorway. He pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose as Brock shot him a kind of glare that could have killed a man. “If you allow me one moment?”

With that, he disappeared back into the warehouse.

“Fucking hell,” Rumlow grumbled, shaking his head. “You’re all fucking useless.”

Kohl and Sanzetti were talking quietly amongst themselves, eyeing Brock suspiciously; low, murmured voices of men with loyalties to the highest bidder, the man with the most power, and suddenly, Brock didn’t hold that position. 

You watched as your husband started to finger at the weapon strapped to his waist, touching over cold metal like it was a comfort, like he it was an extension of himself, violence at the palm of his hand.

You had to get out of there.

“Brock,” you called, voice dry in your throat, arms folded over your chest protectively as he glared at you for daring to interrupt his brooding. “Maybe I could step outside for a moment? It’s a little cramped in here and—”

“No fuckin’ way, baby,” he shot back, waving his hand at you dismissively. “There could be feds casing this place! You’re not going anywhere. I want you right where I can see you. How else am I supposed to protect you?”

He spat it at you like a threat.

You clenched your jaw until it ached, nodding enough for Brock to divert his attention. He wore a forced smile, a dead kind of look in his eyes that slowly fell away to a cold, hard, nothingness as he stared down at the desk again. He didn’t care to protect you from anything. He was a selfish man at his very core and even with you feeding into his ego, he would throw you to the wolves it meant saving himself.

“You know what I don’t understand? How the hell did the FBI got access to our shipping logs?”

Your lungs burned, like fire had lit a match deep within your chest. Had you stopped breathing?

“That shit’s been under lock and key for decades,” Brock continued as he straightened his back, cracking his neck to the side, “ain’t that right, Sanzetti?”

“Yes, sir.”

Brock gritted his teeth, a sharp exhale from his nose. “So, logically, the only way that information could have been leaked was if the feds had an inside man.”

Sanzetti exchanged a nervous glance with Kohl before nodding slowly. “Yes, sir.”

Brock’s hands suddenly slammed down to the table in a fit of rage, the sharp echo of it startling straight to your chest and skipping over a beat.

“Someone better start talking!”

“I believe I can assist with that, sir.”

Zola appeared in the doorway again, a proud smirk on his face and you took a step forward, cold pavement under bare feet. Zola waved at someone beyond the door and he slid into the room, taking his place at Brock’s side and waited patiently. He glanced up at Brock like he was a man to be admired. It made you sick.

“This better be good, Zola, or a I’m going to—”

A body was thrown to the floor at Brock’s feet, heavy and lifeless, with a black canvas over his head and ropes tied at his wrists. Blood trailed down his neck and onto the concrete. 

You stared at the body, heart in your throat, breaths like fire to your lungs. You swallowed back the scream before it passed your lips.

“What the fuck is this?” Brock snapped, nudging the body with the toe of his wingtips.

“This,” Zola replied, bending down to remove the canvas, “is the man behind Hydra’s undoing.”

The canvas was ripped away, tossed to the far corner of the room and you bit down hard on your cheek. Thick coppery liquid pooled in your mouth as you stared down at the mess of blood matted through dark brown hair, ocean blue eyes shut, unconscious as your husband pushed himself from the desk.

James.

Zola pulled a water bottle from his bag and slowly began unscrewing the lid. He gestured for Kohl and Sanzetti to keep James secure, even amongst the bindings, and he dumped the water onto James’ face.

You dug your nails into your palms, your forearms, your thighs, leaving behind puncture marks you couldn’t feel, even with the red staining to your fingertips. The anticipation was torture, watching the water fall to James’ face, washing away the blood and soaking his hair, until he woke suddenly, coughing violently and flinching away from the stream of water obstructing his breathing.

“Ah, he wakes!” Zola jeered.

James wrestled to his knees, though he didn’t get much further, not with Kohl and Sanzetti holding him down. Wide, panicked eyes shot around the room, catching his bearings, until they landed on you. There was a moment of stillness, a slight relief only long enough to confirm your safety, before he thrashed against his bindings.

There were no more pretenses. There was no cover to protect. It was only survival now.

“What the hell are you going on about Zola?” Brock groaned, watching as James fought against his men, shoving shoulders to knees and grunting in the strained effort. He was unfazed – curious, maybe – at his own right hand bound at his feet, the mark of a traitor branded to his name.

Zola stepped forward, handing Brock a series of photographs. He eyed the short, rounded scientist suspiciously before he snatched the stack of photos from his hands.

From behind your husband, all you could see was the way he tensed upon a single glance down to the evidence in his hands, shoulders melding to stone as he flipped through the pages, a fire in his breath. When the scorch of red touched his ears, a low growl in his chest and a tight clench of his fists along the photographs, you knew this could only end violent and bloody. Brock held little capacity for honor or mercy. He’s killed men for far lesser offenses than this.

Brock tossed the photos to the desk as if they had burned him. Some scattered along the floor, others laid upon the surface. Taken from a distance with an often blurry figure at the center, set in varying locations ranging from the cherry blossoms around D.C. to the streets lined with brownstones in Brooklyn; always the same man in focus.

James.

You stepped forward, touching the image of James in a black suit, a man different than the one before you; shorter hair pushed back away from his eyes, a brightened smile on his face, a youthful glow in his stance. But what drew your attention wasn’t the lightness in his demeanor, the laugh so clearly present on his lips, or the lush of greenery in the background, but instead, the shiny gold badge draped on a thin metal chain around his neck, sitting at the buttons of his jacket.  

Oh God.

“Meet Special Agent James Buchanan Barnes.”

Your knees would have buckled out from under you if it wasn’t for your grip against the desk. Heart stammering, hands shaking, panic running course through your veins, you stared at James from the far end of the room, though he kept his gaze on Brock, hardened features and stone-cold expression. He didn’t bother to deny it.

“FBI, huh?” Brock questioned and Zola nodded slowly. 

“He’s been feeding them information from the start,” Zola confirmed, placing a series of small metal wirings into Brock’s hand. “We swept the house shortly after word of the raid began. He had bugs planted everywhere. Didn’t take long to weed him out as the culprit once I started looking into his history. He was a ghost before taking this job. He didn’t exist two years ago and that... intrigued me. So I tapped into the security footage records from Quantico and well... seems as though he fooled all of us, sir.”

Brock chuckled, low, humorless as he examined the small listening devices in his hand, pushing them around with his finger until he closed his hand to a fist, crushing the bugs and dropping their broken pieces to the floor. He wiped his hand along his thighs as if ridding dirt from his skin.

“I never took you for a traitor,” Brock sneered, slowly pacing along the room, cracking his knuckles out in front of him, making a show of it as he stretched his hands with every click. “I have to say I’m surprised… and well, a little disappointed. We could have done great things together, Karpov – oh, sorry, Barnes.” Brock chuckled to himself. “You were damn good, too. So eager. So willing to do what needed to get done for the glory of Hydra. What a goddamn shame...”

James just stared up at him, allowing the unkept disdain to rise straight to the surface. Jaw clenched, hands to fists though they were tied at the base of his back, skin red and raw under the cut of ropes. He barely even flinched as Brock barreled a closed fist straight to his left cheekbone.

You gasped, hand clamped over your mouth, tears brimming in your eyes from the terror coursing through you, but James was calm, so impossibly still as he slowly turned back up to face Brock.

“Nothing to say for yourself, Agent?”

James spat a glob of thick, crimson blood to the floor, some of it dripping from his lips to his chin. “Go to hell, asshole.”

“Oh, so he can speak!” Brock laughed, though he jumped back abruptly as James grappled against his bindings, lunging towards him only to be pulled back gruffly by the collar of his shirt. He narrowly clamped his teeth around Brock’s hand. “Fuckin’ hell!”

Brock raised a hand, fist clenched and rings reflecting in the dim lighting of the room, and you quickly turned your head before you saw him take the swing. The sound of knuckles to bone was enough; it warped in your stomach, pushed bile up your throat and clamping your jaw was no longer enough.

The adrenaline was seeping through the cracks, tears burning in your eyes, lump throbbing at your throat. You opened your eyes again to see James swaying unsteady on his knees, held by the front of his shirt by your husband as he punched him again and again while his men stood back and watched, while they laughed.

Blood dripped from James’ lips, sliding down his chin, his neck, pooling at the concrete beneath him. You couldn’t watch this again.

You had to do something.

You had to stop this.

“Brock?”

“I’m a little busy, baby,” he grunted, throwing another hit to James’ cheekbone, reopening the long, jagged wound that had healed in the weeks since the basement. The ring on Brock’s middle finger broke through skin and James cried out, shouting as he hunched over, pressing his cheek to his shoulder to stop the bleeding but it only soaked into his shirt. Pools of red in its wake.

“Brock, just—wait!” you tried again, voice shaken.

“Why? You want a turn?”

Wide eyes bore into his as he paused for a moment, looking back at you earnestly, and – dear God – he was serious. Your gaze flashed to his closed fist, staring at the red coating his broken knuckles and dripping down his wrist.

“We should get out of here,” you gasped, desperately avoiding the panic the quickly surged through James’ face, though he kept himself motionless. “Before his friends find us... we should go.”

Even from the corner of your eye, beyond the blood and swelling on James’ face, you could see the confusion, the horror, as the words left your lips. You knew your husband better than anyone else in this room, so you knew there was no scenario where he would allow James to leave this room alive; not unless his own self-preservation outweighed his need for revenge.

So, you’d stay with Brock, go with him far away from this factory, away from James and his team, to corners of the world you’d never see the other half of your heart again. You’d stand by your husband’s side and keep up this disguise for the rest of your life. You’d wear a dozen different masks, staple a smile to your face, and learn to be content – complicit – again. You’d do anything if it meant James survived this.

“Brock,” you whispered, taking another step forward like you were approaching a feral animal, cautious, calculated movements as not to set it off. You slowly reached out to him, close enough to slowly wrap your hands around his and carefully pull him to your grasp. Gentle, tender movements as you held his gaze, the blood of your lover warm on your palms as you guided away the monster’s fist.

“Let’s go,” you urged. “You and me. We’ll get away from all of this. But we have to leave now.”

There was a stillness in Brock, a slow drawl of his eyes as looked from your intertwined hands to your face; a moment of reprieve, maybe something like relief, and he pursed his lips together to a soft smile.

Then, he released James’ shirt and your whole heart fell crashed to the floor; concrete to his jaw, his arms bound behind his back and unable to catch himself. He groaned, withering against the cold of the ground, trying to push himself back to his knees, trying to catch your eye and beg you to stay, beg you not to leave with the same man you’d been desperate to escape from.

“Okay, baby,” Brock cooed, his free hand sliding up your arm, pulling goosebumps like ice and venom along the way until he cupped the side of your face. You held your breath, allowed him to kiss you, push his tongue into your mouth, and you held back tears, realizing you’d kissed James for the last time. Brock had already swept his touch away from you.

You could feel James’ eyes burning on you, desperate, begging, but you couldn’t look at him. The second you did, you knew you’d lose your resolve completely. You couldn’t allow that to happen.

Protect James; the way he protected you, the way he protected Peter. This was how you save him. Go with your husband. Take the life you were dealt and deal with the consequences.

You were prepared to make that sacrifice. Until –

“Just one thing before we go.”

Brock swiftly yanked a pistol from his waistband and in those seconds, your world seemed to move in slow motion; like limbs underwater, pushing against resistance, like you might be able to reach out and stop it in time if you were only faster than time itself.

The barrel pressed to James’ temple.

The unlatch of the safety followed; deafening, echoing.

There was a burning in your lungs long before you realized you were screaming.

“NO!”

You clamped your hand over your mouth, muffling yourself under trembling hands as time came speeding back up to you.

Brock froze, head slowly turning to you with a hardened expression of disbelief, of fury and fire and rage burning behind his eyes; a flicker of something darker hidden in the flakes of green, a realization, maybe, and you were certain a single look could have killed you.

You quickly dropped your hands and closed them to fists at your side to stop the shaking.

“Do we have a problem here, baby?”

There was venom to his voice. He spat the pet name at you like an insult.

You cleared your throat nervously, trying to find your breath but your eyes flickered to James. There was crimson coating over most of his face, the cold barrel of a gun pressed against his temple, and he was watching you, terrified, but never for himself – no, his fear was for you. His drive to protect you was always stronger than that of his own.

It was something you had in common.

“He’s a—a federal agent,” you tried to reason. “You don’t—you don’t want to give them more to charge you with. You kill one of their own and they’ll hunt you down. They won’t stop until they find you.”

Brock’s stare could have torn right through you, unnerving and cold as ice, like blades to your skin as they drew blood right at your heart. But then, seemingly out of nowhere, he lowered the weapon and you exhaled a heavy sigh of relief.

“Fine,” he shrugged, far too calm for the man you knew. He brushed the barrel of the gun against his thigh, examining it up against the light. It was the calm before the storm and you could sense the lightening long before the thunder when his eyes snapped to you. “Why don’t you do it?”

Before you could take another breath, Brock bounded across the room, grabbed a painful grip of your wrist and yanked you towards him. His grasp cut deep into your bones, would surely leave behind bruising and you watched as the marks of his fingers left discoloration in their wake.

He slammed the gun in your hand, cold metal to the burning heat of your palms, forced your arms out straight, pointed the barrel at James.

“Stop,” you gaped as you tried to push out of his grasp but there was no give on his hold; no release as he caged you, forcing a violent weapon to your hands and aimed at the one man you’d give your life for.

“Go on, baby! Shoot.”

You shook your head, trying to squirm out of his hold but it was like fighting with a wall. “Brock, let me go--”

“You wanted to be part of Hydra, didn’t you? This is Hydra, baby! Welcome to the fun!” Brock shouted, a laugh in his voice, amused, as his fingers dug bruises to your shoulders. “Now... shoot him!”

Your hands were shaking, the barrel of the gun swaying in your grasp. Your eyes caught James and you were shocked to find him calm, waiting patiently on his knees. There was a determination there you didn’t quite expect, a simple kind of realization. His gaze pointed down at his left shoulder before it returned to you.

You furrowed your brow.

“What are you waiting for?” Brock grunted. “No one is coming for him. We’ll dump the body before the feds can find us. No one will miss a fuckin’ narc.”

James was staring at you and you could barely make out the blue of his eyes over the swelling, behind the steady stream of blood on his face. He was breathing heavy, gargled, like there was blood in his throat, too, and God, it was worse than that terrible night in the basement. You choked back a cry, trying to bit it down before your husband could see your tears.

You wanted to scream, to run, to use that goddamn gun on Brock himself, but you wouldn’t get more than a few feet before his men took you down. There was no way out of this. James seemed to know that, too, because there was a slight nod of his head, impossibly subtle that not even Brock seemed to notice. You parted your lips in shock as blue eyes flickered to his shoulder again before returning to you.

The realization hit you like a sucker punch to the gut.

No.

“I’m growing impatient, baby,” Brock groaned, squeezing hard at your shoulders and causing you to recoil under the strain of muscle. “If you don’t take the goddamn shot, I will and I’ll make a damn mess of things; might empty the whole clip and I know how you women are about keeping things clean.”

You shivered as the heat of his breath touched your neck, disgust and rage surging through you and you struggled to find your breath.

James nodded at you again. Your heart thunderous in your chest; it pounded in your ears. You could feel the pulse of it in your temples, through your finger tips and you slowly slid your pointer to rest against the trigger.

“Good girl,” Brock praised, his voice laced in a thick, unrelenting poison.

James held your gaze the entire time and you wished you could have known what was running through his head in that moment, because all you could think about was how scared you felt how terrified you were that this was it, that you’d already used up your time with him.

He nodded again, the curve of his lips so soft you almost missed it. That sweet smile of his, the one that convinced you trust him more than a year earlier, the one that lifted the storm clouds and walls you’d surrounded yourself with, the one that you dreamed about at night. It was small and only an ounce of what you knew it to be, but it was there.

“Shoot him, baby,” Brock urged in your ear, but his voice was distant, muffled, because you kept your focus on James, on the sense of calm on his face, the trust in his eyes.

Brock was miles away when you were with James.

You took a deep breath, and on the exhale, you pulled the trigger.

There was barely anytime to watch as the bullet tore through the fabric of James’ shirt, as the impact nearly knocked him over, as the blood splattered out onto the white walls behind him, dripping down in deep crimson stains. 

Hands shaking violently as the weapon was pulled from your grip, you couldn’t look away as James’ eyes started to lose focus, how they drifted away from your own, and started to flutter, how he could hardly hold his head up.

You barely registered the push of angry hands shoving you to the door, a painful grip on your wrist, bones crackling under the touch as James slumped down to the floor. Your body was not your own as it was dragged on unsteady; a vicious ringing in your ears and a muffled voice shouting at you with malice laced in his tone.

Vision tunneling. Blurry. No – tears in your eyes. You nearly tripped over something on the floor, foot catching on something heavy and it took a moment before you realized it was James’ body Brock dragged you over.

You glanced back in horror, unable to pry Brock’s grip from around your wrist, to find blood pooling around James as he struggled to find his breath. The bare of your feet touched over warm, slippery crimson as Brock shoved you forward; red footprints in your wake.

Brock turned abruptly at the door, swinging you sharply behind him, and fired his weapon in two consecutive shots; ones that were muffled to the ringing in your ears as Kohl and Sanzetti fell to the floor, vagrant stares in their eyes and bullets lodged deep into brain tissue. You barely flinched, your focus solely on James.

He wasn’t moving, his gaze fixing on the wall far beyond you.

The pool of red under him was growing.

“You wanted to go, baby?” Brock sneered, yanking painfully on your hand, his rings cutting into your skin and you felt something pop. “Let’s fucking go!”

Red and blue lights flashed into the building and Brock cursed loudly, dragging you along as he sprinted to the back of the factory. James disappeared from your view and all you were left with were the bloody prints on the bottom of your feet.

The cold air slammed to you like a wall, shivers trembling up your spine, rocks and dirt to the bottom of your feet as Brock led you through the wooded overcast of trees running along the property. It was too dark back where you were, the street lights barely illuminating the front of the factory, let alone the long, winding, dirt path at its rear.

Police cars were parked by the entrance, lights flashing, men and women in uniform with weapons attached to their hips, some in their hands, as they slowly entered the building. You wanted to scream, to beg for help, but you knew the second you did, it would divert their attention to you and they might not reach James in time. You couldn’t allow that to happen.

Branches poked at your sides, scraping your skin and leaving prickles of blood in their wake; stones puncturing at your bare feet, leaves and dirt sticking to the mess of blood drying underneath. You nearly tripped over an exposed root before Brock shoved you up against a tree, hand slamming down over your mouth as a patrol car zoomed by up along the road.

No one saw you.

No one would.

At the end of the tree line was an unmarked car sitting alone in an empty parking lot. Brock pushed out ahead of you, pulling a key ring from his pocket and unlocked the vehicle. You paused, staring at him, wondering why the hell he had a getaway car stash out a mile away from the factory.

“Get in the goddamn car,” he growled, yanking your hand like you were a child and whipping you around the trunk. Your hip slammed to the rear lights and you let out a whimper, though Brock paid it no mind.

He shoved you to the passenger seat, slammed the door behind you. He slid over the engine and dropped in behind the wheel himself. Headlights off, he threw the shift into drive and drove away like it was nothing at all, like there weren’t dozens of policemen and SWAT teams and FBI patrolling the area.

The low vibration of the engine was deafening. Your hands were shaking in your lap so you tried to curl them to fists, nestle them under your thighs, but nothing seemed to make it stop. Dried blood on your feet, ringing still burning in your ears, and you turned your attention to the side of the road, watching the blur of trees out the passenger window.

You tried not to think of James.

Along the way, you must have lost track of time, because you were suddenly pulling into the driveway at the end of your estate. You’d lost nearly twenty minutes just staring out the window, lost within the ringing and the panic in your veins, and you stared up at the home with narrowed eyes.

“What are we doing here?” you asked, turning to Brock suspiciously. “This will be the first place the feds will come looking for you. We should--”

You bit down on your tongue because beside you, Brock was laughing to himself. Chin to his chest, wide smile pushing at his cheeks, like he was genuinely amused. It wasn’t a look you saw on him often. It was... unsettling.

“Brock?”

He looked up at you, crooked smile on his face, as his right hand slowly slid up your arm and nestled along your neck, fingers scratching at your scalp and they interwove into your hair. It was an intimate gesture, a tender one, and you tried to fight against how quickly you tensed up, how your muscles conformed to stone, but you knew he could feel it.

“We should go,” you tried again, voice low, cracking in the effort. Your throat was dry, like sandpaper.

He only smiled back at you, though it didn’t touch his eyes. Something was wrong.

Your heart started to pick up in pace, your breath becoming shallow.

“You can stop pretending, baby. It’s just the two of us now.”

His hand gripped tight to your hair, pulling out strands and a yelp from your lungs, and he slammed your head to the dashboard. Once, twice, until darkness came in and washed you away.

***

You woke to the smell of gasoline.

It burned in your nose, the tang of it bitter on your tongue, pushing down into your lungs with a sharp intake of breath. You started to cough, violent and dry heaves as you tried to find clean air, and that was when you felt the resistance at your wrists.

Vision still tunneled, unforgiving darkness, like you were looking through the thin fabric of a black mask, you found your wrists bound to a single, wooden chair; tied down primitively with electrical wires. You tugged against it, only for it to rub raw into your skin, digging deep into the crevices, pulling a hiss from between your teeth. You tried to push forward but there was a series of wiring wrapped at your chest, holding your shoulders to the back of the chair.

“Welcome back, baby.”

Snapping your eyes abruptly to the sound of the sudden voice, you saw Brock sitting on the corner of the couch, stretched back into the arm rest with a cigar in his hand, legs crossed over one another.

“Guess I knocked you out a bit too hard, huh?” he snickered as he started to light the end of his cigar. “You figure out where we are yet?”

Your head was throbbing, black spots covering most of your vision, but they were slowly fading away. You could make out the soft blue color of the couch he was sitting on, the coffee table with stained rings upon the wood in the shape of old mugs, the greenery hanging by the windows, the colorful bindings of hundreds of novels lining the shelves surrounding you.

A room that had held you safe for so many years. Four walls that shielded you from Hydra’s claim. A place where you could be yourself without fear of repercussions, where you found respite and grew to love a man who now laid in a pool of his own blood miles away.

Your library.

“Ah, there it is,” Brock jeered, taking a long drag from the cigar, his wet, cracked lips circling around the wrapper as he inhaled. He held your eye as you stared at him, wide and stunned, before he removed the cigar and slowly blew the smoke to your face. The thick cloud of grey touched your skin and the bitterness of it stung in your lungs as you tried to cough it away.

“What the hell are you doing, Brock?” you rasped, chest burning from the smoke and the sting of gas in the air. There was a container at his feet, a bucket filled high with thick, dark liquid, and you could see his reflection in.

“Getting justice,” he replied with a shrug.

“Justice?” you scoffed, rolling your eyes. “Are you insane?!”

The mask you’d worn was long cracked and dismembered to pieces at your feet. There was no hiding your distain, no reason to pretend that your relationship was anything other than hostage and captor; certainly not with the wires binding you to a chair and the blinding pulsing in your head from where he’d knocked you out cold.

“Maybe,” he shot back with a sickening grin. He waved the cigar at you, eyes trailing over your body, the hem of your dress riding up high on your thighs in the struggle. He smirked. “I see you’ve decided to drop the act, as well.”

“Oh, fuck you,” you spat, rolling your eyes.

“Ouch. That stings,” Brock whined, hand mockingly clutching at his heart. “Didn’t know you were so unhappy, baby. I gave you the world, didn’t I?”

“You took everything from me, you fucking asshole!” you shouted, voice raw and hoarse. “You forced me from my career, from my friends. You stole my money, my inheritance, my—my freedom! You tricked my sixteen-year-old cousin into a goddamn drug trafficking ring and threatened to beat him within an inch of his life! You kept me locked up in this house for years and tied me to your arm at those miserable fucking parties like I was some accessory you could show off for a few hours before you threw it back to storage! You destroyed my life!”

“Funny,” Brock chuckled, completely unfazed. “I recall you signing the marriage certificate yourself. No gun to your head or anything.”

You shook your head, chest heaving with heavy, painful breaths. “You lied to me. You used me.”

Brock only shrugged, a slight purse of his lips as he tapped the end of the cigar and grey ashes fell to the cushions of your couch.

Your stomach was heavy, lined with stones; your gaze focused on the muddied imprint on the tips of his shoes, the dried blood on the soles of his feet, the same blood that stained your bare skin, where you’d left footprints behind.

James’ blood.

“We could’ve had it all, baby,” Brock sighed, taking another drag from the cigar. He blew the smoke to the ceiling. “You and me. We could have ruled Hydra together. You could have been my queen.”

He paused, a heavy sigh as a cloud of thick, grey smoke passed by his lips. The cigar twirled around his fingers as if manipulated by string.

“But you just had to go and start fucking my hitman, didn’t you?”

It was the full force of a train whipping along the outer curves of a mountain, plummeting you to frozen rapids amongst the free fall. Ice water to your chest, in your veins.

The hardened glare slipped from your features, replaced by widened eyes, parted lips gaping in the shock of it, panic and fear; exactly what your husband wanted from you. He wanted you afraid, trapped. It was how he always wanted you.  

You couldn’t find your breath, much less your voice, so all you could do was watch as Brock pushed himself up from the couch and started to pace along the room. He slid his fingers along the shelves, pulling books by their bindings and watching as they fell to the floor, open pages stepped on by muddied wingtips.

“You know,” he drawled, picking up a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird, examining it as he flipped through the pages before he tossed it over his shoulder. You winced as it hit the ground. “I never understood your obsession with this room.  All these old, boring books written by old, boring people; thousands of dollars of my fortune... wasted on fairytales.”

Your stomach was still lodged in your throat, hands gripping painfully at the arms of the chair. Your wrists were raw, red, and there was a burning sensation there, a tingling, and you realized the wires had cut through your skin, dipped in blood. It didn’t hurt nearly as much as the pounding of your heart in your chest, your ears, down to your fingertips and toes.

“You spent so much time in here. Figured it must be something special…. but it’s just another fuckin’ room,” Brock continued, passing by the series of plants hanging by the windows.

In one swift motion, he grabbed a pot hanging from the ceiling and threw it across the room. You flinched, the shock of it forcing several skips in your already racing heart, as it collided against the wall and shattered to the floor; a cloud of dirt circling into the air above it.

Behind you, Brock snickered as he began kicking over the plants behind you, tipping them from their place on the windowsill and dumping them from the shelves. Flowers and greenery amongst the dirt and pieces of broken ceramic, lying on the floor as he dug his heels to the roots, smashed the petals under his wingtips and kicked at the remains.

You could hear the floorboards under his feet whine as he paced behind you but you kept your gaze forward, not daring to turn around. He paused then, a heavy exhale as he turned his attention to the couch, smirking from behind your shoulder.

"You fuck him in here, too?”

You bit on your tongue, tears burning in your eyes you could no longer contain.

“Huh?!” Brock bounded across the room, thunderous steps and he gripped ahold of your shoulders until you yelped, turning away from him as best you could. “You fuck that traitorous son of a bitch in my house?!”

You recoiled as he screamed to your ear, eyes closing shut as tears slipped down over your cheeks. Brock chuckled to himself as he pulled away, pleased by your reaction and he wiped his hands on his thighs, as if to rid you from his touch.

Despite the bindings, you were shaking; hands trembling, breaths labored and uneven, jaw clenched impossibly tight to stop the chattering. You weren’t made for this the way Natasha was, or Sam, or Steve, or James. You weren’t an agent of the FBI. You weren’t trained as an army ranger or learned how to withstand torture the way James did that night in the basement. Brock hadn’t even raised a hand to you and you were in pieces.

You were a literature professor at Columbia. This wasn’t your world.

“I don’t know how long you knew he was a fed but frankly, I couldn’t give a shit at this point.” Brock bit the cigar between his teeth, holding it steady as he knelt down in front of you. His breath was sour, like old smoke and day-old bourbon, and you flinched as his fingers reached up and grabbed a sharp hold of your jaw. “All I know, is that you were in on this somehow. You gave me up. Didn’t take long to figure that out once our buddy James was lying bloody on that floor and you wouldn’t let me kill the bastard myself.”

You swallowed, trying to pull yourself from his grasp, but his fingers dug in further.

“I was surprised at first,” he continued, words garbled from the cigarette nestled at his lips as he ran his free hand through your hair, “but then I remembered how Karpov volunteered to take a beating for that punk ass cousin of yours. I remembered how you reacted that night in the basement, how you begged me to stop and I realized... he did it for you, didn’t he?”

Your blood ran cold. You couldn’t speak.

“It opened my fucking eyes, baby!” Brock shouted right to your ear, causing you to flinch. “All those times he was watching you from the corner of the room? Shit, I thought it was harmless. The guy wanted to fuck you. So what? Half my men get themselves off to the thought of it. But him? No... this was different. That fucking moron actually fell for you... and you know what is so goddamn funny about it all? You fell for him, too, right under my fuckin’ nose.”

Tears were openly sliding down your cheeks, touching onto Brock’s fingers as he held your jawline in place, forcing you to look him in the eye. His stare was of ice, heartless, a vicious envy in the green of his eyes.

A single beat. And then, “imagine how fun it was for me to force you to shoot him.”

“You’re a monster.” It came out broken, harsh and aching. Images of James lying still and bloody on the floor of that factory haunting you as you closed your eyes.

“Yeah?” Brock chuckled humorlessly. “At least I’m not dead.”

Cold, unforgiving eyes stared back at you; seething, red.

And yet it ignited something in you.

“James Barnes,” you started slowly, finding strength in his name as you stared to the eyes of the devil, “is ten times the man you will ever be.”

You waited, watched as Brock’s mouth curved up to a smirk, baring teeth behind dry, cracked lips, and you spat.

He flinched at it landed on his cheek, wet and dripping down his jaw. He started to laugh as he wiped it away, flicking away the saliva to the floor and wiping the rest on his suit pants.

“Was.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What?”

“You mean ‘was,’ as in past tense,” Brock jeered, planting his hands on your forearms, face inches from yours. “James Barnes was ten times the -- blah blah blah. You killed him, baby... or did you forget?”

No.

No, you shot him in the shoulder, right where he told you. You were certain of it. It was a clean shot.

But there was so much blood. There shouldn’t have been so much blood...

God, why was there so much blood?

You weren’t trained like he was. You weren’t an expert marksman like Natasha. You could have missed without realizing it. You could have shot two inches to the right and hit an artery. He could have bled out alone in that room before the cops got to him in time. He couldn’t actually be–

Your heart rate started to pick up, thunderous and burning a lump in your throat. Breathing coming in uneven, rushed, shallow, and you looked up to Brock with wide eyes, only to find him turning his back to you, slowly making his way to the bucket by the couch.

“His friends aren’t coming for you,” he taunted, picking up the container of gasoline and dumping a steady stream onto the couch beside you. You held your breath, trying to turn away from the stench of it, but it was too powerful. Brock only laughed.

“You think that because you were his plaything that they’ll give a shit about you? You’ve been a part of Hydra from the start, baby! You stood in the shadows and watched from your fuckin’ ivory tower! You knew everything that was going on in this house and you kept your mouth shut like the good little girl you are!”

You shook your head, panting because your breaths were coming in faster than you could take in air. “You threatened me! You threatened my family!”

“You were still complicit to hundreds of crimes,” Brock shrugged, dragging the container around the room and spilling puddles of gasoline along the hardwood floors. “You are Hydra, baby, whether you like it or not. You are not worthy of redemption. You are not better than me. You are and always will be Hydra to those feds and they will leave you to BURN!”

There were splinters in your palms from how tight you were holding the edge of the arm rests. Your whole body was rigid, like stone, as you watched Brock douse the shelves filled with priceless books, first editions and cherished copies, with gasoline.

He always held a resentment for this room; the fact that you had a place within the cold, unforgiving nature of this home to feel safe in. It mocked him, infuriated him, that he couldn’t control every ounce of relief and happiness you were allowed in this world. You’d found that for yourself outside of him. In this room. In James. In yourself.

And he was going to set fire to it all.

“Brock,” you choked out, terrified, “wait.”

“I think I’ve waited long enough,” he shot back, tossing the rest of the gas onto the plants behind you, letting it seep along the floorboards. He threw the empty container to the side of the room, against the bookshelves to your left and pulling down several novels along with in. They splashed into the gas, their pages soaking in the fuel.

“Don’t do this,” you begged, voice barely above a whisper, too lost, too broken behind the lump in your throat. You tugged against the bindings, fighting the restraints, until blood dripped down your wrists and stained the hardwood floors beneath you.

Brock winked as he leaned on the door frame, pulling the cigar from between his teeth and blowing out a cloud of smoke. One final drag before he flicked it to the floor, almost in slow motion as it spun and twisted in the air.

It landed amongst the gas, and then, it burst into flames.

[jadoue1999]

Wanda and the life she deserved (she’ll make sure of it) Chapter 8

Summary: In honor of the amazing bob that is ¨Agatha all along¨, this chapter is from Agatha’s point of view! Find out how this century old witch deals with the event of Westview and how Peter ended up wearing the damn necklace in the first place! (Still pissed we never got an explanation for that) Please enjoy!

Previous parts: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, chapter 9, chapter 10, chapter 11, epilogue

Chapter 8: Agatha all along

Agatha had felt it in the air, a disturbance. A pulling force seemingly ripping through anything that should normally stop it. Similar to what created Westview, but this one was more contained, and a lot further. She did what any sane witch would do in her situation and rerouted the spell. A classic. Not interfering with anything, just taking what’s already there and changing the landing point. She didn’t have to wait long, soon, a young man with silver hair dropped on the stone floor. Agatha looked at the newcomer with amusement, Wanda couldn’t have done that, could she? Had the witch been so lost in grief that she ripped away a version of her brother? As the stranger stirred, she quickly hid in the shadows, first impressions were important after all. He cracked his eyes open and gripped his head in pain, the landing had to have been rough. She let him look around her dark dungeons, it was all about timing. She walked forward, slowly coming into view of the man.

“Well,” she started, amusement coloring her voice, “I see Wanda is getting desperate.”

The stranger eyed her with suspicion, slowly trying to get up to his feet. “Where am I?”

“I didn’t bring you here if that’s what you mean. Your unhinged sister did.”

“Lorna?” Agatha felt that the stranger had wanted to say another name, but it was apparently painful. Good, she could play with that.

“No dear, your twin,” she paused, reveling in his surprise and shock, followed by anger. She scoffed, “well, not technically, but details, details.” 

The man rose up to his feet quicker than anyone should be able to. Check for superspeed, definitely Wanda’s brother. He was still a little disoriented, so it wasn’t hard for Agatha to pluck him mid-step and bind him to the walls. The magic in the vines would be enough to contain him. She smirked as a series of curse words left his lips as he fought his bonds. Knowing there was no need for show now, she quickly casted a mind control spell on the man. 

Only for it to dissipate as soon as it reached him.

The witch frowned and tried again, to no avail. She tried reaching into his mind, only to find his thoughts flying at a thousand miles. She couldn’t get a grip, no matter how hard she concentrated. She opened her eyes to find that a migraine was now piercing through her skull. She tried her best to ignore it as she smirked. “Well, aren’t you a little problem?”

“My life’s purpose,” snarked the man.

Oh, he had spirit. She loved when they fought back, it made it all worthwhile when they finally broke. 

“Now, Pietro-“

“Name’s Peter.”

“Peter, you get to be the lucky guest star of the show,” Agatha announced, smugness in her voice. “Not only that, but I’m also going to give you a very secret mission.” The speedster glared at her, clearly not interested in her proposition. Tough crowd, I see. Nevertheless, she continued. “You see, I need information about a certain someone, you’ll be my eyes and ears.”

Peter scoffed at her plan, “not gonna happen, lady. You see, I’m part of a team, and they’ll notice I’m gone and when they do, they’ll-“

Agatha quickly casted a spell to stop his rambling. She found great satisfaction in seeing the man trying to talk. The panicked look on his face when he realized that no sound was coming out would definitely be a precious memory to look back upon. She walked over to the altar and opened the Darkhold. The spell book had to be containing tips or tricks to deal with speedsters. After a bit of looking, she found the few pages concerning this special type of power. She quickly read through the many tips and warning before finding what she was looking for.

“Hm,” scoffed Agatha, narrowing her eyes at the mutant as she closed the book. “I think the thing you need, is something much more tangible than a simple spell. Your brain is too fast, I need something real to make it last.” 

With a wave of her hand, a necklace appeared in her hand. It looked simple enough, there was about a dozen wooden beads with white shells. Agatha plucked a hair out of Peter’s head and began chanting in a language he couldn’t understand. The jewelry began to glow purple, Peter stared at it, uncertain of what was happening. Then, the witch took a step forward and that’s when he started struggling. Panicking is more accurate. All she could see was a moving blur, but it didn’t matter. She tightened the vine’s hold on him, the pain momentarily immobilizing the speedster. Those few seconds was all she needed to hook the necklace around his neck. She let his voice return as the memories of Wanda’s brother assaulted his mind, his screams echoing off the walls. It didn’t take long for the spell to take over him, Agatha released his bonds and led him upstairs. As they walked up the stairs, his clothes changed from a silver jacket and a band shirt to a black jacket with a purple Hawaiian shirt. 

She walked him outside, in front of Wanda’s house and nudged him forward with her magic; giving him the autonomy to fulfill his role. 

Agatha smirked as she watched Wanda welcome him into her home, her plan would work; she would get her answers.

...

 The contact had been lost. Ever since Halloween night, Agatha had lost her eyes and ears into Wanda’s house. She assumed she had casted him out or returned him to his dimension.

Imagine her surprise when he appeared out of nowhere, literally. She had been there for the twins, but the game had just become much more interesting. She eyed him carefully, noting how the necklace was still in place. Even though she couldn’t understand how he was still there, she acted like nothing was wrong. “Well, hello! I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced,” she held out a hand, “I’m Agnes, your neighbor to the right, my right not yours!”

The speedster didn’t seem to recognize her, which she was ever so thankful for. The memory spell she had casted back when he arrived was still doing its job. She had originally come for Wanda’s children, but getting her brother too was quite tempting. She quickly made her choice and turned to Wanda, faking worry. She proposed taking Tommy and Billy to give her a break, something Wanda seemed to find scandalous. Agatha reassured her; it wouldn’t be a problem. Plus, she could use her brother for repairs. 

She quickly got what she came here for, but the speedster refused to come. A flash of anger flared through her, she needed Wanda at her most vulnerable, how dare he try to foil her plan? 

Still, benevolent as she was, she let it slip. She had the boys anyway; she’d take care of him later. 

...

 Saying the twins were worried about their mom was an understatement, she could hear their worried thoughts all the way in the kitchen. Agatha was fixing them sandwiches, her neighbors were still at risk of suddenly joining her, she had to keep up the facade a little longer. Screaming from the outside distracted her from the boys. Not that they needed a caretaker; they were sitting on her couch, watching TV while eating the food she had just given them. 

“I’ll go check up on your mom, alright? I’ll be right back.”

Wanda was with the woman she had banished a few days ago. The screaming she had heard had now seemed to turn into a heartfelt conversation. Not good. She quickly shooed away the lady, leading Wanda to her house, she beamed on the inside. Finally, she would learn her secret, finally she’ll get her powers. She’ll drain her of everything she got, yes and once that would be done, she’d-

“Thanks Agnes, I don’t know what was up with her,” said Pietro. 

Oh, that simply wouldn’t do. How did he keep appearing at the most inconvenient times? She put up her friendly neighbor facade, but inside she was fuming. When asked about the twins, she assured them that they were fine. For now. Knowing she wouldn’t get Wanda at the moment; she reminded the troublesome speedster of the tasks she needed him for. She glared at them as she watched them walk away. Still, not everything was lost; she still had the Minimoffs in her grip. Time to get to work.

“How’s the show going boys?” Agatha cheerily asked. She didn’t listen to their answers as she placed a hand behind each of the boy’s head. She quietly muttered her spell, smirking as the twin’s bodies slowly relaxed and their eyes closed. Once she was sure they were fully asleep, she took each of them in her basement, shoving them into a cell. A noise upstairs startled her, but she grinned when the newcomer spoke.

“Agnes, I’m here!” Pietro’s voice echoed. She quickly walked up the stairs. 

“Oh! You arrived just in time; I just discovered a leaky pipe in the basement. I really don’t want mold growing down there!” She laughed and gestured at the man to follow her. Excitement building in her stomach as all the pieces slowly fell into place. After him, she’d only need Wanda. 

As they ventured down the stairs, she could feel his anxiety growing. She assumed his subconscious also remembered his previous incursion in the basement, but she couldn’t be sure about it. Still, Agatha could feel his senses on high alert as they reached her lair. 

At that, Pietro spoke up. “Where are my nephews?” he asked, slowly getting more aggressive after each word. 

“Indisposed, at the moment I’m afraid,” Agatha replied. With a flick of her hand, he was levitating in the air, restrains on his hands and feet. The lack of contact with any surface made his struggling useless. She approached him, eyeing him curiously. He was definitely still under a spell, there was no Peter present, only Pietro. Nothing he was wearing seemed out of the ordinary. Agatha looked at the necklace on his neck with suspicion, something was... different. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it. The jewelry was the same original piece, nothing had been changed. Then why did she lose contact? She wondered. Then it clicked.

“Oh, that little witch,” smirked Agatha. “She changed the spell. Well, we can fix that.”

She went to remove the necklace, but a burning sensation made her gasp. She looked at her hand in shock, there was no bruise, but it was definitely hurting. When did Wanda learn to protect her spells like that? She brushed her hand against her shirt, trying to get rid of the sensation before looking at her neighbor’s not brother. He seemed oblivious to what had just happened, the necklace apparently wasn’t hurting him. That meant that Wanda probably discovered his real identity, but why keep him around if he was a fake? That could only mean one thing: she was so lost in grief that she had kept him at her side even knowing it was a trick. 

“Now Pietro, your nephews might be here,” she started, catching the man’s attention, “but that doesn’t mean they’re safe.” Agatha approached the speedster and gripped his chin. “That depends entirely on you. You see, I need a lookout, someone to make sure that I will not be disturbed when your sister gets here. You happen to fit the part nicely, with your superspeed. No one can run from you.”

The man scoffed, “how do you know I won’t just tell Wanda and she’ll take care of you?”

“Your sister might protect you from my magic, but that doesn’t apply to her children. One wrong move on your part and they pay the price.” 

She let him consider her offer, already knowing his answer. It’s not like he had much of a choice. Either he played sentinel, or she would keep him here and make things even worse for Wanda. Shutting his eyes, he reluctantly agreed. Agatha smiled as she released him, he was about to leave but she spoke up. “If you happen to catch anyone, you take them in the attic. You stay with them. I might not have control over your person, but you’ll find it impossible to leave this house unless I want you to.” 

The speedster was gone in a flash. She wished she could have taunted him with the truth, but she was fairly certain his sister’s magic wouldn’t have let it. With the power she possessed, she doubts he’d even remember if she told him he was from a different universe. 

The sound of her doorbell pulled her from her thoughts. Wanda was here. Time to get this show on the run.

...

Notes: Agatha is very fun to write and since I only wanted one chapter in her point of view, you get a chapter that double the usual lenght! Thank you for reading, reblogs and comments are always appreciated!

[anthonyjlockwood]

17 OF THE 50 WAYS TO SAY I LOVE YOU FOR LALEXIE PLEASEEEE

em, my fellow luke angst lover, my lalexie brain rot-causer, my beloved <3

here is your prompt on ao3. tw for discussions of luke wanting to cross over. please read responsibly💜

Luke’s song book has been through a lot over the years.

It’s had tears soaked into its pages. It’s had crumbs stuck in between its binding. It’s had dozens of songs written on it in fast, messy handwriting, thousands of words based on Luke’s inner thoughts, feelings, hopes, and dreams.

It’s survived years worth of scribbles, cross-outs, rips and tears; even hugs and kisses, when Luke’s written something he’s sure will be a hit someday.

It’s survived death, some time in a dark room, and a tumbling trip back to Earth twenty five years in the future.

And now, the boy who’s been writing in it for all that time, whose soul is attached to it in ways most people wouldn’t even understand, is using its pages for something else.

Something no one would have ever expected.

A list.

Ways I Can Cross Over.

He thought that maybe, Unsaid Emily would’ve been it. There was a small part of him that had expected to just vanish into thin air the second Julie handed his parents that sheet of notebook paper.

His notebook is almost empty now. Luke thinks that that’s fitting; he’s spent most of his soul onto the pages. He’s a ghost. He’s got nothing more to give. Maybe it’s even a sign -- a sign that he’s not going to need to write music for much longer. The notebook is running out of space. It’s running out of time, just like he is.

He wonders if he could even use a new songbook. It wouldn’t be a part of him, the way his old one was. It would be empty; a blank slate for him to start a new journey in. A whole new marathon to run just as he’s crossing the finish line of the last one.

And… he doesn’t want to.

He’s tired of running. Running from his parents. Running from Caleb. From things that he broke, from things that were threatening to break him. From things that were hurting his friends.

Luke’s always been one for impulsive decisions.

So after he makes his list, he dog-ears the page and gives himself a time limit.

He has until the pages run out in his notebook to figure out what his unfinished business is… and finish it.

~

The problem is, Luke’s life on Earth wasn’t that long. He’s had seventeen years to start things, and practically no time at all to finish them. The possibilities of what his unfinished business actually is are endless. There was that music festival the guys had wanted to play at the end of summer ‘95. Countless world tours they wanted to go on. He wanted to sign an autograph for Dave Grohl, shake hands with Mick Jagger. He wanted to drink chocolate from the world’s largest chocolate waterfall in Alaska.

So few of these things he could actually do, now that he was dead.

Even fewer of them he could do without the guys. If his unfinished business really had to be just for him, maybe the band stuff wouldn’t be enough.

He never finished high school. He never learned how to play the bass -- he’s always wanted to; after all, Reggie could play the guitar, so Luke should know how to play his instrument, too.

And the only other thing he could think of that was absolutely, one hundred percent his business to finish… was his relationship with his mother.

Julie bringing “Unsaid Emily” over to his old house had been something. It filled the hole in his chest just enough that he could pretend it wasn’t there. Having his mom finally see how he felt about her, how much he regretted leaving, was like putting an ice pack on a burn. It eased the pain for the moment, had him thinking maybe that would be enough, that it would heal properly. But the ice pack’s melted, now; it’s gone back to room temperature, and his heart is still screaming.

Luke wonders what else he would have to do to get rid of the guilt.

He knows -- he hopes -- that the guilt won’t follow him to the afterlife. Because it’s really the only thing about this ghost-limbo that he wants to escape from. He doesn’t mind the invisibility, or the intangibility, because those things have never really prevented him from playing music. Music, though, he’ll miss, but Luke thinks it’s a small price to pay. After all, Alex and Reggie should’ve had their whole lives to play music. And even if Luke crosses over, they still can. He’s the one who caused their untimely deaths in the first place.

And he can never undo that, but… something he’s realized as all of them have adjusted to being ghosts is that he’s not really needed.

Sunset Curve could go on as a trio. Julie would still have her found family in Alex and Reggie and Willie. Reggie would have his friends that remained, as well as Ray and Carlos to fill in any gaps.

And Alex and Willie would have each other.

~

For Willie, the whole concept of “unfinished business” is just… not really on his radar. He’s pretty content in his afterlife. He is, as the kids say, vibing. He’s moving along, singing a song. He was never in any rush to figure out what his unfinished business was, and he was especially never in any rush to cross over, to fade out of existence entirely and into the unknown.

He also never really understood why other ghosts would want to do that. Until he met Alex and the others, and realized that sometimes, urgency forces your hand. Outside circumstances throw you out of your comfort zone, force you to do things you never would’ve considered before.

But also, since meeting Alex, the tiny part of his soul that’s always been curious about what his unfinished business was -- curious about crossing over, about what’s on the other side -- has pretty much shriveled away to nothing. Alex gives a whole new meaning to Willie’s life -- to his afterlife, really -- but the drummer makes him feel alive again in a way that he hasn’t felt in decades. Long before he’d forgotten the age-old saying, look both ways before you cross the street.

Willie wouldn’t call himself the most observant person on Earth. Sometimes, he can be a little oblivious. He can be blinded to the truth, only see what he wants to see -- he can deny what’s right in front of him. Give people the benefit of the doubt who don’t deserve it, like he’s done with Caleb so many times before.

He tries not to stress about things. Tries to just be. Live -- or do whatever he’s doing as a ghost, honestly -- with no regrets, no looking back. He doesn’t worry about consequences. But at the same time, he’s also scared of disappointing people. Scared of how he’s coming across to other people. He needs to make sure he’s not messing up too too badly, because he wants the people he loves to love him back -- he wants them to want him to stick around.

So he pays attention. He misses stuff sometimes, sure… but Willie’s mission in his afterlife is simple. Chill out, do whatever he wants to do -- it’s not like he can get caught; he’s invisible. Just don’t get on Caleb Covington’s bad side.

Love whoever he still can, and be loved back.

Willie loves Alex. He’s loved him since the museum. He’s needed him since he ran into him on the street with his skateboard. But lately, Willie’s started to realize that he might also love Luke. Not any more or less than he loves Alex, which is a confusing problem in itself. And not really in a different way than Alex, either. His heart does somersaults when he’s around Luke now, too.

He might need him in different ways than Alex, though. Alex calms him down, grounds him when his head’s in the clouds or he’s too distracted by other things. He brings him back, makes him aware of what’s most important in the moment. He makes him laugh. Makes him think. Makes him stop and appreciate everything around him, instead of just whipping through his afterlife with no concerns. Alex makes him care.

But Luke… With Luke, it feels like he’s stuck upside-down at the top of a roller coaster, but there’s no one else he’d rather be stuck with. He feels more dangerous with Luke, willing to do things that he’s too scared to drag Alex into. He feels like there’s no limits. In one of Luke’s songs, he wrote face first, full charge, and that’s the exact energy he brings when he’s around Willie -- when he’s around anyone, really. He’s passionate, and driven, and so unafraid. Willie doesn’t have to be as careful around Luke.

And they’re both super protective of Alex.

Willie needs Alex for the slow rollercoaster ride to the top of the hill, and he needs Luke for laughter, for thrill, for excitement. For the thrilling, twisty way back down.

Willie’s not sure that anything feels complete without Alex and Luke.

So, since they’re both a part of Willie in ways that he can’t even really explain, Willie watches. He pays attention to both of them, taking in everything about them in quiet, soft, subtle ways.

That’s how he starts to notice that something’s off with Luke.

~

A week goes by, the pages in Luke’s notebook are dwindling, and he still has no idea what his unfinished business is.

It’s frustrating, having to narrow his entire life down to one possible milestone he’s never gotten to achieve. There are far too many. And the nagging voice in the back of Luke’s head -- the one telling him that Alex and Reggie have just as many milestones -- isn’t helping matters at all.

Luke just wants all this to be over. He deserves it -- he’s not sure whether he deserves the questionable peace crossing over would bring; everyone always says death is peaceful, anyway. But he definitely deserves the “no longer existing” part. And Alex and Reggie do deserve it. They deserve everything that life -- or afterlife, really -- can still offer them. Luke’s tired of holding them back. It feels like nothing’s ever good enough -- like he’s wearing shoes made out of lead, or something, trying to walk across a desert, and he’s got a time limit to get there. And Alex and Reggie are chained to him -- stuck in the same predicament, because they just had to follow him to that hot dog stand. He’s tired of getting them into these messes. First death; and, as if that wasn’t bad enough, into the Hollywood Ghost Club with Caleb Covington, all because he just couldn’t let his grudge against Bobby -- Trevor Wilson -- die.

He’s still writing music, but his lyrics aren’t as powerful anymore. They’re not as confident, not as inspiring. And he writes with Julie, but he thinks Julie can tell that his spark has dimmed.

He hopes that she thinks he’s just going through writer’s block, or something. Something fixable.

He’s been working on his list for the past week, too. He thinks he’s got his unfinished business pretty much narrowed down; there’s three things on his list he wants to try. School. Bass. Emily.

He needs Reggie’s help with the bass one, so he’s been putting it off. And Emily…

Luke has tried to steer clear of his old house since Julie gave his parents the song. Because… the fact that it didn’t help, that it didn’t ease the ache in his heart in exactly the way Julie hoped that it would, made Luke feel guilty. And he doesn’t really want to see if the song made a difference for his parents. Because what if it didn’t?

What if they’re like Luke, just wishing for more? More interaction that they can never have -- an actual conversation about the regrets that he touched on in the song? A physical hug, the weight of their arms around each other, a look of real, actual understanding in their eyes that Luke’s never thought he would actually see.

And the thing is… if his parents are Luke’s unfinished business, what the hell is he supposed to do about it?

The prospect of being chained to the Earth forever because of something he’d screwed up beyond repair when he was alive has his stomach churning, almost as badly as it was when he’d eaten that hot dog.

The easiest one for Luke to focus on is school -- which, if someone had said to him twenty-five years ago that school would be at the top of his priority list, he’d have laughed in their face -- and the easiest way for him to do it is through Julie.

Julie’s sufficiently banned him from actually showing up at her school, but that doesn’t mean he can’t do other things. Like homework and studying. So Luke’s plan is this: he’ll study with Julie, maybe convince her to let him do a couple of her homework assignments. And if she aces her next math test because of the work they’ve done together, Luke’ll consider it a win.

It’s the best option he has. It’s not like he can sit in a classroom anymore, or take his own tests.

He sneaks up on her one afternoon as she’s sitting in her bedroom, chewing on a pencil, face scrunched in confusion.

“Hey, Jules. Whatcha doin?”

At the sound of his voice, Julie looks up at him and her confusion transforms into a smile. “Hey, Luke! Just homework.”

“Need any help?” He shuffles a little closer to the bed, mindful of Julie’s distaste for having the boys in her room.

Julie’s face flips back to confusion like a lightswitch. “You… want to help me with my homework?”

“Yeah!” Luke huffs out an awkward laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just… was curious, I guess. About what you’re learning in school.”

“Why?”

“You know, I never finished high school!” Luke says. “I’ve kind of always wondered what it would’ve been like if I had. Y’know, walking across a stage in that dumb cap and gown. Um -- accomplishing something. Being able to finish something important!”

He’s saying too much -- he knows by the way Julie’s expression shifts, confusion into curiosity into concern.

“Hey, wait,” she says, placing her pencil down and closing her textbook. “Are you okay? Is there something you want to talk about, Luke?”

“What? No! I’m fine!”

He hates the way his voice comes out, rough and high-pitched and decidedly not fine. Julie looks like she’s about to argue, so he opens his dumb, not-fine, impulsive mouth once again. “Seriously, Jules. I’m good. Gotta go meet the boys now, see ya!”

He poofs away, but he can still see Julie’s worried stare still fixed on him behind his eyelids.

~

“Don’t you think he’s been acting kinda strange?”

Willie is sitting in the garage, Reggie on the couch to his right and Alex behind him, braiding his hair like he does when he gets nervous.

And he’s trying to console Alex, to tell him to relax, that they’ll make sure Luke is fine -- only the confidence that Willie’s normally so famous for is dwindling.

Alex is worried about Luke, and Willie would love to reassure him, except that Willie thinks that Alex has a point. Luke has been acting strange lately; way too over the top during rehearsals, more trips to see his mom than usual -- trips that he thinks they don’t know about -- plus, he’s been reading books.

Julie’s school books, which he takes out of her room sometimes and stashes up on top of the loft. Books that Alex found there earlier that day, when he was looking for his drumsticks. Books that Alex had asked Willie about… and they’d both determined that it was Luke who had brought them up there, because Reggie wouldn’t hide the fact that he was teaching himself Trigonometry, and Luke’s been acting really weird as it is.

“You said he’s doing math?” Reggie asks, eyes wide. Willie figures Reggie must know just as well as he does -- if not better -- what Luke doing math could mean: that he’s not acting like himself.

“Yes!” Willie flails, waving his arms wildly -- to make a point -- and knocking into his boyfriend, who flinches back, tugging on Willie’s hair in the process.

“Ow!”

“Well you didn’t have to jump like that!” Alex hisses back. “Stop moving. I’m trying to stress-braid.”

“Sorry, Alex,” Willie sighs, straightening himself on the sofa. Sometimes, Alex just needs to stress-braid his hair. It gives him something to do with his hands; it’s a way for him to occupy his mind -- to focus on things other than the anxiety. And Willie’s usually all too happy to provide that service (what feels better than having your hair braided, especially by a boy you love?)

“Do you think he’s okay?” Alex mumbles, fingers once again fumbling through Willie’s hair in his unpracticed, clumsy way.

“Why don’t you guys just talk to him?” Reggie asks. “D’you have any idea what could be wrong?”

“No,” Willie huffs. “He’s just been acting so weird. I know it’s something. He’s doing stuff that he’s never cared about before -- like math. But also just… the stuff he normally loves, music. He’s… acting like it’s gonna be taken away from him, or something. Haven’t you noticed how hard he’s pushing you guys in band practice?”

“He’s acting like… like we’re running out of time,” Alex realizes. “But why?”

Just then, the boy in question poofs into the garage -- like he was rushing to get there; his landing’s not clean, and he stumbles around for a moment before catching himself on one of the microphone stands. He straightens up and sees that he has an audience.

“Hey -- hey, guys,” he stammers. “What’s up? We gonna practice?”

His eyes fix on Reggie, then, and he perks up. “Oh! Reg! I’ve been meaning to ask you -- can you teach me how to play the bass?”

“Can I--” Reggie stops, stares at Luke for a moment, trying to piece everything together.

Alex, though, right in front of Willie behind the sofa, looks like he’s already figured it out. He blinks at Luke. “You want to learn how to play bass?”

“I always have,” Luke shrugs. Alex studies him, and Luke twitches under his gaze.

“I just thought it would be cool, ya know, to know all our instruments. So can you teach me, Reg?”

“Um -- I --” Reggie’s eyes dart between Alex, Willie, and Luke, probably trying to figure out what the right thing to say is. Willie doesn’t know, exactly, but he knows one thing for sure: there’s no way Luke’s sudden interest in learning the bass is a coincidence.

Alex seems to be on the same page, but unlike Willie, he’s more inclined to take charge, to do something about it. “Reg, can we talk to Luke alone for a minute?”

“Yes,” Reggie lets out a sigh of relief and poofs away, leaving Willie and Alex to deal with… whatever this is. Willie still isn’t totally sure.

He’s once again enormously grateful for Alex, and the fact that his boyfriend has a pretty good handle on what’s going on in the world seventy-five percent of the time. Because it shocks Willie just as much as it does Luke when Alex says, “Why are you trying to cross over?”

What?

Willie hasn’t put the pieces together nearly as well as Alex has -- in fact, he feels like they’ve been working on entirely different puzzles. Why would Luke be trying to cross over? Why would he want to leave all the guys, and Julie, behind forever?

He wouldn’t. It doesn’t make sense.

Except the second the words leave Alex’s mouth, Luke freezes, eyes wide like he’s been tossed into the path of an oncoming train, shoes welded to its tracks.

And Willie starts to think that maybe his boyfriend wasn’t so far off the mark, after all.

~

“There are people who love you, you know.”

Luke blinks up at Alex, still frozen, still thrown for a loop, still… not understanding how Alex figured him out.

“How do you think we’d feel if you crossed over?” Alex continues, his intense gaze still fixed on Luke, Luke squirming uncomfortably underneath it. “Without us? Is that… is that something you want?”

Alex’s voice finally cracks, betraying the emotion underneath it, and it’s almost too much for Luke to take. His wild eyes dart around the studio, looking for something -- anything -- to focus on, to take him out of the moment… and he finds the string lights, hung across the walls and the ceilings. He starts counting the bulbs, reciting the numbers in his head. He only makes it to seven before Willie’s voice breaks his concentration.

“Luke?”

“How… how did you know that’s what I was trying to do?” Luke mumbles.

“Well… the math’s what clued me in,” Willie lets out a half-hearted laugh as Alex takes slow steps around the sofa and sits down.

“Come here,” he calls out to Luke -- and although every bone in Luke’s body is screaming run, get out, get far, far away from this conversation… he finds himself joining them, sitting down in the spot on the couch they’ve made in between them.

“We just want you to know there are people who love you,” Willie says. “People -- people who need you, Luke. You can’t leave us, okay? You can’t cross over. Not without us.”

“But you -- you guys and Reggie and Julie -- you don’t need me.”

“What are you talking about?” Alex asks. “Of course we--”

“You and Reg would still be alive if it weren’t for me,” Luke growls. “So don’t say you need me. All I do is mess everything up. You guys, our careers, my parents…”

“Hang on, Luke,” Alex reaches a hand out, momentarily caught off guard. Luke doesn’t see why; it’s not like what he said was that complicated. He’s messed up. He breaks things. He ruined his parents’ lives by running away. He almost ruined Julie’s life, by getting involved with Caleb. And -- and Alex and Reggie…

“None of that’s your fault,” Alex says with conviction.

“Alex--”

“No!” Alex gets up, suddenly, and starts to pace around the room, fingers digging through his hair. “You have to know that. We don’t blame you for any of that!”

“Luke, Alex is right,” Willie reaches a hand out, cautiously, and takes one of Luke’s. When Luke doesn’t pull away, Willie pulls him even closer, into his chest, and starts gently running his fingers through Luke’s hair.

Luke sinks into Willie’s chest, eyes following Alex’s nervous pacing -- he’s biting his lip, and his hands are shaking slightly. Luke hadn’t realized that it might be hard on Alex, too, dealing with Luke’s current mental spiral.

He pulls away from Willie, ignoring the other boy’s whine of protest, and sits up to face Alex. “Hey, Alex,” he calls out quietly. “Come back and sit down. I’m-- I’m good. You don’t have to worry about me. Just… take deep breaths, okay?”

“Are you seriously trying to calm me down right now?” Alex snaps. A flash of hurt crosses Luke’s face -- one that he must not be quick enough to hide, because Alex’s own face softens at the sight of it.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Luke… I--”

“Just come back here and hold me, please,” Luke croaks.

Luke… doesn’t cry much, if he can help it. He hates tears, both his own and other people’s, and generally tries to avoid them at all costs. But… the look on Alex’s face, the tone of his voice -- his scared, anxious, desperate voice as he snapped at Luke for trying to calm him down -- has the dam breaking, finally, and the tears are bursting out of Luke’s eyes and running down his face before he even knows what’s happening, running down and soaking into the collar of his flannel shirt.

At the sight of Luke’s tears, Alex startles, and makes a beeline for his side. Luke is thrown into a group hug, Alex and Willie on either side of him.

And he just lets himself cry.

~

It takes a while, but finally Luke calms down a bit.

He stays on the couch, sandwiched in between two of his favorite people on the planet. Willie’s hands are still running gently through his hair; Alex’s thumb is rubbing small circles on his wrist.

His tears have finally stopped, but there’s this annoying, puffy ache in his head and behind his eyes that feels like it’s going to linger for a while.

It’s quiet, and the quiet allows Luke to think about everything that’s happened that day -- after weeks of his stupid, ill-advised mission to complete his unfinished business, he’s been found out.

And he found out that people -- Alex and Willie, who are love and sunshine and light and everything beautiful about the world personified -- would actually miss him if he was gone. That people care, that they don’t blame him for the stuff that he’s been blaming himself for for months.

It’s… a lot to wrap his head around, and even though the tears have stopped, the uncertainty and anxiety and desire to not be a burden is still swirling around in his head, leaving him silent and still as he sits there in between Alex and Willie, his head now resting on Willie’s shoulder.

He knows that those feelings, like the ache he feels in his heart and his head, will probably be around a while.

“I’m sorry for making you worry ‘bout me,” he mumbles, burrowing his face even deeper into Willie’s loose-fitting sweatshirt. Willie’s arms wrap around him and hold him there, and Luke takes in a deep, slow breath, inhaling Willie’s musky scent, shutting his eyes in the first moment of contentment he’s felt in weeks.

“I meant what I said, you know,” Alex whispers. “None of it’s your fault. There are people who love you. We…”

He stops, and Luke turns his head as much as Willie’s grip will allow to try to see why. He’s able to just peek at Alex out of the corner of his eye, and he sees that the other boy’s frowning. Like he’s unsure of what he’s about to say. Like he’s nervous.

“Alex?” Luke struggles out of Willie’s grip, and reluctantly, the other boy lets him go. He shuffles to the other side of the sofa, closer to Alex, and the drummer opens his arms for Luke willingly.

Being in Alex’s arms is different than being in Willie’s, too. Alex is sturdier; less teddy-bear like than Willie is, but comforting and warm and inviting all the same. Alex’s arms feel like home just as much as Willie’s do, and Luke melts into the hug instantly, like an ice cream cone on the hot pavement in July. Alex’s hand runs up and down Luke’s back and Luke shivers, eyes threatening to slip closed despite his need to hear Alex’s answer.

“Willie and I love you, Luke,” Alex says softly. There’s no more uncertainty -- a hint of nervousness, but Luke doesn’t doubt what Alex is saying for a second. There’s a conviction in his tone -- a confidence -- that Alex only really uses when talking about people he loves. This… defensiveness, this love, this conviction.

“We don’t have to figure everything out now,” Alex continues -- probably realizing Luke’s been through enough that day. Luke appreciates that, actually. There’s only one answer he would ever give to Alex and Willie -- only one thing his heart’s ever wanted; Luke can see it now, now that the sound of his heartbeat is pulsing in his ears, now that he feels like he’s both standing on the edge of a mountain, about to take a leap of faith into the crisp winter air below -- and at the same time, on solid ground, in no danger of falling, of stumbling, of getting hurt. He feels safe and exhilarated all at the same time, and this feeling is both familiar and completely new, more amplified than it usually is. Not what he’s used to.

But Luke feels like he’s ready to take the leap now. He still feels guilty, still isn’t actually sure whether his friends -- his family -- would be better off without him. But Alex and Willie have never steered him wrong before.

When he’s sitting in between them, their arms around him and their warm, soft hands running through his hair… Luke feels like maybe he can get through anything.